The study was dark and cool; for the room faced the west, and the shutters had been closed, in order to keep out the hot August sun.  At first Juliette could see nothing, but she felt his presence near her, as he followed her into the room, leaving the door slightly ajar.

“It is kind of you, mademoiselle,” he said gently, “to accede to my request, which was perhaps presumptuous.  But, you see, I am leaving this house to-day, and I had a selfish longing to hear your voice bidding me farewell.”

Juliette’s large, burning eyes were gradually piercing the semi-gloom around her.  She could see him distinctly now, standing close beside her, in an attitude of the deepest, almost reverential respect.

The study was as usual neat and tidy, denoting the orderly habits of a man of action and energy.  On the ground there was a valise, ready strapped as if or a journey, and on the top of it a bulky letter-case of stout pigskin, secured with a small steel lock.  Juliette’s eyes fastened upon this case with a look of fascination and of horror.  Obviously it contained Deroulede’s papers, the plans for Marie Antoinette’s escape, the passports of which he had spoken the day before to his friend, Sir Percy Blakeney—­the proofs, in fact, which she had offered to the representatives of the people, in support of her denunciation of the Citizen-Deputy.

After his request he had said nothing more.  He was waiting for her to speak; but her voice felt parched; it seemed to her as if hands of steel were gripping her throat, smothering the words she would have longed to speak.

“Will you not wish me godspeed, mademoiselle?” he repeated gently.

“Godspeed?” Oh! the awful irony of it all!  Should God speed him to a mock trial and to the guillotine?  He was going thither, though he did not know it, and was even now trying to take the hand which had deliberately sent him there.

At last she made an effort to speak, and in a toneless, even voice she contrived to murmur: 

“You are not going for long, Citizen-Deputy?”

“In these times, mademoiselle,” he replied, “any farewell might be for ever.  But I am actually going for a month to the Conciergerie, to take charge of the unfortunate prisoner there.”

“For a month!” she repeated mechanically.

“Oh yes!” he said, with a smile.  “You see, our present Government is afraid that poor Marie Antoinette will exercise her fascinations over any lieutenant-governor of her prison, if he remain near her long enough, so a new one is appointed every month.  I shall be in charge during this coming Vendemiaire.  I shall hope to return before the equinox, but—­who can tell?”

“In any case then, Citoyen Deroulede, the farewell I bid you to-night will be a very long one.”

“A month will seem a century to me,” he said earnestly, “since I must spend it without seeing you, but...”

He looked long and searchingly at her.  He did not understand her in her present mood, so scared and wild did she seem, so unlike that girlish, light-hearted self, which had made the dull old house so bright these past few weeks.