That it was danger of the most certain, the most deadly kind she never doubted for one moment.  Even had her instinct not warned her, she would have guessed.  One glance at the five men had sufficed to tell her:  their attitude, their curt word of command, their air of authority as they crossed the hall—­everything revealed the purpose of their visit:  a domiciliary search in the house of Citizen-Deputy Deroulede.

Merlin’s Law of the Suspect was in full operation.  Someone had denounced the Citizen-Deputy to the Committee of Public Safety; and in this year of grace, 1793, and I. of the Revolution, men and women were daily sent to the guillotine on suspicion.

Anne Mie would have screamed, had she dared, but instinct such as hers was far too keen, to betray her into so injudicious an act.  She felt that, were Paul Deroulede’s eyes upon her at this moment, he would wish her to remain calm and outwardly serene.

The foremost man—­he with the tricolour scarf—­had already crossed the hall, and was standing outside the study door.  It was his word of command which first roused Deroulede from his dream: 

“In the name of the Republic!”

Deroulede did not immediately drop the small hand, which a moment ago he had been covering with kisses.  He held it to his lips once more, very gently, lingering over this last fond caress, as if over an eternal farewell, then he straightened out his broad, well-knit figure, and turned to the door.

He was very pale, but there was neither fear nor even surprise expressed in his earnest, deep-set eyes.  They still seemed to be looking afar, gazing upon a heaven-born vision, which the touch of her hand and the avowal of his love had conjured up before him.

“In the name of the Republic’”

Once more, for the third time—­according to custom—­the words rang out, clear, distinct, peremptory.

In that one fraction of a second, whilst those six words were spoken, Deroulede’s eyes wandered swiftly towards the heavy letter-case, which now held his condemnation, and a wild, mad thought—­the mere animal desire to escape from danger—­surged up in his brain.

The plans for the escape of Marie Antoinette, the various passports, worded in accordance with the possible disguises the unfortunate Queen might assume—­all these papers were more than sufficient proof of what would be termed his treason against the Republic.

He could already hear the indictment against him, could see the filthy mob of Paris dancing a wild saraband round the tumbrill, which bore him towards the guillotine; he could hear their yells of execration, could feel the insults hurled against him, by those who had most admired, most envied him.  And from all this he would have escaped if he could, if it had not been too late.

It was but a second, or less, whilst the words were spoken outside his door, and whilst all other thoughts in him were absorbed in this one mad desire for escape.  He even made a movement, as if to snatch up the letter-case and to hide it about his person.  But it was heavy and bulky; it would be sure to attract attention, and might bring upon him the additional indignity of being forced to submit to a personal search.