Deroulede hesitated for one brief fraction of a second.  As soon as the shutters had been opened, and the room flooded in daylight, he had at once perceived that his letter-case had disappeared, and guessed, from Juliette’s attitude upon the sofa, that she had concealed it about her person.  It was this which caused him to hesitate.

His heart was filled with boundless gratitude to her for her noble effort to save him, but he would have given his life at this moment, to undo what she had done.

The Terrorists were no respecters of persons or of sex.  A domicillary search order, in those days, conferred full powers on those in authority, and Juliette might at any moment now be peremptorily ordered to rise.  Through her action she had made herself one with the Citizen-Deputy; if the case were found under the folds of her skirts, she would be accused of connivance, or at any rate of the equally grave charge of shielding a traitor.

The manly pride in him rebelled at the thought of owing his immediate safety to a woman, yet he could not now discard her help, without compromising her irretrievably.

He dared not even to look again towards her, for he felt that at this moment her life as well as his own lay in the quiver of an eyelid; and Merlin’s keen, narrow eyes were fixed upon him in eager search for a tremor, a flash, which might betray fear or prove an admission of guilt.

Juliette sat there, calm, impassive, disdainful, and she seemed to Deroulede more angelic, more unattainable even than before.  He could have worshipped her for her heroism, her resourcefulness, her quiet aloofness from all these coarse creatures who filled the room with the odour of their dirty clothes, with their rough jests, and their noisome suggestions.

“Well, Citizen-Deputy,” sneered Merlin after a while, “you do not reply, I notice.”

“The insinuation is unworthy of a reply, citizen,” replied Deroulede quietly; “my services to the Republic are well known.  I should have thought that the Committee of Public Safety would disdain an anonymous denunciation against a faithful servant of the people of France.”

“The Committee of Public Safety knows its own business best, Citizen-Deputy,” rejoined Merlin roughly.  “If the accusation prove a calumny, so much the better for you.  I presume,” he added with a sneer, “that you do not propose to offer any resistance whilst these citizens and I search your house.”

Without another word Deroulede handed a bunch of keys to the man by his side.  Every kind of opposition, argument even, would be worse than useless.

Merlin had ordered the valise and desk to be searched, and two men were busy turning out the contents of both on to the floor.  But the desk now only contained a few private household accounts, and notes for the various speeches which Deroulede had at various times delivered in the assemblies of the National Convention.  Amont these, a few pencil jottings for his great defence of Charlotte Corday were eagerly seized upon by Merlin, and his grimy, clawlike hands fastened upon this scrap of paper, as upon a welcome prey.