But there was nothing else of any importance.  Deroulede was a man of thought and of action, with all the enthusiasm of real conviction, but none of the carelessness of a fanatic.  The papers which were contained in the letter-case, and which he was taking with him to the Conciergerie, he considered were necessary to the success of his plans, otherwise he never would have kept them, and they were the only proofs that could be brought up against him.

The valise itself was only packed with the few necessaries for a month’s sojourn at the Conciergerie; and the men, under Merlin’s guidance, were vainly trying to find something, anything that might be construed into treasonable correspondence with the unfortunate prisoner there.

Merlin, whilst his men were busy with the search, was sprawling in one of the big leather-covered chairs, on the arms of which his dirty finger-nails were beating an impatient devil’s tattoo.  He was at no pains to conceal the intense disappointment which he would experience, were his errand to prove fruitless.

His narrow eyes every now and then wandered towards Juliette, as if asking for her help and guidance.  She, understanding his frame of mind, responded to the look.  Shutting her mentality off from the coarse suggestion of his attitude towards her, she played her part with cunning, and without flinching.  With a glance here and there, she directed the men in their search.  Deroulede himself could scarcely refrain from looking at her; he was puzzled, and vaguely marvelled at the perfection, with which she carried through her role to the end.

Merlin found himself baffled.

He knew quite well that Citizen-Deputy Deroulede was not a man to be lightly dealt with.  No mere suspicion or anonymous denunciation would be sufficient in his case, to bring him before the tribunal of the Revolution.  Unless there were proofs—­positive, irrefutable, damnable proofs—­of Paul Deroulede’s treachery, the Public Prosecutor would never dare to frame an indictment against him.  The mob of Paris would rise to defend its idol; the hideous hags, who plied their knitting at the foot of the scaffold, would tear the guillotine down, before they would allow Deroulede to mount it.

Thas was Deroulede’s stronghold:  the people of Paris, whom he had loved through all their infamies, and whom he had succoured and helped in their private need; and above all the women of Paris, whose children he had caused to be tended in the hospitals which he had built for them—­this they had not yet forgotten, and Merlin knew it.  One day they would forget—­soon, perhaps—­then they would turn on their former idol, and, howling, send him to his death, amidst cries of rancour and execration.  When that day came there would be no need to worry about treason or about proofs.  When the populace had forgotten all that he had done, then Deroulede would fall.

But that time was not yet.