But Deroulede never moved.  He was sufficiently master of himself not to express either surprise or satisfaction.  Yet he felt both—­ satisfaction not for his own safety, but because of his mother and Anne Mie, whom he would immediately send out of the country, out of all danger; and also because of her, of Juliette Marny, his guest, who, whatever she may have done against him, had still a claim on his protection.  His feeling of surprise was less keen, and quite transient.  Merlin had not found the letter-case.  Juliette, stricken with tardy remorse perhaps, had succeeded in concealing it.  The matter had practically ceased to interest him.  It was equally galling to owe his betrayal or his ultimate safety to her.

He kissed his mother tenderly, bidding her good-bye, and pressed Anne Mie’s timid little hand warmly between his own.  He did what he could to reassure them, but, for their own sakes, he dared say nothing before Merlin, as to his plans for their safety.

After that he was ready to follow the soldiers.

As he passed close to Juliette he bowed, and almost inaudibly whispered: 

“Adieu!”

She heard the whisper, but did not respond.  Her look alone gave him the reply to his eternal farewell.

His footsteps and those of his escort were heard echoing down the staircase, then the hall door to open and shut.  Through the open window came the sound of hoarse cheering as the popular Citizen-Deputy appeared in the street.

Merlin, with two men beside him, remained under the portico; he told off the other two to escort Deroulede as far as the Hall of Justice, where sat the members of the Committee of Public Safety.  The Terrorist had a vague fear that the Citizen-Deputy would speak to the mob.

An unruly crowd of women had evidently been awaiting his appearance.  The news had quickly spread along the streets that Merlin, Merlin himself, the ardent, bloodthirsty Jacobin, had made a descent upon Paul Deroulede’s house, escorted by four soldiers.  Such an indignity, put upon the man they most trusted in the entire assembly of the Convention, had greatly incensed the crowd.  The women jeered at the soldiers as soon as they appeared, and Merlin dared not actually forbid Deroulede to speak.

"A la lanterne, vieux cretin!" shouted one of the women, thrusting her fist under Merlin’s nose.

“Give the word, Citizen-Deputy,” rejoined another, “and we’ll break his ugly face. Nous lui casserons la gueule!”

“A la lanterne!  A la lanterne!"

One word from Deroulede now would have caused an open riot, and in those days self defence against the mob was construed into enmity against the people.

Merlin’s work, too, was not yet accomplished.  He had had no intention of escorting Deroulede himself; he had still important business to transact inside the house which he had just quitted, and had merely wished to get the Citizen-Deputy well out of the way, before he went upstairs again.