His greeting had been responded to with a few jeers and a good many dark, threatening looks.  Tinville himself had bowed to him with mock sarcasm and an unpleasant leer.

One of the patriots, a huge fellow, almost a giant, with heavy, coarse fists and broad shoulders that obviously suggested coal-heaving, had, after a few satirical observations, dragged one of the empty wine barrels to Merlin’s table, and sat down opposite him.

“Take care, Citizen Lenoir,” said Tinville, with an evil laugh, “Citizen-Deputy Merlin will arrest you instead of Deputy Deroulede, whom he has allowed to slip through his fingers.”

“Nay; I’ve no fear,” replied Lenoir, with an oath.  “Citizen Merlin is too much of an aristo to hurt anyone; his hands are too clean; he does not care to do the dirty work of the Republic.  Isn’t that so, Monsieur Merlin?” added the giant, with a mock bow, and emphasising the appellation which had fallen into complete disuse in these days of equality.

“My patriotism is too well known,” said Merlin roughly, “to fear any attacks from jealous enemies; and as for my search in the Citizen-Deputy’s house this afternoon, I was told to find proofs against him, and I found none.”

Lenoir expectorated on the floor, crossed his dark hairy arms over the table, and said quietly: 

“Real patriotism, as the true Jacobin understands it, makes the proofs it wants and leaves nothing to chance.”

A chorus of hoarse murmurs of “Vive la Liberte!” greeted this harangue of the burly coal-heaver.

Feeling that he had gained the ear and approval of the gallery, Lenoir seemed, as it were, to spread himself out, to arrogate to himself the leadership of this band of malcontents, who, disappointed in their lust of Deroulede’s downfall, were ready to exult over that of Merlin.

“You were a fool, Citizen Merlin,” said Lenoir with slow significance, “not to see that the woman was playing her own game.”

Merlin had become livid under the grime on his face.  With this ill-kempt sansculotte giant in front of him, he almost felt as if he were already arraigned before that awful, merciless tribunal, to which he had dragged so many innocent victims.

Already he felt, as he sat ensconced behind a table in the far corner of the room, that he was a prisoner at the bar, answering for his failure with his life.

His own laws, his own theories now stood in bloody array against him.  Was it not he who had framed the indictments against General Custine for having failed to subdue the cities of the south? against General Westerman and Brunet and Beauharnais for having failed and failed and failed?

And now it was his turn.

Thes bloodthirsty jackals had been cheated of their prey; they would tear him to pieces in compensation of their loss.

“How could I tell?” he murmured roughly, “the woman had denounced him.”