 Prologue Part 1 of I Will Repay. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org, recording by Annie Kirkpatrick. I Will Repay by Baroness Ortsey. Prologue Part 1. Paris, 1783. Coward, coward, coward! The words rang out, clear, strident, passionate, in a crescendo of agonized humiliation. The boy, quivering with rage, had sprung to his feet, and, losing his balance, he fell forward, clutching at the table, whilst with the convulsive movement of the lids, he tried in vain to suppress the tears of shame which were blinding him. Coward! He tried to shout the insult so that all might hear, but his parched throat refused him service. His trembling hand sought the scattered cards upon the table. He collected them together quickly, nervously, fingering them with feverish energy. Then he hurled them at the man opposite, whilst with the final effort, he still contrived to mutter, coward. The older men tried to interpose, but the younger ones only laughed, quiet prepared for the adventure which must inevitably ensue, the only possible ending to a quarrel such as this. Conciliation or arbitration was out of the question. They relate should have known better than to speak disrespectfully of Adèle de Montcharie, when the Little Viscont de Marnie's infatuation for the notorious beauty had been the talk of Paris and Versailles these many months past. Adèle was very lovely in a veritable tower of greed and egotism. The Marnies were rich, and the Little Viscont very young, and just now the brightly plumaged hawk was busy plucking the latest pigeon, newly arrived from its ancestral coat. The boy was still in the initial stage of his infatuation. To him, Adèle was a paragon of all the virtues, and he would have done battle on her behalf against the entire aristocracy of France, in a vain endeavor to justify his own exalted opinion of one of the most disillute women of the epoch. He was a first-rate swordsman, too, and his friends had already learned that it was best to avoid all illusions to Adèle's beauty and weaknesses. But day relayed was a noted blunderer. He was little versed in the manners and tones of that high society in which, somehow, he still seemed an intruder. But for his great wealth, no doubt, he would never have been admitted within the intimate circle of aristocratic France. His ancestry was somewhat doubtful, and his coat of arms unadorned with quarterings. But little was known of his family or the origin of his wealth. It was only known that his father had suddenly become the late king's dearest friend, and commonly surmised that day-relayed gold had, on more than one occasion, filled the empty coffers of the first gentleman of France. Day relayed had not sought the present quarrel. He had merely blundered in that clumsy way of his, which was no doubt a part of the inheritance bequeathed to him by his bourgeois ancestry. He knew nothing of the little vacance private affairs, still less of his relationship with Adèle, but he knew enough of the world and enough of Paris to be acquainted with the lady's reputation. He hated it all times to speak of women. He was not what, in those days, would be termed a lady's man, and was even somewhat unpopular with the sex. But in this instance the conversation had drifted in that direction, and when Adèle's name was mentioned, everyone became silent, save the little vacant, who waxed enthusiastically. A shrug of the shoulders on Day relayed's part had aroused the boy's ire, then a few casual words, and, without further warning, the insult had been hurled and the cards thrown in the older man's face. Day relayed did not move from his seat. He said, erected in palacid, one knee crossed over the other, his serious, rather swarthy face, perhaps a shade paler than usual. Otherwise it seemed as if the insult had never reached his ears, or the cards struck his cheek. He had perceived his blunder just twenty seconds too late. Now he was sorry for the boy, and angered with himself, but it was too late to draw back. To avoid a conflict, he would, at this moment, have sacrificed half his fortune, but not one particle of his dignity. He knew and respected the old Duke de Marnie, a feeble old man now, almost a doder to his wither to spotless blessant, the young vacant, his son, was doing his best to be smirched. When the boy fell forward, blind and drunk with rage, they relayed Lent towards him automatically, quite kindly, and helped him to his feet. He would have asked the lad, pardon for his own thoughtlessness, had that been possible, but the stilted coat of so-called honor forbade so logical a proceeding. It would have done no good, and could button peril his own reputation without averting the traditional sequel. The paneled walls of the celebrated gaming saloon had often witnessed scenes such as this. All those present acted by routine. The etiquette of dueling prescribed certain formalities, and these were strictly but rapidly adhered to. The young vacant was quickly surrounded by a closed circle of friends. His great name, his wealth, his father's influence, had opened for him every door in Versailles and Paris. But at this moment he might have had an army of seconds to support him in the coming conflict. Day relayed for a while was left alone near the card table, where the unsnuffed candles began smoldering in their sockets. He had risen to his feet, somewhat bewildered at the rapid turn of events. His dark, restless eyes wondered for a moment around the room, as if in quick search for a friend. But where the vacant was at home by right, Day relayed had only been admitted by reason of his wealth. His acquaintances and sycophants were many, but his friends were very few. For the first time this fact was brought home to him. Everyone in the room must have known and realized that he had not willfully sought this quarrel, that throughout he had borne himself as any gentleman would, yet now, when the issue was so close at hand, no one came forward to stand by him. For form's sake, Montsieur, will you choose your seconds? It was the young Marquis de Villefranche who spoke, a little hodlily, with a certain ironical condescension towards the rich parvenu, who was about to have the honor of crossing swords with one of the noblest gentlemen in France. I pray you, Montsieur Les Marquis, rejoined Day relayed coldly, to make the choice for me. You see, I have few friends in Paris. The Marquis bowed and gracefully flourished his lace handkerchief. He was accustomed to being appealed to in all matters pertaining to etiquette, to the toilet, to the latest cut in coats, and the procedure in duels. Good-natured, foppish and idle, he felt quite happy, and in his element thus to be made chief organizer of the tragic farce, about to be enacted on the parquet floor of the gaming saloon. He looked about the room for a while, scrutinizing the faces of those around him. The gilded youth was crowding around Des Marnis. A few older men stood in a group at the further end of the room. To these the Marquis turned, and addressing one of them, an elderly man with a military bearing and a shabby brown coat, Mont Colonel, he said, with another flourishing bow. I am deputed by Montsieur Des relayed to provide him with seconds for his affair of honor. May I call upon you two? Certainly, certainly, replied the Colonel. I am not intimately acquainted with Montsieur Des relayed, but since you stand sponsor, Montsieur Les Marquis. Oh, rejoined the Marquis lightly. A mere matter of form, you know. Montsieur Des relayed belongs to the entourage of Her Majesty. He is a man of honor. But I am not his sponsor. Marni is my friend, and if you prefer not to. Indeed, I am entirely at Montsieur Des relayed service, said the Colonel, who had thrown a quick scrutinizing glance at the isolated figure near the card table. If he will accept my services, he will be very glad to accept my dear Colonel, whispered the Marquis with an ironical twist of his aristocratic lips. He has no friends in our set, and if you and Des Quatar will honor him, I think he should be grateful. Montsieur Des Quatar, adjutant to Montsieur Les Colonel, was ready to follow in the footsteps of his chief, and the two men, after the prescribed salutations to Montsieur Les Marquis des Villes-Franches, went across to speak to Des relayed. If you will accept our services, Montsieur, began the Colonel abruptly. Mine, and my adjutants, Montsieur Des Quatar, we place ourselves entirely at your disposal. I thank you, Miss Yes, rejoined Des relayed. The whole thing is a farce, and that young man is a fool. But I have been in the wrong, and you would wish to apologize, buried the Colonel, icily. The worthy soldier had heard something of Des relayed's reported bourgeois ancestry. This suggestion of an apology was no doubt in accordance with the customs of the middle classes, but the Colonel literally gasped at the unworthiness of the proceeding. An apology? Bah, disgusting, cowardly. Beneath the dignity of any gentleman, however wrong he might be, how could two soldiers of his majesty's army identify themselves with such doings? The Des relayed seemed unconscious of the enormity of his suggestion. If I could avoid a conflict, he said, I would tell the Vicente that I had no knowledge of his admiration for the lady we were discussing, and are you so very much afraid of getting a sword-scratch, Montsieur, interrupted the Colonel impatiently, while Montsieur Des Quatar elevated a pair of aristocratic eyebrows in bewilderment at such an extraordinary display of bourgeois cowardice. You mean, Montsieur Des Colonel, queried Des relayed, that you must either fight the Vicente of Marne tonight, or clear out a pair as tomorrow. Your position in our set would become untenable, reported the Colonel, not unkindly, for in spite of Des relayed's extraordinary attitude, there was nothing in his bearing or his appearance that suggested cowardice or fear. I bow to your superior knowledge of your friends, Montsieur Des Colonel, responded day relayed, as he silently drew his sword from his sheath. The center of the saloon was quickly cleared. The seconds measured the length of the swords, and then stood behind the antagonists, slightly in advance of the group's spectators, who stood amassed all around the room. They represented the flower of what France had of the best ennobles in name, in lineage, in chivalry, in that year of grace, 1783. The storm cloud, which a few years hence was distant to break over their heads, sweeping them from their palaces to the prison and the guillotine, was only gathering very slowly in the dim horizon of squalid, starving Paris. For the next half dozen years, they would still dance and gamble, fight and flirt, surround a tottering throne, and hoodwink a weak monarch. The fates of vinging sword still rested in his sheath. The relentless, ceaseless wheels still bore them up in their whirl of pleasure. The downward movement had only just begun. The cry of the oppressed children of France had not yet been heard above the dent of dance music and lover's serenades. The young duke des Châtardons was there, he who, nine years later, went to the guillotine on that cold September morning. His hair dressed in the latest fashion, the finest mechlin lace around his wrists, ending a final game of piquet with his younger brother, as the tumbril bore them along through the hooting, yelling crowd of the half-naked starvelings of Paris. There was a vacante de Myrepoix, who, a few years later, standing on the platform of the guillotine, laid a bet with Montseau de Mirage that his own blood would flow bluer than that of any other head cut off that day in France. Citizen Sampson heard the bet made, and when de Myrepoix's head fell into the basket, the heads been lifted up for Montseau de Mirage to see. The latter laughed. De Myrepoix was always a braggart, he said lightly, as he laid his head upon the block. Who will take my bet that my blood turns out to be bluer than his? But of all these comedies, these tragico-farses of later years, none who were present on that night, when the vacante de Myrepoix fought, Paul Day relayed, had as yet any presentiment. They watched the two men fighting with the same casual interest at first, which they would have bestowed on the dancing of a new movement in the minuet. De Myrepoix came of a race that had wielded the sword of many centuries, but he was hot, excited, not a little addled with wine and rage. Day relayed was lucky, he would come out of the fair with a light scratch. A good swordsman, too, that wealthy parvenu. It was interesting to watch his sword play. Very quiet at first, no fainter parry, scarcely a repost, only on guard, always on guard, very carefully, steadily, ready for his antagonist at every turn and in every circumstance. Gradually the circle around the combatants narrowed. A few discreet explanations of admiration greeted Day relayed's most successful parry. De Myrepoix was getting more and more excited, the older man more and more sober and reserved. A thoughtless lunge placed a little of a con at his opponent's mercy. The next instant he was disarmed, and the seconds were pressing forward to end the conflict. Honor was satisfied. The parvenu and the scion of the ancient race had crossed swords over the reputation of one of the most dissolute women in France. Day relayed's moderation was a lesson to all the hot-headed youngbloods who toyed with their lives, their honor, their reputation, as lightly as they did with their lace-edged handkerchiefs and gold snuffboxes. Already Day relayed had drawn back. With the gentle tact peculiar to the kindly people, he avoided looking at his disarmed antagonists, but something in the older man's attitude seemed to further nettle the overstimulated sensibility of the young Vekon. This is no child's playmonstry, he said excitedly. I demand full satisfaction. And are you not satisfied, query Day relayed? You have borne yourself bravely, you have fought in honor of your leech lady. I, on the other hand, you, shouted the boy hoarsely, you shall publicly apologize to a noble and virtuous woman who you have outraged, now, at once, on your knees. You are mad, Vekon, rejoined Day relayed coldly. I am willing to ask your forgiveness for my blunder. An apology, in public, on your knees. The boy had become more and more excited. He had suffered humiliation after humiliation. He was a mere lad. Spolt, adulated, pampered from his boyhood. The wine had gotten to his head. The intoxication of rage and hatred blinded his saint judgment. Coward! he shouted again and again. His seconds tried to interpose, but he waved them feverishly aside. He would listen to no one. He saw no one save the man who insulted Adele, and who was heaping further insults upon her by refusing the public acknowledgment of her virtues. DeMarni hated Day relayed at this moment with the most deadly hatred the heart of man can conceive. The older man's calm, his chivalry, his consideration only enhanced the boy's anger and shame. The hubbub had become general. Everyone seemed carried away with a strange fear of enmity, which was seething in the Vekon's veins. Most of the young men crowded around DeMarni, doing their best to pacify him. The Marquis de Villefranche declared that the matter was getting quite outside the rules. No one took much notice of Day relayed. In the remote corners of the saloon, a few elderly dandies were laying bets as to the ultimate issue of the quarrel. Day relayed, however, was beginning to lose his temper. He had no friends in that room, and therefore there was no sympathetic observer there to note the gradual darkening of his eyes, like the gathering of a cloud heavy with the coming storm. I pray you, messieurs, let us cease the argument he said at last, and allow it in patient voice. Monsieur le Vekon de Marni desires a further lesson, and by God he shall have it. On God, Monsieur le Vekon, the crowd quickly drew back. The seconds once more assumed the bearing of an imperturbable expression which their important function demanded. The hubbub ceased as the swords began to clash. Everyone felt the forest was turning to tragedy. Yet it was obvious from the first that Day relayed merely meant once more to disarm his antagonists to give him one more lesson, a little more severe perhaps than the last. He was such a brilliant swordsman, and Day Marni was so excited that the advantage was with him from the very first. How it all happened, nobody afterwards could say. There is no doubt that the little Vekon's sword play had become more and more wild, that he uncovered himself in the most reckless way whilst lunging wildly at his opponent's breast until, at last, in one of these mad unguarded moments he seemed literally to throw himself upon Day relayed's weapon. The latter tried with lightning swift motion of the wrist to avoid the fatal issue, but it was too late, and without a sigh or groan, scarce a tremor, Vekon Day Marni fell. The sword dropped out of his hand, and it was Day relayed himself who caught the boy in his arms. It had all occurred so quickly and suddenly that no one had realized it all until it was over, and the lad was lying prone on the ground, his elegant blue satin coat stained with red, and his antagonist bending over him. There was nothing more to be done. Etiquette demanded that Day relayed should withdraw. He was not allowed to do anything for the boy whom he had so unwillingly sent to his death. As before, no one took much notice of him. Silence. The awesome silence caused by the presence of the great master fell upon all those around. Only in the far corner, a shrill voice was heard to say, I hold you at 500 Louis Marquis. The far venue is a good swordsman. The group's part of it is Day relayed walked out of the room, followed by the colonel and Monsiode Kittar who stood by him to the last. Both were old and proofed soldiers. Both had chivalry encouraged in them, with which to do tribute to the brave men whom they had seconded. At the door of the basement, they met the leech a little time ago to hold himself in readiness for any eventuality. The great eventuality had occurred. It was beyond the leech's learning. In the brilliantly lighted saloon above, the only son of Duke de Marnie was breathing his last, while Day relayed, wrapping his mantle closely around him, strode out into the dark street all alone. End of Prologue Part 1 Recording by Annie Kirkpatrick, Sherwood, Arkansas Prologue Part 2 The head of the house of Marnie was at this time barely seventy years of age, but he had lived every hour, every minute of his life, from the day when the Grand Monarch gave him his first appointment as Gentleman Page and waiting when he was a mere lad, barely twelve years of age, to the moment some ten years ago now, when nature's relentless hand struck him with his hands, and the hand of the hand of the hand of the hand of the hand of the hand of the hand of the hand of the hand of the hand of the hand of the hand of the hand of тебя. When nature's relentless hand struck him down in the midst of his pleasures, withered him in a flash as she does a sturdy old oak, annealed him acry onde, almost a-doded to the invalid chair which he would only quit for his last resting place. Juliet was then a mere slip of a girl, an old man's child, the spoilt darling of his last happy years. She had retained some of the who had bequeathed this final tender burden, her baby girl, to the brilliant, handsome young man whom she had so deeply loved and so often forgiven. When the Duke de Marnie entered the final awesome stage of his guilted career, that death-like life which he dragged on for ten years warily to the grave, Juliet became his only joy, his one gleam of happiness in the midst of torturing memories. In her deep, tender eyes he would see mirrored the present, the future for her, and would forget his past with all its guilloties, its mad, merry years that meant nothing now but bitter regrets, and endless rosary of the might of bins. And then there was the boy, the little Vekomp, the future Duke de Marnie, who would in his life and with his youth recreate the glory of the family, and make France once more ring with the echo of brave deeds and callate adventures which had made the name of Marnie so glorious and camp and court. The Vekomp was not his father's love, but he was his father's pride, and from the depths of his huge cushioned armchair the old man would listen with delight to stories from Versailles in Paris, the young queen in the fascinating l'embal, the latest play in the newest star in the theatrical firmament. His feeble, tottering mind would then take him back along the past's memory to his own youth and his own triumphs, and in the joy and pride in his son he would forget himself for the sake of the boy. When they brought the Vekomp home that night, Juliet was the first to wake. She heard the noise outside the great gates, the coach slowly drawing up, the ring for the doorkeeper and the sound of Matthew's mutterings, who never liked to be called up in the middle of the night to let anyone through the gates. Somehow a presentiment of evil at once struck the young girl. The footstep sounded so heavy and muffled along the flat courtyard and up the great oak staircase, as seen as if they were carrying something heavy, something inert or dead. She jumped out of bed and hastily wrapped a cloak around her thin, girlish shoulders and slipped her feet into a pair of heelless shoes. Then she opened her bedroom door and looked out upon the landing. Two men, whom she did not know, were walking upstairs abreast. Two more were carrying a heavy burden, and Matthew was behind moaning and crying bitterly. Juliet did not move. She stood in the doorway rigid as a statue. The little cortege went past her. No one saw her, for the landings in the hotel de Marnie were very wide, and Matthew's lantern only threw a dim, flickering light upon the floor. The men stopped outside the vacanth's room. Matthew opened it, and then the five men disappeared within with their heavy burden. A moment later old patronelle, who had been Juliet's nurse, and was now her devoted slave, came to her, all bathed in tears. She had just heard the news, and she could scarcely speak, but she folded the young girl, her dear pit lamb, in her arms, and rocking herself to and fro she sobbed and eased her aching, motherly heart. But Juliet did not cry. It was also sudden so awful. She, at fourteen years of age, had never dreamed of death, and now there was her brother, her Philippe, in whom she had so much joy and so much pride. He was dead, and her father must be told. The awfulness of this task seemed to Juliet likened to the last judgment day, a thing so terrible, so appalling, so impossible, that it would take a host of angels to proclaim its inevitableness. The old cripple, with one foot in grave, who's a whole people mine, whose pride, whose final flicker of hope, was concentrated in this boy, must be told that the lad had been brought home dead. "'Will you tell him, patronelle?' she asked repeatedly, during the brief intervals when the violence of the old nurse's grief subsided somewhat. "'No, no, darling. I cannot. I cannot,' won patronelle, amidst a renewed shower of sobs. Juliet's entire soul, a child soul it was, and rolls in revolt at the thought of what was before her. She felt angered with God for having put such a thing upon her. What right had he to demand a girl of her years to endure such mental agony? To lose her brother and to witness her father's grief. She couldn't. She couldn't. She couldn't. God was evil and unjust. A distant tinkle of a bell made all her nerves suddenly quiver. Her father was awake then. He had heard the noise and was ringing his bell to ask for an escalation of the disturbance. With one quick movement Juliet jerked herself free from the nurse's arms, and before patronelle could prevent her, she had run out of the room, straight across the dark landing to a large panel door opposite. The old Duke de Marnie was sitting on the edge of his bed, with this long, thin legs dinging helplessly to the ground. Groppled as he was, he had struggled to have this upright position, when she was making frantic, miserable efforts to raise himself still further. He, too, had heard the dull thud of feet, the shuffling gate of men, when carrying a heavy burden. His mind flew back half a century, to the days when he had witnessed scenes wherein he was then merely a half-interested spectator. He knew the cortege composed of valets and friends, with the leech walking beside that precious burden, which Anon would be deposited on the bed and left to the tender care of a morning family. Who knows what pictures were conjured up by that enfeebled vision. But he guessed, and when Juliet dashed into his room and stood before him, pale, trembling a world of misery in her great eyes, she knew that he guessed, and she needed not tell him. He had already done that for her. Pierre, the old duke's devoted valet, dressed him as quickly as he could. Monsieur des Ducs insisted on having as a beaten des serremonis the rich suit of black velvet with the priceless lace and diamond buttons, which he had worn when they laid the Royce au Lille to his eternal rest. He put on his orders and buckled on his sword. The gorgeous clothes, which had suited him so well in the prime of his manhood, hung somewhat loosely on his attenuated frame, but he looked a grand and imposing figure, with his white hair tied behind with a great black bow, and the fine jebeau of beautiful pointe d'Angleterre falling in a soft cascade below his chin. Then holding himself as upright as he could, he sat in his invalid chair, and four flunkies in full livery carried him to the deathbed of his son. All the house was a stir by now. Tortures burned in great sockets in the vast hall and along the massive oak stairway, and hundreds of candles flickered ghost-like in the vast apartments of the princely mansion. The numerous servants were arrayed on the landing, all dressed in the rich livery of the ducal house. The death of an heir of the Marnese is an event that history makes a note of. The old yoke's chair was placed close to the bed, where lay the dead body of the young vacant. He made no movement, nor did he utter a word or sigh. Some of those who were present at the time declared that his mind had completely given away, and that he neither felt nor understood the death of his son. The marquis David de Franche, who had followed his friend to the last, took a final leave of the sorrowing house. Juliet scarcely noticed him. Her eyes were fixed on her father. She would not look at her brother. A childlike fear had seized her there suddenly, between those two silent figures, the living and the dead. And just as the marquis was leaving the room, the old man spoke for the first time. Marquis, he said very quietly, you forget, you have not yet told me who killed my son. It was in a fair fight, Monsilla did you, replied the young marquis, all in spite of all of his frivolty, his light-heartedness by the strange, almost mysterious tragedy. Who killed my son, Monsilla, Marquis? Repeated the old man mechanically. I have the right to know, he added him with sudden, weird energy. It was Monsilla, Paul de Roulade, Monsilla did you, replied the marquis. I repeat, it was in fair fight. The old duke sighed as if in satisfaction. Then, with the courteous gesture of farewell reminiscent of the grand cycle, he added. All thanks for me and mine to you, Marquis, would seem but a mockery. Your devotion to my son is beyond human thanks. I will not detain you now. Farewell. Escorted by two lackeys, the marquis passed out of the room. Miss all the servants, Juliet, I have something to say. Said the old duke, and the young girl, silent, obedient, did as her father bade her. Father and sister were alone with their dead. As soon as the last hushed footsteps of the retreating servants died away in the distance. The duke, de Marnie, seemed to throw away the lethargy which had enveloped him until now. With a quick feverish gesture he seized his daughter's wrist and murmured excitedly. His name. You heard his name, Juliet. Yes, father, replied the child. Paul de Roulade. Paul de Roulade. You'll not forget it. Never, father. He killed your brother. You understand that? Killed my only son. The hope of my house, the last descendant of the most glorious race that ever added luster to the history of France. And fair fight, father, protested the child. It is not fair for a man to kill a boy, retorted the old man with furious energy. They relayed his thirty. My boy was scarce out of his teens. May the vengeance of God fall upon the murderer. Juliet, awed, terrified, was gazing at her father with great wandering eyes. He seen them like himself. His face wore a curious expression of ecstasy and of hatred, also of hope and exultation whenever he looked steadily at her. But the final glimmer of a tottering reason was fast leaving the poor, aching head she was too young to realize. Madness was a word that only had a vague meaning for her. Though she did not understand her father at the present moment, though she was half afraid of him, she would have rejected with scorn and horror any suggestion that he was mad. Therefore when he took her hand and, drawing her near to the bed into himself, placed it upon her dead brother's breast, she recalled at the touch of the inanimate body, so unlike anything she had ever touched before. But she obeyed her father without any question and listened to his words as to those of a sage. Juliet, you are now fourteen and able to understand what I am going to ask of you. If I were not chained to this miserable chair, if I were not a hopeless abject cripple, I would not depute anyone, not even you, my only child, to do that, which God demands that one of us should do. He paused a moment, then continued earnestly. Remember, Juliet, that you are the house of Marnie, that you are a Catholic, and that God hears you now, for you shall swear an oath before him and me, an oath from which only death can relieve you, will you swear, my child? If you wish it, Father, do you have been to confession lately, Juliet? Yes, Father, also to Holy Communion yesterday, replied the child. It was the fat you, you know. Then you are in a state of grace, my child. I was yesterday morning, Father, replied the young girl naively, but I have committed some little sins since then. And make your confession to God in your heart now. You must be in a state of grace when you speak the oath. The child closed her eyes, and, as the old man watched her, he could see the lips framing the words of her spiritual confession. Juliet made the sign of the cross, then opened her eyes and looked at her father. I am ready, Father, she said. I hope God has forgiven me the little sins of yesterday. Will you swear, my child? What, Father? That you will avenge your brother's death on his murderer. But, Father, swear it, my child. How can I fulfill that oath, Father? I don't understand. God will guide you, my child. When you are older, you will understand. For a moment Juliet still hesitated. She was just on that borderland between childhood and womanhood, when all the sensibilities, the nervous system, the emotions, are strung to their highest pitch. Throughout her short life she had worshipped her father with the wholehearted, passionate devotion which had completely blinded her to his weakening faculties in the feebleness of his mind. She was also in that initial stage of enthusiastic piety which overwhelves every girl of temperament if she be brought up in the Roman Catholic religion when she is first initiated into the mysteries of the sacraments. Juliet had been to confession and communion. She had been confirmed by Monsignor the Archbishop. Her ardent nature had responded to the fool to the sensuous and ecstatic expressions of the ancient faith. And somehow her father's wish, her brother's death, all seemed mingle in her brain with that religion, for which in her juvenile enthusiasm she would willingly have laid down her life. She thought of all the saints whose life she had been reading. Her young heart quivered at the thought of their sacrifices, their martyrdoms, their sense of duty. An exaltation morbid perhaps, superstitious and overwhelming, took position of her mind. Also perhaps, far back in the innermost recesses of her heart, a pride in her own importance, her mission in life, her individuality, for she was a girl after all, a mere child about to become a woman. But the old duke was waxing impatient. Sure that you do not hesitate, Juliet, with your dead brother's body clamoring mutely for revenge, you, the only Marnie left now, for from this day I, too, shall be as dead. No, Father, said the young girl in an odd whisper, I do not hesitate. I will swear, just as you bid me. Repeat the words after me, my child. Yes, Father, before the face of Almighty God, who sees and hears me. Before the face of Almighty God, who sees and hears me, said Juliet firmly, I swear that I will seek out Paul Day relayed. I swear that I will seek out Paul Day relayed, and in any manner which God may dictate to me encompasses death, his ruin or dishonor in revenge for my brother's death, and in any manner which God may dictate to me encompasses death, his ruin or dishonor in revenge for my brother's death, said Juliet solemnly, may my brother's soul remain in torment until the final judgment day, if I should break my oath, but may it rest in eternal peace the day on which his death is fitly avenged. May my brother's soul remain in torment until the final judgment day, if I should break my oath, but may it rest in eternal peace the day on which his death is fitly avenged. The child fell upon her knees. The oath was spoken, the old man was satisfied. He called for his valet and allowed himself quietly to be put to bed. One brief hour had transformed a child into a woman, a dangerous transformation when the brain is overbroden with emotions, when the nerves are overstrung and the heart full to breaking. For the moment, however, the childlike nature reasserted itself for the last time, but Juliet, sobbing, had fled out of the room to the privacy of her own apartment, and thrown herself passionately into the arms of kind old patronelle. CHAPTER 1 Paris in 1793 The Outrage It would have been very difficult to say why citizen day-related was quite so popular as he was. Still more difficult would it have been to state the reason why he remained immune from the prosecutions, which were being conducted at the rate of serval scores a day, now against a moderate groaned, anon against the fanatic montaigne, until the whole of France was transformed into one gigantic prison that daily fed the guillotine. But day-related remained unscathed. Even Merlin's law of the suspect had so far failed to touch him. And when, last July, the murder of Marat brought an entire holocaust of victims to the guillotine, from Adam Lou, who would have put up a statue in honor of Charlotte Corday, with the inscription Greater Than Brutus, to Charlier, who would have had her publicly tortured and burned at the stake for her crime, day-related alone said nothing, and was allowed to remain silent. A most seething time of that seething revolution. No one knew in the morning if his head would still be on his own shoulders in the evening, or if it would be held up by citizen Samson the Headsman, or the sans-squ-lots of Paris to see. Yet day-related was allowed to go his own way. Marat once said of him, il n'est pas dangereux. The phrase had been taken up. Within the precincts of the national convention, Marat was still looked upon as the great protagonist of liberty, a martyr to his own convictions carried to the extreme, to squalor and dirt, to the downward leveling of man, to what is the lowest type in humanity. And his sayings were still treasured up. Even the guillondines did not dare to attack his memory. Deb Marat was more powerful than his living presentment had been. And he had said that day-related was not dangerous, not dangerous to republicanism, to liberty, to that downward leveling process, the tearing down of old traditions, and the annihilation of past pretensions. Day-related had once been very rich. He had had sufficient prudence to give away in good time that which, undoubtedly, would have been taken away from him later on. But when he gave willingly, at a time when France needed it most, and before she had learned how to help herself to what she wanted. And somehow, in this instance, France had not forgotten. An invisible fortress seemed to surround citizen day-related and keep his enemies at bay. They were few, but they existed. The national convention trusted him. He was not dangerous to them. The people looked upon him as one of themselves, who gave whilst he had something to give, who can gauge that most elusive of all things, popularity. He lived a quiet life, and had never yielded to the omniprevalent temptation of riding pamphlets, but lived along with his mother and Anne-Mier, the little orphaned cousin whom old Madame de Relay had taken care of, ever since the child could tattle. Everyone knew his house in the Rue École des Médecins, not at far from the one wherein Marat lived and died, the only solid stone house in the midst of a row of hovels, evil smelling and squalid. The street was narrow then, as it is now, and whilst Paris was cutting off the heads of her children for the sake of liberty and fraternity, she had no time to bother about cleanliness and sanitation. Rue École des Médecins did little credit to the school after which it was named, and it was a most unattractive crowd that usually thronged its uneven muddy pavements. A neat gown, a clean kerchief, were quite an unusual sight down this way. For Anne-Mier seldom went out, and old Madame de Relay hardly ever left her room. A good deal of brandy was being drunk at the two's drinking bars, one at each end of the long, narrow street, and by five o'clock in the afternoon it was undoubtedly best for the women to remain indoors. The crowd of disheveled elderly Amazons, who stood gossiping at the street corner, could hardly be called women now. A ragged petticoat, a greased red kerchief round the head, a tattered, stained shift, to this pass of squalor and shame had liberty brought the daughters of France, and they jeered at any passer-by less filthy, less degraded than themselves. Ah, voyons l'oristo, they shouted every time a man in decent clothes, a woman with tidy cap and apron, passed swiftly down the street. And the afternoons were very lively. There was always plenty to see. First and foremost the long procession of tumbrils winding its way from the prisons to the Place de la Révelochon. The forty thousand sections of the Committee of Public Safety sent their quota, each in their turn, to the guillotine. At one time these tumbrils contained royal ladies and gentlemen, c'est devant Ducs and princesses, aristocrats from every country in France, but now this stock was becoming exhausted. The wretched Queen Marie Antoinette still lingered in the temple with her son and daughter. Madame Elizabeth was still allowed to say her prepares in peace, but c'est devant Ducs and Counts were getting scarce. Those who had not perished at the hand of Citizen Samson were plying some trade in Germany or England. There were aristocratic joiners, in-keepers, and hairdressers. The proudest names in France were hidden beneath trade signs in London and Hamburg. A good number owed their lives to that mysterious scarlet pimpernel, that unknown Englishman who had snatched scores of victims from the clutches of Tynville the prosecutor, and sent Montsieurs Chavons baffled back to France. Aristocrats were getting scarce, so it was now the turn of deputies of the National Convention, of men of letters, men of science or of art, men who had sent others to the guillotine a twelve-month ago, and men who had been loudest in defense of anarchy and its reign of terror. They had revolutionized the calendar. The Citizen deputies, and every good citizen of France, called this 19th day of August 1793, the second fruited door of the year one of the new era. At six o'clock on that afternoon, a young girl suddenly turned the angle of the roue écollée de medicineet, and after looking quickly to the right and left, she began deliberately walking down the narrow street. People was crowded just then. Groups of excited women stood jabbering before every doorway. It was the homecoming hour after the usual spectacle en l'oblossé de la révolution. The men had paused at the various drinking booths, crowding the women out. It would be the turn of these Amazons next, at the brandy-bars, for the moment they were left to gossip and to jeer at the passer-by. At first the young girl did not seem to heed them. She walked quickly along, looking defiantly before her, carrying her head erect, and stepping carefully from cobblestone to cobblestone, avoiding the mud which could have dirtied her dainty shoes. The heritance passed the time of day to her, and the time of day meant some obscure remark unfit for women's ears. The young girl wore a simple gray dress, with fine lawn kerchief neatly folded across her bosom, a large hat with flowing ribbon set above the fairest face that ever gladden men's eyes to see. Faire still it would have been, but for the look of determination which made it seem hard and old for the girl's years. She wore the tricolor scarf around her waist, else she had been more seriously molested ere now. But the Republican colors were her safeguard, while she walked quietly along, no one could harm her. Then suddenly a curious impulse seemed to seize her. It was just outside the large stone house belonging to citizen deputy Dayer-Laid. She had so far taken no notice of the groups of women which she had come across. When they obstructed the footway, she had calmly stepped out into the middle of the road. It was wise and prudent, for she could close her ears to obscene language and need pay no heed to insult. Suddenly she threw up her head defiantly. Would you please let me pass, she said loudly, as a disheveled Amazon stood before her with arms of Kimbo, glancing sarcastically at the lace petticoat, which just peeped beneath the young girl's simple gray frock. Let her pass, let her pass— Oh, oh, oh! laughed the old woman, turning to the nearest group of idlers and apostrophizing them with a loud oath. Did you know, citizeness, that this street had been specifically made for aristobes to pass along? I am in a hurry. Will you let me pass it once, commanded the young girl, tapping her foot patiently on the ground? There was the whole width of the street on her right. Plenty of room for her to walk along. It seemed positive madness to provoke quarrels single-handed against this noisy group of excited females, just home from the ghastly spectacle around the guillotine. And yet she seemed to do it willfully, as if coming to the end of her patience, all her proud aristocratic blood in revolt against this evil-smelling crowd which surrounded her. Half tipsy men and noisome-naked urchins seemed to have sprung from everywhere. Oh, que le re-sto! They shouted with a ronical astonishment, gazing at the young girl's face, vinkering her gown, thrusting, grime, hate-distorted faces close to her own. Instinctively she recalled and backed towards the house immediately on her left. It was adorned with a porch made of stout oak beams, with a tiled roof, and iron lantern descended from this, and there was a stone parapet below, and a few steps at right angles from the pavement led up to the massive door. From these steps the young girl had taken refuge. Proud, defiant, she confronted the howling mom which she had so willfully provoked. Of a truth, citizeness Margaux, that gray dress would become you well, suggested a young man, whose red cap hung in tatters over an evil and disillute-looking face, and all that fine lace would make a splendid jabot round the wrist of his neck when citizen Samson holds up her head for us to see. Added another, as with mock elegance he stooped and with two very grimy fingers slightly raised the young girl's gray frock, displaying the laced edge petticoat beneath. A volley of oaths and loud, ironical laughter greeted the sally. "'Tis mighty fine lace to be thus hidden away,' commented an elderly heradin. "'Now would you believe it, my fine madame, but my legs are bare underneath my curdle?' "'And dirty, too, I'll lay a wager,' laughed another. "'Soap is dear in Paris just now.' The lace on the aristose kerchief would pay the baker's bill of a whole family for a month, shouted an excited voice. Heed and brandy further addled the brains of this group of French citizens. Hatred gleamed out of every eye. Outrage was imminent. The young girl seemed to know it, but she remained defiant and self-possessed, gradually stepping back and back up the steps, closely followed by her assailants. "'To the jus with the gouga then,' shouted a thin, haggard female viciously, as she suddenly clutched at the young girl's kerchief, and with a mocking triumphant laugh tore it from her bosom. This outrage seemed to be the signal for the breaking down of the final barriers which ordinary decency should have raised. The language and vituperation became such that no chronicler could record. The girl's dainty white neck, her clear skin, the refined contour of shoulders and busts seemed to have aroused the deadliest lust of hate in these wretched creatures, rendered bestial by famine and squalor. It seemed almost as if no one would vie with the other and seeking for words which would most offend these small aristocratic ears. The young girl was now crouching against the doorway. Her hands held up to her ears to shut out the awful words. She did not seem frightened, only appalled at the terrible volcano which she had provoked. Suddenly a miserable herradine struck her straight in the face, with hard grimy fist, and a long shout of exultation greeted this monstrous deed. Then only did the girl seem to lose her self-control. Amois, she shouted loudly, whilst hammering with both hands against the massive doorway. Amois! Murder! Murder! Siddhoyan der lade! Amois! But her terror was greeted with renewed glee by her assailants. They were now aroused to the highest point of frenzy. The crowd of brutes would in the next moment have torn the helpless girl from her place of refuge and dragged her into the mire, an outraged prey for the satisfaction of an ungovernable hate. But just as half a dozen pairs of talon-like hands clutch frantically at her skirts, the door behind her was quickly opened. She felt her arm seized firmly, and herself dragged swiftly within the shelter of the threshold. Her senses, overwrought by the terrible adventure which she had just gone through, were threatening to reel. She heard the massive door close, shutting out the yells of baffled rage, the ironical laughter, the obscene words which sounded in her ears like the shrinks of Dante's damned. She could not see her rescuer, for the haul into which he had hastily dragged her was only dimly lighted. But a peremptory voice said quickly, up the stairs, the room straight in front of you, my mother is there, go quickly. She had fallen to her knees, cowering against the heavy oak beam which supported the ceiling, and was straining her eyes to catch sight of the man, to whom at this moment she perhaps owed more than her life. But he was standing against the doorway with his hand on the latch. What are you going to do? She murmured. Prevent their breaking into my house in order to drag you out of it. He replied quietly. So, I pray you, do as I bid you. Mechanically she obeyed him, drew herself to her feet, and, turning down the stairs, began slowly to mount the shallow steps. Her knees were shaking under her, her whole body was trembling with horror at the awesome crisis she had just traversed. She dared not look back at her rescuer. Her head was bent, and her lips were murmuring half audible words as she went. Outside the hooting and yelling was becoming louder and louder. The enraged fists were hammering violently against the stout oak door. At the top of the stairs, moved by an irresistible impulse, she turned and looked into the hall. She saw his figure dimly outlined in the gloom. One handle on latch, his head thrown back to watch her movements. A door stood ajar immediately in front of her. She pushed it open and went within. At that moment he too opened the door below. The shrieks of the howling mob once more resounded close to her ears. It seemed as if they had surrounded him. She wondered what was happening, and marveled how he dared to face that awful crowd alone. The room into which she had entered was gay and cheerful looking, with its dainty gents, hangings, and graceful, elegant pieces of furniture. The young girl looked up as a kindly voice said to her, from out of the depths of a capacious armchair, Come in, come in, my dear, and close the door behind you. Did those wretches attack you? Never mind. Paul was speak to them. Come here, my dear, and sit down. There's no cost now for fear. Without a word the young girl came forward. She seemed to be walking in a dream, the gents' hangings to be swaying ghost-like around her, the yells and shrieks below to come from the very bowels of the earth. The old lady continued to prattle on. She had taken the girl's hand in hers, and was gently forcing her down on to a low stool beside her armchair. She was talking about Paul, and said something about Anne-Mier, and then about the national convention, and those beasts and savages, but mostly about Paul. The noise outside had subsided. The girl felt strangely sick and tired. Her head seemed to be whirling around, the furniture to be dancing around her. The old lady's face looked at her through a swaying veil, and then, tired nature was having her way at last. She folded the quivering young body in her motherly arms, and wrapped the aching senses beneath her merciful mantle of unconsciousness. CHAPTER II When presently the young girl awoke, with a delicious feeling of rest and well-being, she had plenty of leisure to think. So then, this was the house. She was actually a guest, a rescued protégé, beneath the roof of Citizen Day Relate. He had dragged her from the clutches of the howling mob which she had provoked. His mother had made her welcome, a sweet-faced young girl scarce out of her teens, sad-eyed and slightly deformed, had waited upon her and made her happy and comfortable. Juliet de Marnie was in the house of the man whom she had sworn before her god and before her father to pursue with hatred and revenge. Ten years had gone by since then. Standing upon the sweet-scented bed which the hospitality of the Day Relates had provided for her, she seemed to see passing before her the specters of these past ten years, the first four after her brother's death, until the old Duke de Marnie's body slowly followed his soul to its grave. After that last glimmer of life beside the deathbed of his son, the old Duke had practically ceased to be a mute, shrunken figure he merely existed, a wreck whom nature fortunately remembered at last, and finally took away from the invalid chair which had been his world. Then came those few years at the convent of the Ursulines. Juliet had hoped that she had a vocation. Her whole soul yearned for a secluded, a religious life, for great barriers of solemn vows and days spent in prayer and contemplation to interpose between herself and the memory of that awful night when, obedient to her father's will, she had made the solemn oath to avenge her brother's death. She was only eighteen when she first entered the convent directly after her father's death, when she felt very lonely, both morally and mentally lonely, and followed by the obsession of that oath. She never spoke of it to anyone except her confessor, and he, a simple-minded man of great learning and a total lack of knowledge of the world, was completely at a loss how to advise. The archbishop was consulted. He could grant a dispensation and release her of that most solemn vow. When first this idea was suggested to her, Juliet was exultant. Her entire nature, which in itself was wholesome, light-hearted, the very reverse of morbid, rebelled against this unnatural task placed upon her young shoulders. It was only religion, the strange, warped religion of that extraordinary age, which kept her to it, which forbade her breaking lightly that most unnatural oath. The archbishop was a man of many duties, many engagements. He agreed to give this strange, costly conscience his most earnest attention. He would make no promises. But mademoiselle de Marnie was rich. A munificent donation to the poor of Paris, or to some cause dear to the Holy Father himself, might perhaps be more acceptable to guide than the fulfillment of a compulsory vow. Juliet, within the convent walls, was waiting patiently for the archbishop's decision at the very moment when the greatest upheaval the world has ever known was beginning to shake the very foundations of France. The archbishop had other things down to think about than isolated cases of conscience. He forgot all about Juliet, probably. He was busy consoling a monarch for the loss of his throne and preparing himself and his royal patron for the scaffold. The convent of the Ursulines was scattered during the terror. Everyone remembers the Thermador massacres and the 34 nuns, all daughters of ancient families of France, who went so cheerfully to the scaffold. Juliet was one of those who escaped condemnation. How or why, she herself could not have told. She was very young and still a postulant. She was allowed to live in retirement with patronelle, her old nurse, who had remained faithful through all these years. Then the archbishop was prosecuted and imprisoned. Juliet made frantic efforts to see him, but all in vain. When he died, she looked upon her spiritual guide's death as a direct warning from God that nothing could relieve her of her oath. She had watched the term oils of the revolution through the attic window of her tiny apartment in Paris. Weeded upon, by faithful patronelle, she had been forced to live on the savings of that worthy old soul, as all her property, all the marnier's states, the dote she took with her to the covenant, everything in fact, had been seized by the revolutionary government, self-appointed to level fortunes as well as individuals. In the attic window she had seen beautiful Paris, writhing under the pitiless lash of the demon of terror which it had provoked. She had heard the rumble of the Tumbrals, dragging day after day their load of victims to the insatiable maker of this revolution of fraternity, the guillotine. She had seen the gay, light-hearted people of this star city, turned to howling beasts of prey, its women changed to sexless vultures, with murderous talons implanted in everything that is noble high or beautiful. She was not twenty when the feeble, facilitating monarch and his imperious concert were dragged back a pair of humiliated prisoners to the capital from which they had tried to flee. Two years later she had heard the cries of an entire people exulting over a regicide. Then the murder of Marat by a young girl like herself, the pale-faced, large-eyed Charlotte, who had committed a crime for the sake of a conviction, greater than Brutus, someone had called her, greater than Joan of Arc, for it was to a mission of evil and of sin that she was called from the depths of her Breton village and not to one of glory and triumph. Greater than Brutus. Juliet followed the trial of Charlotte Corday with all the passionate ardor of her exalted temperament. Just think what an effect it must have had upon the mind of this young girl, who for nine years, the best of her life, had also lived with the idea of a sublime mission pervading her very soul. She watched Charlotte Corday at her trial. Conquering her natural repulsion for such scenes, and the crowds which usually watched them, she had forced her way into the foremost rank of the narrow gallery which overlooked the hall of the revolutionary tribunal. She heard the indictment, heard Tinville's speech in the calling of the witnesses. All this is unnecessary. I killed Marat. Juliet heard the fresh young voice ringing out clearly above the murmur of voices, the house of execration. She saw the beautiful young face, clear, calm, and passive. I killed Marat. And there in the special space allotted to the citizen deputies, sitting among those who represented the party of the moderate geronde, was Paul de Relaide, the man whom she had sworn to pursue with the vengeance as great, as complete, as that which guided Charlotte Corday's hand. She watched him during the trial, and wondered if he had any presentiment of the hatred which dogged him, like unto the one which had dogged Marat. He was very dark, almost worthy, a son of the South, with brown hair, free from powder, thrown back and revealing the brow of a student rather than that of a legislator. He watched Charlotte Corday earnestly, and Juliet, who watched him, saw the look of measureless pity, which softened the otherwise hard look of his close-set eyes. He made an impassioned speech for the defense, a speech which has become historic, who would have cost any other man his head. But Marvel did his courage. To defend Charlotte Corday was equivalent to acquiescing in the death of Marat, the friend of the people, Marat whom his funeral orators had compared to the great, the sacred leveler of mankind. But de Relaide's speech was not a defense. It was an appeal. The most eloquent men of that eloquent age, his words seemed to find that hidden bit of sentiment which still lurked in the hearts of those strange protagonists of hate. One round Juliet listened as he spoke. »Cidoyende Relaide!« whispered the bloodthirsty Amazons, who sat knitting in the gallery. But there was no further comment. A huge, magnificently equipped hospital for sick children had been thrown open in Paris that very morning, a gift to the nation from Cidoyende Relaide. Surely he was privileged to talk a little if it pleased him. His hospital would cover quite a good many defocations. Even the rabid Montaigne, Danton, Merlin, Sontaire shrugged their shoulders. It is de Relaide. Let him talk as he wished. Murdered Marat said of him that he was not dangerous. Juliet heard it all. The knitters round her were talking loudly. Even Charlotte was almost forgotten whilst de Relaide talked. He had a fine voice, of strong caliber, which echoed powerfully through the hall. He was rather short, but broad-shouldered and well-knit, with an expressive hand which looked slender and delicate below the fine lace ruffle. Charlotte Corday was condemned. All de Relaide's eloquence could not save her. Juliet left the court in a state of mad exultation. She was very young. The scenes she had witnessed in the past two years could not help but excite the imagination of a young girl, left entirely to her own intellectual and moral resources. What scenes? Great God! And now to wait for an opportunity. Charlotte Corday, the half-educated little provincial, should not put to shame Madame Waselle de Marnie, the daughter of a hundred dukes, of those who had made France before she took to unmaking herself. But she could not formulate any definite plans. Patronel, poor old soul, her only confidant, was not of the stuff that heroines are made of. Juliet felt impelled by duty, and duty at best is not so prompt a counselor as love or hate. Her adventure outside de Relaide's house had not been premeditated. Impulse and coincidence had worked their will with her. She had been in the habit daily, for the past month, of wandering down the roux écolais de Médiciné, ostensibly to gaze at Marat's dwelling, as crowds of idlers were wont to do, but really in order to look at de Relaide's house. Once or twice she saw him coming or going from home. Once she caught sight of the inner hall, and of a young girl in a dark curdle and snow-white kerchief, bidding him good-bye at his door. Another time she caught sight of him at the corner of the street, helping that same young girl over the muddy pavement. He had just met her, and she was carrying a basket of provisions. He took it from her and carried it to the house. Chivalrous, eh? And innately so, evidently, for the girl was slightly deformed, hardly a hunchback, but weak and unattractive-looking, with melancholy eyes and a pale, pinched face. It was the thought of that little act of simple chivalry, witnessed the day before, which caused Juliet to provoke the scene which, but for de Relaide's timely interference, might have ended so fatally. But she reckoned on that interference. The whole thing had occurred to her suddenly, and she had carried it through. Had not her father said to her when the time came, God would show her a means to the end. And now she was inside the house of the man who had murdered her brother and sent her sorrowing father, a poor, senseless maniac, tottering to the grave. Would God's finger point again, and show her what to do next? How best to accomplish what she had sworn to do? CHAPTER III Is there anything more I can do for you now, mademoiselle? The gentle timid voice roused Juliet from the contemplation of the past. She smiled at Anne Mie, and held her hand out towards her. You have all been so kind, she said. I want to get up now, and thank you all. Don't move unless you feel quite well. I am quite well now. Those horrid people frightened me so. That is why I fainted. They would have half killed you if— Will you tell me where I am, asked Juliet. In the house of Montier Paul de Relaide, I should have said of citizen deputé de Relaide. He rescued you from the mob and pacified them. He has such a beautiful voice that he can make anyone listen to him. And— And are you fond of him, mademoiselle? Added Juliet, suddenly feeling the mist of tears rising to her eyes. Of course I am fond of him, rejoined the other girl simply, whilst a look of the most tender-hearted devotion seemed to beautify her pale face. He and Madame de Relaide have brought me up. I never knew my parents. They have cared for me, and he has taught me all I know. What do they call you, mademoiselle? My name is Anne Mie. In mine, Juliet, Juliet Marnie. She added after a slight hesitation. I have no parents, either. My old nurse, patronel, has brought me up. And—but tell me more about Montier de Relaide. I owe him so much. I'd like to know him better. Will you not let me arrange your hair? said Anne Mie as if purposely evading a direct reply. Montier de Relaide is in a salon with madem. You can see him then. Juliet asked no more questions, but allowed Anne Mie to tie to her hair for her, to lend her a fresh kerchief, and generally to face all traces of her terrible adventure. She felt puzzled and tearful. Anne Mie's gentleness seemed somehow to jar on her spirits. She could not understand the girl's position in the de Relaide household. Was she a relative or a superior servant? In these troubleous times she might easily have been both. In any case, she was a childhood's companion of the citizen deputy. Whether on an equal or humbler footing, Juliet would have given much to ascertain. With the marvelous instinct peculiar to women of temperament, she had already divined Anne Mie's love for de Relaide. The poor young cripple's very soul seemed to quiver magnetically at the bare mention of his name. Her whole face became transfigured. Juliet even thought her beautiful then. She looked at herself critically in the glass, and adjusted a curl, which looked its best when it was rebellious. She scrutinized her own face carefully. Why? She could not tell. Another of those subtle, feminine instincts, perhaps. The becoming simplicity of the prevailing mode suited her to perfection. The waistline, rather high but clearly defined, a precursor of the later, more accentuated fashion, gave grace to her long slender limbs and emphasized the lissomeness of her figure. The kerchief, etched with fine lace, and neatly folded across her bosom, softened the contour of her girlish bust and shoulders. And her hair was a veritable glory around her dainty pecan't face. Soft, fair, and curly, it emerged in a golden halo from beneath the prettiest little lace cap imaginable. She turned and faced Anne-Mier, ready to follow her out of the room, and the young crippled girl sighed as she smoothed down the folds of her own apron and gave a final touch to the completion of Juliet's attire. The time before the evening meal slipped by like a dream hour for Juliet. She had lived so much alone had led such an introspective life that she had hardly realized and understood all that was going on around her. At the time when the inner fatality of France first asserted itself and then swept away all that hindered its mad progress, she was tied to the invitaled chair of her half-demented father. Then after that, the sheltering walls of the Ursuline convent had hidden from her mental vision the true meaning of the great conflict between the old era and the new. They were laid was neither a pedant nor yet a revolutionary. His theories were utopian, and he had an extraordinary overpowering sympathy for his fellowmen. After the first casual greetings with Juliet he had continued a discussion with his mother, which the young girl's entrance had interrupted. He seemed to take but little notice of her, although at times his dark, keen eyes would seek hers as if challenging her for a reply. He was talking of the mob of Paris, whom he evidently understood so well. As such as the one which Juliet had provoked had led to rape and theft, often to murder before now, but outside Citizen-Deputy Dairie Laid's house, everything was quiet half an hour after Juliet's escape from that howling, brutish crowd. He had merely spoken to them for about twenty minutes without even touching one hair of his head. He seemed to love them, to know how to separate the little good that was in them from that hard crust of evil which misery had put around their hearts. As he addressed Juliet somewhat abruptly, pardon me, mademoiselle, but for your own sake we must guard you a prisoner here a while. No one would harm you under this roof, but it would not be safe for you to cross the neighbouring streets to-night. But I must go, Montier, indeed, indeed I must, she said earnestly. I am deeply grateful to you, but I could not lay patronel. Who is patronel? My dear old nurse, Montier, she has never left me. Think how anxious and miserable she must be at my prolonged absence. Where does she live? At number fifteen, retype, but will you allow me to take her a message, telling her that you are safe and under my roof, where it is obviously more prudent that you should remain at present? If you think it best, Montier, she replied, inwardly she was trembling with excitement. God had not only brought her to this house, but willed that she should stay in it. God had not only brought her to this house, but willed that she should stay in it. In whose name shall I take the message, mademoiselle? He asked. My name is Juliet Marnie. She watched him keenly as she said it, but there was not the slightest sign in his expressive face to show that he had recognized the name. Ten years is a long time, and everyone had lived through so much during those years. A wave of intense wrath swept through Juliet's soul, as she realized that he had forgotten. The name meant nothing to him. It did not recall to him the fact that his hand was stained with blood. During ten years she had suffered, she had fought with herself. For him as it were, against the fate which she was destined to meet out to him, whilst he had forgotten, or at least had ceased to think. He bowed to her and went out of the room. The wave of wrath subsided, and she was left alone with madame de Relaide. Presently Anne-Mier came in. The three women chatted together, waiting for the return of the master of the house. Juliet felt well and, in spite of herself, almost happy. She had lived so long in the miserable little attic alone with patronelle that she enjoyed the well-being of this refined home. It was not so grand or gorgeous, of course, as her father's princely palace opposite the Louvre, erect now, since it was annexed by the Committee of National Defense for the housing of soldiery. But the day Relaide's home was essentially a refined one. The delicate china on the tall chimney-piece, and a few bits of boule in vernie marquine about the room, the vision through the open doorway of the supper table spread with the fine white cloth, and sparkling with silver, all spoke of fastidious tastes, of habits of luxury and elegance, which the spirit of equality and anarchy had not succeeded in eradicating. When de Relaide came back, he brought an atmosphere of the breezy cheerfulness with him. The street was quiet now, and when walking past the hospital, his own gift to the nation, he had been loudly cheered. One or two ironical voices had asked him what he had done with the aristote in her lace furblows, but it remained at that, and madame waselle marnie need have no fear. He had brought patronelle along with him. His careless, lavish hospitality would have suggested the housing of Juliet's entire domestic establishment had she possessed one. As it was, the worthy old soul's deluge of happy tears had melted his kindly heart. He offered her in her young mistress' shelter, and pill a small cloud should have rolled by. After that he suggested a journey to England. Immigration was now of the only real safety, and madame waselle marnie had unpleasantly drawn on herself the attention of the Paris rabble. No doubt within the next few days her name would figure among the suspect. She would be safest out of the country, and could not do better than place herself under the guidance of that English enthusiast who had helped so many persecuted Frenchmen to escape from the terrors of the revolution. The man who was such a thorn in the flesh of the committee of public safety, and who went by the nickname of the scarlet temperanelle. CHAPTER IV THE FAITHFUL HOUSE DOG After supper they talked of Charlotte Corday. Juliet clung to the vision of that heroine, and liked to talk of her. She appeared as a justification of her own actions, which somehow seemed to require justification. She loved to hear Paul Day-Relaide talk, like to provoke his enthusiasm and see his stern, dark face light up with the inward fire of the enthusiast. She had openly avowed herself as the daughter of the Duke de Marnie. When she actually named her father, and her brother killed in duel, she saw Day-Relaide looking long and searchingly at her. Evidently he wondered if she knew everything. But she returned to his gaze fearlessly and frankly, and he apparently was satisfied. Some Day-Relaide seemed to know nothing of the circumstances of that duel. Day-Relaide tried to draw Juliet out, to make her speak of her brother. She replied to his questions quite openly, but there was nothing in what she said suggestive of the fact that she knew who killed her brother. She wanted him to know who she was. If he feared an enemy in her, there was yet time enough for him to close his doors against her. But less than a minute later he had renewed his warmest offers of hospitality. Until we can arrange for your journey to England, he added with a short sigh, as if reluctant to part from her. To Juliet his attitude seemed one of complete indifference for the wrong he had done to her and to her father, feeling that she was an avenging spirit with flaming sword in hand. Pursuing her brother's murderer like a relentless nemesis, she would have preferred to see him cowed before her, even afraid of her, though she was only a young and delicate girl. She did not understand that in the simplicity of his heart he only wished to make amends. The quarrel with the young Vakom Dimarni had been forced upon him. The fight had been honorable and fair, and on his side fought with every desire to spare the young man. He had merely been the instrument of fate, but he felt happy that fate once more used him as her tool, this time to save the sister. While Stay relayed and Juliet talked together, Anne-Mier cleared the supper-table, and came and sat on a low stool at Madame's feet. She took no part in the conversation, but every now and then Juliet felt the girl's melancholy eyes fixed almost reproachfully upon her. When Juliet had retired with patronelle, Day relayed took Anne-Mier's hand in his. You will be kind to my guest, Anne-Mier, won't you? She seems very lonely, and has gone through a great deal. Not more than I have, murmured the young girl involuntarily. You are not happy, Anne-Mier? I thought, is a wretched, deformed creature ever happy? She set with sudden vehemence as tears of mortification rushed to her eyes, in spite of herself. I did not think that you were wretched, he replied with some sadness, and neither in my eyes nor in my mother's are you in any way deformed. Her mood changed at once. She clung to him, pressing his hand between her own. Forgive me. I—I don't know what's the matter with me tonight, she said with a nervous little laugh. Let me see. You asked me to be kindly to Madame's, Marnie, did you not? He nodded with a smile. Of course I'll be kind to her. Isn't every one kind to one who is young and beautiful, and has great, depeeling eyes, and soft curly hair? Ah, me! How easy is the path in life for some people! What do you want me to do, Paul? Wait on her? Be her little maid? Soothe her nerves, or what? I'll do it all, though in her eyes I shall remain both wretched and deformed. A creature to pity, the harmless, necessary house-dog. She paused a moment, said good-night to him, and turned to go, candle in hand, looking pathetic and fragile, with that ugly contour of her shoulder, which they relayed assured her he could not see. The candle flickered in the draught, eliminating the thin, pinched face, the large, melancholy eyes of the faithful house-dog. Who can watch and bite? She said half audibly as she slipped out of the room. For I do not trust you, my fine Madame, and there was something about that comedy this afternoon, but somehow I don't quite understand. Chapter 5 A Day in the Woods But whilst men and women set to work to make the towns of France hideous with their shrieks and their hootings, their mocked trials and bloody guillotines, they could not quite prevent nature from working her sweet will with the country. June, July, and August had received new names. They were now called Messador, Thermador, and Fructador, but under these new names they continued to pour forth upon the earth of the same old fruits, the same flowers, the same grass and the meadows and leaves upon the trees. Messador brought its quota of wild roses in the hedge-rose, just as archaic June had done. Messador covered the barren cornfields with its flaming mantel of scarlet poppies, and Fructador, though now called August, still tipped the wild sorrow with thoughts of crimson, and laid the first wash of tender color on the pale cheeks of the ripening peaches. In Juliet, young, girlish, feminine, and inconsequent, had sighed for country and sunshine, had longed for a ramble in the woods, the music of the birds, the sight of the meadows sugared with margarites. She had left the house early, accompanied by patronelle she had been rode along the river as far as Cernay. They had brought some bread and fresh butter, a little wine and fruit in a basket, and from here she meant to wander homewards through the woods. It was also peaceful so remote. Even the noise of shrieking howling Paris did not reach the leafy tickets of Cernay. It almost seemed as if this little old-world village had been forgotten by the destroyers of France. It had never been a royal residence. The woods had never been preserved for royal sport. There was no vengeance to be wreaked upon its peaceful glades and sleepy, fragrant meadows. Juliet spent a happy day. She loved the flowers, the trees, the birds, and patronelle was silent and sympathetic. As the afternoon wore on, and it was time to go home, Juliet turned townwards with a sigh. You all know that rode through the woods which lies to the north, west of Paris, so leafy so secluded. No large, hundred-year-old trees, no fine oaks or antique elms, but numberless delicate stems of hazelnut and young ash covered with honeysuckle at this time of year, sweet-smelling and so peaceful after that awful turmoil of the town. Obedient to Madame de Relay's suggestion, Juliet had tied a tricolor scarf around her waist, and a frigid and cap of crimson cloth with the inevitable rosette on one side adorned her curly head. She had gathered a huge bouquet of poppies, margarites, and blue lupine, nature's tribute to the national colors, and as she wandered through the silvan glade she looked like some quaint dweller of the woods, a sprite may have, with old mother patronelle trotting behind her like an attendant witch. Suddenly she paused, for in the near distance she had perceived the sound of footsteps upon the leafy turf, and the next moment Paul de Relay had emerged from out thicket and came rapidly towards her. We were so anxious about you at home, he said, almost by way of an apology, my mother became so restless. Now to quiet her fears you came in search of me! She retorted with a gay little laugh. The laugh of a young girl, scarce a woman as yet, who feels that she is good to look at, good to talk to, who feels her wings for the first time, the wings with which to soar into that mad, merry, elusive land called Romance, aye, her wings! But her power also, that sweet, subtle power of the woman, the yoke which men love, rail at, and love again, the yoke that enslaves them and gives them the joy of kings. How happy the day had been! Yet it had been incomplete. Patronel was somewhat dull, and Juliet was too young to enjoy long companionship with her own thoughts. Now suddenly the day seemed to have become perfect. There was someone there to appreciate the charm of the woods, the beauty of that blue sky peeping through the tangle foliage of the honeysuckle-covered trees. There was someone to talk to, someone to admire the fresh white frock Juliet had put on that morning. But how did you know where to find me? He asked with the quaint touch of immature coquetry. I didn't know, he replied quietly. They told me you had gone to Zernay, and meant to wander homewards through the woods. It frightened me, for you will have to go through the northwest barrier, and—well—he smiled and looked earnestly for a moment at the dainty apparition before him. Well, you know, he said gaily, that tricolour scarf and the red cap are not quite sufficient as the disguise. You look anything but a staunch friend of the people. I guess that your Muslim frock would be clean, and that there would still be some tell-tale lace upon it. She laughed again, and with delicate fingers lifted her pretty Muslim frock, displaying a white fru-fru of flounces beneath the hem. How careless and childish, he said, almost roughly. Would you have me coarsen grimy to be a fitting match for your partisans? She retorted. His tone of mentor netled her. His attitude seemed to her perigish and dictatorial. And as the sun disappearing behind in a sudden cloud, so her childish merriment quickly gave place to a feeling of unexplainable disappointment. I humbly beg your pardon, he said quietly, and must crave your kind's indulgence for my mood. But I have been so anxious. Why should you be anxious about me? She had meant to say this indifferently, as if carrying little what their reply might be, but in her effort to seem indifferent in her voice became haughty, a reminiscence of the days when she was still the daughter of the duke de Marnie, the richest and most high-born heiress in France. Was that presumptuous? He asked, with a slight touch of irony, in response to her own auteur. It was merely a necessary, she replied. I have already laid too many burdens on your shoulders, without wishing to add that of anxiety. You have laid no burden on me, he said quietly, save one of gratitude. Gratitude? What have I done? You committed a foolish, thoughtless act outside my door, and gave me the chance of easing my conscience of a heavy load. In what way? I had never hoped that the fates would be so kind as to allow me to render a member of your family a slight service. I understand that you saved my life the other day, once your day relayed. I know that I am still in peril and that I owe my safety to you. You also know that your brother owed his death to me. She closed her lips firmly, unable to reply, wrathful with him, for having suddenly, without any warning, placed a clumsy hand upon that hidden sore. I always meant to tell you, he continued somewhat hurriedly, for it almost seemed to me that I have been cheating you these last few days. I don't suppose that you can quite realize what it means to me to tell you this just now. But I owe it to you, I think. In later years you might find out, and then regret the days you spent under my roof. I called you childish a moment ago. You must forgive me. I know that you are a woman, and hope therefore that you will understand me. I killed your brother in fair fight. You provoked me as no man was ever provoked before. Was it necessary, Montseudet relayed, that you should tell me all this? She interrupted with some impatience. I thought you ought to know. You must know, on the other hand, that I have no means of hearing the history of the quarrel from my brother's point of view now. The moment the words were out of her lips she had realized how curly she had spoken. He did not reply. He was so chivalrous, too gentle to reproach her. Perhaps he understood for the first time how bitterly she had felt her brother's death, and how deeply she must be suffering now that she knew herself to be faced to face with his murderer. She stole a quick glance at him through her tears. She was deeply penitent for what she had said. It almost seemed to her as if a dual nature was at war within her. The mission of her brother's name, the recollection of that awful night beside his dead body, of those four years while she watched her father's moribund reason slowly wandering towards the grave, seemed to rouse in her a spirit of rebellion and of evil, which she felt was not entirely of herself. The woods had become quite silent. It was late afternoon, and they had gradually wandered farther and farther away from the pretty Sylvain-sur-Nay, towards great anarchic death-dealing Paris. In this part of the woods the birds had left their homes. The trees, shorn of their lower branches, looked like gaunt specters, raising melancholy heads towards the relentless, silent sky. In the distance from behind the barriers a couple of miles away, the boom of a gun was heard. They are closing the barriers, he said quietly after a long pause. I'm glad I was fortunate enough to meet you. It was kind of you to seek me, she said meekly. I didn't mean what I said just now. I pray you say no more about it. I can so well understand. I only wish it would be best I should leave your house, she said gently. I have so ill-repaid your hospitality. Patronelle and I can easily go back to our lodgings. You would break my mother's heart if you left her now, he said almost roughly. She has become very fond of you, and knows just as well as I do, the dangers that would beset you outside my house. My coarse and grimy partisans, he added with a bitter touch of sarcasm, have that advantage. They are loyal to me, and would not harm you while under my roof. But you, she murmured, she felt some house, and she had wounded him very deeply, and was half angry with herself for her seeming in gratitude, and yet childishly glad to have suppressed in him that attitude of mentorship, which he was beginning to assume over her. You need not fear that my presence will offend you much longer, mademoiselle, he said coldly. I can quite understand how hateful it must be to you, though I would have wished that you could believe at least in my sincerity. Are you going away, then? Not out of Paris altogether. I have accepted the post of Governor of the Conciergerie. Ah! Where the poor queen! She checked herself suddenly. Those words would have been called reasonable to the people of France. Instinctively and furtively, as everyone did in these days, she cast a rapid glance behind her. You need not be afraid, he said. There is no one here but Patronel. And you? Oh! I echo your words. Poor Marie Antoinette. You pity her? How can I help it? But you are of that horrible National Convention, who will try her, condemn her, execute her as they did the king. I am of the National Convention. But I am of the National Convention. I am of the National Convention. I am of the National Convention. But I will not condemn her, nor be a party to another crime. I go as Governor of the Conciergerie to help her, if I can. But your popularity. Your life, if you befriend her? As you say, mademoiselle. My life, if I befriend her. He said simply. She looked at him with renewed curiosity in her gaze. How strange were men in these days. Paul de Relay, the Republican, the recognized idol of the lawless people of France, was about to risk his life for the woman he had helped to dethrone. Pity with him did not end with the rabble of Paris. It had reached Charlotte-Cordet, though it failed to save her, and now it extended to the poor dispossessed queen. Somehow in his face this time she saw either success or death. When do you leave, she asked, tomorrow night. She said nothing more. Strangely enough, a tinge of melancholy had settled over her spirits. No doubt the proximity of the town was the cause of this. She could already hear the familiar noise of muffled drums, the loud excited shrieking of the mob, who stood round the gates of Paris at this time of the evening, waiting to witness some important capture, perhaps out of a hated aristocrat striving to escape from the people's revenge. They had reached the edge of the wood, and gradually, as she walked, the flowers she had gathered fell unheeded out of her listless hands one by one. First the blue lupins. Their butt-laden heads were heavy, and they dropped to the ground, followed by the white marguerites, that lay thick behind her now on the grass like a shroud. The red poppies were the lightest, and thin gummy stalks clung to her hands longer than the rest. At last she let them fall too. Singly, like great drops of blood, that glistened as her long white gown swept them aside. David lay was absorbing his own thoughts and seemed not to heed her. At the barrier, however, he roused himself and took out the passes which alone enabled Juliet and patronel to re-enter the town unchallenged. He himself, a citizen deputy, could come and go as he wished. Juliet shuddered as the great gates closed behind her with a heavy clank. It seemed to shut out even the memory of this happy day, which for a brief space had been quite perfect. She did not know Paris very well, and wondered where lay that gloomy concierge rie, where a dethroned queen was living her last days, in an agonized memory of the past. But as they crossed the bridge she recognized all round her the massive towers of the great city. Notre-Dame, a grateful spire of La Saint-Chapelle, the sombre outline of Saint-Gervais, and behind her the lube with this great history and irreclaimable grandeur. How small her own tragedy seemed in the midst of this great sanguinary drama, the last act of which had not yet even begun, her own revenge, her oath, her tribulations. What were they in comparison with that great flaming nemesis which had swept away a throne, that foul of retaliation carried out by thousands against other thousands, a long story of degradation, of regicide, of fratricide, the awesome chapters of which were still being unfolded one by one. She felt small and petty, ashamed of the pleasure she had felt in the woods, ashamed of her high spirits and light-hardness, ashamed of that feeling of sudden pity and admiration for the man who had done her and her family so deep an injury, which she was too feeble, too vacillating to avenge. The majestic outline of the lube seemed to frown sarcastically on her weakness, a silent river to mock her and her wavering purpose. The man beside her had wronged her and hers far more deeply than the bourbons had wronged their people. The people of France were taking their revenge, and God had, at the close of this last happy day of her life, pointed once more to the means for her great end. End of chapters four and five. Chapter six of I Will Repay. This Libra Fox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Annie Kirkpatrick. I Will Repay by Verna Sortzi. Chapter six, The Scarlet Pimpernel. It was some few hours later. The lady sat in the drawing-room, silent and anxious. Soon after supper a visitor had called, and had been closeted with Beaudet Relate in the latter study for the past two hours. A tall, somewhat lazy-looking figure, he was sitting at a table face-to-face with the citizen deputy. On a chair beside him lay a heavy caped coat, covered with the dust and the splashings of a long journey, but he himself was a tired enclosed that suggested the most fastidious taste and the most perfect of tailors. He wore, with the pair at ease, the eccentric fashion of the time, the short-waisted coat of many lapels, the double-waist coat and billows of delicate lace. Unlike Deirele, he was of great height, with fair hair and a somewhat lazy expression in his good-natured blue eyes. And, as he spoke, there was just a soups-on of foreign accent in the pronunciation of the French vows, a certain drawl of the o's and a's that would have betrayed the Britisher to an observant ear. The two men had been talking earnestly for some time. The tall Englishmen was watching his friend keenly, whilst an amused, pleasant smile lingered round the corners of his firm mouth and jaw. Deirele, restless and enthusiastic, was pacing to and fro. But don't understand now, how you managed to reach Paris, my dear Blakeney, said Deirele at last, placing an anxious hand on his friend's shoulder. The government has not forgotten Scarlet Pimpernel. La, I took care of that, responded Blakeney with his short, pleasant laugh. I unveiled my autograph this morning. You were mad, Blakeney. Well, it's all together, my friend. My faith was on only full heartiness, caused me to grant that devilish prosecutor another sight of my Scarlet device. I knew what you maniacs would be after, so I came across in the daydream, just to see if I couldn't get my share of the fun. Fun, you call it, quarreled the other bitterly. Nay, what would you have me call it? A mad, insane, senseless tragedy, with but one issue, the guillotine for you all. Then why did you come? To—what should I say, my friend? Rejoined Sir Percy Blakeney with that inimitable drawl of his. To give you all dimmed government something else to think about, whilst you are all busy running in your heads into a noose. What makes you think we are doing that? Three things, my friend. May I offer you a pinch of snuff? No, I will. And with the graceful gesture of an accomplished dandy, Sir Percy flicked off a grain of dust from his immaculate mechlin' ruffles. Three things, he continued quietly, an imprisoned queen about to be tried for her life, the temperament of a Frenchman, some of them, and the idiocy of mankind generally. These three things make me think that a certain section of hot-headed Republicans with yourself, my dear dey-relayed, ontet are about to attempt the most stupid, senseless, purpolous thing that was ever concocted by the excitable brain of a dimmed Frenchman. Dey-relayed smiled. Does it not seem amusing to you, Blakeney, that you should sit here and condemn anyone mad, insane, senseless things? Nah, I'll not sit. I'll stand, rejoined Blakeney with a laugh as he drew himself up to his full height and stretched his long, lazy limbs. And now let me tell you, friend, that my league of the Scarlet Pimpernel ever attempted the impossible, and to try and drag the queen out of her clutches of these murderous rascals now is attempting the unattainable. And yet we mean to try. I know it. I guessed it. That is why I came. That is also why I sent the pleasant little note to the Committee of Public Safety signed with the device they know so well, the Scarlet Pimpernel. Well, well, the result is obvious. Robespierre, Duenton, Tindville, Merlin, and the whole of the dimmed, murderous crowd will be busy looking for me, a needle in a haystack. They'll put the abortive attempt down to me, and you may mofois. I only suggest that you may escape safely out of France in the daydream and with the help of your humble servant. But in the meanwhile they'll discover you, and they'll not let you escape a second time. My friend, if a terrier were to lose his temper, he never would run a rat to Earth. Now your revolutionary government has lost its temper with me ever since I slipped through Chauvelin's fingers. They are blind with their own fury, whilst I am perfectly happy and cool as a cucumber. My life has become valuable to me, my friend. There is someone over the water now who weeps when I don't return. No, never fear. They'll not get the scarlet Pimpernel this journey. He laughed a gay, pleasant laugh, and a strong, firm face seemed to soften at the thought of his beautiful wife, over in England who was waiting anxiously for his safe return. And yet you'll not help us to rescue the queen, rejoined day-relayed with some bitterness. By every means in my power, replied Blakeney, save the insane, but I will help to get you all out of the dimmed hole when you have failed. We'll not fail, asserted the other hotly. Sir Percy Blakeney went close up to his friend and placed his long, slender hand with a touch of almost womanly tenderness upon the latter's shoulder. Will you tell me your plans? In a moment day-relayed was all fire and enthusiasm. There are not many of us in it, he began. Although half France will be in sympathy with us. We have plenty of money, of course, and also the necessary disguise for the royal lady. Yes, I, in the meantime, have asked for and obtained the post of Conciergerie. I go into my new quarters tomorrow. In the meantime I am making arrangements for my mother and those dependent upon me to quit France immediately. Blakeney had perceived the slight hesitation when day-relayed mentioned those dependent upon him. He looked scrutinizingly at his friend, who continued quickly. I am still very popular among the people. My family can go about it and molest it. I must get them out of France, however, in case, in case. Of course, rejoin the other simply. As soon as I am assured that they are safe, my friends and I can prosecute our plans. My friends and I can prosecute our plans. You see, the trial of the queen has not yet been decided on, but I know that it is in the air. We hope to get her away disguised in one of the uniforms of the National Guard. As you know, it will be my duty to make the final round every evening in the prison, and to see that everything is safe for the night. Two fellows watch all night in the room next to that occupied by the queen. Usually they drink and play cards all night long. I want an opportunity to drug their brandy, and thus to render them more loudish and idiotic than usual. Then, for a blow on the head that will make them senseless, it should be easy, for I have a strong fist, and after that, well, after that, friend, rejoin Cerpercia earnestly, after that, shall I fill in the details of the picture, the guard twenty-five strong outside the concierge, how will you pass them? I, as my governor, followed by one of my guards, to go with her. I have the right to come and go as I please. Faith, so you have, but one of your guards, eh? Wrap to the eyes in a long mantle to hide the female figure beneath. I have been in Paris but a few hours, and yet already I have realized that there is not one dim citizen within its walls who does not at this moment suspect some other dim citizen of conniving at the queen's escape. Even the sparrows on the floor are objects of suspicion. No figure wrapped in a mantle will from this day forth leave Paris unchallenged. But you, yourself, friend, suggest a day relay. You think you can quit Paris unrecognized? And why not the queen? Because she is a woman and has been a queen. She has nerves for so, in weaknesses of body and of mind now. Alas for her! Alas for France! Who wreaks such idle vengeance on so poor an enemy? Can you take hold of Maria Antoinette by the shoulders, shove her to the bottom of a cart and pile sacks of potatoes on the top of her? I did that to the contestee Ternay and her daughter, as stiff-necked a pair of French aristocrats has ever deserved the guillotine for their insane prejudices. But can you do it to Maria Antoinette? She'd rebuke you publicly and betray herself and you in a flash, sooner than submit to a loss of dignity. But you would leave her to her fate. Ah, there's the trouble, friend. Do you think you need appeal to the sense of you're still twenty strong and heart and soul in sympathy with your mad schemes, the poor poor queen? But you're a bound to fail, and then who will help you all, if we too are put out of the way? We should succeed if you helped us. At one time you used proudly to say, the league of a scarlet Pempernel has never failed. Because it attempted nothing that it could not accomplish but law, since you put me on my medal, dim it all, I have to think about it. And you laugh of his, which had deceived the clever men of two countries as to his real personality. Day relayed went up to the heavy oak desk which occupied a conspicuous place in the center of one of the walls. He unlocked it and drew forth a bundle of papers. Will you look through these? He asked, handing them to Sir Percy Blakeney. What are they? Different schemes I have drawn up, in case my original plan should not succeed. Burned them, my friend, said Blakeney laconically. Have you not yet puting your hand to paper? I can't burn these. You see, I shall not be able to have long conversations with Marie Antoinette. I must give her my suggestions in writing that she may study them and not fail me through lack of knowledge of her part. Better that than papers in these times, my friend, these papers, if found, would send you untried to the guillotine. I am careful and at present quite beyond suspicion. Moreover, among the papers is a complete collection of passports, suitable for any queen in her attendant may be forced to assume. It has taken me some months to collect them, so as not to arouse suspicion. I gradually got them together, on one pretense or another. Now I am ready for any eventuality. He suddenly apposed. A look in his friend's face had given her a must with mourning. He turned, and there, in the doorway, holding back the heavy portiere, stood Juliet, graceful, smiling, a little pale, this no doubt owing to the flickering light of the lights. So young and girlish did she look in her soft white muslin frock that, outside of her, the tension in Deirele's face seemed to relax. Instinctively he had thrown the papers back into the desk, but his look had softened, from the fire of obstinate energy to that of inexpressible tenderness. Blakeney was quietly watching the young girl as she stood in the doorway, a little bashful and undecided. Madam Deirele sent me, she said hesitatingly. She says the hour is getting late, and she is very anxious. Once your day were laid, would you come and reassure her? In a moment Madam O'Zell, he replied lightly, my friend and I have just finished our talk. May I have the honour to present him? Sir Percy Blakeney, a traveller from England. Blakeney, this is Madam O'Zell, Juliet de Marnie, my mother's guest. End of Chapter 6 Chapter 7 and 8 of I Will Repay This Libre Fox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Annie Kirk-Patrick. I Will Repay 118 Sir Percy bowed very low with all the graceful floors and elaborate gesture of the eccentric customs of the time demanded. He had not said a word since the first explanation of warning with which he had drawn his friend's attention to the young girl in the doorway. Noiselessly as she had come, Juliet glided out of the room again, leaving behind her in atmosphere of wild flowers of the bokeh she had gathered and scattered in the woods. There was silence in the room for While Dayrelade was locking up his desk and slipping the keys into his pocket. "'Shall we join my mother for a moment, Blakeney?' he said, moving towards the door. "'I shall be proud to pay my respects,' replied Sir Percy. "'But before we close the subject, I think I'll change my mind about those papers. If I am to be of service to you, I think I had best look through them and give you my opinion of your schemes.' Dayrelade looked at him keenly for a moment. "'Certainly,' he said at last, going up to his desk. "'I'll stay with you whilst you read them through.' "'Lah! Not tonight, my friend,' said Sir Percy lightly. "'That was late, and Madame is waiting for us. It'll be quite safe with me, and you'll entrust them to my care.' Dayrelade seemed to hesitate. Blakeney had spoken in his usual airy manner, and was even now busy readjusting the set of his perfectly tailored coat. "'Perhaps you can not quite trust me,' laughed Sir Percy gaily. "'I seem too lukewarm just now.' "'No, it's not that, Blakeney,' said Dayrelade quietly at last. "'There is no mistrust in me. All the mistrust is on your side.' "'Faith!' began Sir Percy. "'Nay!' "'Do not explain. I understand and appreciate your friendship, but I should like to convince you how unjust is your mistrust of one of God's purest angels that ever walked the earth.' "'Ho-ho! That's it, is it, friend Dayrelade? Me thought you had foresworn the sex altogether, and now you're in love. Madly, blindly, stupidly in love, my friend,' said Dayrelade with the sigh. "'Hopelessly, I fear me.' "'Why, hopelessly?' "'She is the daughter of the late Duke de Marnie, one of the oldest names in France, a royalist of the backbone. "'Hence you're overwhelming sympathy for the Queen.' "'Nay, you wronged me there, friend. I'd have tried to save the Queen, even if I had never learned to love Juliet. But you see now how unjust were your suspicions.' "'Had I any?' "'Don't deny it. You were loud and urging me to burn those papers a moment ago. You called them useless and dangerous, and now I still think them useless and dangerous, and by reading them would wish to confirm my opinion and give weight to my arguments. If I were to part from them now, I would seem to be mistrusting her. "'You are a mad idealist, my dear Dayrelade. How can I help it? I have lived under the same roof with her for three weeks now. I have begun to understand what a saint's like. And twill be when you understand that your idol has feet of clay, and you'll learn the real lesson of love,' said Blakeney earnestly. "'Is it love to worship a saint in heaven, whom you dare not touch, who huff is above you like a cloud which floats away from you even as you gaze? To love is to feel one being in the world at one with us, our equal in sin as well as in virtue. To love, for us men, is to clasp one woman with our arms, feuding that she lives and breathes just as we do, suffers as we do, thinks with us, loves with us, and above all sins with us. Your mock saint, who stands in a niche, is not a woman if she have not suffered, still lest a woman if she have not sinned. Fall at the feet of your idol as you wish, but drag her down to your level after that, the only level she should ever reach, that of your heart." Who shall render faithfully a true account of the magnetism which poured forth from this remarkable man as he spoke? This well-dressed, foppish apostle of the greatest love that man has ever known. And as he spoke, the whole story of his own great true love for the woman who had once had so deeply wronged him seemed to stand clearly written in the strong, lazy, good-humored, kindly face, glowing with tenderness for her. Day-relead felt this magnetism, and therefore did not resent the implied suggestion. I meant the saint, whom he was still content to worship. A dreamer and an idealist, his mind held spellbound by the great social problems which were causing the people of the whole country, and he had not yet had the time to learn the sweet lesson which nature teaches to her elect. He was the son of a great, a true, human, and passionate love. To him, at present, Juliet represented the perfect embodiment of his most idealistic dreams. She stood in his mind so far above him that if she proved unattainable he would scarce have suffered. It was such a foregone conclusion. Blakeney's words were the first to stir in his heart a desire for something beyond that quasi-medieval worship, something weaker and yet infinitely stronger, something more earthly and yet almost divine. And now shall we join the ladies, said Blakeney after a long pause, during which the mental workings of his alert brain were almost visible, in the earnest look which he cast at his friend. You shall keep the papers in your desk. Give them into the keeping of your saint. Trust her all in all rather than not at all. And if the time should come that your heaven enthroned ideal falls somewhat heavily to earth, then give me the privilege of being a witness to your happiness. Your stillness, trustful Blakeney, said Day-relead lightly. You say much more I'll give these papers into Mademoiselle's Marnie's keeping until to-morrow. CHAPTER VIII. Anne-Mier. That night when Blakeney, wrapped in his cloak, was walking down the roue écollée de Medistine towards his own lodgings, he suddenly felt a timid hand upon his sleeve. Anne-Mier stood beside him, her pale, melancholy face peeping up at the tall Englishman through the folds of a dark hood closely tied under her chin. Montier, she said timidly, do not think me very presumptuous, I would wish to have five minutes' talk with you, may I? He looked down with great kindness at the quaint, wise and little figure, and the strong face softened at the sight of the poor, deformed shoulder, the hard, pinched look of the young mouth, the general look of pathetic helplessness which appeals so strongly to the chivalrous. Indeed, Mademoiselle, he said gently, you make me very proud, and if I can serve you in any way, I pray you command me. But he added, seeing Anne-Mier's somewhat scared look, this street is scarce fit for private conversation, so we'd try and find a better spot. Paris had not yet gone to bed, and these times it was really safest to be out in the open streets. There everybody was more busy, more on the move, on the look-out for suspected houses, leaving the wanderer alone. Blakeney led Anne-Mier towards the Luxembourg Gardens, the great devastated pleasure-ground of the cedar-volunt tyrants of the people. The beautiful Anne of Austria, in the Medici before her, Louis XIII, and his gallant musketeers, all have given place to the great cannon-forging industry of this besieged republic. France, attacked on every side, is forcing her sons to defend her. Persecuted, martyrized, done to death by her, she is still their mother, La Patrie, who needs their arms against the foreign foe. England is threatening the North, Prussia and Austria the East. Malhoed's flag is flying on Toulon Arsenal, the Siege of the Republic. And the Republic is fighting for dear life. The Tullarys and Luxembourg Gardens are transformed into a township of gigantic smithies, and Anne-Mier, with scared eyes and clinging to Blakeney's arm, cast furtive, terrified glances at the huge furnaces and the begrimed, darkly scowling faces of the workers within. The people of France and arms against tyranny. Great placards bearing these inspiring words are affixed to gallows-shaped posts and flutter in the evening breeze, rendered scorching by the heat of the furnaces all around. Farther on, a group of men, squatting on the ground or busy making tents, and some women, the same magueras who daily shriek around the guillotine, are applying their needles and scissors for the purpose of making clothes for the soldiers. The soldiers are the entire, able-bodied male population of France. The people of France and arms against tyranny. That is their sign, their trademark. One of these placards, fitfully illumined by a torch of resin, towers above a group of children busy tearing up scraps of old linen, their mothers, their sisters' linen, in order to make lint for the wounded. Loud curses and suppressed mutterings fill the smoke-laden air. The people of France and arms against tyranny is bending its broad back before the most cruel, the most absolute and brutish slave-driving ever exercised over mankind. Not even medieval Christianity has ever dared such wholesale enforcements of its doctrines as this constitution of liberty and fraternity. Merlene's law of the suspect has just been formulated. From now onward, each and every citizen of France must watch his words, his looks, his gestures, lest they be suspect of what? Of treason to the republic, to the people? Nay, worse. Lest they be suspect of being suspect to the great era of liberty. Therefore, in the smithies and among the groups of tent-makers and moments negligence, a careless attention to the work might lead to a brief trial on the morrow in the inevitable guillotine. Negligence is treason to the higher interests of the republic. Blakeney dragged Annier away from the site. These roaring furnaces frightened her. He took her down the placé de Saint-Michel towards the river. It was quieter here. What dreadful people they have become, she said, shuddering. Even I can remember how different they used to be. The houses on the banks of the river were mostly co-inverted into hospitals, preparatory for the great siege. Some hundred meters lower down, the new children's hospital, endowed by citizen deputy de Relaide, loomed, white, clean and comfortable looking, amidst its more squalid vellows. I think it would be best not to sit down, suggested Blakeney, and wiser for you to throw your hood away from your face. He seemed to have no fears for himself. Many had said that he bore a charmed life, and yet ever since Admiral Hood had planted his flag on Toulon Arsenal, the English were more feared than ever, and the scarlet Pimpernel more hated than most. You wish to speak to me about Paul de Relaide. He said kindly, seeing that the young girl was making desperate efforts to say what lay on her mind. He is my friend, you know. Yes, that is why I wish to ask you a question, she replied. What is it? Who is Juliet de Marnie, and why did she seek an entrance into Paul's house? Did she seek it, then? Yes, I saw the scene from the balcony. At the time it did not strike me as a farce. I merely thought that she had been stupid and foolhardy. But since then I have reflected. She revoked the mob of the street willfully, just at the very moment when she reached Montio de Relaide's door. She meant to appeal to his chivalry and called for help, well knowing that he would respond. She spoke rapidly and excitedly now, throwing off all shyness and reserve. Blakeney was forced to check her vehemence, which might have been thought suspicious by some idle citizen unpleasantly inclined. Well, and now, he asked, for the young girl had paused as if ashamed of her excitement. And now she stays in the house, on and on, day after day, continued Ann Mier, speaking more quietly, though with no less intensity. Why did she not go? She is not safe in France. She belongs to the most hated of all the classes, the idle rich aristocrats of the old regime. Paul has several times suggested plans for her immigration to England. Madame de Relaide, who is an angel, loves her, and would not like to part from her. But it would be obviously wiser for her to go, and yet she stays. Why? Because she is in love with Paul, interrupted Ann Mier vehemently. No, no, she does not love him. At least—oh, sometimes I don't know. Her eyes light up when he comes, and she is listless when he goes. She always spends a longer time over her toilet when we expect him home to dinner. She added, with a touch of naive femininity. But if it be love, then that love is strange and unwomanly. It is the love that will not be for as good. Why should you think that? I don't know, said the girl simply. Isn't it an instinct? Not a very unerring one, in this case, I fear. Why? Because your own love for Paul de Relaide has blinded you. Ah! You must pardon me, mademoiselle. You sought this conversation, and not I. And I fear me. I have wounded you. Yet I would wish you to know how deep is my sympathy with you, and how great my desire to render you a service if I could. I was about to ask a service of you, Montier. Then command me. I beg of you. You are Paul's friend. Pursuade him that that woman in his house is a standing danger to his life and liberty. He would not listen to me. Oh! A man always listens to another. Except on one subject—the woman he loves. He had said the last words very gently but very firmly. He was deeply tenderly sorry for the poor old-formed fragile girl, doomed to be a witness of that most heart-rending of human tragedies, the passing away of her own scarce hope for happiness. She felt that at this moment the kindest act would be one of complete truth. He knew that Paul Dayrelade's heart was completely given to Juliet de Marnie. He, too, like Anne-Mier, instinctively mistrusted the beautiful girl in her strange, silent ways, but unlike the poor hunchback, he knew that no sin which Juliet might commit would henceforth tear her from out the heart of his friend, that if, indeed, she turned out to be false or even treacherous, she would, nevertheless, still hold a place in Dayrelade's very soul, which no one else would ever feel. You think he loves her? Asked Anne-Mier at last. I am sure of it. And she? Ah! I do not know. I would trust your instinct, a woman sooner than my own. She is false, I tell you, and is hatching treason against Paul. Then all we can do is to wait—wait!—and watch carefully, earnestly, all the time. There! Shall I pledge you my word that Dayrelade shall come to no harm? Pledge me your word that you'll part him from that woman. Nay! That is beyond my power. A man like Paul Dayrelade only loves once in life, but when he does, it is for always. Once more she was silent, pressing her lips closely together as if afraid of what she might say. He saw that she was bitterly disappointed, and sought for a means of tempering the cruelty of the blow. It will be your task to watch over Paul, he said. With your friendship to God and protect him, we need to have no fear for his safety, I think. I will watch, she replied quietly. Gradually he had led her steps back towards the Rue-Cole des Mings-des-nets. A great melancholy had fallen over his bold, adventurous spirit. How full of tragedies was this great city, and the last throes of its insane and cruel struggle for an unattainable goal. And yet, despite its guillotine and mock trials, its tyrannical laws and overfilled prisons, its very sorrows paled before the dead, dull misery of this deformed girl's heart. A wild exaltation, a fever of enthusiasm, lent glamour to the scenes which were daily enacted on the place de la Revolution, turning the final acts of the tragedies into glaring, lurid melodrama almost unreal in its poignant appeal to the sensibilities. But here there was only this dead, dull misery, an aching heart, a poor fragile creature in the throes of an agonized struggle for a fast-disappearing happiness. And Mie hardly knew now what she had hoped when she sought this interview with Sir Percy Blakeney. Drowning in a sea of hopelessness, she had clutched at what might prove a chance of safety. Her reason told her that Paul's friend was right. They were laid was a man who would love but once in his life. He had never loved, for he had too much pitied. Poor pathetic little Anne Mie. Nay, why should we say that love and pity are akin? Love the great, the strong, the conquering God. Love that subdues a world, and rides roughshod over principle, virtue, tradition, over home, kindred, and religion. What cares he for the easy conquest of the pathetic being who appeals to his sympathy? Love means equality. The same height of heroism or of sin. When love stoops to pity, he has ceased to soar in the boundless space that rarefied atmosphere wherein man feels himself made at last truly in the image of God. In Chapter 7 and 8