I Will Repay Read online

  I Will Repay.

  By Baroness Orczy.

  PROLOGUE.

  I

  Paris: 1783.

  "Coward! Coward! Coward!"

  The words rang out, clear, strident, passionate, in a crescendo ofagonised humiliation.

  The boy, quivering with rage, had sprung to his feet, and, losing hisbalance, he fell forward clutching at the table, whilst with aconvulsive movement of the lids, he tried in vain to suppress the tearsof shame which were blinding him.

  "Coward!" He tried to shout the insult so that all might hear, but hisparched throat refused him service, his trembling hand sought thescattered cards upon the table, he collected them together, quickly,nervously, fingering them with feverish energy, then he hurled them atthe man opposite, whilst with a final effort he still contrived tomutter: "Coward!"

  The older men tried to interpose, but the young ones only laughed, quiteprepared for the adventure which must inevitably ensue, the onlypossible ending to a quarrel such as this.

  Conciliation or arbitration was out of the question. Deroulede shouldhave known better than to speak disrespectfully of Adele de Montcheri,when the little Vicomte de Marny's infatuation for the notorious beautyhad been the talk of Paris and Versailles these many months past.

  Adele was very lovely and a veritable tower of greed and egotism. TheMarnys were rich and the little Vicomte very young, and just now thebrightly-plumaged hawk was busy plucking the latest pigeon, newlyarrived from its ancestral cote.

  The boy was still in the initial stage of his infatuation. To him Adelewas a paragon of all the virtues, and he would have done battle on herbehalf against the entire aristocracy of France, in a vain endeavour tojustify his own exalted opinion of one of the most dissolute women ofthe epoch. He was a first-rate swordsman too, and his friends hadalready learned that it was best to avoid all allusions to Adele'sbeauty and weaknesses.

  But Deroulede was a noted blunderer. He was little versed in the mannersand tones of that high society in which, somehow, he still seemed anintruder. But for his great wealth, no doubt, he never would have beenadmitted within the intimate circle of aristocratic France. His ancestrywas somewhat doubtful and his coat-of-arms unadorned with quarterings.

  But little was known of his family or the origin of its wealth; it wasonly known that his father had suddenly become the late King's dearestfriend, and commonly surmised that Deroulede gold had on more than oneoccasion filled the emptied coffers of the First Gentleman of France.

  Deroulede had not sought the present quarrel. He had merely blundered inthat clumsy way of his, which was no doubt a part of the inheritancebequeathed to him by his bourgeois ancestry.

  He knew nothing of the little Vicomte's private affairs, still less ofhis relationship with Adele, but he knew enough of the world and enoughof Paris to be acquainted with the lady's reputation. He hated at alltimes to speak of women. He was not what in those days would be termed aladies' man, and was even somewhat unpopular with the sex. But in thisinstance the conversation had drifted in that direction, and whenAdele's name was mentioned, every one became silent, save the littleVicomte, who waxed enthusiastic.

  A shrug of the shoulders on Deroulede's part had aroused the boy's ire,then a few casual words, and, without further warning, the insult hadbeen hurled and the cards thrown in the older man's face.

  Deroulede did not move from his seat. He sat erect and placid, one kneecrossed over the other, his serious, rather swarthy face perhaps a shadepaler than usual: otherwise it seemed as if the insult had never reachedhis ears, or the cards struck his cheek.

  He had perceived his blunder, just twenty seconds too late. Now he wassorry for the boy and angered with himself, but it was too late to drawback. To avoid a conflict he would at this moment have sacrificed halfhis fortune, but not one particle of his dignity.

  He knew and respected the old Duc de Marny, a feeble old man now, almosta dotard whose hitherto spotless _blason_, the young Vicomte, his son,was doing his best to besmirch.

  When the boy fell forward, blind and drunk with rage, Deroulede leanttowards him automatically, quite kindly, and helped him to his feet. Hewould have asked the lad's pardon for his own thoughtlessness, had thatbeen possible: but the stilted code of so-called honour forbade sological a proceeding. It would have done no good, and could but imperilhis own reputation without averting the traditional sequel.

  The panelled walls of the celebrated gaming saloon had often witnessedscenes such as this. All those present acted by routine. The etiquetteof duelling prescribed certain formalities, and these were strictly butrapidly adhered to.

  The young Vicomte was quickly surrounded by a close circle of friends.His great name, his wealth, his father's influence, had opened for himevery door in Versailles and Paris. At this moment he might have had anarmy of seconds to support him in the coming conflict.

  Deroulede for a while was left alone near the card table, where theunsnuffed candles began smouldering in their sockets. He had risen tohis feet, somewhat bewildered at the rapid turn of events. His dark,restless eyes wandered for a moment round the room, as if in quicksearch for a friend.

  But where the Vicomte was at home by right, Deroulede had only beenadmitted by reason of his wealth. His acquaintances and sycophants weremany, but his friends very few.

  For the first time this fact was brought home to him. Every one in theroom must have known and realised that he had not wilfully sought thisquarrel, that throughout he had borne himself as any gentleman would,yet now, when the issue was so close at hand, no one came forward tostand by him.

  "For form's sake, monsieur, will you choose your seconds?"

  It was the young Marquis de Villefranche who spoke, a little haughtily,with a certain ironical condescension towards the rich parvenu, who wasabout to have the honour of crossing swords with one of the noblestgentlemen in France.

  "I pray you, Monsieur le Marquis," rejoined Deroulede coldly, "to makethe choice for me. You see, I have few friends in Paris."

  The Marquis bowed, and gracefully flourished his lace handkerchief. Hewas accustomed to being appealed to in all matters pertaining toetiquette, to the toilet, to the latest cut in coats, and the procedurein duels. Good-natured, foppish, and idle, he felt quite happy and inhis element thus to be made chief organiser of the tragic farce, aboutto be enacted on the parquet floor of the gaming saloon.

  He looked about the room for a while, scrutinising the faces of thosearound him. The gilded youth was crowding round De Marny; a few oldermen stood in a group at the farther end of the room: to these theMarquis turned, and addressing one of them, an elderly man with amilitary bearing and a shabby brown coat:

  "Mon Colonel," he said, with another flourishing bow; "I am deputed byM. Deroulede to provide him with seconds for this affair of honour, mayI call upon you to ..."

  "Certainly, certainly," replied the Colonel. "I am not intimatelyacquainted with M. Deroulede, but since you stand sponsor, M. le Marquis..."

  "Oh!" rejoined the Marquis, lightly, "a mere matter of form, you know.M. Deroulede belongs to the entourage of Her Majesty. He is a man ofhonour. But I am not his sponsor. Marny is my friend, and if you prefernot to ..."

  "Indeed I am entirely at M. Deroulede's service," said the Colonel, whohad thrown a quick, scrutinising glance at the isolated figure near thecard table, "if he will accept my services ..."

  "He will be very glad to accept, my dear Colonel," whispered the Marquiswith an ironical twist of his aristocratic lips. "He has no friends inour set, and if you and De Quettare will honour him, I think he shouldbe grateful."

  M. de Quettare, adjutant to M. le Colonel, was ready to follow in thefootsteps of his chief, and the two men, after the prescribedsalutations to M. le Marquis de Villefranche, went acro
ss to speak toDeroulede.

  "If you will accept our services, monsieur," began the Colonel abruptly,"mine, and my adjutant's, M. de Quettare, we place ourselves entirely atyour disposal."

  "I thank you, messieurs," rejoined Deroulede. "The whole thing is afarce, and that young man is a fool; but I have been in the wrong and..."

  "You would wish to apologise?" queried the Colonel icily.

  The worthy soldier had heard something of Deroulede's reputed bourgeoisancestry. This suggestion of an apology was no doubt in accordance withthe customs of the middle-classes, but the Colonel literally gasped atthe unworthiness of the proceeding. An apology? Bah! Disgusting!cowardly! beneath the dignity of any gentleman, however wrong he mightbe. How could two soldiers of His Majesty's army identify themselveswith such doings?

  But Deroulede seemed unconscious of the enormity of his suggestion.

  "If I could avoid a conflict," he said, "I would tell the Vicomte that Ihad no knowledge of his admiration for the lady we were discussing and..."

  "Are you so very much afraid of getting a sword scratch, monsieur?"interrupted the Colonel impatiently, whilst M. de Quettare elevated apair of aristocratic eyebrows in bewilderment at such an extraordinarydisplay of bourgeois cowardice.

  "You mean, Monsieur le Colonel?"--queried Deroulede.

  "That you must either fight the Vicomte de Marny to-night, or clear outof Paris to-morrow. Your position in our set would become untenable,"retorted the Colonel, not unkindly, for in spite of Deroulede'sextraordinary attitude, there was nothing in his bearing or hisappearance that suggested cowardice or fear.

  "I bow to your superior knowledge of your friends, M. le Colonel,"responded Deroulede, as he silently drew his sword from its sheath.

  The centre of the saloon was quickly cleared. The seconds measured thelength of the swords and then stood behind the antagonists, slightly inadvance of the groups of spectators, who stood massed all round theroom.

  They represented the flower of what France had of the best and noblestin name, in lineage, in chivalry, in that year of grace 1783. Thestorm-cloud which a few years hence was destined to break over theirheads, sweeping them from their palaces to the prison and theguillotine, was only gathering very slowly in the dim horizon ofsqualid, starving Paris: for the next half-dozen years they would stilldance and gamble, fight and flirt, surround a tottering throne, andhoodwink a weak monarch. The Fates' avenging sword still rested in itssheath; the relentless, ceaseless wheel still bore them up in theirwhirl of pleasure; the downward movement had only just begun: the cry ofthe oppressed children of France had not yet been heard above the din ofdance music and lovers' serenades.

  The young Duc de Chateaudun was there, he who, nine years later, went tothe guillotine on that cold September morning, his hair dressed in thelatest fashion, the finest Mechlin lace around his wrists, playing afinal game of piquet with his younger brother, as the tumbril bore themalong through the hooting, yelling crowd of the half-naked starvelingsof Paris.

  There was the Vicomte de Mirepoix, who, a few years later, standing onthe platform of the guillotine, laid a bet with M. de Miranges that hisown blood would flow bluer than that of any other head cut off that dayin France. Citizen Samson heard the bet made, and when De Mirepoix'shead fell into the basket, the headsman lifted it up for M. de Mirangesto see. The latter laughed.

  "Mirepoix was always a braggart," he said lightly, as he laid his headupon the block.

  "Who'll take my bet that my blood turns out to be bluer than his?"

  But of all these comedies, these tragico-farces of later years, none whowere present on that night, when the Vicomte de Marny fought PaulDeroulede, had as yet any presentiment.

  They watched the two men fighting, with the same casual interest, atfirst, which they would have bestowed on the dancing of a new movementin the minuet.

  De Marny 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.Deroulede was lucky; he would come out of the affair with a slightscratch.

  A good swordsman too, that wealthy parvenu. It was interesting to watchhis sword-play: very quiet at first, no feint or parry, scarcely ariposte, only _en garde,_ always _en garde_ very carefully, steadily,ready for his antagonist at every turn and in every circumstance.

  Gradually the circle round the combatants narrowed. A few discreetexclamations of admiration greeted Deroulede's most successful parry. DeMarny was getting more and more excited, the older man more and moresober and reserved.

  A thoughtless lunge placed the little Vicomte at his opponent's mercy.The next instant he was disarmed, and the seconds were pressing forwardto end the conflict.

  Honour was satisfied: the parvenu and the scion of the ancient race hadcrossed swords over the reputation of one of the most dissolute women inFrance. Deroulede's moderation was a lesson to all the hot-headed youngbloods who toyed with their lives, their honour, their reputation aslightly as they did with their lace-edged handkerchiefs and goldsnuff-boxes.

  Already Deroulede had drawn back. With the gentle tact peculiar tokindly people, he avoided looking at his disarmed antagonist. Butsomething in the older man's attitude seemed to further nettle theover-stimulated sensibility of the young Vicomte.

  "This is no child's play, monsieur," he said excitedly. "I demand fullsatisfaction."

  "And are you not satisfied?" queried Deroulede. "You have borne yourselfbravely, you have fought in honour of your liege lady. I, on the otherhand ..."

  "You," shouted the boy hoarsely, "you shall publicly apologise to anoble and virtuous woman whom you have outraged--now--at--once--on yourknees ..."

  "You are mad, Vicomte," rejoined Deroulede coldly. "I am willing to askyour forgiveness for my blunder ..."

  "An apology--in public--on your knees ..."

  The boy had become more and more excited. He had suffered humiliationafter humiliation. He was a mere lad, spoilt, adulated, pampered fromhis boyhood: the wine had got into his head, the intoxication of rageand hatred blinded his saner judgment.

  "Coward!" he shouted again and again.

  His seconds tried to interpose, but he waved them feverishly aside. Hewould listen to no one. He saw no one save the man who had insultedAdele, and who was heaping further insults upon her, by refusing thispublic acknowledgment of her virtues.

  De Marny hated Deroulede at this moment with the most deadly hatred theheart of man can conceive. The older man's calm, his chivalry, hisconsideration only enhanced the boy's anger and shame.

  The hubbub had become general. Everyone seemed carried away with thisstrange fever of enmity, which was seething in the Vicomte's veins. Mostof the young men crowded round De Marny, doing their best to pacify him.The Marquis de Villefranche declared that the matter was getting quiteoutside the rules.

  No one took much notice of Deroulede. In the remote corners of thesaloon a few elderly dandies were laying bets as to the ultimate issueof the quarrel.

  Deroulede, however, was beginning to lose his temper. He had no friendsin that room, and therefore there was no sympathetic observer there, tonote the gradual darkening of his eyes, like the gathering of a cloudheavy with the coming storm.

  "I pray you, messieurs, let us cease the argument," he said at last, ina loud, impatient voice. "M. le Vicomte de Marny desires a furtherlesson, and, by God! he shall have it. En garde, M. le Vicomte!"

  The crowd quickly drew back. The seconds once more assumed the bearingand imperturbable expression which their important function demanded.The hubbub ceased as the swords began to clash.

  Everyone felt that farce was turning to tragedy.

  And yet it was obvious from the first that Deroulede merely meant oncemore to disarm his antagonist, to give him one more lesson, a littlemore severe perhaps than the last. He was such a brilliant swordsman, andDe Marny was so excited, that the advantage was with him from the veryfirst.

  How it all happened, nobody afterwards could say. There is no doubt thatthe little V
icomte's sword-play had become more and more wild: that heuncovered himself in the most reckless way, whilst lunging wildly at hisopponent's breast, until at last, in one of these mad, unguardedmoments, he seemed literally to throw himself upon Deroulede's weapon.

  The latter tried with lightning-swift motion of the wrist to avoid thefatal issue, but it was too late, and without a sigh or groan, scarce atremor, the Vicomte de Marny fell.

  The sword dropped out of his hand, and it was Deroulede himself whocaught the boy in his arms.

  It had all occurred so quickly and suddenly that no one had realised itall, until it was over, and the lad was lying prone on the ground, hiselegant blue satin coat stained with red, and his antagonist bendingover him.

  There was nothing more to be done. Etiquette demanded that Derouledeshould withdraw. He was not allowed to do anything for the boy whom hehad so unwillingly sent to his death.

  As before, no one took much notice of him. Silence, the awesome silencecaused 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 five hundred louis, Marquis. The parvenu is a goodswordsman."

  The groups parted as Deroulede walked out of the room, followed by theColonel and M. de Quettare, who stood by him to the last. Both were oldand proved soldiers, both had chivalry and courage in them, with whichto do tribute to the brave man whom they had seconded.

  At the door of the establishment, they met the leech who had beensummoned some little time ago to hold himself in readiness for anyeventuality.

  The great eventuality had occurred: it was beyond the leech's learning.In the brilliantly lighted saloon above, the only son of the Duc deMarny was breathing his last, whilst Deroulede, wrapping his mantleclosely round him, strode out into the dark street, all alone.

  II

  The head of the house of Marny was at this time barely seventy years ofage. But he had lived every hour, every minute of his life, from the daywhen the Grand Monarque gave him his first appointment as gentleman pagein waiting when he was a mere lad, barely twelve years of age, to themoment--some ten years ago now--when Nature's relentless hand struck himdown in the midst of his pleasures, withered him in a flash as she doesa sturdy old oak, and nailed him--a cripple, almost a dotard--to theinvalid chair which he would only quit for his last resting place.

  Juliette was then a mere slip of a girl, an old man's child, the spoiltdarling of his last happy years. She had retained some of the melancholywhich had characterised her mother, the gentle lady who had endured somuch so patiently, and who had bequeathed this final tender burden--herbaby girl--to the brilliant, handsome husband whom she had so deeplyloved, and so often forgiven.

  When the Duc de Marny entered the final awesome stage of his gildedcareer, that deathlike life which he dragged on for ten years wearily tothe grave, Juliette became his only joy, his one gleam of happiness inthe midst of torturing memories.

  In her deep, tender eyes he would see mirrored the present, the futurefor her, and would forget his past, with all its gaieties, its mad,merry years, that meant nothing now but bitter regrets, and endlessrosary of the might-have-beens.

  And then there was the boy. The little Vicomte, the future Duc de Marny,who would in _his_ life and with _his_ youth recreate the glory of thefamily, and make France once more ring with the echo of brave deeds andgallant adventures, which had made the name of Marny so glorious in campand court.

  The Vicomte was not his father's love, but he was his father's pride,and from the depths of his huge, cushioned arm-chair, the old man wouldlisten with delight to stories from Versailles and Paris, the youngQueen and the fascinating Lamballe, the latest play and the newest starin the theatrical firmament. His feeble, tottering mind would then takehim back, along the paths of memory, to his own youth and his owntriumphs, and in the joy and pride in his son, he would forget himselffor the sake of the boy.

  When they brought the Vicomte home that night, Juliette was the first towake. She heard the noise outside the great gates, the coach slowlydrawing up, the ring for the doorkeeper, and the sound of Matthieu'smutterings, who never liked to be called up in the middle of the nightto let anyone through the gates.

  Somehow a presentiment of evil at once struck the young girl: thefootsteps sounded so heavy and muffled along the flagged courtyard, andup the great oak staircase. It seemed as if they were carrying somethingheavy, something inert or dead.

  She jumped out of bed and hastily wrapped a cloak round her thin girlishshoulders, and slipped her feet into a pair of heelless shoes, then sheopened her bedroom door and looked out upon the landing.

  Two men, whom she did not know, were walking upstairs abreast, two morewere carrying a heavy burden, and Matthieu was behind moaning and cryingbitterly.

  Juliette did not move. She stood in the doorway rigid as a statue. Thelittle cortege went past her. No one saw her, for the landings in theHotel de Marny are very wide, and Matthieu's lantern only threw a dim,flickering light upon the floor.

  The men stopped outside the Vicomte's room. Matthieu opened it, and thenthe five men disappeared within, with their heavy burden.

  A moment later old Petronelle, who had been Juliette's nurse, and wasnow her devoted slave, came to her, all bathed in tears.

  She had just heard the news, and she could scarcely speak, but shefolded the young girl, her dear pet lamb, in her arms, and rockingherself to and fro she sobbed and eased her aching, motherly heart.

  But Juliette did not cry. It was all so sudden, so awful. She, atfourteen years of age, had never dreamed of death; and now there was herbrother, her Philippe, in whom she had so much joy, so much pride--hewas dead--and her father must be told ...

  The awfulness of this task seemed to Juliette like unto the lastJudgment Day; a thing so terrible, so appalling, so impossible, that itwould take a host of angels to proclaim its inevitableness.

  The old cripple, with one foot in the grave, whose whole feeble mind,whose pride, whose final flicker of hope was concentrated in his boy,must be told that the lad had been brought home dead.

  "Will you tell him, Petronelle?" she asked repeatedly, during the briefintervals when the violence of the old nurse's grief subsided somewhat.

  "No--no--darling, I cannot--I cannot--" moaned Petronelle, amidst arenewed shower of sobs.

  Juliette's entire soul--a child's soul it was--rose in revolt at thoughtof what was before her. She felt angered with God for having put such athing upon her. What right had He to demand a girl of her years toendure so much 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. Herfather was awake then? He had heard the noise, and was ringing his bellto ask for an explanation of the disturbance.

  With one quick movement Juliette jerked herself free from the nurse'sarms, and before Petronelle could prevent her, she had run out of theroom, straight across the dark landing to a large panelled dooropposite.

  The old Duc de Marny was sitting on the edge of his bed, with his long,thin legs dangling helplessly to the ground.

  Crippled as he was, he had struggled to this upright position, he wasmaking frantic, miserable efforts to raise himself still further. He,too, had heard the dull thud of feet, the shuffling gait of men whencarrying a heavy burden.

  His mind flew back half-a-century, to the days when he had witnessedscenes wherein he was then merely a half-interested spectator. He knewthe cortege composed of valets and friends, with the leech walkingbeside that precious burden, which anon would be deposited on the bedand left to the tender care of a mourning family.

  Who knows what pictures were conjured up before that enfeebled vision?But he guessed. And when Juliette dashed into his room and stood beforehim, pale, trembling, a world of misery in her great eyes, she knew thathe guessed and that she need not tell him. God had already done that forher
.

  Pierre, the old Duc's devoted valet, dressed him as quickly as he could.M. le Duc insisted on having his _habit de ceremonie,_ the rich suit ofblack velvet with the priceless lace and diamond buttons, which he hadworn when they laid le Roi Soleil 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 somewhatloosely on his attenuated frame, but he looked a grand and imposingfigure, with his white hair tied behind with a great black bow, and thefine jabot of beautiful point d'Angleterre falling in a soft cascadebelow his chin.

  Then holding himself as upright as he could, he sat in his invalidchair, and four flunkeys in full livery carried him to the deathbed ofhis son.

  All the house was astir by now. Torches burned in great sockets in thevast hall and along the massive oak stairway, and hundreds of candlesflickered ghostlike in the vast apartments of the princely mansion.

  The numerous servants were arrayed on the landing, all dressed in therich livery of the ducal house.

  The death of an heir of the Marnys is an event that history makes a noteof.

  The old Duc's chair was placed close to the bed, where lay the dead bodyof the young Vicomte. He made no movement, nor did he utter a word orsigh. Some of those who were present at the time declared that his mindhad completely given way, and that he neither felt nor understood thedeath of his son.

  The Marquis de Villefranche, who had followed his friend to the last,took a final leave of the sorrowing house.

  Juliette scarcely noticed him. Her eyes were fixed on her father. Shewould not look at her brother. A childlike fear had seized her, there,suddenly, between these two silent figures: the living and the dead.

  But just as the Marquis was leaving the room, the old man spoke for thefirst time.

  "Marquis," he said very quietly, "you forget--you have not yet told mewho killed my son."

  "It was in a fair fight, M. de Duc," replied the young Marquis, awed inspite of all his frivolity, his light-heartedness, by this strange,almost mysterious tragedy.

  "Who killed my son, M. le Marquis?" repeated the old man mechanically."I have the right to know," he added with sudden, weird energy.

  "It was M. Paul Deroulede, M. le Duc," replied the Marquis. "I repeat,it was in fair fight."

  The old Duc sighed as if in satisfaction. Then with a courteous gestureof farewell reminiscent of the _grand siecle_ he added:

  "All thanks from me and mine to you, Marquis, would seem but a mockery.Your devotion to my son is beyond human thanks. I'll not detain you now.Farewell."

  Escorted by two lacqueys, the Marquis passed out of the room.

  "Dismiss all the servants, Juliette; I have something to say," said theold Duc, and the young girl, silent, obedient, did as her father badeher.

  Father and sister were alone with their dead. As soon as the last hushedfootsteps of the retreating servants died away in the distance, the Ducde Marny seemed to throw away the lethargy which had enveloped him untilnow. With a quick, feverish gesture he seized his daughter's wrist, andmurmured excitedly:

  "His name. You heard his name, Juliette?"

  "Yes, father," replied the child.

  "Paul Deroulede! Paul Deroulede! You'll not forget it?"

  "Never, father!"

  "He killed your brother! You understand that? Killed my only son, thehope of my house, the last descendant of the most glorious race that hasever added lustre to the history of France."

  "In fair fight, father!" protested the child.

  "'Tis not fair for a man to kill a boy," retorted the old man, withfurious energy.

  "Deroulede is thirty: my boy was scarce out of his teens: may thevengeance of God fall upon the murderer!"

  Juliette, awed, terrified, was gazing at her father with great,wondering eyes. He seemed unlike himself. His face wore a curiousexpression of ecstasy and of hatred, also of hope and exultation,whenever he looked steadily at her.

  That the final glimmer of a tottering reason was fast leaving the poor,aching head she was too young to realise. Madness was a word that hadonly a vague meaning for her. Though she did not understand her fatherat the present moment, though she was half afraid of him, she would haverejected with scorn and horror any suggestion that he was mad.

  Therefore when he took her hand and, drawing her nearer to the bed andto himself, placed it upon her dead brother's breast, she recoiled atthe touch of the inanimate body, so unlike anything she had ever touchedbefore, but she obeyed her father without any question, and listened tohis words as to those of a sage.

  "Juliette, you are now fourteen, and able to understand what I am goingto ask of you. If I were not chained to this miserable chair, if I werenot 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, Juliette, that you are of the house of Marny, that you are aCatholic, and that God hears you now. For you shall swear an oath beforeHim and me, an oath from which only death can relieve you. Will youswear, my child?"

  "If you wish it, father."

  "You have been to confession lately, Juliette?"

  "Yes, father; also to holy communion, yesterday," replied the child. "Itwas the Fete-Dieu, you know."

  "Then you are in a state of grace, my child?"

  "I was yesterday morning, father," replied the young girl naively, "butI have committed some little sins since then."

  "Then make your confession to God in your heart now. You must be in astate of grace when you speak the oath."

  The child closed her eyes, and as the old man watched her, he could seethe lips framing the words of her spiritual confession.

  Juliette made the sign of the cross, then opened her eyes and looked ather father.

  "I am ready, father," she said; "I hope God has forgiven me the littlesins 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 fulfil that oath, father?--I don't understand ..."

  "God will guide you, my child. When you are older you will understand."

  For a moment Juliette still hesitated. She was just on that borderlandbetween childhood and womanhood when all the sensibilities, the nervoussystem, the emotions, are strung to their highest pitch.

  Throughout her short life she had worshipped her father with awhole-hearted, passionate devotion, which had completely blinded her tohis weakening faculties and the feebleness of his mind.

  She was also in that initial stage of enthusiastic piety whichoverwhelms every girl of temperament, if she be brought up in the RomanCatholic religion, when she is first initiated into the mysteries of theSacraments.

  Juliette had been to confession and communion. She had been confirmed byMonseigneur, the Archbishop. Her ardent nature had responded to the fullto the sensuous and ecstatic expressions of the ancient faith.

  And somehow her father's wish, her brother's death, all seemed mingledin her brain with that religion, for which in her juvenile enthusiasmshe would willingly have laid down her life.

  She thought of all the saints, whose lives she had been reading. Heryoung heart quivered at the thought of _their_ sacrifices, theirmartyrdoms, their sense of duty.

  An exaltation, morbid perhaps, superstitious and overwhelming, tookpossession of her mind; also, perhaps, far back in the innermostrecesses of her heart, a pride in her own importance, her mission inlife, her individuality: for she was a girl after all, a mere child,about to become a woman.

  But the old Duc was waxing impatient.

  "Surely you do not hesitate, Juliette, with your dead brother's bodyclamouring mutely for revenge? You, the only Marny left now!--for fromthis day I too shall be as dead."

  "No, father," said the young g
irl in an awed whisper, "I do nothesitate. 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," repeatedJuliette firmly.

  "I swear that I will seek out Paul Deroulede."

  "I swear that I will seek out Paul Deroulede."

  "And in any manner which God may dictate to me encompass his death, hisruin or dishonour, in revenge for my brother's death."

  "And in any manner which God may dictate to me encompass his death, hisruin or dishonour, in revenge for my brother's death," said Juliettesolemnly.

  "May my brother's soul remain in torment until the final Judgment Day ifI should break my oath, but may it rest in eternal peace the day onwhich his death is fitly avenged."

  "May my brother's soul remain in torment until the final Judgment Day ifI should break my oath, but may it rest in eternal peace the day onwhich his death is fitly avenged."

  The child fell upon her knees. The oath was spoken, the old man wassatisfied.

  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 dangeroustransformation when the brain is overburdened with emotions, when thenerves are overstrung and the heart full to breaking.

  For the moment, however, the childlike nature reasserted itself for thelast time, for Juliette, sobbing, had fled out of the room, to theprivacy of her own apartment, and thrown herself passionately into thearms of kind old Petronelle.