I Will Repay Baroness Orczy (philippa perry book .txt) 📖

“Wait?”

“And watch carefully, earnestly, all the time. There! shall I pledge you my word that Déroulède 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 Déroulède 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 guard and protect him, we need have no fear for his safety, I think.”

“I will watch,” she replied quietly.

Gradually he had led her steps back towards the Rue Ecole de Médecine.

A great melancholy had fallen over his bold, adventurous spirit. How full of tragedies was this great city, in 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 agonised struggle for a fast-disappearing happiness.

Anne 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. Déroulède 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.

At the door of her home Blakeney parted from Anne Mie, with all the courtesy with which he would have bade adieu to the greatest lady in his own land.

Anne Mie let herself into the house with her own latchkey. She closed the heavy door noiselessly, then glided upstairs like a quaint little ghost.

But on the landing above she met Paul Déroulède.

He had just come out of his room, and was still fully dressed.

“Anne Mie!” he said, with such an obvious cry of pleasure, that the young girl, with beating heart, paused a moment on the top of the stairs, as if hoping to hear that cry again, feeling that indeed he was glad to see her, had been uneasy because of her long absence.

“Have I made you anxious?” she asked at last.

“Anxious!” he exclaimed. “Little one, I have hardly lived this last hour, since I realised that you had gone out so late as this, and all alone.”

“How did you know?”

“Mademoiselle de Marny knocked at my door an hour ago. She had gone to your room to see you, and, not finding you there, she searched the house for you, and finally, in her anxiety, came to me. We did not dare to tell my mother. I won’t ask you where you have been, Anne Mie, but another time, remember, little one, that the streets of Paris are not safe, and that those who love you suffer deeply, when they know you to be in peril.”

“Those who love me!” murmured the girl under her breath.

“Could you not have asked me to come with you?”

“No; I wanted to be alone. The streets were quite safe, and⁠—I wanted to speak with Sir Percy Blakeney.”

“With Blakeney?” he exclaimed in boundless astonishment. “Why, what in the world did you want to say him?”

The girl, so unaccustomed to lying, had blurted out the truth, almost against her will.

“I thought he could help me, as I was much perturbed and restless.”

“You went to him sooner than to me?” said Déroulède in a tone of gentle reproach, and still puzzled at this extraordinary action on the part of the girl, usually so shy and reserved.

“My anxiety was about you, and you would have mocked me for it.”

“Indeed, I should never mock you, Anne Mie. But why should you be anxious about me?”

“Because I see you wandering blindly on the brink of a great danger, and because I see you confiding in those, whom you had best mistrust.”

He frowned a little, and bit his lip to check the rough word that was on the tip of his tongue.

“Is Sir Percy Blakeney one of those whom I had best mistrust?” he said lightly.

“No,” she answered curtly.

“Then, dear, there is no cause for unrest. He is the only one of my friends whom you have not known intimately. All those who are round me now, you know that you can trust and that you can love,” he added earnestly and significantly.

He took her hand; it was trembling with obvious suppressed agitation. She knew that he had guessed what was passing in her mind, and now was deeply ashamed of what she had done. She had been tortured with jealousy for the past three weeks, but at least she had suffered quite alone: no one had been allowed to touch that wound, which more often than not, excites derision rather than pity. Now, by her own actions, two men knew her secret. Both were kind and sympathetic;