Best Short Stories Omnibus - Volume 2

Chapter I—1793 A.D.

Chapter I—1793 A.D.It was never safe in that terrible year of 1793 for any woman of outwardly refined appearance to walk in the streets of Paris alone. Any passerby, therefore, would have wondered at what could have possessed that graceful young girl to walk down the Rue Taitbout alone in the middle of the afternoon, when there are more idlers than ever at the corners, more absinthe than at any other time of the day in the heads of the good citizens and citizenesses of Paris.

She walked rapidly the whole length of the street toward an imposing group of tall houses, where dwelt several well-known citizen-deputies. So far she had been left fairly unmolested, save for a few jeering remarks at her dainty appearance.

Doubtless the broad tricolor scarf the young girl wore tied round her waist had contributed in no small measure to her comparative safety. It seemed, therefore, an act of absolute folly on her part that, having reached a spot close to No. 25 of the Rue Taitbout, a handsome house inhabited by the popular Citizen-Deputy Deroulède, she should suddenly tear off the Republican badge, which had been her safe-conduct, and throw it ostentatiously in the mud.

This extraordinary overt act of anti-patriotism was the spark that set the pent-up tempers aflame. For one moment positive stupor petrified the lookers-on; but this only lasted a second. The next, twenty hoarse voices shrieked with frenzied passion:

“Down with the aristocrat!”

“To the lantern, to death with her who insults the Republic!”

Shrieking women, half-tipsy men, yelling urchins seemed to have sprung up from the very ground, for in less than a minute the foolhardy girl was attacked by a regular crowd of the lowest Paris mob, gesticulating, hooting, yelling, while those in the foremost rank had already snatched at her skirt, and were dragging her away from the porch of the house, to which, after her curious act of defiance, she now clung with the energy of wild terror and hopeless despair, her back against the door, facing the hideous crowd. In an agony of terror she gave forth one piteous shriek, hammering at the door with her small fists.

“Help, Citizen Deroulède! Help! murder! Here, at your very door.”

A long, mocking laugh from the mob greeted this piteous appeal. At that moment the door behind her was gently opened, a strong arm swiftly and suddenly encircled her waist, and in less than a second she felt herself dragged away from the mob.

Five minutes later the young girl, whose foolhardy and apparently purposeless action had so nearly proved her own undoing, was sitting comfortably installed before a gayly blazing fire, while an elegant and dignified-looking old lady leant over her, trying further to soothe her still agitated nerves.

Through the window, which was partially open, came the sound of a powerful voice, evidently accustomed to command and to be obeyed.

“My son’s voice,” said the old lady with undisguised pride; “you need have no more fear now, mademoiselle; he is talking to the mob; you are under the protection and in the house of Citizen-Deputy Deroulède.”

A look of exultation and triumph crossed the girl”s eyes, but it was a momentary flash; the next instant she was thanking Citizen Deroulède, who had stepped into the room once more, for his timely aid in a moment of such deadly peril.

The girl looked very beautiful in her helplessness and gratitude. No wonder that the Citizen-Deputy, who was but a young man, after all, stooped and kissed the dainty hand that was stretched out toward him, forgetting that such customs would have been called “aristocratic,” and most unworthy of a representative of the people.

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