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. Incidents such as the one which Juliette had provoked, had led to rape and theft, often to murder, before now: but outside Citizen-Deputy Déroulède's house everything was quiet, half-an-hour after Juliette's escape from that howling, brutish crowd. He had merely spoken to them, for about twenty minutes, and they had gone away quite quietly, 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. Once he addressed Juliette somewhat abruptly: "Pardon me, mademoiselle, but for your own sake we must guard you a prisoner here awhile. 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, monsieur. Indeed, indeed I must!" she said earnestly. "I am deeply grateful to you, but I could not leave Pétronelle." "Who is Pétronelle?" "My dear old nurse, monsieur. She has never left me. Think how anxious and miserable she must be, at my prolonged absence." "Where does she live?" "At No. 15 Rue Taitbout, 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, monsieur," 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. "In whose name shall I take the message, mademoiselle?" he asked. "My name is Juliette Marny." She watched him keenly as she said it, but there was not the slightest sign in his expressive face, to show that he had recognised the name. Ten years is a long time, and every one had lived through so much during those years! A wave of intense wrath swept through Juliette's soul, as she realised 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, fought for him as it were, against the Fate which she was destined to mete 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 Déroulède: presently Anne Mie came in.