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“What were they guilty of?” one of the three men asked.

“They were inciting a mob, shouting: ‘To arms!’”

“You pardoned them?” the same man exclaimed. “And you dare admit as much!”

“It would appear that these words are from a poem by Massillon Coicou,” the commandant admitted sheepishly.

“Who is this Massillon Coicou?” the man asked. “Is he still in prison?”

“He’s dead,” the commandant answered. “At least, that’s what they’ve told me.”

“Do you hear the cry that resounded: ‘To arms!’” André said suddenly in deep, low voice.

“Silence!” the commandant shouted, “or I’ll break your neck … That verse, we checked it out and it really is from the poet Massillon Coicou. I thought a good beating and six months of detention would be enough punishment.”

“They’re making an ass out of you, Commandant,” one of the three men sniggered. “All one has to do is look in their eyes to see that they’re making an ass of you. That verse by Massillon Coicou, they’re using it to express their own feelings.”

“They’ll live to regret it, I swear,” the commandant hastened to assert.

“I find your zeal to be somewhat tepid,” added the one who had spoken first. “Don’t forget, we were ordered to suspect our own shadow and spare no one … Why don’t you begin the interrogation, Commandant Cravache?”

“You, white man, come forward,” the commandant said.

“Last name, first name, address and occupation,” one of the patrol members recited slowly while dipping a quill in an inkstand.

“Simon de la Pétaudière, French poet, residing in this province, cohabiting with Germaine, merchant on rue Chochotte.”

“Spare us the details,” one of the men pronounced slowly, “and go put yourself against the wall, arms crossed, feet together.”

“Next! Last name, first name, address and occupation?”

“André, son of Julie, poet, born and residing in this town, rue du Diable-Vauvert.”

“Speak up, imbecile!”

“Rue du Diable-Vauvert.”

“Have you heard of it, Commandant Cravache, Devil ‘Green Calf’ Street?”24

“No, but we’ll find it. They’re always holed up in ridiculous places, the swine.”

“Next! Hurry up. Last name, first name, address and occupation?”

“René, son of Angélie, malnourished poet.”

“Spare us your tales of malnutrition and just answer the questions.”

“René, son of Angélie, born in and residing in this town, rue de l’Enfer.”25

“Quite a brotherhood,” the commandant declared in annoyance. “All obsessed with the same fixed idea: speak French, write verse.”

“Rue de l’Enfer! Rue de l’Enfer! The streets of this town have ridiculous names!” exclaimed the patrol member who was writing everything down. “No wonder they shelter so many subversives.”

“Bring in the girls,” the commandant then ordered.

The adjutant entered, roughly pushing Marcia and Cécile before him.

“Here they are, Commandant.”

“You, the maid, come over here.”

“Yes, sir, thank you, sir.”

“Tell us your name.”

“Yes, sir. It’s Marcia, sir.”

“Marcia what?”

“Marcia Nanpétrin, yes, sir.”

“Where do you live?”

“At Madame Magistral’s, sir. Since I was ten.”

“How old are you now?”

“Twenty, sir.”

“Do you have parents?”

“Yes, sir, in the mountains, far away. Up in the coffee farms.”

“You were the first to hear the bottle crash. Tell us what happened?”

“Here is what happened, Commandant! I was leaving Madame Magistral’s house when I saw the door of the shack open—it had been closed for eight days. The mulatto came out, eyes closed and hand lifted high. He walked like a blind man, hesitating, and then he threw the bottle under the balcony. I saw flames running along the ground and then the mulatto threw himself on the ground screaming and the black guy and the white guy came out of the shack, and the white guy stamped out the flames and lay down on the mulatto and starting saying something in his ear.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it, yes, sir. I swear on my mother’s life.”

“Fine, go stand by the wall and wait.”

“Yes, sir, thank you, sir.”

“Come forward, you. Last name, first name, address and occupation.”

“Cécile Magistral, born and residing in this town, teacher at the Holy Sisters School.”

“What