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Lorin burst out laughing.

“Right!” he said. “We’ve had a little tiff with our true love and it’s given us melancholy notions. Get off the grass, beautiful Amadis.3 Be a man again and after that we’ll work on the citizen. I, on the other hand, am never a better patriot than when I’ve had a row with Artemisia. Speaking of which, Her Divinity the Goddess of Reason sends you her warmest regards.”

“Please thank her on my behalf. Adieu, Lorin.”

“What do you mean, adieu?”

“Yes, I’m going.”

“Where are you going?”

“Home, for heaven’s sake!”

“Maurice, you’re going to your doom.”

“I couldn’t care less.”

“Maurice, think, friend, think.”

“I have.”

“I didn’t tell you everything.…”

“Everything—what?”

“Everything Santerre said to me.”

“What did he say to you?”

“When I asked for you to be head of the expedition he said: ‘Watch out!’

“ ‘What for?’ I said.

“ ‘For Maurice,’ he said.”

“Me?”

“Yes. ‘Maurice,’ he went on, ‘often visits that neighborhood.’ ”

“What neighborhood?”

“Maison-Rouge’s neighborhood.”

“What!” cried Maurice. “This is where he hides out?”

“They assume he does, at least, since this is where his presumed accomplice lives, the man who bought the house in the rue de la Corderie.”

“Faubourg Victor?” Maurice asked.

“Yes, faubourg Victor.”

“And what street in the faubourg?”

“The old rue Saint-Jacques.”

“Oh, my God!” murmured Maurice, stunned as though struck by lightning, shading his eyes with his hand. After an instant, and as though in that instant he had summoned all his courage, he said:

“What’s his job?”

“Master tanner.”

“And his name?”

“Dixmer.”

“You’re right, Lorin,” said Maurice, using all his willpower to suppress any sign of emotion. “I’ll go with you.”

“You’re doing the right thing. Are you armed?”

“I have my sword, as always.”

“Take these two pistols as well.”

“What about you?”

“I have my rifle. Shoulder arms! Carry arms! Forward, march!”

The patrol started marching again, accompanied by Maurice, who stuck close to Lorin behind a man dressed in grey, who was directing the operation. This was the man from the police.

From time to time a shadow would slip out of a street corner or a doorway and come to exchange a few words with the man in grey: they were police surveillance.

The party reached the familiar alleyway. The grey man did not hesitate a single instant. He was well informed. He took the alley and only stopped when he came to the garden gate through which Maurice had been led, all trussed up, that first time.

“This is it,” he said.

“This is what?” asked Lorin.

“This is where we’ll find the two chiefs.”

Maurice leaned against the wall, feeling like he was going to fall backward.

“Now,” said the grey man, “there are three entrances: the main entrance, this one here, and one that leads to a pavilion. I’ll take six to eight men and go in through the main entrance. You guard this entrance here with four or five men and put three solid fellows on the pavilion exit.”

“And I’ll go over the wall,” said Maurice, “and keep watch in the garden.”

“Good idea,” said Lorin, “especially seeing as you’ll be able to open the door for us from the inside.”

“Gladly,” said Maurice. “But don’t clear the passage and come unless I call you. I’ll see anything that happens inside from the garden.”

“So you know this place?” asked Lorin.

“I wanted to buy it once.”

Lorin hid his men in the hedges and doorways while the police agent moved off with eight or nine National Guards to force the main entrance as discussed. After a moment, the noise of their footfalls died away without having attracted the slightest notice in this desert.

Maurice’s men were at their post, camouflaged as well as they could be. You would have sworn everything was as quiet and uneventful as usual in the old rue Saint-Jacques, so Maurice began his climb over the wall.

“Wait,” said Lorin.

“What?”

“The watchword.”

“Oh, that’s right.”

“Carnation and underground tunnel. Stop anyone who doesn’t give you those four words. Let anyone past who does. Those are orders.”

“Thanks,” said Maurice, before