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“Say away,” said the Knight without lowering his guns.

“You can kill me, but not before I utter a cry, or rather I won’t die without having uttered one. If I call out, a thousand men who are circling this house even as we speak will have reduced it to ashes in a matter of minutes. So put down your pistols and listen to what I have to say to madame.”

“To Geneviève? “asked the Knight.

“To me?” murmured Geneviève.

“Yes, to you.”

Geneviève, whiter than a marble statue, clutched at Maurice’s arm. The young man pushed her away.

“You know what you told me, madame,” said Maurice with profound contempt. “I see now that you told the truth. You do not, obviously, love Monsieur Morand.”

“Maurice, listen to me!” cried Geneviève.

“I have nothing to listen to, madame,” said Maurice. “You lied to me; you have broken in one blow all the bonds that bound my heart to yours. You told me you did not love Monsieur Morand but you did not tell me you loved another.”

“Monsieur,” the Knight interrupted, “why are you going on about Morand? Or rather, which Morand are you going on about?”

“Morand the chemist.”

“Morand the chemist stands before you. Morand the chemist and the Knight of Maison-Rouge are one and the same.”

And reaching to a nearby table he instantly grabbed and clapped on his head that old black wig that had for so long made him unrecognizable to the young republican.

The Knight made a threatening move.

“Monsieur,” Maurice continued, “please let me have a word with madame; stay and listen to our little chat, if you like; it won’t be long, I can assure you.”

Geneviève signaled to Maison-Rouge to be patient.

“So,” Maurice resumed, “so, Geneviève, you’ve made me a laughingstock among my friends! A thing of loathing to my own people! You used me, blind as I was, to serve your plots! You used me as though I were some handy implement! What you’ve done is base! But you’ll be punished for it, madame; for this man is going to kill me before your very eyes! But he’ll be lying lifeless at your feet too before five minutes are up. Or if he lives it will be to carry his head to the scaffold.”

“Him, die!” cried Geneviève. “Him, carry his head to the scaffold! But don’t you understand, Maurice, that he is my chevalier, my protector, that of my family; that I would give my life for his; that if he dies I will die; and that if you are my love, he is my religion?”

“Ah!” said Maurice. “So you are going to go on saying you love me, perhaps. Women truly are the most pathetic cowards.”

Then he turned around: “Do it, monsieur,” he said to the young royalist. “Kill me or die.”

“Why?”

“Because if you don’t kill me I’ll arrest you.”

Maurice lunged forward and grabbed the man by the collar.

“I won’t fight you for my life,” said the Knight of Maison-Rouge. “Here!”

And he threw his weapons on an armchair.

“Why won’t you fight me for your life?”

“Because my life is not worth the remorse I would feel in killing a gallant man, and, more to the point, because Geneviève loves you.”

“Ah!” cried the young woman, clasping her hands. “Ah! You are always so good, grand, loyal, and generous, Armand!”

Maurice watched them both in such amazement his mouth was gaping like an idiot’s.

“Here,” said the Knight. “I’m going back to my room. I give you my word of honor that it is not to escape but to hide a portrait.”

Maurice swiftly glanced at Geneviève’s portrait on the wall, but it was in its place. Either Maison-Rouge guessed Maurice’s thoughts or he wished to push his generosity to the limit: “Come,” he said, “I know you are a republican, but I also know you are a pure and loyal heart. I trust you to the end, you see! Have a look!”

And he drew from his breast pocket a miniature, which he showed to Maurice. It was a portrait of the Queen. Maurice looked askance and brought a hand to his forehead.

“I await your orders, monsieur,” said Maison-Rouge. “If you still want to go ahead and arrest me, knock on this door when the time comes for me to hand myself over. Life has lost its meaning for me now that it