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Like the first man, the newcomer sported a fur cap, a grey carmagnole, filthy hands, and a cudgel. In addition, he had a huge sword that kept battering his calves. But what made the second man much scarier than the first was that, just as much as the first man looked frightening, the second looked phony, hateful, and low.

And although the two men looked as though they belonged to the same cause and shared the same views, those present were prepared to risk losing an eye to see what would happen, not from their meeting, for they were not treading the exact same axis, but from their close encounter. Onlookers’ expectations were dashed in the first round, for the two patriots made do with exchanging a look—but what a look! It made the smaller man pale; but by the involuntary twitch of his lips, it was clear that his pallor was occasioned not by fear but by disgust.

And yet the second time around the patriot’s face, till then so surly and daunting, suddenly brightened, as though he had succeeded in mastering his feelings by some violent effort; something like a would-be gracious smile passed over his lips, and he inclined his path slightly to the left, with the evident aim of stopping the second patriot in his tracks.

They came together virtually in the center of the hall.

“I’ll be damned! If it isn’t citizen Simon!” said the first patriot.

“The man himself! But what do you want with him, old citizen Simon? And who are you, anyway?”

“You’re not going to pretend you don’t recognize me!”

“I don’t recognize you, and for the good reason that I’ve never laid eyes on you before.”

“Pull the other one! You don’t recognize the man who had the honor of parading la Lamballe’s head around on a pike?”

These words, delivered in a sort of quiet fury, shot hotly from the carmagnole-wearing patriot’s mouth and crackled in the air. Simon started.

“You!” he said. “You?”

“That surprises you, does it? Ah, citizen! I thought you were a bit more discerning when it comes to friends, to the faithful! … You wound me.”

“It’s a good thing, what you did,” said Simon, “but I never met you.”

“It’s a bit more of an advantage guarding the little Capet, you’re more in the public eye—you see, I know you and I think highly of you.”

“Oh! Thanks!”

“Think nothing of it.… So, having a bit of a wander?”

“Yes, I’m waiting for someone.… What about you?”

“Me, too.”

“What’s your name, then? I’ll mention you at the club.”

“The name’s Théodore.”

“Théodore what?”

“That’s all: that not enough for you?”

“Oh, no, that’s fine! … Who are you waiting for, citizen Théodore?”

“A friend I’ve got a good little denunciation ready for.”

“Really! Tell me about it.”

“A nest of aristocrats.”

“What are their names?”

“No, truly; that’s for my friend’s ears alone.”

“You’re on the wrong tack, for here’s my mate coming toward us, and I reckon this one knows enough about procedure to take care of your business straightaway, eh?”

“Fouquier-Tinville!” cried the first patriot.

“No less, my friend.”

“Well, that’s good.”

“Of course it’s good.… Hello, citizen Fouquier.”

Fouquier-Tinville, pale, calm, alert as usual, with beady black eyes set deep below bushy eyebrows, had emerged from a side door and strode into the room, register in hand, bundles of papers under his arm.

“Hello, Simon,” he said. “What’s new?”

“Plenty. First, a denunciation by citizen Théodore here—he’s the fellow who carried Lamballe’s head around. Let me introduce you.”

Fouquier fixed his intelligent gaze on the patriot, who was not exactly happy under the man’s scrutiny, despite the courageous tension of his nerves.

“Théodore, eh?” said Fouquier. “Who’s this Théodore?”

“I am,” said the man in the carmagnole.

“You carried Lamballe’s head, did you?” said the public prosecutor, with an expression of doubt he made no attempt to hide.

“I did, rue Saint-Antoine.”

“But I know someone else who boasts he did,” said Fouquier.

“Me, I know ten!” citizen Théodore bravely retorted. “But those fellows are all asking for something