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“I’m sure of it,” Giraud said. “With your expertise and my report, we’ll prove to the Convention that I am not mistaken. Yes, citizen general,” the architect said with heavy emphasis, “this flagstone opens onto a tunnel that ends in the office after passing under the cell of the Widow Capet. Let’s take up the stone. Come down into the tunnel with me and I’ll prove to you that two men, or even one man on his own, could lift the Queen out overnight without anyone suspecting a thing.”

A murmur of fright and admiration excited by the architect’s words rippled through the group and died in citizen Théodore’s ear. He sat transfixed as though turned to stone.

“That is the risk we are running,” Giraud went on. “So now, with a gate that I’ll put inside the tunnel and which will cut it in half before it gets to the Widow Capet’s cell, I will save our nation.”

“Oh!” uttered Santerre. “Citizen Giraud, that’s a stroke of genius you’ve had there.”

“May you rot in hell, you moron,” growled the patriot with a surge of rage.

“Now, lift up the flagstone,” said the architect to citizen Gracchus, who was carrying pliers as well as his lantern.

Citizen Gracchus got to work and the stone was raised in no time. The tunnel appeared, a gaping hole with stairs that went down into its depths out of sight, and a cloud of moldy air escaped, thick as smoke.

“Yet another attempt thwarted!” murmured citizen Théodore. “Oh! Heaven can’t want her to escape, then, and her cause is cursed!”

37

CITIZEN GRACCHUS

For a moment the men stood as though rooted to the spot at the mouth of the tunnel as the wicket clerk plunged his lantern into the opening; the light didn’t go far, the tunnel was so deep and dark. The triumphant architect lorded it over his three companions from the height of his genius.

“Well then,” he said after a while.

“I’ll be buggered!” replied Santerre. “There really is a tunnel, it’s incontestable. But it remains to be seen where it goes.”

“Yes,” echoed Richard, “that remains to be seen.”

“Well then, down you go, citizen Richard, and see for yourself if what I said is true.”

“I’ve got a better idea than going down there,” said the concierge. “Why don’t we go back with you and the general to the Conciergerie and then you can pull up the flagstone where the stove is and we’ll see.”

“Very good!” said Santerre. “Off we go.”

“But take care,” said the architect. “If we don’t put the stone back properly, it might give someone ideas.”

“Who the hell do you think’s going to turn up here at this hour?” asked Santerre.

“Anyway,” Richard added, “the hall’s deserted; if we leave Gracchus here, that’ll be good enough. Stay here, citizen Gracchus, and we’ll come back to you from the other end of the tunnel.”

“As you wish,” said Gracchus.

“Are you armed?” asked Santerre.

“I have my sword and these pliers, citizen general.”

“Marvelous! Keep your eyes peeled. We’ll be back in ten minutes.”

With that, all three shut the gate and went back to the Conciergerie through the Haberdashers’ Gallery.

The wicket clerk watched them go and followed them with his eyes as far as he could see them; he listened to them as long as he could hear them; and when at last everything went silent and he was on his own, he put his lantern on the ground, sat at the edge of the hole with his legs dangling into the darkness of the tunnel, and began to dream.

Wicket clerks do dream sometimes like the rest of us. Only, usually no one goes to the trouble of finding out what they dream about.

Suddenly, and while he was in the depths of his daydream, he felt a heavy hand on his shoulder. He turned around, saw an unknown face, and made to cry out in alarm. But at that very instant a pistol pressed its cold muzzle into his forehead. His voice died in his throat, his arms fell inert, his eyes took on the most imploring expression they could muster.

“Not a word,” said the newcomer, “or you’re dead.”

“What do you want, monsieur?” stuttered the