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“That’s what citizen Santerre said by way of reply; but Hébert said that from the moment they were alerted there was no more danger; that they could guard Marie Antoinette at the Temple with half the precautions they need to guard her here, and, I have to say, the Temple is a lot more solid and secure a building than the Conciergerie.”

“And I have to say,” said Gilbert, “that I’d love it if they took her back to the Temple.”

“I can imagine, you must be bored stiff watching over her all the time.”

“No, it makes me sad, that’s all.”

Maison-Rouge coughed loudly as the file made more and more noise the further it ate into the iron bar.

“And what did they decide?” asked Duchesne when the turnkey’s coughing fit had subsided.

“They decided she’d stay here, but that they’d start her trial immediately.”

“Oh, the poor woman!” said Gilbert.

Duchesne, whose hearing was no doubt finer than that of his colleague, or who was perhaps less spellbound by Mardoche’s tale, cocked an ear in the direction of the compartment on the left, a move the turnkey noticed.

“So, you see, citizen Duchesne,” he shouted, “the attempts of the plotters are going to become all the more desperate when they find out they’ve got less time ahead of them to carry out their plots. They’re going to double the guards on all the prisons, given that it’s a question of nothing less than an armed insurrection in the Conciergerie. The plotters will kill everyone until they’ve gotten in to the Queen, until they’ve reached the Widow Capet, I meant to say.”

“Hummph! How can they get in, your plotters?”

“Dressed up as patriots: they’ll pretend to be reenacting another second of September, the mongrels. And then, once the doors are open, curtains!”

There was a moment of silence occasioned by the stupor of the gendarmes. The turnkey heard the file grinding away with a mixture of joy and terror. Nine o’clock sounded.

At that same moment, someone knocked on the door of the outer cell. But the two gendarmes were so preoccupied they didn’t answer.

“Well then, we’ll be extra careful, we’ll keep our eyes peeled,” said Gilbert.

“And if we have to, we’ll die at our post as true republicans,” Duchesne added.

“Surely she must soon be finished,” the turnkey said to himself, wiping the sweat trickling into his eyes.

“And you be careful too,” said Gilbert. “You won’t be spared any more than we would be if anything like the event you describe occurs.”

“I agree,” said the turnkey. “I spend my nights doing the rounds; and I’m at the end of my rope. You fellows, at least you get relieved and you can sleep one night out of two.”

There was a second knock on the door of the wicket. Mardoche gave a start; any event, no matter how trivial, could foil his plan.

“What’s that, then?” he asked before he could stop himself.

“Nothing, nothing,” said Gilbert. “It’s just the clerk from the War Ministry letting me know he’s on his way out.”

“Oh, well and good!” said the turnkey.

But the clerk continued to knock.

“All right! All right!” cried Gilbert without leaving the window. “Good night! Good-bye!…”

“I think he’s saying something to you,” said Duchesne, turning round to face the door. “Answer him, then.…”

They heard the voice of the clerk.

“Come here for a moment, citizen gendarme, would you?” he called. “I want to have a word with you.”

That voice, altered by strong emotion though it was, caused the turnkey to prick up his ears, for he felt he recognized it.

“What do you want then, citizen Durand?” asked Gilbert.

“Just a word.”

“Well then, you can speak to me tomorrow.”

“No, tonight; I must speak to you tonight,” the voice insisted.

“Oh, no!” murmured the turnkey. “Now what’s going to happen? That’s Dixmer’s voice.”

Sinister and vibrant, the voice seemed somehow to borrow something morbid from the distant echo down the long corridor. Duchesne turned back.

“Right!” said Gilbert. “Since he insists …”

With that he went toward the door. The turnkey took advantage of the gendarmes’ momentary distraction. He ran to the Queen’s window.

“Is it done?