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“Maison-Rouge!” Lorin murmured in Maurice’s ear.

“Adieu!” murmured the young man, bowing his head with a divine smile. “Adieu, or rather au revoir!”1

With that, he expired2 in the midst of the stunned guards.

“That’s what we have to do, Lorin,” said Maurice, “before we become bad citizens.”

The little dog ran around the corpse, bewildered and yowling.

“Hey, it’s Black!” said a man holding a huge baton in his hand. “Well, well! It’s Black. Here, boy!”

The dog went over to the man calling him. But as soon as he came within reach the man raised his baton and smashed his skull, bursting out laughing as he did so.

“Oh, the bastard!” said Maurice.

“Quiet!” murmured Lorin. “Quiet, or we’re finished.… That’s Simon.”

50

THE HOME VISIT

Lorin and Maurice had gone back to Lorin’s place, where Maurice was staying. To avoid compromising his friend too openly, Maurice had adopted the habit of going out early and coming back late.

Moving with the throng, keeping up with events, regularly observing the transfer of prisoners to the Conciergerie, he was daily on the lookout for any sign of Geneviève, not having been able to find out which prison she had been locked up in. For since his visit to Fouquier-Tinville, Lorin had given him to understand that the first move he made in public would be his undoing—and that would mean being sacrificed without having come to Geneviève’s aid. Maurice, of course, would have got himself locked up on the spot if it meant being reunited with her; but he opted for prudence for fear of being separated from her forever.

And so every morning he went from the Carmelites prison to Port-Libre, from the Madelonnettes prison to Saint-Lazare, from the prison of La Force to the Luxembourg.1 Stationing himself in front of the prison gates as the carts came out ferrying the accused to the Revolutionary Tribunal, he’d give the departing victims the once-over before running to the next prison on his round.

But he soon realized that ten men would not be enough to keep an eye in this way on the thirty-three prisons that Paris possessed at that time, and he made do with visits to the Tribunal itself to await Geneviève’s court appearance.

This was already the onset of despair. Indeed, what resources remained to the condemned after their arrest? Sometimes the Tribunal, which began its sessions at ten in the morning, had condemned twenty or thirty people by four in the afternoon. The first person condemned enjoyed another six hours’ life; but the last, struck down by a sentence at a quarter to four, fell under the ax at four-thirty.

To resign himself to a similar fate for Geneviève was thus to grow tired of living, of constantly doing battle with fate.

If only he’d been told in advance about Geneviève’s incarceration, how Maurice would have thumbed his nose at the very blind human justice that then held sway! How easily and swiftly he’d have whisked her out of jail! Never was it easier to escape; never was escape more rare. Once all these nobles were thrown in jail, they set themselves up there as though they were still at the château, making themselves completely at home in order to die. To flee was like evading the consequences of a duel: women themselves blushed for shame at a liberty acquired at such a price.

But Maurice would not have shown himself so scrupulous. Knocking off a few dogs, bribing a turnkey: what could be simpler! Geneviève’s was not such an illustrious name that it drew the attention of the world.… She would not be doing herself dishonor in fleeing, and besides … what if she were dishonored? Who could give a fig!

Oh! With what a bitter taste in his mouth he imagined the gardens of Port-Libre, so easy to scale; the rooms of the Madelonnettes, so convenient for busting out of and hitting the street; the ridiculously low walls of the Luxembourg and dim halls of the Carmes, to which any man with a bit of gumption could so easily gain access by taking out a window!

But was Geneviève in one of these prisons?

Devoured by doubt and worn out by worry, Maurice heaped insults upon Dixmer