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Maurice then saw to his left a head that remained rigid, a face that remained hard. It was Dixmer, standing grim and implacable, not taking his eyes off Geneviève or the members of the Tribunal for a second.

The blood rushed to the young man’s temples; anger rose from his heart to his brow, filling his whole being with a wild desire for revenge. He threw Dixmer a look filled with a hate so electric, so powerful, that

Dixmer, as though scalded by burning liquid, snapped his head around toward his enemy. Their eyes crossed like two darting flames.

“Tell us the names of the instigators,” the president ordered.

“There is only one, monsieur.”

“Who is …?”

“My husband.”

“Do you know where he is?”

“Yes.”

“Tell us where he is hiding.”

“He may be vile, but I will not descend to his level. It is not for me to say where he is hiding; that is for you to find out.”

Maurice looked straight at Dixmer.

Dixmer didn’t move a muscle. The idea crossed Maurice’s mind to denounce the man then and there even if it meant denouncing himself. But he squashed that idea quickly. “No,” he said to himself. “That’s not the way he should die.”

“So you refuse to guide us in our search?” said the president.

“I believe, monsieur, that I cannot do so,” replied Geneviève, “without making myself as contemptible in the eyes of others as he is in mine.”

“Are there any witnesses?” asked the president. “

There is one,” the usher replied.

“Call the witness.”

“Maximilien Jean Hyacinthe Lorin!” barked the usher.

“Lorin!” cried Maurice. “Oh my God! What’s happened!”

Lorin was arrested the very same day this scene occurred and so Maurice knew nothing about the arrest.

“Lorin!” murmured Geneviève, looking around her, appalled.

“Why doesn’t the witness answer the summons?” asked the president.

“Citizen president,” said Fouquier-Tinville, “upon a recent denunciation, the witness has been arrested at his domicile; he will be brought in presently.” Maurice flinched.

“There was another, more important witness,” Fouquier-Tinville went on, “but we haven’t been able to find that one yet.”

Dixmer turned, smiling, to Maurice: perhaps the same idea that had sprung to the lover’s mind had now sprung to the husband’s.

Geneviève went deathly white and collapsed, giving out a groan. At that very moment, Lorin entered with a couple of gendarmes in his wake. Behind him and through the same door, Simon emerged, plunking himself down in the front gallery as though this was his local haunt.

“Your full name?” asked the president.

“Maximilien Jean Hyacinthe Lorin.”

“Your state?”

“Free man.”

“Not for long!” growled Simon, showing him his fist.

“Are you related to the prisoner?”

“No, but I have the honor of being one of her friends.”

“Did you know she was plotting to help the Queen escape?”

“How do you expect me to have known that?”

“She could have confided in you.”

“In me, a member of the Thermopylae section? … Please!”

“You have sometimes been seen with her, however.”

“I could well have been seen—often, even.”

“Did you know her to be an aristocrat?”

“I knew her as the wife of a master tanner.”

“Her husband did not in reality exercise that craft; it was merely the façade behind which he hid.”

“That I know nothing about; her husband is no friend of mine.”

“Tell us about the husband.”

“Gladly! He is a man so odious …”

“Monsieur Lorin,” said Geneviève. “Have pity …”

Lorin continued imperturbably.

“… that he sacrificed his poor wife, whom you have before you, to satisfy, not even his political imperatives, but his personal hatreds. The man is so low I’d put him almost on a par with Simon.”

Dixmer became livid. Simon opened his mouth to speak but the president silenced him with a wave of the hand.

“You seem to know the story rather well, citizen Lorin,” said Fouquier. “Tell us more.”

“Forgive me, citizen Fouquier,” said Lorin, getting up. “I’ve told you all I know.”

He bowed and sat down again.

“Citizen Lorin,” continued the prosecutor,