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The call was sounded.

Maurice, who had seen the man who killed himself with Lorin’s knife judged, answered when his name was called. So it transpired that only the dead man was de trop. He was ferried out of the room. If they’d managed to find his identity, if they’d managed to recognize him as having been condemned, dead as he was, he’d have been guillotined along with the rest.

The survivors were pushed toward the main exit. As each person came up to the wicket, his hands were tied behind his back. Not a word was spoken between the sorry souls for ten minutes. Only the butchers spoke and acted.

Maurice, Geneviève, and Lorin couldn’t hold out any longer and pressed together so as not to be separated. Then the condemned were pushed out of the Conciergerie and into the courtyard. There the spectacle became alarming.

Several condemned faltered at the sight of the carts and had to be helped up by the clerks.

The gates of the Conciergerie were still shut; behind them you could hear the muffled voice of that great animal, the crowd, and you could tell by the volume of noise that the crowd was vast.

Geneviève climbed up onto a cart with alacrity, with a little help from Maurice, who had hold of her elbow, and Maurice hoisted himself up behind her. Lorin took his time, selecting his seat—on Maurice’s left.

The gates opened: in the front row was Simon. The two friends saw him straightaway; he saw them. He stood up on a boundary stone close to where the carts had to pass; there were three of them. The first cart rattled on its way. This was the one the three friends were in.

“Hey! Good day, beau grenadier!” Simon called out to Lorin. “You’re going to try out my blade, it looks like?”

“Yes,” said Lorin, “and I’ll try not to make it too blunt so it’s still sharp enough to cut through your thick hide when it comes your turn.”

The other two carts rattled away behind the first. An appalling storm of cries, bravos, groans, curses exploded around the condemned. “Courage, Geneviève, courage!” murmured Maurice.

“Oh!” she answered. “I don’t regret life, since I’ll be dying with you. I regret only that I don’t have my hands free to hold you in my arms before I die.”

“Lorin,” Maurice said, “Lorin, root around in my coat pocket, will you; you’ll find a penknife there.”

“Oh, thank Christ!” said Lorin. “I could do with a penknife! I was somewhat humiliated at having to go to my death trussed up like a baby calf.”

Maurice brought his pocket down to the level of his friend’s hands; Lorin took the penknife and together they managed to get it open. Then Maurice took it in his teeth and cut the ropes tying Lorin’s hands. Lorin did the same for Maurice as soon as his hands were free.

“Hurry up!” said Lorin. “Geneviève has fainted.”

Indeed, to accomplish the rope operation, Maurice had turned his back for a moment from poor Geneviève, and as though all her strength came from him, she simply closed her eyes and dropped her head to her chest.

“Geneviève,” called Maurice. “Geneviève, open your eyes, my darling; we only have a few minutes left to see each other in this world.”

“The ropes are hurting me,” she murmured.

Maurice untied her. Instantly she opened her eyes and sprang to her feet, galvanized by an exaltation that made her resplendently beautiful.

She wrapped one arm around Maurice’s neck, seized Lorin’s hand with the other, and all three, standing tall in the cart, with the other victims at their feet shrouded in the stupor of anticipated death, launched a greeting and a look of gratitude to the heavens, which allowed them to freely prop one another up.

The people who had insulted them when they were seated shut up when they saw them on their feet.

The scaffold came into view.

Maurice and Lorin saw it. Geneviève did not, she was looking only at her lover.

The cart pulled up.

“I love you,” Maurice said to Geneviève. “I love you!”

“The woman first, the woman before the rest!” cried a thousand voices.

“Thank you, people,” said Maurice. “Who said that you were cruel?”

He took Geneviève in his arms