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Maurice had not uttered a single shout, not once called out for help. Strength and courage are always keen to be enough in themselves, and those who possess both seem to be ashamed of calling on outside help. Besides, Maurice could have called out all he liked in this deserted neighborhood; no one would have come.

So, there he was, noiselessly trussed and muzzled. At least, he thought, they didn’t intend to kill him, not right away, or they would not have bothered with the blindfold. At Maurice’s age hope springs eternal, and this seemed a hopeful reprieve, so he gathered his wits about him and waited.

“Who are you?” asked a voice still roused by the struggle.

“I’m the man you’re assassinating,” Maurice spat out.

“And you’re a dead man if you make any noise.”

“If I was going to make a noise I would have done so by now.”

“Are you ready to answer my questions?”

“Ask me first, I’ll see if I feel like answering.”

“Who sent you here?”

“No one.”

“So you came on your own initiative?”

“Yes.”

“You’re lying.”

Maurice made a mighty move to disengage his bound hands, but it couldn’t be done.

“I never lie!” he barked.

“In any case, whether you came on your own initiative or you’ve been sent, you’re a spy.”

“And you are cowards!”

“Cowards, eh?”

“Yes, you’re seven or eight to one bound man and yet you insult that man. Cowards! Cowards! Cowards!”

Maurice’s violence, instead of provoking his adversaries, seemed to calm them down, this very violence being proof that the young man was not what they accused him of being, for a true spy would have been quaking in his boots and begging for mercy.

“No insult intended,” said a voice that was gentler yet at the same time more imperious than any of the others that had spoken so far. “In these troubled times, one can be a spy without being a criminal: only one risks one’s life.”

“Welcome, whoever spoke those words: I’ll answer you in all honesty.”

“What brought you to this neighborhood, monsieur?”

“I’m looking for a woman.”

A murmur of incredulity greeted this excuse. The murmur grew to a howl of derision.

“You’re lying!” the same voice said. “There is no woman and we know what we’re talking about when it comes to women; there is no woman to pursue in this neighborhood. Tell us your plans or die.”

“You’re joking,” said Maurice. “You won’t kill me for the sheer pleasure of killing me—not unless you’re proper crooks.”

So saying, Maurice made an even more violent and sudden effort to free his hands from the rope that bound them; but a sharp and painful chill ripped through his chest and he lurched backward, unable to stop himself.

“Ah! You felt that all right!” said one of the men. “Well, there are another eight blades like the one you’ve just tasted.”

“Get on with it then,” said Maurice, resigned now to his fate. “At least it will be over and done with.”

“Who are you? Let’s have it!” said the soft yet imperious voice.

“You want to know my name?”

“Your name, yes!”

“I am Maurice Lindey.”

“What!” someone shouted. “Maurice Lindey, the revolutionary … the patriot? Maurice Lindey, the secretary of the Lepelletier section?”

These words were said so heatedly that Maurice could tell they were decisive. To reply would be inexorably to seal his fate. Maurice was incapable of cowardice. He bolted upright like a true Spartan and spoke firmly and clearly:

“Yes, Maurice Lindey. Yes, Maurice Lindey, the secretary of the Lepelletier section. Yes, Maurice Lindey, the patriot, the revolutionary, the Jacobin. Maurice Lindey, in short, whose greatest day will be the day he dies for liberty.”

His answer was greeted by a deathly silence.

Maurice Lindey presented his chest, waiting for the blade whose point he had already felt to plunge to the hilt at any moment into his heart.

After a few seconds, a voice betraying some emotion said, “Is that really true? Come on, young man; don’t lie.”

“Look in my pocket,” said Maurice. “You’ll find my commission. Look at my shirt. If my blood hasn