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“Did he have his description?”

“He’d seen him before.”

“And what sort of man is he, physically, this Knight of Maison-Rouge?” Morand asked.

“A man of twenty-five or twenty-six, small, blond, with a pleasant face, magnificent eyes, and superb teeth.”

Not a sound was heard; no one moved a muscle.

“So,” said Morand, “if your municipal officer friend recognized this so-called Knight of Maison-Rouge, why didn’t he stop him?”

“First because he didn’t know the Knight was back in Paris and so he was afraid he was being fooled by a resemblance; then too, my friend is a little lukewarm; he did what wise men and the lukewarm do: when in doubt, he refrained from acting.”

“You would have behaved differently, wouldn’t you, citizen?” Dixmer asked Maurice with a sudden laugh.

“Yes,” said Maurice, “I admit I’d have preferred to get it wrong than to let a man as dangerous as this Knight of Maison-Rouge get away.”

“And what would you have done, monsieur?” Geneviève asked.

“What would I have done, citizeness?” said Maurice. “God knows it wouldn’t have taken much. I’d have had all the Temple doors sealed. I’d have gone straight to the phony patrol and collared the Knight and I’d have told him: ‘Knight of Maison-Rouge, I arrest you as a traitor to the nation!’ And once I’d collared him, I would not have let him go, I can tell you.”

“But what would have happened to him?” Geneviève asked.

“What would have happened is that he’d have been put on trial, he and his accomplices, and in this day and age he’d have been guillotined, it’s as simple as that.”

Geneviève shuddered and cast a glance of terror at her neighbor. But citizen Morand appeared not to notice. Emptying his glass phlegmatically he said, “Citizen Lindey is right. That was the thing to do. But, unfortunately, it wasn’t done.”

“And do they know where he got to, this Knight of Maison-Rouge?” asked Geneviève.

“Oof!” said Dixmer. “He didn’t hang around to see what happened. Since the attempt failed, he would’ve immediately left Paris.”

“Not at all,” said Maurice.

“What! He was foolish enough to stay in Paris?” asked Geneviève. “He hasn’t budged.”

A general ripple of amazement greeted this opinion, put forth by Maurice with such assurance.

“That is merely an assumption, what you’re saying there, citizen,” said Morand, “just an assumption, nothing more.”

“No, it isn’t, it’s a fact.”

“Oh!” said Geneviève, “I must say, for myself, I can’t believe what you’re saying, citizen; it would be unpardonably reckless of him.”

“You are a woman, citizeness, so you’ll understand that there is one thing that must have won out, with the sort of man the Knight of Maison-Rouge obviously is, over all possible considerations of personal safety.”

“And what could win out over fear of losing your life in such a ghastly way?”

“Good God, citizeness!” said Maurice. “Love.”

“Love?” repeated Geneviève.

“Without a doubt. Don’t you know the Knight of Maison-Rouge is in love with Antoinette?”

Two or three hoots of fairly feeble forced laughter burst forth. Dixmer’s eyes bored through Maurice as though trying to see into his soul. Geneviève felt her eyes mist with tears, and a shiver that did not escape Maurice ran the length of her body. Citizen Morand spilled the wine he was bringing to his lips and his marble pallor would have frightened Maurice if that young man’s entire attention had not been riveted on Geneviève.

“You are moved, citizeness,” Maurice murmured.

“Didn’t you say I would understand because I’m a woman? Well, we women are always moved by such devotion, even if it is against our principles.”

“And the devotion of the Knight of Maison-Rouge is all the greater for his never having spoken to the Queen, they say.”

“Ah, there, citizen Lindey,” said the extremist, “it seems to me you’re being rather indulgent toward this Knight.…”

“Monsieur,” Maurice returned, perhaps deliberately using the term that was no longer in use, “I admire all proud and courageous natures, but that doesn’t stop me from taking them on when I encounter them among the ranks of my enemies.