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“To chastise that little demon,” said the cobbler.

“Chastise him? What for?” said Lorin.

“What for?”

“You heard me.”

“Because the little bastard won’t sing like a good patriot should or work like a good citizen.”

“Well, what’s it to you?” said Lorin. “Did the nation entrust you with teaching Capet to sing?”

“Hey!” said Simon. “What business is it of yours, citizen sergeant, eh?”

“What business is it of mine? Anything that concerns any man with a heart is my business. It is unworthy of a man of feeling to see a child being beaten and do nothing about it.”

“Poppycock. The son of the tyrant.”

“—is a child, a child who had no hand in the crimes of his father, a child who is not guilty and who, as a consequence, should not be punished.”

“And I’m telling you they gave him to me to do what I like with him. I’d like him to sing the song ‘Madame Veto’ and he’s going to sing it.”

“You miserable cur!” said Lorin. “Madame Veto is the child’s mother—his own mother! How would you like it if they forced your son to sing that you were scum?”

“Me?” screamed Simon. “You lousy aristocrat of a sergeant!”

“No insults, thank you,” said Lorin. “I’m not Capet—you won’t get me to sing by force.”

“I’ll get you arrested, but, you rotten royalist.”

“You!” said Lorin. “You will get me arrested? Just you try and get a Thermopyle arrested!”

“Right! Well, he who laughs last laughs loudest. Meanwhile, Capet, pick up my last and come and make your shoe or there’ll be trouble.…”

“And I’m telling you,” said Lorin, stepping forward, the blood drained from his face, putting up his fists and gritting his teeth, “I’m telling you he will not pick up your last; I’m telling you he will not make any shoes, do you hear me, you pathetic buffoon? Oh, yes! You’ve got your big long sword but it doesn’t frighten me any more than you do. Just try and take it out!”

“Help! Murder!” screamed Simon, blanching with rage.

At that moment, two women entered the courtyard. One of them held a piece of paper in her hand. She addressed the sentry.

“Sergeant!” cried the sentry. “It’s the Tison girl asking to see her mother.”

“Let her through, the Council of the Temple has granted her permission,” said Lorin, without turning his back for an instant on Simon, for fear the man would take advantage of the distraction to bash the child again.

The sentry let the two women through, but they had scarcely started up the dimly lit stairs when they encountered Maurice Lindey, who was coming down to the courtyard for a moment.

Night was beginning to fall, so that the women’s facial features could hardly be distinguished. Maurice stopped them.

“Who are you, citizenesses?” he asked. “And what do you want?”

“I’m Héloïse Tison,” said one of the women. “I’ve obtained permission to see my mother and so I’ve come to see her.”

“Yes,” said Maurice. “But the permission is only for you, citizeness.”

“I’ve brought my friend along so that there are at least two of us women among all these soldiers.”

“That’s all very well, but your friend will not be able to go up.”

“As you wish, citizen,” said Héloïse Tison, squeezing the hand of her friend, who backed against the wall, seemingly stricken with shock and fright.

“Citizen sentries,” cried Maurice, lifting his head and calling to the sentries standing guard on each landing. “Let citizeness Tison pass. But her friend can’t go up. She will wait on the stairs and you will see to it that she is shown respect.”

“Yes, citizen,” the sentries called down.

“Up you go, then,” said Maurice.

The two women passed.

As for Maurice, he leapt the four or five bottom steps in a single bound and rushed into the courtyard.

“What’s going on here, then? What was all the racket about?” he asked the National Guards. “You can hear a child crying all the way up in the prisoners’ antechamber.”

“What’s going on,” said Simon, who was used to the ways of the municipal officers and thought when he saw Maurice that he’d found reinforcements, “what’s going on is that this