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It was not mistrust of what might have taken place in the house in Auteuil to which he’d taken Geneviève and where she had spent more than an hour. No, the constant torment of his life was this idea that Morand was in love with Geneviève; yet such were the tricks played by the mind, by caprice, that never had a gesture, a look, a word from Dixmer’s partner ever lent any semblance of reality to such a supposition.

The manservant’s voice snapped him out of his reverie.

“Citizen,” he said, indicating the letters open on the table, “have you decided which ones you want to keep or should I burn the lot?”

“Burn what?” asked Maurice.

“The letters the citizen read last night before going to bed.”

Maurice could not remember reading one.

“Burn the lot,” he said.

“Here are today’s, citizen,” said the officieux, handing Maurice a bundle of letters and throwing the others into the fireplace.

Maurice took the bundle of letters, felt a thick seal beneath his fingers, and sensed vaguely a familiar perfume. Flipping through the pile he saw a stamp and handwriting that made him jump. This man, so unflinching in the face of danger, no matter how great, paled at the mere sight of a letter.

The officieux went over to see what was the matter, but Maurice waved him out of the room. When he was gone, he turned the letter over and over with the foreboding that it sealed his own doom. He felt the chill of the unknown slow down his blood.

Mustering all his courage, Maurice ripped the letter open and read the following:

CITIZEN MAURICE,

We must break ties that, on your side, threaten to exceed the bounds of friendship. You are a man of honor, citizen, and now that a night has passed since what happened between us yesterday evening, you will surely see that your presence in our house has become impossible. I am counting on you to provide my husband with whatever excuse you like. If I see a letter from you for Monsieur Dixmer arrive this very day, I will know I can regret a friend who has unfortunately gone astray, but whom all socially accepted standards of behavior prevent me from seeing again.

Adieu, now and forever.

GENEVIÈVE

P.S. My courier will wait for your answer.

Maurice called and the officieux reappeared.

“Who brought this letter?”

“A citizen delivery boy.”

“Is he still here?”

“Yes.”

Without a sigh, without a moment’s hesitation, Maurice leapt out of bed, pulled on a pair of trousers, plunked down at his desk, grabbed the first sheet of paper he could find—it just so happened that this was a sheet of paper with the section letterhead printed at the top—and wrote:

CITIZEN DIXMER,

I was fond of you, I am still fond of you, but I cannot see you again.

Maurice tried to think of a reason for not being able to see citizen Dixmer again, but only one sprang to mind and it was simply the one that would have occurred to anyone in those times. He thus continued:

Certain rumors are making the rounds that you are lukewarm when it comes to politics. I do not want to accuse you, nor have I been given the mission of defending you. Please accept my regrets and rest assured that your secrets remain buried in my heart.

Maurice did not even reread this letter, which he tossed off, as you’ve seen, just like that, off the top of his head. He had no doubt of the effect it would have on Dixmer, who was a good patriot, as far as Maurice could tell—from what he said, at least. Dixmer would be annoyed when he got it; no doubt his wife and citizen Morand would press him to persevere, but he wouldn’t even bother answering and would soon forget, oblivion like a black veil blanketing the past and transforming it into a gloomy future. Maurice signed and sealed the letter and handed it to his officieux, and the delivery boy went on his way.

Then a small sigh escaped from the republican’s heart. He grabbed his hat and gloves and headed for the section, hoping, poor Brutus, to regain his stoicism when faced with public affairs.

Public affairs were terrible: the thirty-first of May6 was gearing up. The Terror