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“What he’s on about,” the young man replied, “is that if the epaulet doesn’t get respect for the officer, the sword will get respect for the epaulet.”

With that the young woman’s unidentified defender stepped back and swept aside the folds of his coat, allowing a broad and substantial infantry saber to shine brightly in the light of the streetlamp. Then, with a deft movement that spoke of a certain familiarity with armed combat, he seized the chief of the volunteers by the collar of his carmagnole.26 Holding the point of the saber against the man’s neck, he said, “Now, let’s have a friendly chat.”

“But, citizen …” stammered the chief of the volunteers, struggling to get free.

“I warn you: the slightest move you make, the slightest move your men make, and I’ll run you through with my sword.”

While this was going on, two of the volunteers continued to hold the woman. “You asked me who I was,” the young man continued. “You had no right to ask since you don’t command a regular patrol, but I’ll tell you anyway. I am Maurice Lindey. I commanded a battery of gunners on the tenth of August.27 I am a lieutenant in the National Guard and secretary of the Frères et Amis section.28 Is that enough for you?”

“Ah, citizen lieutenant,” answered the chief, still threatened by the blade, the tip of which he could feel pressing sharper and deeper into his neck. “That’s a different matter. If you really are who you say you are, that is, a good patriot …”

“There. I knew it wouldn’t take much to come to an understanding,” said the officer. “Now it’s your turn. Tell me, why was this woman crying? What were you doing to her?”

“We were just taking her to the station.”

“And why were you taking her to the station?”

“Because she doesn’t have an identity card and the latest decree of the Commune states that anyone mad enough to be out in the streets of Paris after ten o’clock at night without an identity card is to be arrested. Have you forgotten our beloved homeland is in danger and that the black flag is flying over the Hôtel de Ville?”

“The black flag is flying over the Hôtel de Ville and our homeland is in danger because two hundred thousand slaves are marching29 on France,” the officer retorted. “And not because some woman is running around the streets of Paris after ten o’clock at night. But never mind, citizens, there’s a Commune decree, so you’re within your rights. If you’d only told me that straightaway, things would have been quicker and a lot less unpleasant. It’s a fine thing to be a patriot, but it doesn’t hurt to be polite. The first officer citizens should respect, it seems to me, should be the one they themselves elected. Now take this woman away if you want, you’re free to go.”

“Oh, citizen!” This time it was the woman. She lunged at the officer and took hold of his arm, having followed the debate in a state of profound anxiety. “Please don’t abandon me to the mercy of these drunken barbarians.”

“As you wish,” said Maurice. “Take my arm; I’ll escort you to the station with them.”

“To the station,” the woman repeated in fright. “To the station! But why take me to the station? I’ve done no harm to anyone.”

“We are taking you to the station,” said Maurice, “not because you have done any harm, not because we suppose you capable of doing any harm, but because a Commune decree prohibits anyone going out without a card and you don’t seem to have one.”

“But, monsieur, I didn’t know.”

“Citizeness, you will find decent men at the station who’ll appreciate your reasons and from whom you have nothing to fear.”

“Monsieur,” said the young woman, squeezing the officer’s arm. “It is not insult I fear at this point. It is death. If you take me to the station, I am finished.”

2

The STRANGER

In her voice there was such a note of fear and distinction combined that a shiver ran down Maurice’s spine. Like a jab of electricity, that ringing voice pierced his heart.

He turned to the volunteers, who were busy conferring among themselves. Humiliated at having been brought