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“An assignat for ten livres,” said the jailer, “that’s all very well; but I’d rather have a lock of my daughter’s hair.”

As she spoke, Simon, who was coming up the stairs, overheard her and saw the jailer pocket the assignat Maurice had given her.

We had better describe the mood Simon was in.

Simon had come from the courtyard, where he had met Lorin. There was definite dislike between the two men, and this dislike was not so much motivated by the violent scene we have already set before the eyes of our readers as by the genetic differences between them, that eternal source of the animosities or attractions we say are a mystery but which are actually so easily explained.

Simon was ugly, Lorin handsome; Simon was on the nose, Lorin smelled like a rose; Simon was a braggart of a republican, Lorin was one of those genuinely fervent patriots who had made nothing but sacrifices for the Revolution; and then, if it were ever to come to blows, Simon knew instinctively that the fist of the muscadin would have dealt him a thoroughly plebeian punishment, no less elegantly than Maurice would have done.

Simon had stopped short on seeing Lorin and gone pale.

“Not that battalion standing guard again, is it?” he groaned.

“What if it is?” replied a grenadier who was put off by the remark. “Seems to me they’re as good as any other.”

Simon pulled a pencil from the pocket of his carmagnole and pretended to be making a note on a piece of paper that was as black as his hands.

“Hey!” said Lorin. “So you’ve learned to write, Simon, now you’re Capet’s tutor? Look, citizens; my word of honor, he’s taking notes: we give you Simon the Censor.”

A universal burst of laughter broke out, beginning with the ranks of young National Guards, nearly all of whom were educated young men. It dazed, so to speak, the miserable cobbler.

“You’ll get yours,” he said, grinding his teeth and seething with rage. “They’re saying you let strangers into the dungeon without the permission of the Commune. I’ll show you: I’m going to get the municipal officer to file a report.”

“At least he can write,” Lorin retorted. “It’s Maurice, Maurice, the Iron Fist, you know him?”

Just at that precise moment, Maurice happened to be giving Mother Tison the ten-livre assignat as a consolation and he paid no heed to the presence of this miserable wretch, whom he instinctively avoided whenever he came across him, as you avoid a poisonous or hideously repulsive snake.

“Ah, look at that!” said Simon to Mother Tison, who was wiping her eyes on her apron. “So you really are keen to get yourself guillotined, citizeness?”

“Me!” said Mother Tison. “Why do you say that?”

“What! You take money from municipal officers to let aristocrats in to see the Austrian woman!”

“Me?” said Mother Tison. “Shut your mouth, you’re mad.”

“This will be put down in the report,” said Simon, with emphasis.

“What are you talking about? They’re friends of municipal officer Maurice, one of the greatest patriots in existence.”

“Conspirators, I tell you; and the Commune will be informed. Let them be the judge.”

“Right, so you’re going to denounce me, you police spy?”

“Exactly, unless you want to denounce yourself.”

“But denounce what? What am I supposed to denounce?”

“What happened.”

“But nothing happened.”

“Where were they, the aristocrats?”

“There, on the stairs.”

“When Widow Capet went up to the top of the tower?”

“Yes.”

“And did they speak to each other?”

“Just a few words.”

“A few words: you see! Anyway, it reeks of aristocrats here.”

“You mean it reeks of carnations.”

“Carnations! What have carnations got to do with it?”

“But the citizeness was carrying a bunch that filled the air with perfume.”

“What citizeness?”

“The one watching the Queen go up the tower.”

“You see what I mean: you say the Queen, Mother Tison. Hanging out with aristocrats will be the death of you. Right, well … Hang on, what have I stepped on here?” Simon bent down.

“Ha! That’s one!” said Mother Tison. “It’s a flower … a carnation. It must have fallen out of citizeness Dixmer’s hands, when Marie Antoinette