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“Mother Capet took a flower from citizeness Dixmer’s bouquet?” asked Simon.

“Yes, and it was I who gave it to her, do you hear?” Maurice said in a menacing voice; he had been listening to this little conference for some minutes and he’d had enough.

“Well, well, well: three holes in the ground! A fellow sees what he sees and knows what he knows,” muttered Simon, still holding the carnation he’d crushed with his great big boot.

“I know something too,” retorted Maurice, “and I’ll tell you what it is: it is that you have no business being in the dungeon; your job as a butcher is over there with little Capet, who you will not, however, beat today because I’m here and I forbid you to.”

“Ha! You dare threaten me and call me a butcher!” cried Simon, squashing the flower between his fingers. “Ha! We’ll see if aristocrats are allowed to … Hey, what’s that?”

“What?” asked Maurice.

“What I can feel in the carnation, that’s what! Aha!”

And to Maurice’s stupefaction, Simon pulled a tiny piece of paper out of the calyx of the flower before his very eyes. It had been rolled with exquisite care and introduced artfully into the center of the flower’s thick plume.

“Oh!” cried Maurice. “What the hell is it, for pity’s sake?”

“We’ll soon find out, we’ll soon find out,” chirped Simon, moving over to the window. “Ha! Your pal Lorin reckons I can’t read? Well, I’ll show you.”

Lorin had defamed Simon; the man could read all the letters of the alphabet when they were printed, and even handwriting when it was big enough. But the note was written in such a fine hand that Simon was forced to resort to his spectacles. And so he put the note on the window-ledge while he foraged through his pockets looking for them. But as he was going through this laborious operation, citizen Agricola opened the door of the antechamber, which was right opposite the little window, and the current of air lifted aloft the piece of paper, which was as light as a feather. When Simon finally located his glasses and put them on his nose and turned round, he looked for the note in vain. It had disappeared.1

Simon let out a roar.

“There was a piece of paper here,” he shrieked. “There was a piece of paper. You just watch it, citizen municipal officer, because it had better be found.”

With that he swiftly descended the stairs, leaving Maurice flabbergasted.

Ten minutes later, three members of the Commune entered the dungeon. The Queen was still on the terrace, and the order was given to leave her there in a state of total ignorance of what had just occurred. The members of the Commune asked to be taken to her.

The first object that struck their gaze was the red carnation that she was still holding in her hand. They looked at one another in surprise and approached the Queen.

“Give us that flower,” said the president of the delegation.

The Queen, who was not expecting this sudden eruption, gave a start and hesitated.

“Hand over the flower, madame,” cried Maurice in a sort of terror, “I beg you.”

The Queen held out the carnation; the president took it and withdrew, followed by his colleagues, into an adjacent room to complete the inspection and make a report.

When they opened the flower, it was empty.

Maurice breathed deeply.

“One moment, one moment,” said one of the commissioners. “The heart of the carnation has been removed. It’s true, the alveolus is empty; but a note was most certainly stuck in this alveolus.”

“I am ready,” said Maurice, “to provide any necessary explanation; but first and foremost, before anything further, I demand to be arrested.”

“We take note of your proposition,” said the president, “but we will not grant it. You are known as a good patriot, citizen Lindey.”

“And I will answer with my life for the friends I was foolish enough to bring here with me.”

“Don’t answer for anyone,” said the prosecutor.

A great racket was heard in the courtyard.

It was Simon who, having searched in vain for the tiny note that was gone with the wind, had run to get Santerre and had told him about the attempt to break out the