Paris: The Novel

fellow’s always in debt.”
    “How do we go about this?” Étienne asked.
    “I’ll tell him you’re a good fellow. No threat to anyone. You’re not planning to threaten anyone, are you?”
    “Heavens, no.”
    “He’ll give you protection. He’ll put out the word you’re not to be touched, and that should do the trick. Then you give him a present. Make it a good one. I’ll guide you, if you like.”
    “I wish you would.”
    So Danton had received his money, and all through the previous autumn and winter, Étienne and Sophie de Cygne had received no harm.
    Then, in March, came the blow.
    The fall of the mighty Danton had been sudden and spectacular. He’d fallen out with Robespierre. Suddenly, he was accused of being an enemyof the Revolution. It was asserted that his management of the finances was chaotic and that he had taken bribes—both probably true. He was a popular man and he defended himself, but Robespierre had outmaneuvered him. And to Étienne’s horror, Blanchard had arrived at his house to warn him.
    “They are taking Danton to the guillotine. You have lost your protection.”
    “What can we do?”
    “Stay out of sight. They may not even remember you. Above all, stay away from anyone who could get you into trouble. Remember, they’re looking for conspiracies.”
    Since then, Étienne and Sophie had lived almost like hermits. They stayed mostly indoors. They had liked to go discreetly to Father Pierre’s little chapel of Saint-Gilles, but they stopped doing even that. Apart from the housekeeper and a few old retainers in the house, who’d known them all their lives, they saw no one. To all intents and purposes, for the last four months, Étienne and Sophie de Cygne had disappeared.

    They came to a crossroads. They had been meaning to go straight on, but a small crowd had gathered outside a house ahead of them. It looked as if someone was being denounced. They turned off down another street. It was only when they had gone a dozen yards that they realized this route would take them past old Father Pierre’s little chapel to Saint-Gilles.
    All the same, they hadn’t expected to find the old priest at the chapel door. Seeing them, he insisted that they step inside. With a quick glance up and down the street, they followed him in. It would have been discourteous and unkind not to do so.

    The widow Le Sourd watched. She had only just come to the end of the little street. When the young couple glanced furtively back, she did not think they had noticed her.
    A priest. It might mean nothing. Or it might be a conspiracy. She turned to Claudie.
    “Go into that chapel down there. Pretend to pray. See if you can hear what the priest and those people are saying. Can you do that?”
    Claudie nodded. Claudie was good at doing things like that.

    Father Pierre was so glad to see the two de Cygnes. He had wondered what had happened to them. Of all the loyal Catholics who came to his little chapel, these two were his favorites.
    He had gone to their house a couple of months ago, and the housekeeper had told him that they were away in the country.
    “I am so delighted to see you,” he cried. “But what terrible events are happening all around us. Have you heard about the Carmelites today?”
    They hadn’t. And he was just about to inform them when a skinny young girl with a limp came in. Moving to a bench only feet away, she sat down, and seemed about to pray.
    Father Pierre looked at her. No doubt she was harmless, but in the awful world in which they were living now, one had to be careful. He moved to her side.
    “Are you all right, my child?”
    “Yes, Father. I was passing, and I came in here to pray.”
    “Ah.” He smiled. “It is a house of God. Do you pray often?”
    “Each day. I pray that my leg may get better.”
    “And what caused you to come into this chapel?”
    “I cannot say.”
    “Did you know that this chapel was dedicated to Saint-Gilles?” As she looked uncertain, he continued. “Saint-Gilles, my child, is the patron saint of cripples. You have chosen well to pray here.”
    He turned back to the de Cygnes, and they moved a few feet away.
    “Did you hear?” he murmured to them. “The child was passing, and did not know that this is the chapel of Saint-Gilles, nor that he is the patron saint of cripples. Voilà. Even in such times as these, the providence of God is manifested. Perhaps the saint himself summoned this child to his church.” But now he turned to the