“You’re right, my dear,” he’d agreed at once, and put the idea out of his mind. “Keep your ears open, though,” he’d said to Corinne.

So when, this morning, his wife had told him that Corinne was pregnant by Marc Blanchard, that she’d been modeling for him in his studio, and that she’d never been near the house of Monsieur Blanchard or his son Gérard, Paul Petit had found it quite difficult to believe that it was true.

“And when did this start?” he had demanded. “How could such an idea enter your head?”

“I used to speak to him a little when he came here. I knew he painted people in his studio,” Corinne had confessed. “But then I met him in the street that day I went to the Parc Monceau. He was going to see his parents. He suggested that I come and model for him. It sounded …” She wanted to say interesting, or exciting, but didn’t dare. “I didn’t think you would allow it …”

“Of course I should not allow it!” her father had shouted.

“So I made up the story. I thought it would be just for a few afternoons, and then it would be over.”

“So you went and sat in a chair and he made drawings of you … How did this lead to what has happened now? Did he force himself on you?”

“No, Papa. It wasn’t quite like that. Artists’ models … they are not dressed, you know.”

“You were undressed?”

“And then, the third week … one thing led to another …” She trailed off.

“You became his mistress.”

“I suppose.”

“You suppose?” And only his wife throwing herself between them had prevented him from striking her. “You bring shame upon your family,” he cried. “Shame upon your parents, upon your poor brothers and sisters. And ruin upon yourself. But do not think that I will allow you to ruin this family,” he told her furiously. “For when a branch is rotten, it must be cut off.”

The rue du Faubourg Saint-Antoine was a very long street. It began out in what had formerly been a faubourg, a suburb, on the eastern side of the old city. Long before the Revolution, it had been an artisans’ quarter, where most of the carpenters, furniture makers and cabinetmakers were to be found. Most were republicans, some radicals, but like Petit, many of these skilled workers, craftsmen and small shopkeepers were sound family men of conservative instincts. But as monarchs had found in the past, once stirred, they were implacable.

Petit began his walk at a furious pace. The recent snows had melted away, and the streets were dry. After a short while, he came to where the old Bastille fortress had stood. There was nothing to be seen of it now, just a big open space above which the dull gray sky gave no hint of comfort upon his quest.