“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 enemy of 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.