From the Temple prison an aristocrat, more, a king, has been brought to answer the charges made against him.  They are charges only recently framed and strangely got together.  Save that he is a king, which he cannot help, what charges can be brought against him?  None.  There are many who would make them on the flimsiest foundation, but even such a foundation does not exist.  Danton himself cannot send a king to the Place de la Revolution for nothing.  That would be to dare too greatly.  They have found nothing at the Tuileries or at Versailles to condemn him.  Roland has had diligent search made, fearful perchance of some letters of his own being found; even the cesspools of the palace have been dragged.  There is no result worth the trouble.  No drawer has any secret to give up save one which has no accusation in it, a child’s letter, simple, loving wishes for a happy New Year, signed by the little Dauphin, addressed to “My dear Papa.”  Little enough can Roland make out of this, for he has no ability to understand even the pathos of it.  Then one day there comes from Versailles, one, Francois Gamain by name, a locksmith of that place, a coward fearful for his own safety.  The king has been fond of lock-making, something of the craft Gamain has taught him, and the king has shared a secret with him.  There is a hiding-place in a corridor behind the king’s bedroom, which Gamain has helped to make, which he now shows to Roland.  There are papers there, many of them, enough in them to prepare evidence against the king and many others, if necessary; and lest this should fail Gamain has a story that when the work was done the king attempted to poison him so that the secret might be safe.  So the king must be tried.  And louder than ever thunders the war along the frontier while this trial goes forward.  There can be no quarter, no terms of peace.  The sword is sharply naked, there is no scabbard in which to sheath it.  What gauge shall France hurl at the feet of her enemies?  Once again Danton, mighty in the Club of the Cordeliers, suggests the answer:  Why not the head of a king?

Raymond Latour was busy.  Little time could he give to Sabatier when he came each morning to make report of the prisoner in his cell underground; he was not inclined to listen to Sabatier’s persuasion, or to be impressed by his henchman’s ideas.

“He knows where she is.  He shall tell the truth.”

It was Latour’s daily statement, although Sabatier thought it was less definitely said as the days passed.  He was not sure whether Latour’s faith in his conviction was wavering, or whether it was only that he had other things to think of.