“Not yet, citizen.  But—­”

“Ah ca, citizen sergeant,” broke in the other brusquely, “meseems that your zeal has been even more at fault than I had supposed.  Have you done anything at all, then, in the matter of Lenegre or the Englishman?”

“I have told you, citizen,” retorted the sergeant sullenly, “that I believe Lenegre to be still in this house.  At any rate, he had not gone out of it an hour ago—­that’s all I know.  And I wanted to search the whole of this house, as I am sure we should have found him in one of the other apartments.  These people are all friends together, and will always help each other to evade justice.  But the Englishman was no concern of mine.  The spies of the Committee were ordered to watch for him, and when they reported to me I was to proceed with the arrest.  I was not set to do any of the spying work.  I am a soldier, and obey my orders when I get them.”

“Very well, then, you’d better obey them now, citizen sergeant,” was Rouget’s dry comment on the other man’s surly explanation, “for you seem to have properly blundered from first to last, and will be hard put to it to redeem your character.  The Republic, remember, has no use for fools.”

The sergeant, after this covert threat, thought it best, apparently, to keep his tongue, whilst Rouget continued, in the same aggressive, peremptory tone: 

“Get on with your domiciliary visits at once.  Take your own men with you, and leave me the others.  Begin on this floor, and leave your sentry at the front door outside.  Now let me see your zeal atoning for your past slackness.  Right turn!  Quick march!”

Then it was that petite maman spoke out.  She had thought and thought, and now she knew what she ought to do; she knew that that cruel, inhuman wretch would presently begin his tramp up and down corridors and stairs, demanding admittance at every door, entering every apartment.  She knew that the man who had saved her Pierre’s life was in hiding somewhere in the house—­that he would be found and dragged to the guillotine, for she knew that the whole governing body of this abominable Revolution was determined not to allow that hated Englishman to escape again.

She was old and feeble, small and thin—­that’s why everyone called her petite maman—­but once she knew what she ought to do, then her spirit overpowered the weakness of her wizened body.

Now she knew, and even while that arrogant member of an execrated murdering Committee was giving final instructions to the sergeant, petite maman said, in a calm, piping voice: 

“No need, citizen sergeant, to go and disturb all my friends and neighbours.  I’ll tell you where my husband is.”

In a moment Rouget had swung round on his heel, a hideous gleam of satisfaction spread over his grimy face, and he said, with an ugly sneer: 

“So! you have thought better of it, have you?  Well, out with it!  You’d better be quick about it if you want to do yourselves any good.”