At what cost to scruple ! It is true what my friend Junius says : We live in f lexible times.

1st interview w/ princess took place immediately after visit w/ Charles. She lives on 3rd f loor of tower-apts prev shared w/ mother & aunt. Leblanc & I found her seated on sofa alongside window, embroidering. This, I'm told, is one pastime permitted her.

Mme. Royale is now 16, by our calculations-still very much a maiden. Her hair is worn w/o powder, tied in knot. Headdress = handkerchief, tied in rosette. She has but one dress, of puce silk. She is permitted no hat.

In good health, genrlly, but her expression is extrmly grave. Upon seeing us, she made no sign or word of welcome. To our repeated questions, gave no reply.

As Leblanc reminded me, princess has been imprisoned for more than 2 yrs, w/o f ire or light . . . daily diet of verbal abuse from guards . . . thrice-daily searches, often in middle of night . . . no comforts. Cards, even books are withheld, for fear she will engage in coded communications, absorb royalist propaganda, etc.

These ref lections moved me twrd deg of pity. Upon withdrawing fm her room, I made pt of bowing low. Leblanc, w/o hesitation, followed my lead. This, I cd see, astonished her. It has been many months since anyone did her this honor.

7 Germinal in on all conversations). I therefore took advantage of our departure to whisper in her ear: 2nd interview w/ princess likewise wordless. By certain movements of her eyes, however, I concluded her silence has proximate cause: She fears being overheard by guards (who are under orders to listen Perhaps you cd tell us if you require anything?

From my pockets, I withdrew paper & pencil. She regarded these articles for some time. Then, taking them from me, she hastily scribbled. . . .

Some chemises, & some books.

9 Germinal

Commissioners will not disburse funds for new clothes. Ive accordingly borrowed 2 chemises fm my wife, Beatrice. Princess seemed pleased enough w/ them. Some awkwardness over book. Voltaire's Micromegas: partic favorite of mine & in keeping w/ current pol climate. W/ manifest regret, she shook her head & handed it back (politely).

I apologized for my thoughtlessness, vowed to bring more suitable vol tomorrow. (Will ask Junius for suggestions.)

11 Germinal

At close of todays interview, Mme Royale spoke her 1st words to us:

How is my brother? 19 Germinal

Leblanc (excellent fellow!) has made signal discovery. NE quad of princess's cell, due to some concatenation of furniture & wall, is acoustically "null"-i.e., we may speak there, in low tones, w/o being overheard by guards. This has had most benef icial effect on our conversations. Princess now speaks openly. Is most grateful for audience.

Leblanc & I remain seriously constrained in what we can tell her. No details of Charles' condition. No news of outside world. We cannot even tell her that her mother & aunt are dead!

This a.m., Mme Royale told me she wished to nurse her brother. I said Id be too happy to oblige, but was expressly forbidden to reunite them. Commissioners do not even allow them to see each other when they are taken outside for walks.

Princess was insistent. Her mother, her aunt elizabeth begged her to look af Charles, she said.

They cd not expect you to burrow thru stone walls, cd they?

She made no reply. However, was in no way deterred fm her course.

28 Germinal

This a.m., Mme Royale drew me into our usual corner. W/o any preliminaries or greetings, she whispered: We must get Charles out of here.

Endeavoring to be calm, I explained to her why such a thing cd nv happen. Hundreds of soldiers, certain death for anyone who assists royal family, etc. I expressed hope that negotiations w/ foreign govts might yet secure his release if cert conditions can be . . .

W/ no small brusquerie, she cut me off. We don't have time for negotiations, she said. He's very ill, Doctor. No, don't deny it, your eyes tell me everything. If we don't get him out of this hellish place, he'll die. Tell me, then. What are we to do?

A good question, alas. What are we to do?

We can no longer depend on authorities to do right thing. It is up to us to arrive at course of conduct. This I have resolved, & Leblanc has seconded me. God help us all.

CHAPTE R 33.

A Lilac Grows in the Tuileries Gardens Th e next mo rning, Charles and I take up what has become our daily routine. We wake at eight. We eat a concise breakfast. We go out through the rear courtyard and put on our costumes and start walking.

Passing down the Quai des Augustins that first morning, we are set upon by a seagull, roaring in from the river and, with a cry of pure obscenity, snatching the powdered locks straight from Charles' head. Stunned, Charles watches his wig disappear over the Pont Neuf. Puts a hand to his naked locks.

"Do you know I think I like it better without?"

"So do I."

Off comes my wig. Off go his eyeshades. At the very next clothes

dealer, we splurge our Ministry of Justice funds on new boots. And now, for the first time, a note of larkishness clings to our enterprise. We walk more quickly, we laugh more readily. We nod our heads to the ladies and we compliment old gentlemen on their three-cornered hats and we lose any sense of having to be anywhere in any order at any time.

The Tuileries, the Louvre, the Conciergerie . . . these provoke not a whisper of recognition in him, so I very soon abandon any itinerary, and we simply walk. From the Hotel de Ville to the Faubourg Saint-Honore, from the Barriere du Maine to the Quartier Saint-Antoine, from the Place Louis XV to the Place Vendome. Day after day, miles and miles in every direction, steeping our cassimere coats in coal dust, plastering our new boots in mud and night soil-and moving always according to the most contrary of compasses. North on the Pont Notre-Dame . . . south on the Pont-au-Change . . . north again on the Pont d'Iena . . .

Paris shrinks before us, and Charles takes it in like a man sent to wander through the moon's lost realms. He regards the silk-stockinged vicomte in the same fashion as he does the chemical-factory worker with the blackened face. He surveys Napoleon's half-finished arch on the Champs-elysees and decides that it should be left "just like that." He declares that he's never seen anything quite so lovely as the rotting, rat-infested plaster elephant in the Place de la Bastille.

"But whose idea was it?" he asks.

"Just some fellow. Who's not here anymore."

"You mean Monsieur Bonaparte," he says, unexpectedly. "The very one."

"I saw him once."

"Did you?"

"On a five-franc ecu. He was turned sideways."

In the next instant, I am myself turning sideways and seeing a f lash

of scarlet, disappearing round the Rue de Charenton. No more substantial than it was the other night, when I glimpsed it from my garret window, but more vivid somehow for being so f leeting.

"Come on," I say.

"But where are we going?"

"To the boulevards."

It's the safes t place I can think of. On the boulevards, the line between pursuer and pursued collapses because nothing stays in place. The turbaned girl playing the hurdy-gurdy becomes, in the next step, a sword swallower. The pantomimist becomes a ballad singer or a Racine tragedian or a woman spinning silently in a vat of water-or just a milliner, strolling by with a bandbox.