[Flashback 8 September 1796]
After getting out of the carriage, Carnot looked around, feeling a little lost. How much Versailles had changed since he last visited! Although it had retained its distinctive elegance, the city conveyed a sense of decadence, perceptible not only in the streets and half-empty shops, but above all in the dull, resigned eyes of passers-by.
It was quite hot that day; the temptation to take off his coat and remain in his linen shirt was strong, but Carnot could not afford the risk of being discovered, even though his current attire made him unrecognizable. However, one could never be too cautious. Sighing, he wiped a drop of sweat from his shirt cuff. He hated the sultry weather and, above all, the damp, sticky feeling of sweat on his skin.
After walking for about ten minutes, the Director found himself in the rather crowded market square. Trying not to attract attention, he took an old map of the city out of his pocket. His eyes focused on a reddish ink mark scribbled between the folds of the paper.
“Petit-Montreuil… It's not that far from where I am now,” he thought, trying to work out the shortest route that would take him to Félix Lepeletier.
Making his way between the stalls, he wondered why he was risking so much. His last meetings with the brother of the famous Martyr had been characterised only by heated discussions, which had ended in nothing. Félix had seemed unyielding and faithful to the utopia that the Constitution of '93 had instilled in the minds of some disillusioned dreamers. Carnot would never have expected that among them there could be someone as rational and intelligent as Lepeletier. And yet…
Suddenly, he felt a blow to his left side and heard a faint groan: a young boy had bumped into him while running and stumbled, falling to the ground. The boy turned and met the Director's eyes.
“F-Forgive me, sir... I... I...” he sobbed, clearly fearing some kind of repercussion.
Carnot held his hand to help him up, then asked, “Are you hurt?”
The boy shook his head, wiping away his tears; his gaze immediately turned to the ground, to a basket whose contents—plain bread—had spilled into a puddle.
“Damn...” he exclaimed, bending down to pick up what he could salvage. “My mother will be furious.”
“Over such a small thing? Come on...”
“You don't know my mother, sir. You don't know what she's capable of when she's angry,” he said agitatedly. “And then... It means we won't have any bread this week...”
Carnot looked at him in amazement. “What? What do you mean...?”
“I mean, sir, that the money I spent on those loaves of bread a few minutes ago was the last money we had,” confessed the boy, looking down as if ashamed. My mother will receive her salary in seven days."
At those words, the Director felt a twinge in his stomach: he felt sick at the thought of leaving that boy—practically a child—in poverty. He approached him, gently placing a hand on his shoulder.
“Listen... I need to go to the Petit-Montreuil neighborhood to visit a friend. I'm not from around here, I'm from Paris, and I can't find my way around,” he said, pulling a couple of coins out of his coat pocket. “If you show me the way, these are yours.”
The young man's eyes lit up, then, turning to Carnot, he said, “Oh sir, I don't... Petit-Montreuil? That's where I work, I can take you there if you like!” Full of enthusiasm, he took the director by the hand and led him down a narrow, cobbled street.
Once they reached their destination, Carnot thanked the boy and gave him the coins. The latter, delighted, took the trouble to ask if he needed help finding the right house, but there was no need, as Grisel had been quite clear during his last meeting with the Director: a low house with pale yellow walls and a bluish-tiled roof, near the intersection with the main road. Carnot turned to the right and saw it a few meters away.
Once in front of the door, he knocked decisively, without fear, hoping that Félix was home and, above all, that he would open the door.
