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romantic," Frau Sultana requests. " RO-MAN-TIC " shouts Baroness Lydia. "Then try to take him outside the bar." " Negra noche , please," asks Frau Sultana. "So we can arrest him more easily. Then we'll pick up the others at their homes." " Five Feet Two ," simpers Frau Sultana. "That's my favorite song." "Looks like a good haul. Thanks for the information, son." "Well, it's not mine," declares Violette Morris. "I want to hear Swing Troubadour !" One of the Chapochnikoff brothers winds the victrola. The record is scratched. The singer sounds as if his voice is about to crack. Violette Morris beats time, murmuring the words:
    Mais ton amie est en voyage
    Pauvre Swing Troubadour…..
    The Lieutenant. Was it a fantasy fostered by my exhaustion? On certain days I could remember him talking to me like an old and close friend. His arrogance had dissolved, his face was sunken. Before my eyes there was just a very old lady looking at me tenderly.
    En cueillant des roses printanières
    Tristement elle fit un bouquet…….
    Weariness and confusion took hold of him as if, suddenly, he realized that he couldn't help me. He kept repeating: "Your little shopgirl's heart…" He meant, I suppose, that I wasn't a "bad egg" (one of his expressions). At those times, I would have liked to thank him for his many kindnesses, he who was so abrupt and usually so overbearing, but I couldn't get the words out. After a moment I managed to stammer: "My heart is back at Batignolles," hoping the phrase would indicate my real self: a rough sort of fellow, emotional – no, restless – underneath and pretty decent on the whole.
    Pauvre Swing Troubadour
    Pauvre Swing Troubadour…..
    The record has stopped. "Dry vermouth, young man?" Lionel de Zieff inquires. The others gather round me. "Feeling queasy again?" the Marquis Baruzzi asks. "You look awfully pale." "Suppose we give him a breath of fresh air?" suggests Rosenheim. I hadn't noticed the large photo of Pola Negri behind the bar. Her lips are still, her face relaxed and serene. She gazes indifferently on this scene. The yellowed print heightens her faraway look. Pola Negri can't help me a bit.
    The Lieutenant. He walked into Zelly's bar with SaintGeorges around midnight, as arranged. Everything happened so quickly. I motion to them with one hand. I don't dare meet their eyes. I draw them outside the bar. The Khedive, Gouari, and Vital-Léca instantly encircle them, revolvers drawn. At that moment I look them square in the eye. They stare at me dazedly at first, then with a kind of triumphant scorn. Just as Vital-Léca is about to slip on the handcuffs, they break away, running for the boulevard. The Khedive fires three shots. They crumple at the corner of Avenue Victoria and the square.
    Arrested during the next hour are:
Corvisart
- 2 Avenue Bosquet
Pernety
- 172 Rue de Vaugirard
Jasmin
- 83 Boulevard Pasteur
Obligado
- 5 Rue Duroc
Picpus
- 17 Avenue Félix-Faure
Marbeuf and Pelleport
- 28 Avenue de Breteuil
    At each door I rang the bell and, as reassurance, gave my name.

THEY'RE ASLEEP. Coco Lacour has the largest room in the house. I put Esmeralda in a blue room which was probably used by the owners' daughter. The owners left Paris in June "owing to circumstances." They'll return when things are back to normal – next year maybe, who knows? – and they'll throw us out of their house. I'll admit in court that I entered their home illegally. The Khedive, Philibert, and the others will appear with me. The world will wear its familiar colors once more. Paris will again be known as the City of Light, and the courtroom spectators will pick their noses as they listen to the list of our crimes: denouncements, beatings, larceny, murder, illegal traffic of every description – things which, as I write these lines, are daily occurrences. Who will be willing to speak up for me? The Montrouge fortress on a December morning. The execution squad. And all the monstrosities that Madeleine Jacob will write about