Geneviève was indeed everything he’d glimpsed: the reality had not destroyed that dream of a stormy night. She was indeed the same woman—elegant, sad-eyed, high-minded. It was a case of what so often happened in those years before the notorious year of ‘93 in which they found themselves: she was the perfect young woman of distinction obliged, because of the ruin into which the nobility was sinking deeper and deeper, to ally herself with the bourgeoisie, with mercantile interests. Dixmer seemed like a good sort of fellow. He was incontestably rich; his manners toward Geneviève seemed to be those of a man who makes it his job to make his wife happy. But this bonhomie, this wealth, these excellent intentions, could they really bridge the immense gap between the wife and the husband, between the poetic young girl, distinguished and charming, and the man of material occupations and such common appearance? With what feelings did Geneviève bridge the gulf?… Alas! As luck would have it, the answer was now clear to Maurice: with love. And he was forced to revise the initial opinion he’d had of the woman, that is, that she was returning home from a lovers’ tryst the night he’d met her.
The idea that Geneviève loved another man sickened Maurice to his soul. So he sighed and regretted having come only to let himself in for an even stronger dose of that poison they call love.
Yet at other moments, listening to that soft, pure, melodious voice, questioning those beautifully limpid eyes that didn’t seem to mind revealing her innermost soul, Maurice could not believe that such a creature could possibly lie or deceive; he then experienced a bitter joy in thinking that this beautiful soul made flesh belonged to the good burgher with the open smile and the vulgar jokes—and never would belong to him.
Politics was the topic—how could it be otherwise? What else did you talk about in an era in which politics cropped up everywhere, looked up at you from the bottom of dinner plates, papered the walls, was proclaimed at every hour in the street?
All of a sudden, one of the party who had maintained silence till that moment asked for the news of the prisoners in the Temple. Maurice shivered in spite of himself at the sound of that voice. He recognized the devotee of extreme action who had first struck him with his knife and then voted for his death.
And yet this man, an honest tanner, head of the workshop, or so Dixmer said, soon aroused Maurice’s good humor by expressing the most patriotic ideas and the most impeccable revolutionary principles. In certain circumstances, the young man was not averse to the vigorous measures so fashionable at the time and whose apostle and hero was Danton. If he had been in this man’s shoes, though the man’s voice and weapon still caused his heart to lurch, he would not have opted to assassinate someone he took for a spy but would have released him in the garden, and there, equally armed, with a sword in hand like his enemy, he’d have done battle with him mercilessly, without pity or compassion. That is what Maurice would have done. But he soon realized it was too much to ask an assistant tanner to do what he himself would have done.
This extremist, who seemed to hold violent political notions as befit his private conduct, was talking about the Temple; he expressed amazement that the guarding of the prisoners was left to permanent Council personnel, so easy to corrupt, and to municipal officers whose loyalty had already been tempted more than once.
“Yes,” said citizen Morand. “But you have to admit that, on every occasion, up till now, the conduct of the municipal officers has merited the confidence that the nation placed in them. History will show that it isn’t just Robespierre1 who deserves the name ‘Incorruptible.’ ”
“No doubt, no doubt,” the first man went on. “But just because something hasn’t yet happened, it’d be absurd to conclude that it never will. Same thing for the National Guard. The companies of the different sections are all called upon to take their turn at Temple duty, come what may. Well, don’t you accept that in a company of twenty to twenty-five men, there might be a handful of eight or ten perfectly determined thugs ready to cut the sentries’ throats one fine night and carry off the prisoners?”
“Nonsense!” said Maurice. “You realize, citizen, that’s not the way to go about it! They tried it three or four weeks ago and it didn’t work.”
“Right,” Morand went on. “But only because one of the aristocrats in the patrol was silly enough to let the word monsieur escape his lips when talking to someone or other.”
“And that,” said Maurice, keen to prove that the police of the Republic were well-chosen, “is because they’d already noted that the Knight of Maison-Rouge had slipped back into Paris.”
“Rubbish!” cried Dixmer.
“They knew that Maison-Rouge had slipped back into Paris?” Morand asked frostily. “And did they know how he got in?”
“Perfectly.”
“Hell!” said Morand, leaning forward to peer at Maurice. “I’d be curious to know how; until now, they haven’t been able to tell us anything definite about it. But, citizen, as secretary of one of the main sections of Paris, you must be better informed?”
“Naturally,” said Maurice. “And what I’m about to tell you is nothing but the truth.”
The whole table, including Geneviève, seemed suddenly to give Maurice their utmost attention.
“Well,” said Maurice, “the Knight of Maison-Rouge was coming from the Vendée,2 it seems. He crossed the whole of France with his usual ease and made it to the Roule checkpoint in daylight but waited till nine o’clock at night to get through. At nine o’clock at night, a woman disguised as a commoner exited by this checkpoint, taking the Knight the uniform of a chasseur of the National Guard. Ten minutes later, she came back—with him. The sentry, who’d seen her go through the first time alone, had his suspicions when he saw her coming back in with a man: he alerted the post, the post came running. But the guilty parties, having realized they were the target, darted into a hotel that opened a back door for them on the Champs Elysées. It appears that a patrol entirely devoted to the tyrants was waiting for the Knight on the corner of the rue Barre-du-Bec. You know the rest.”
“Ah!” said Morand. “That’s curious, what you’re telling us there.…”
“And particularly promising.”
“Yes, it would seem so; but the woman, do they know what happened to her?”
“No, the lady vanished and we don’t know who or what she is.”
Dixmer’s partner, and Dixmer himself, seemed to breathe easier. Geneviève had listened to the whole story, pale and silent and very, very still.
“But,” said citizen Morand in his usual frosty fashion, “who can say the Knight of Maison-Rouge was part of the patrol that alarmed the Temple?”
“A municipal officer friend of mine who was on Temple duty that night recognized him.”
“Did he have his description?”
“He’d seen him before.”
“And what sort of man is he, physically, this Knight of Maison-Rouge?” Morand asked.
“A man of twenty-five or twenty-six, small, blond, with a pleasant face, magnificent eyes, and superb teeth.”
Not a sound was heard; no one moved a muscle.
“So,” said Morand, “if your municipal officer friend recognized this so-called Knight of Maison-Rouge, why didn’t he stop him?”
“First because he didn’t know the Knight was back in Paris and so he was afraid he was being fooled by a resemblance; then too, my friend is a little lukewarm; he did what wise men and the lukewarm do: when in doubt, he refrained from acting.”
“You would have behaved differently, wouldn’t you, citizen?” Dixmer asked Maurice with a sudden laugh.
“Yes,” said Maurice, “I admit I’d have preferred to get it wrong than to let a man as dangerous as this Knight of Maison-Rouge get away.”
“And what would you have done, monsieur?” Geneviève asked.
“What would I have done, citizeness?” said Maurice. “God knows it wouldn’t have taken much. I’d have had all the Temple doors sealed. I’d have gone straight to the phony patrol and co
llared the Knight and I’d have told him: ‘Knight of Maison-Rouge, I arrest you as a traitor to the nation!’ And once I’d collared him, I would not have let him go, I can tell you.”
“But what would have happened to him?” Geneviève asked.
“What would have happened is that he’d have been put on trial, he and his accomplices, and in this day and age he’d have been guillotined, it’s as simple as that.”
Geneviève shuddered and cast a glance of terror at her neighbor. But citizen Morand appeared not to notice. Emptying his glass phlegmatically he said, “Citizen Lindey is right. That was the thing to do. But, unfortunately, it wasn’t done.”
“And do they know where he got to, this Knight of Maison-Rouge?” asked Geneviève.
“Oof!” said Dixmer. “He didn’t hang around to see what happened. Since the attempt failed, he would’ve immediately left Paris.”
“Not at all,” said Maurice.
“What! He was foolish enough to stay in Paris?” asked Geneviève. “He hasn’t budged.”
A general ripple of amazement greeted this opinion, put forth by Maurice with such assurance.
“That is merely an assumption, what you’re saying there, citizen,” said Morand, “just an assumption, nothing more.”
“No, it isn’t, it’s a fact.”
“Oh!” said Geneviève, “I must say, for myself, I can’t believe what you’re saying, citizen; it would be unpardonably reckless of him.”
“You are a woman, citizeness, so you’ll understand that there is one thing that must have won out, with the sort of man the Knight of Maison-Rouge obviously is, over all possible considerations of personal safety.”
“And what could win out over fear of losing your life in such a ghastly way?”
“Good God, citizeness!” said Maurice. “Love.”
“Love?” repeated Geneviève.
“Without a doubt. Don’t you know the Knight of Maison-Rouge is in love with Antoinette?”
Two or three hoots of fairly feeble forced laughter burst forth. Dixmer’s eyes bored through Maurice as though trying to see into his soul. Geneviève felt her eyes mist with tears, and a shiver that did not escape Maurice ran the length of her body. Citizen Morand spilled the wine he was bringing to his lips and his marble pallor would have frightened Maurice if that young man’s entire attention had not been riveted on Geneviève.
“You are moved, citizeness,” Maurice murmured.
“Didn’t you say I would understand because I’m a woman? Well, we women are always moved by such devotion, even if it is against our principles.”
“And the devotion of the Knight of Maison-Rouge is all the greater for his never having spoken to the Queen, they say.”
“Ah, there, citizen Lindey,” said the extremist, “it seems to me you’re being rather indulgent toward this Knight.…”
“Monsieur,” Maurice returned, perhaps deliberately using the term that was no longer in use, “I admire all proud and courageous natures, but that doesn’t stop me from taking them on when I encounter them among the ranks of my enemies. I don’t despair of one day meeting the Knight of Maison-Rouge.”
“And?” said Geneviève.
“And, if I do meet him … well, I’ll take him on.”
Supper was over. Geneviève declared it was time to go by herself getting up from the table. At that moment the clock chimed.
“Midnight,” said Morand coldly.
“Midnight!” cried Maurice. “Midnight already!”
“Now there’s an exclamation that makes me happy,” said Dixmer. “It proves you weren’t bored and gives me the hope we’ll see you again. This is the house of a good patriot that is now open to you, and I hope you’ll soon see, citizen, that it’s the house of a friend.”
Maurice bowed and turned to Geneviève:
“Does the citizeness also permit me to return?” he asked.
“I’ll do better than permit it, I beg you to come back and see us,” said Geneviève with real verve. “Adieu, citizen.” With that, she headed back to her quarters.
Maurice took his leave of all the guests, paying particular attention to Morand, who had pleased him greatly; he shook Dixmer’s hand and left, dazed, but a lot more happy than sad about the various events that had rocked his evening.
“Extremely annoying encounter!” said the young woman after Maurice had gone, bursting into tears in front of her husband, who had walked her to her room.
“Nonsense! Citizen Lindey, known patriot, secretary of a section, incorruptible, adored, popular, is, on the contrary, a most precious acquisition for a poor tanner housing contraband goods,” Dixmer smirked.
“Do you really think so, my friend?” Geneviève asked.
“I think it’s a patent of patriotism, a seal of absolution placed on our house. And I think that from tonight the Knight of Maison-Rouge himself would be safe here.”
With that, Dixmer planted a kiss on his wife’s forehead, with an affection far more paternal than conjugal, and left her in the little pavilion that was hers alone to rejoin the guests we’ve already met around his table in the main building, where he himself slept.
10
SIMON THE COBBLER
It was the beginning of the month of May. Lungs tired of taking in the freezing cold mists of winter expanded in the pure air and gentle rays of a mild, tonic sun as it shone down on the great black walls of the Temple.
At the inside wicket that cut the tower off from the gardens, the soldiers on duty laughed and smoked.
But despite the lovely day, despite the offer that was made to the prisoners to come down and take a stroll around the gardens, the three women refused: since the execution of her husband, the Queen kept obstinately to her room so she didn’t have to pass the door to the second-floor apartment the King had occupied. Whenever she chanced to take the air since that fatal episode of the twenty-first of January, it was at the top of the tower, where the crenellations had been blocked off with shutters.
The National Guards on duty, who had been notified that the three women were authorized to go outside, thus waited in vain all day for them to avail themselves of the privilege. Toward five o’clock a man came down from the tower and approached the sergeant in command of the post.
“Ah! It’s you, Tison, old boy!” said the sergeant, who appeared to be a particularly cheery National Guard.
“It’s me all right, citizen. Your friend upstairs, citizen municipal officer Maurice Lindey, asked me to give you this permit granted by the Council of the Temple to my daughter to come and pay her mother a short visit this evening.”
“And what do you mean by leaving the very moment your daughter’s about to arrive, you unnatural father?” said the sergeant.
“Ah! It certainly costs me to have to leave, citizen sergeant. Of course I’d hoped to see my poor girl, too—I haven’t seen her for two months—and give her a kiss and a cuddle—what you call it, gallantly—the way any father does his daughter. Don’t think I don’t! Might as well piss in the wind. Duty, blasted duty, forces me to leave. I have to go to the Commune and make my report. A hackney carriage is waiting for me at the door with a couple of gendarmes, right when my poor Héloïse is about to show.”
“You poor unfortunate man!” said the sergeant.
“And so love of the Nation alone
Smothers in you the voice of blood.
One man prays, the other moans:
Duty calls just the same.…
“Tison, old boy, if you think of a word that rhymes with ‘blood,’ let me know. Damned if I can think of one for the moment.”
“And you, citizen sergeant, when my daughter comes to see her poor mother who’s missing her like mad, you’ll let her through, won’t you?”
“The order is in order,” quipped the sergeant, whom the reader will already have recognized, no doubt, as our friend Lorin. “So I have nothing to say. When your daughter comes, your daughter will go through.”
“Thank you, br
ave Thermopyle, thank you,” said Tison. And off he went to make his report to the Commune, muttering, “Ah! My poor wife, won’t she be happy!”
“You know, Sergeant,” said one of the National Guards, watching Tison disappear and hearing him muttering as he did so, “you know it makes you tremble inside, that sort of thing!”
“What sort of thing, citizen Devaux?” asked Lorin.
“What do you think?” said the compassionate National Guard. “Seeing that man, with his hard face, that man with his heart of steel, that merciless guardian of the Queen, go off with a tear in his eye, half out of joy and half out of sorrow, thinking that his wife will see her daughter and he won’t! Doesn’t do to think about it too much, Sergeant, because, truth to tell, it makes you sad.…”
“No doubt, which is why he himself doesn’t think about it, this man who is going off with a tear in his eye, as you say.”
“And what should he think about, then?”
“Well, that it’s also three months since the woman he brutalizes without pity has seen her child. Does he ever think of her sorrow? He thinks only of his own. That’s all. It’s true the woman was once the Queen,” the sergeant went on in the same ironic tone, whose meaning would have been difficult to interpret, “and one isn’t forced to have the same regard for a queen as for the wife of the odd-jobs man.”
“Say what you like, it’s all still pretty sad,” said Devaux.
“Sad, but necessary,” said Lorin. “So the best thing, as you say, is not to think about it.…”
And Lorin began to hum:
“Yesterday Nicette
Walked alone-ette
In the deep
Dark woods.”
Lorin had only gotten that far in his bucolic ditty when, all of a sudden, a great clamor was heard coming from the left side of the post. It was composed of swearing, threats, and sobs.
The Knight of Maison-Rouge Page 9
