"And where will you go, Geneviève?"
"Where shall I go, Maurice? One day when you are out I shall go and denounce myself, without saying where I come from."
"Oh!" cried Maurice, wounded to the heart's core, "already ungrateful?"
"No," cried the young woman, throwing her arms round Maurice's neck; "it is love, and the most devoted love, I swear. I should not wish my brother to be taken and slaughtered as a rebel; I do not wish my lover to be arrested and guillotined as a traitor."
"And you will do this, Geneviève?"
"As truly as there is a God in heaven," replied the young woman; "besides, I not only experience fear but remorse," and she bowed her head as if remorse were a burden too heavy to be borne.
"Oh, Geneviève!" said Maurice.
"You will understand all that I say, all that I feel, Maurice, for you yourself experience this remorse. You know I gave myself to you while I belonged to another, and you have taken me without my possessing the right to dispose of myself."
"Enough!" said Maurice, "enough!" He knit his brow, and a melancholy resolution shone in his clear bright eyes. "I will show you, Geneviève, how entirely I love you," said the young man, "I will prove to you that no sacrifice is beyond my love. You hate France. Well, so be it. We will quit France."
Geneviève clasped her hands, and regarded her lover with enthusiastic admiration.
"You will not deceive me, Maurice," murmured she.
"Have I ever deceived you?" asked Maurice, "and is this the time when, to obtain you, I have dishonored myself?"
Geneviève approached her lips to Maurice's, and remained hanging on the neck of her lover.
"Yes, you are right," said Geneviève; "it is I who am mistaken. What I feel is not remorse, perhaps it is a degradation of soul; but you will comprehend at least I love you far too much to feel any other emotion than the all-engrossing one, the fear of losing you. Let us go far away, Maurice, let us go far away where no one can ever reach us."
"Oh, thanks!" said Maurice, transported with joy.
"But how can we flee?" said Geneviève, trembling at the hazard. "It is not so easy to escape nowadays from the poniard of the assassins of the 2d of September, or the hatchet of the executioners of the 21st of January."
"Geneviève," said Maurice, "God will protect us. Listen to me! A good action which I endeavored to perform, on that very 2d of September which you have just named, is now about to receive its reward. I wished to save a poor priest who had studied with me. I went to Danton, and at his request the Committee of Public Safety signed a passport for the unfortunate man and his sister. This passport Danton forwarded to me; but the unfortunate priest, instead of coming to my house for it, as I had advised him to do, went and shut himself up with the Carmelites, from whom he was taken and killed."
"And the passport?" asked Geneviève.
"I have it now. It is worth a million. It is worth more than that, Geneviève,—it comprises both life and happiness!"
"Oh, God be praised!" cried the young woman.
"Now, my property, as you are aware, consists of an estate managed by an old servant of the family, a stanch patriot, and strictly loyal, in whom we may confide. Hewill send remittances whenever I wish. On arriving at Boulogne, we will go to his house."
"Where does he reside then?"
"At Abbeville."
"When shall we go, Maurice?"
"Within an hour."
"No one need know of our departure."
"No one will know it. I will run to Lorin; he has a cabriolet and no horse, while I have a horse and no carriage. We will set out immediately on my return. Remain you here, Geneviève, and prepare everything for our departure. We want but little luggage; we can purchase all that we require in England. I shall give Scævola some commission that will remove him out of the way. Lorin will explain our departure to him this evening. By that time we shall be far away."
"But if we should be arrested upon the road?"
"Have we not our passport? We shall go to Hubert's house,—that is the steward's name. Hubert is a member of the town council of Abbeville; from Abbeville to Boulogne he will accompany us as safeguard. At Boulogne we will purchase and freight a vessel. I could, besides, proceed to the Committee, and make them give me a mission to Abbeville. But no; we shall use no fraud, Geneviève. It is better to risk our lives to save and secure our happiness."
"Yes, yes, dear Maurice; and we shall succeed. But how you are perfumed this morning!" said the young woman, concealing her face on Maurice's breast.
"True; I purchased a bunch of violets for you this morning, passing before the Palace d'Egalité; but on my return, finding you so sad, I thought of nothing but inquiring into the cause of your distress."
"Oh, give it to me; I will return it."
Geneviève inhaled the odor of the bouquet with that intense delight which persons of nervous organization always experience from the perfume of flowers. Suddenly her eyes suffused with tears.
"What is the matter?" asked Maurice.
"Poor Héloïse!" murmured Geneviève.
"Ah, yes!" said Maurice, with a sigh; "but let us think of ourselves, and leave the dead, wherever they may be, to rest in the grave dug by their devotion. Adieu! I am going."
"Return quickly."
"In less than half an hour I shall be here again."
"But if Lorin is not at home?"
"What does it matter? his servant knows me. And even in his absence I can take what I please, as he would do here in mine."
"Very well."
"Now, my Geneviève, prepare everything; but, as I have told you, confine yourself to necessaries. I do not wish our departure to appear like a removal."
The young man advanced a step toward the door.
"Maurice!" said Geneviève.
He turned round, and saw the young woman extend her arms toward him.
"Good-by for the present, dear love," said he; "in half an hour I shall be here."
Geneviève remained alone, occupied, as we have said, in preparations for their departure.
She accomplished her task in feverish haste. As long as she remained in Paris, the part she was acting appeared to her doubly culpable. Once out of France, once among strangers, it seemed that her crime—a crime rather of fatality than her own—would weigh the less heavily on her conscience.
She even hoped, isolated and in solitude, she might at last forget the existence of any other man than Maurice.
They would fly to England; everything was arranged. There they would hire a little cottage, standing alone, very retired, shut out from all eyes; they would change their names, and instead of two names would have one.
There they would have two servants who would be perfectly ignorant of their past. Fortunately, both Geneviève and Maurice spoke English.
Neither of them left anything to regret in France, save that mother whom one always regrets, even when she is only a step-mother,—one's country. Geneviève commenced, then, making preparations for their voyage, or rather flight.
She took singular pleasure in selecting from the rest those objects for which Maurice had evinced any predilection. The coat setting off his tall figure to advantage, the cravat and waistcoat best suited to his complexion, the books whose leaves he had most frequently turned.
She had already made her selection. Clothes, linen, and books, waiting to be packed, strewed the floor, the chairs, the sofa and the piano.
Suddenly she heard the key turn in the lock.
"Why, Scævola has returned," said she; "surely Maurice could not have met him."
And she continued her occupation.
The doors of the salon were open, and she heard Scævola moving in the antechamber. She held a roll of music in her hand, and was looking for some string to tie round it.
"Scævola!" cried she.
An approaching step sounded in the adjoining room.
"Scævola!" repeated Geneviève, "do come here, please!"
"I am here," said a voice.
At the sound of this voice Geneviève turned quickly round, and uttered a terrified cry.
"My husband!" cried she.
"Himself," said Dixmer, coolly.
Geneviève was upon a chair, searching for some string in the wardrobe. She felt her head turn round, and extending her arms, fell backward, wishing she could precipitate herself into an abyss beneath.
Dixmer took her in his arms, and carried her to a sofa.
"What is the matter, my dear? What is it? My presence seems to have produced a most disagreeable effect upon you."
"I am dying," murmured Geneviève, turning from him, and pressing both hands over her eyes that she might shut out the frightful apparition.
"What!" said Dixmer, "did you believe me dead, my dear, and do you take me for a ghost?"
Geneviève looked round her with a bewildered air, when, perceiving the portrait of Maurice, she glided from the sofa and fell upon her knees, as if to implore the assistance of this powerless and insensible image, which still continued to smile.
The unhappy woman fully comprehended the menaces concealed by Dixmer under his affected calmness.
"Oh, my dear child," continued the master-tanner, "it is indeed myself. Perhaps you thought I was far from Paris; but no, I remained here. The day after I had left the house, I returned, and found in its stead a heap of ruins. I inquired after you. No one had seen you. I then commenced a search for you, and have hadmuch trouble to find you. I avow that I did not think you were here; however, I had my suspicions. So, as you see, I came. So here I am; and there are you. And how is dear Maurice? Indeed, I fear you have suffered much. You so stanch a Royalist, compelled to seek shelter under the roof of so fanatical a Republican."
"My God! my God!" murmured Geneviève, "take pity upon me!"
"After all, my dear," continued Dixmer, "what serves to console me most is that you are so comfortably lodged here, and that you do not appear to have suffered much from the proscription. As for myself, since the burning of our house, and the ruin of our fortune, I have had my share of wandering adventures, sometimes living in caves, sometimes in boats, and sometimes even in the common sewers which empty into the Seine."
"Sir!" said Geneviève.
"You have there some beautiful fruit; as for me, I have often gone without any dessert, not having had any dinner."
Geneviève, sobbing bitterly, supported her head between her hands.
"Not," continued Dixmer, "that I was destitute of money. I have, thank God! generally carried with me thirty thousand francs in gold, which at this time is worth five hundred thousand francs; but how should a 'collier,' a 'fisherman,' or a 'rag merchant' draw louis from his pocket to purchase a morsel of cheese or a sausage. Eh! my God! yes, Madame, I have successively adopted these three costumes. To-day, the better to disguise myself, I am dressed as a patriot of the patriots; I lisp, and I swear. An outlaw cannot conceal himself so easily in Paris as a young and pretty woman, and Ihave not the happiness of knowing an ardent young female Republican who could hide me from every eye."
"Sir! sir!" cried Geneviève, "have mercy upon me! you see that I am dying."
"Anxiety; I can understand you have had much anxiety about me; but console yourself, you see me now. I have returned, and we shall part no more, Madame."
"Oh, you will kill me!" cried Geneviève.
Dixmer regarded her with a frightful smile.
"Kill an innocent woman! Oh, Madame, what makes you say so? It must be that grief for my absence has turned your brain."
"Sir!" cried Geneviève, "sir, I beseech you to kill me at once, rather than torture me with these cruel railleries. No, I am not innocent; yes, I am criminal; yes, I merit death. Kill me, sir, kill me!—"
"Then you acknowledge that you merit death?"
"Yes! yes!"
"And to expiate this I know not what crime of which you accuse yourself, you will submit to death without complaint?"
"Strike, sir, I will not utter a cry; and instead of cursing I will bless the hand that strikes me."
"No, Madame, I do not wish to strike you; nevertheless in all probability you will die. Only your death, instead of being as you seem to fear an ignominious one, shall be most glorious. Thank me, Madame; while punishing, I will immortalize you."
"What then will you do, sir?"
"You will follow the end to which we were tending when interrupted on our route. In your own eyes and in mine, you will die guilty; in the eyes of the world you will die a martyr."
"Oh, my God! you will drive me mad by speaking thus. Where are you conducting me? Where are you dragging me?"
"In all probability to death."
"Let me then offer up one prayer."
"To whom?"
"It matters not to you. The moment you deprive me of life, my debt is cancelled. My debt paid, I owe you nothing."
"True," said Dixmer, retiring into another room; "I will await you." And he left her once more alone.
Geneviève sank on her knees before the portrait, pressing her hands against her breaking heart.
"Maurice," said she, in a low tone, "pardon me; I did not expect to be happy, but I hoped to make you so. Maurice, I am depriving you of a joy that constituted your life; pardon me for causing your death, my best beloved."
Then severing a ringlet from her mass of curls, she bound it round the bouquet of violets, and placed them beneath the portrait, which insensible, and speechless as it was, still appeared to assume an expression of grief at her departure.
At least so it appeared to the unfortunate Geneviève, as she gazed at it through her tears.
"Well, are you ready, Madame?" demanded Dixmer.
"So soon?" murmured Geneviève.
"Oh, take your time, Madame," replied Dixmer; "I am in no hurry. Besides, I dare say Maurice will not be long, and I shall be delighted to thank him for all his kindness and hospitality toward you."
Geneviève trembled with terror at the idea of a meeting between her lover and husband. She automatically raised herself.
"It is finished, sir," said she, "and I am ready now."
Dixmer went out first, and the trembling Geneviève followed him with half-closed eyes, her head turned back to take a last fond look. They ascended the carriage which was waiting at the door. It rolled away.
As Geneviève had said, "It was finished."
CHAPTER XL.
THE TAVERN OF NOAH'S WELL.
Thisman attired in a jerkin, whom we have seen traversing with long and rapid strides the Salle des Pas-Perdus; whom we have heard, during the expedition of the architect Giraud, General Hanriot, and Richard, conversing with the turnkey left to guard the subterranean passage; this fierce patriot, who had introduced himself to Simon as having carried the head of the Princess de Lamballe,—found himself, on the next evening, about seven o'clock, at the tavern of Noah's Well, situated, as we have said, at the corner of the Rue de la Vieille Draperie.
He was seated at the end of a dirty room, redolent of tobacco and candles, pretending to devour a plate of fish swimming in melted butter.
The room where he supped was nearly deserted; two or three habitués of the house alone remained after the rest, enjoying the privilege to which their daily visit to the establishment entitled them.
The tables were for the most part empty; but we ought to remark, in honor to the tavern of Noah's Well, that the stained tablecloths denoted the departure of a satisfactory number of satisfied guests.
The last three successively disappeared, and at about a quarter to eight our patriot found himself alone. Then, with true aristocratic disgust, he pushed away the greasy plate, which an instant before he had appeared to thinkso delicious, and drew from his pocket a tablet of Spanish chocolate, which he ate slowly and with a very different expression to that we have seen him endeavor to give to his countenance.
From time to time, while eating his chocolate and black bread, he cast toward a glass door, shaded by a red and white checked curtain, anxious and impatient glances. Sometimes he interrupted his frugal repast to listen; in short, evinced an absence of mind sufficient to induce the mistress of the mansion—seated at her counter, and near the door on which the patriot so eagerly fixed his eyes—to conclude that she might without vanity consider herself the object of his preoccupation.
At length the door-bell sounded in a way that made him start; he drew the plate again before him, and without attracting the woman's observation, threw half the contents to a famished-looking dog, and the remainder to a cat, who treated the dog to some stinging strokes of her velvet paws.
The door opened, and a man entered, dressed almost the same as the patriot, with the exception of the hairy cap, which he had replaced with the red bonnet. An enormous bunch of keys hung from his girdle, from which also depended a sword.
"My soup! my half-pint!" cried the man, entering the public room without removing his bonnet, but merely saluting the mistress of the house by a slight inclination of his head. With a sigh of fatigue, he seated himself at a table adjoining that where our patriot was discussing his black bread and chocolate.
The mistress of the tavern, in consequence of the deference she entertained for the new-comer, rose herself to order the requisite viands.
The two men turned their backs to each other,—one to look into the street, the other toward the end of the room,—not a word was exchanged between them till the mistress of the tavern had disappeared.
When the door had closed behind her, by the light from a single candle, suspended from the end of an iron wire so as to divide the light equally between the two guests, the man in the bear-skin bonnet—thanks to the glass placed before him—at length saw that the room was deserted.
"Good-evening," said he to his companion, without turning round.
"Good-evening, sir!" said the new-comer.
"Well," asked the patriot, with the same affected indifference, "where are we now?"
"Well! it is done!"
"What is done?"
"As we agreed, I have had some conversation with Father Richard about the situation. I complained of swimming in the head, dimness of eyesight,—in short, of general ill-health."
"What then?"
"Father Richard called his wife, and she rubbed my temples with vinegar, and that revived me. Then, as we had arranged between us, I said that want of fresh air produced this swimming in the head, that I was of too full a habit, and that the duty at the Conciergerie, which contains at the present moment four hundred prisoners, was killing me."
"What did they say to that?"
"Richard's wife pitied me, but he showed me to the door."
"It was not enough to show you to the door."
"But wait! Then his wife, who is a good soul, reproached him with having no heart, seeing that I was the father of a family."
"What did he say to that?"
"He said that she was right; but that the very first condition annexed to the situation of turnkey was to remain within the prison to which he was attached; that the Republic did not jest, but would without ceremony cut the throats of those who grew dizzy in the exercise of their duty."
"The devil!" exclaimed the patriot.
"And he was not far wrong either; for since the Austrian has been there, it is a perfect hell of surveillance. One would act the spy there upon his own father." The patriot here gave his plate to the dog to lick, who was directly bitten by the cat.
"Go on!" said he, without turning round.
"At last, sir, I began to groan, and to say that I felt very ill; asked concerning the infirmary, and said I was certain my children would die of hunger if my pay was stopped."
"And Father Richard?"
"The Father Richard replied that turnkeys had no business with children."
"But you had his wife on your side, I suppose?"
"Fortunately! She made a great to-do with her husband, reproached him with possessing a bad and hard heart, and Richard finished by saying to me,—
"'Well! Citizen Gracchus, speak to some one of your friends who will advance you something on your wages, present him to me, and I promise to accept him as your substitute.' Upon which I left him, saying,—
"'Very good, Father Richard, I will directly seek one.'"
"And you have found one, my brave fellow."
At this moment the mistress of the establishment entered, bringing the Citizen Gracchus his soup and half-pint.
This did not suit either the patriot or Gracchus, who evidently had still some communications to make to each other.
"Madame," said the turnkey, "I have received a slight remuneration from Father Richard to-day, which will permit me to treat myself to some better fare. So bring me a pork cutlet with cucumbers and a bottle of Burgundy wine; send your servant to fetch the one from the pork-butcher's, and bring me the other yourself fresh from the cellar."
The hostess immediately went to execute his orders.
"Well," said the patriot, "you are an intelligent fellow."
"So far intelligent that I do not hide from myself what, notwithstanding all your fine promises, will be the end of us both. Do you suspect what it may be?"
"Yes, perfectly."
"We both stake our necks."
"Do not be uneasy about mine."
"It is not yours, sir, I must confess, that causes me the greatest uneasiness."
"It is your own?"
"Yes."
"But what if I estimate it at double its worth?"
"Ah, sir, there is nothing more precious than one's neck!"
"Not yours."
"Why not mine?"
"At this moment at least."
"What do you mean by that?"
"I mean to say your neck is not worth a cent, seeingthat if I, for example, were an agent of the Committee of Public Safety, you would be guillotined to-morrow."
The turnkey suddenly turned round so abruptly that the dog barked at him.
He was as pale as death.
"Neither turn round nor turn pale about it," said the patriot, "but finish your soup quietly. I am not an agent, friend. Let me once enter the Conciergerie, install me in your situation, give me the keys, and to-morrow I will count out to you fifty thousand francs in gold."
"Is all this true?"
"Well, you have excellent security,—my head."
The turnkey considered for some seconds.
"Come," said the patriot, who could see him in the glass, "do not indulge in meditations of evil. If you denounce me, as you will only have done your duty, you will not receive a sou from the Republic; if you serve me, and on the contrary are deficient in this same duty to the Republic, as it is unjust in this world to do anything for nothing, I will give you fifty thousand francs."
"I understand perfectly," said the turnkey. "I have every inducement to do what you require, but I fear the results—"
"The results! And what have you to fear? I will not denounce you; very far from it."
"No doubt."
"The day after I am duly installed, take a turn through the Conciergerie, and I will count you twenty-five rolls each containing two thousand francs. These you can easily dispose of in your two pockets. With the money I will give you a ticket to leave France. You go, and wherever you are you will be, if not rich, at least independent."
"Well! it is settled, Monsieur, happen what may. I am a poor devil who never dabbled in politics. France has always got on very well without me, and will not perish through any fault of mine; if you do a wicked action so much the worse for you."
"At all events," said the patriot, "I think I shall never do worse than they are doing at this moment."
"Sir, permit me to decline passing an opinion upon the politics of the National Convention."
"You are a pattern of philosophy and indifference. When, however, will you present me to Father Richard?"
"This evening, if you please."
"Yes, certainly; but who am I?"
"My cousin Mardoche."
"Mardoche, then, let it be; the name pleases me. What trade?"
"A breeches-maker."
"Either breeches-maker or tanner. I have that at my fingers' ends."
"Are you a tanner?"
"I could be one."
"True."
"At what time will you present me?"
"In half an hour if you like."
"At nine o'clock then."
"When shall I have the money?"
"To-morrow."
"You must be enormously rich."
"I am in easy circumstances."
"A former nobleman? Is it not so?"
"What does it matter to you?"
"To possess money, and give it away to run the risk of being guillotined; surely the former nobility must be great blockheads."
"What would you have? Your red Republicans have too much sense to leave any for others."
"Hush! here is my wine."
"This evening, in front of the Conciergerie."
"All right."
The patriot paid his bill and went out. At the door his stentorian voice was heard,—
"Come, Citizen, quick! make haste with the pork cutlets; my cousin Gracchus is dying of hunger!"
"Mardoche is a good fellow," said the turnkey, tasting the wine poured out for him by the hostess, while she regarded him tenderly.
CHAPTER XLI.
THE REGISTRAR OF THE MINISTER OF WAR.
Thepatriot left, but he had not gone far. Through the smoky panes he kept watch over the turnkey, to discover if he entered into conversation with any of the agents of the Republican police, one of the best that ever existed, since one half of society closely watched the other, less from the desire of promoting the great glory of the government than for the greater security of their own heads.
But nothing occurred of what the patriot feared. At a few minutes before nine the turnkey rose, chucked the hostess under the chin, and went out.
The patriot rejoined him at the quay of the Conciergerie, and they entered the prison together.
On that same evening the affair was concluded, and Father Richard accepted Mardoche as a substitute for Gracchus.
Two hours before this arrangement took place, another scene had been enacted in a different part of the prison, which, although apparently of no interest, was possessed of vital importance to the principal personages of this history.
The registrar of the Conciergerie, fatigued with his day's labor, was folding up his papers and preparing to leave, when a man, conducted by Madame Richard, presented himself in his office.
"Citizen Registrar," said she, "here is your fellow registrar of the Minister of War, who comes on the part of the Citizen Minister to transfer some military entries."
"Ah, Citizen," said the registrar, "you are too late; I have just put away all my papers."
"Dear brother, pardon me," said the new-comer; "but we are really so overwhelmed with business that we can only achieve our course by turning our leisure to profit; and our leisure is the time occupied by others in eating and sleeping."
"That alters the case, my dear fellow; so make haste, for, as you observe, it is near supper-time, and I am very hungry. Have you your documents?"
"Here they are," said the registrar of the Minister of War, exhibiting a portfolio of papers which his brother, anxious as he was to leave, scrutinized with the strictest attention.
"Oh, they are all right!" said Richard's wife, "and my husband has already thoroughly inspected them."
"Never mind, never mind!" said the registrar, continuing his examination. The registrar of the Minister of War remained like a man who had expected the strict accomplishment of all due formalities.
"Perfectly correct," said the registrar of the Conciergerie; "and you can now commence as soon as you please. Have you many entries to transfer?"
"A hundred."
"That will occupy you for several days."
"Therefore dear brother, I wish to form a small establishment with you,—that is to say, if you will permit me."
"How am I to understand you?" said the registrar of the Conciergerie.
"I will explain it to you fully, if you will join us at supper this evening. You say you are hungry?"
"I do not deny it."
"Well, you shall see my wife, who is a good housekeeper; and you will become better acquainted with me, and will acknowledge me for a good companion."
"Faith, yes; you strike me as such, my dear brother; yet, notwithstanding—"
"Oh, come without ceremony, and partake of some oysters that I will purchase as I pass the Place du Châtelet, a roasted chicken, and a few dishes which Madame Durand excels in."
"You tempt me, my brother," said the registrar of the Conciergerie, delighted at the bill of fare, to which he was totally unaccustomed as a registrar paid by the Revolutionary Tribunal at the rate of two livres in paper money, in reality hardly equal to two francs.
"Then you will accept my invitation?"
"Yes, willingly."
"In that case, to work to-morrow; this evening let us go."
"All right; let us start."
"Are you ready?"
"In an instant, only I must first inform the gendarmes who guard the Austrian."
"Why must you tell them?"
"So that when they know that I am absent, and that there is no one at the wicket, they may become suspicious of every noise."
"Ah, that is a very wise precaution, faith!"
"You understand now?"
"Perfectly."
The registrar of the Conciergerie went and knocked at the wicket, which was opened by one of the gendarmes.
"Who is there?"
"I, the registrar, you know. I am going out. Good-evening, Citizen Gilbert."
"Good-evening, Citizen Registrar," and the wicket was shut.
The registrar of the Minister of War had paid the greatest attention to this scene, and while the door of the queen's prison remained open, his looks rapidly penetrated to the first compartment, when, seeing the other gendarme Duchesne seated at table, he felt perfectly assured the queen had only two guards.
When the registrar of the Conciergerie returned, his fellow registrar's face had resumed its expression of stolid indifference.
As they went out of the Conciergerie two men entered. They were the Citizen Gracchus and his cousin Mardoche.
On seeing each other, Cousin Mardoche and the registrar of the Minister of War each, by a simultaneous movement arising from the same impulse, pulled over their eyes, the one his hairy bonnet, the other his broad-brimmed hat.
"Who are these men?" asked the registrar of the Minister of War.
"I only know one of them; it is a turnkey named Gracchus."
"Ah!" said the other, with affected indifference, "do the turnkeys then go out of the Conciergerie?"
"They have their day."
The investigation did not proceed any further, and the new friends took the road to the Pont-au-Change. At the corner of the Place du Châtelet, the registrar of the Minister of War, following the programme he had announced, purchased some oysters, and continued his way by the Quai de Gèvres.
The dwelling of this individual was simple. The Citizen Durand inhabited three little rooms in the Place de Grève, in a house without any porter. Each tenant had a key of the door in the passage, and it was agreed that if any one had omitted to take his key, he should intimate the same by one, two, or three raps with the knocker, according to the story he inhabited, and any one who was waiting, and heard the signal, then descended and opened the door; but the Citizen Durand, having provided himself with his key, had not any occasion to knock. They ascended two flights of stairs, when the Citizen Durand drew another key from his pocket, and they both entered.
The registrar of the Palace found his friend's wife much to his taste. She was indeed a charming woman; an appearance of profound melancholy diffused over her countenance stamped it with an expression of deep interest. It has always been allowed that sadness is seductive in women, especially pretty women. It attracts all men without exception, even registrars,—for registrars are but men after all; and what man possessed with natural feeling would not wish to console a pretty woman in affliction, and, as the Citizen Dorat remarks, "Change the pale tint of the white rose to a livelier hue"?
The two registrars did ample justice to their excellent supper; it was only Madame Durand who ate nothing.
In the mean time conversation proceeded. The registrar inquired of his brother registrar—with a curiosity the more remarkable in these days, when such frightful dramas were daily enacted—concerning the customs of the Palace, the days of judgment, and the means of surveillance.
The registrar of the Palace, delighted at being listened to with so much deference, replied with the greatest complaisance, spoke of the manners of the jailers, of FouquierTinville, and lastly of Citizen Sanson, the principal actor in the tragedies daily performed upon the Place de la Révolution.
Then in his turn, addressing his colleague and host, he made various inquiries concerning his vocation and ministry.
"Oh!" said Durand, "I am not so well informed as yourself, being a person of much less importance, seeing that I am rather secretary to the registrar than the incumbent of the place. I do the work of the registrar-in-chief,—an obscure employment,—laborious for me, profitable for them; but that is the way with all bureaucracies, not excepting those of the Revolution. Heaven and earth may perhaps change one day, but these things never."
"Well, I will assist you, Citizen," said the registrar of the Palace, charmed with the excellence of his host's wine, and above all with the beautiful eyes of Madame Durand.
"Thanks!" said he to whom this offer had been made, "anything to vary the habits; and locality is some distraction to a poor employee. I wish to protract my work at the Conciergerie rather than to hasten it, and therefore thought if I might every day bring Madame Durand with me to the office, who is very dull here—"
"I do not see any inconvenience in that," said the registrar of the Palace, delighted with the prospect of the charming recreation afforded him by his colleague.
"She can dictate the papers," said the Citizen Durand; "and occasionally when our work is finished, if you have not found this evening unpleasant, you can return and spend an hour or two with us."
"Yes; but not too often," replied the registrar of the Palace, foppishly; "for I declare I shall be scolded if Ireturn later than usual to a small house in the Rue du Petit Musc."
"Oh, we shall arrange all that splendidly; shall we not, my dear?"
Madame Durand, pale and melancholy as usual, raised her eyes toward her husband, and replied,—
"What you wish shall be done."
Eleven o'clock struck, announcing it was time to retire. The registrar of the Palace rose and took leave of his new friends, expressing the great pleasure he felt in making their acquaintance.
The Citizen Durand conducted his friend to the landing, then re-entered the apartment.
"Go, Geneviève, go to bed!" said he.
The young woman made no reply, but rose directly, took her lamp, and withdrew to the bedroom on the right. Durand, or rather Dixmer, watched her departure, remained stationary for a moment with a gloomy, thoughtful expression of countenance, and then passed into his own chamber on the opposite side.
CHAPTER XLII.
THE TWO BILLETS.
Fromthis time the registrar of the Minister of War worked every evening indefatigably in his colleague's office, while Madame Durand dictated from the registers previously prepared, which Durand copied with avidity.
Durand strictly examined everything, while appearing to notice nothing. He had remarked that every evening, at nine o'clock, a basket of provisions, carried by either Richard or his wife, was placed at the door.
The instant the registrar said to the gendarme, "I am going, Citizen," one of the guards, either Gilbert or Duchesne, came out, took the basket, and carried it to Marie Antoinette.
During three consecutive evenings, when Durand had remained rather later at his post, the basket also was left untouched, since it was only when opening the door to say adieu to the registrar that the gendarme took in the basket containing the provisions, which a quarter of an hour afterward was returned empty to the same place by one of the two guards.
On the evening of the fourth day, it was the beginning of October, when after the ordinary sitting the registrar of the Palace had withdrawn, and Durand, or rather Dixmer, remained alone with his wife; he laid down his pen, looked around and listened as if his very life was at stake; he then rose hastily, and running noiselessly toward the door of the wicket, raised the cloth which covered the contents of the basket, and in the new bread destined for the prisoner inserted a small silver case.
Pale and trembling with that emotion which even men of the strongest organization feel when they have done an act of the most vital importance, the moment for which has been long planned and patiently awaited, he quickly regained his seat, and sank down overpowered, placing one hand on his forehead, the other on his heart.
Geneviève regarded him in silence; indeed, since the day her husband had taken her from Maurice, she had never spoken till he addressed her first. But this time she first broke silence.
"Is it to be this evening?" she inquired.
"No; to-morrow," replied Dixmer.
He then rose, and having again looked and listened, closed the registers, and approaching the wicket, knocked at the door.
"What now?" said Gilbert.
"Citizen," said he, "I am going."
"Well," said the gendarme, from the end of the cell, "good-night."
"Good-night, Citizen Gilbert."
Durand heard the grinding of the bolts, and knew that the gendarme was opening the door. He went out.
In the passage leading from the apartment of Father Richard to the court, he jostled against a turnkey dressed in a bear-skin bonnet, and dangling a heavy bunch of keys.
Dixmer was much alarmed. Perhaps this man, brutal as the generality of his species, was about to interrogate him, to watch him, and perhaps to recognize him. He drew his hat over his eyes, while Geneviève concealed herself, as she best could, in the folds of her cloak. But he was mistaken.
"Pardon!" said the turnkey only, although he was the man who had been nearly overthrown.
Dixmer trembled at the sound of that sweet soft voice. But the turnkey was doubtless pressed for time; he glided into the passage, opened Richard's door, and disappeared. Dixmer continued his road, leading Geneviève.
"It is strange," said he, when outside and the gate had closed behind them, and the freshening breeze had cooled his fevered brow.
"Oh, yes, 'tis very strange!" murmured Geneviève.
In former times they would have communicated to each other the cause of their astonishment, but Dixmer now confined his thoughts to his own breast, and combated them as an hallucination; while Geneviève contented herself, on turning the corner of the Pont-au-Change, with casting a last look at the dark and gloomy Palace, where something like the phantom of a lost friend awoke in her memory many sweet and bitter remembrances.
They both reached La Grève without having exchanged a single word.
During this time the Gendarme Gilbert had brought in the basket of provisions intended for the queen. It contained some fruit, a cold chicken, a bottle of white wine, a carafe of water, and half a loaf.
Having first raised the napkin, and ascertained that everything was arranged as usual, he opened the screen.
"Citizeness," said he, "here is your supper."
Marie Antoinette divided the bread; but as her fingers pressed it, they came in contact with the silver. In an instant she comprehended that the bread contained something unusual.
When she looked around her the guard had already disappeared.
The queen remained for an instant motionless, calculating his retiring footsteps. When she felt certain he was seated by his comrade, and not till then, she drew the case from its place of concealment. It contained a billet, which she opened, and read as follows:—
"Madame, be ready to-morrow at the hour when you receive this billet, as to-morrow at this hour a female will be introduced into your Majesty's prison. This female will exchange dresses with you, and you will then quit the Conciergerie on the arm of one of your most devoted servants."Do not be alarmed at any noise that passes in the first compartment; let neither cries nor groans deter you, only attire yourself quickly in the dress and mantle of the female who comes to take your Majesty's place."
"Madame, be ready to-morrow at the hour when you receive this billet, as to-morrow at this hour a female will be introduced into your Majesty's prison. This female will exchange dresses with you, and you will then quit the Conciergerie on the arm of one of your most devoted servants.
"Do not be alarmed at any noise that passes in the first compartment; let neither cries nor groans deter you, only attire yourself quickly in the dress and mantle of the female who comes to take your Majesty's place."
"This is devotion!" murmured the queen. "Thank God, I am not, as it is said, an object of execration to all!"
She then re-read the billet, when the second paragraph attracted her attention,—"Let neither cries nor groans deter you."
"Oh! that means they will sacrifice my two guards. Poor men, who have evinced so much kindness and pity toward me! Oh, never!—never!"
She tore off the blank portion of the letter, and having neither pen nor ink, pricked on the paper the following words,—
I neither can nor will accept the sacrifice of any one's life in exchange for my own.M.A.
I neither can nor will accept the sacrifice of any one's life in exchange for my own.
M.A.
She then replaced the paper in the case, which she concealed in the other half of the broken bread.
This operation was just completed when ten o'clock struck; and the queen, holding the piece of bread in her hand, sadly counted the strokes which vibrated slowlyand distantly, when she heard at one of the windows opening upon the court termed the women's court a grating sound, like that produced by a diamond dividing the glass. This noise was followed by a slight knock upon the window, which was several times repeated, with the intention of concealing the cough of a man. Then at the corner of the pane a small roll of paper appeared, which glided slowly down and fell on the inside of the wall. The queen then heard the sound of keys jingling and clashing against each other, and receding footsteps on the pavement.
She was aware that the window had been perforated at this corner, and that through this aperture the departing individual had conveyed a paper which was doubtless a billet. It was now lying on the ground. The queen fixed her eyes upon it, listening if either of her guards was approaching, but heard them conversing in a low tone as they usually did, as if by a tacit agreement not to annoy her with their voices. Then she rose softly, holding her breath, and secured the paper. Some minute and hard substance slipped from it, which, falling on the bricks, sounded like metal. It was the most exquisite file that could be imagined,—more of the jewel than the tool,—one of those steel springs, with which the most feeble and uninitiated hand could, in a quarter of an hour, divide a bar of iron. The paper said:—
"Madame, to-morrow, at half-past nine, a man will be conversing with the gendarmes who guard you, through the window of the women's court. During this time your Majesty will saw the third bar of your window, going from the left to the right. Cut slanting. A quarter of an hour will suffice for your Majesty; and then be prepared to escape through the window. This advice reaches you from one of your most devoted and faithful subjects; one who has consecrated hislife to your Majesty's service, and would be happy also to sacrifice it for you."
"Madame, to-morrow, at half-past nine, a man will be conversing with the gendarmes who guard you, through the window of the women's court. During this time your Majesty will saw the third bar of your window, going from the left to the right. Cut slanting. A quarter of an hour will suffice for your Majesty; and then be prepared to escape through the window. This advice reaches you from one of your most devoted and faithful subjects; one who has consecrated hislife to your Majesty's service, and would be happy also to sacrifice it for you."
"Oh!" murmured the queen, "it must be a snare. But no; this writing appears familiar to me,—it is the same as at the Temple. It is—it must be that of the Chevalier de Maison-Rouge! God is perhaps willing that I should escape."
And the queen fell on her knees, and took refuge in prayer, the only balm and consolation undenied to the unfortunate prisoner.
CHAPTER XLIII.
THE PREPARATIONS OF DIXMER.
Themorrow, prefaced by a sleepless night, at length arrived, presenting a terrible appearance, and it might, without exaggeration, be said that the sky was the color of blood.
Indeed, each day at this epoch and in this year, however beautiful the sun, had a livid hue.
The queen slept with difficulty, and it was a sleep without repose. Hardly had she closed her eyes when she seemed to see blood, when she seemed to hear shrieks.
She had dropped asleep with the file in her hand. One part of the day was devoted by her to prayer, and the guards, seeing her often thus engaged, did not feel any alarm at what they considered an increase of religious feeling.
From time to time, however, she examined the file transmitted to her by one of her intended deliverers, and compared the fragility of the instrument with the strength of the bar.
Fortunately, these bars were only secured in the wall on one side,—that is to say, at the lower part.
The upper part was set in a crossbar; the lower part divided, there was only to pull the bar, and it of course would yield.
But it was not the physical difficulties which worried the queen. She perfectly comprehended that the thing was possible, and it was this very possibility which caused hope, like a blood-red meteor, to dazzle her eyes.
She felt that to reach her, her friends must necessarily sacrifice her guards; and could she at any price consent to the death of the only individuals who, for a length of time, had evinced any interest in her, or pity for her?
On the other hand, beyond these bars which she had been directed to saw, over the bodies of the two men who would have to die in endeavoring to prevent her deliverers from reaching her, were life, liberty, and perhaps vengeance,—three things so sweet, especially to a woman, that she asked pardon of God for so earnestly desiring them.
She believed, moreover, that not the slightest suspicion agitated the minds of her guards; that they had not any idea of a snare (if such a thing existed) into which it was intended their prisoner should fall.
These simple men would have betrayed themselves to eyes so much exercised as those of this woman, habituated to detect evil from having so severely suffered from it.
The queen, then, entirely abandoned the idea that these double overtures were contrived as a trap; but as the fear of being betrayed into this snare disappeared, the still greater apprehension increased of bloodshed for her sake, before her very eyes.
"Strange destiny! sublime sight!" murmured she; "two conspiracies united to save a poor queen, or rather a poor female prisoner who has had no means of inducing or encouraging these conspiracies which are about to take place at the same moment! Who knows? Perhaps there may be one only. Perhaps it may be a double mine, leading to one and the same point.
"If I wished, I might then be saved.
"But a poor woman sacrificed in my stead!—two men killed before this woman could reach me! God and the future might perhaps forgive me. Impossible! impossible!"
Then passed and repassed in her mind visions of the great devotion of servants for their masters, and the ancient traditions of the right exercised by masters over the lives of their retainers,—phantasies almost effaced from the mind of expiring royalty.
"Anne of Austria would have accepted this," said she. "Anne of Austria would have set aside every consideration to the safety of the royal person.
"Anne of Austria was of the same blood, and was almost in the same situation as myself.
"What madness to have come to France to pursue Anne of Austria's principles of royalty! Was I not brought hither? Two kings said, It is important that two royal children who have never seen or loved each other, who perhaps never may love each other, should be married at the same altar, to die upon the same scaffold.
"And then will not my death accelerate that of my poor child, who in the eyes of my few friends is still king of France?
"And when my son, like his father, is dead, will not their shades both smile on me in pity, seeing me, in order to spare some drops of plebeian blood, stain with my own the remains of the throne of Saint Louis?"
In this ever-increasing anguish of thought, this fever of doubt whose pulsations went on in geometrical progression, and in a tempest of terror and fear, the unhappy queen continued till the arrival of night.
She had several times closely scrutinized her guards; but they had never appeared more composed.
Never had she been more forcibly struck by the invariable kindness and attention of these two uneducated men.
When the darkness of night reigned in the cell; whenthe steps of the patrol, the noise of resounding arms, and the barking of dogs awoke the echoes of the gloomy vaults; when all the horrors of the prison revealed themselves, gloomy and hopeless,—Marie Antoinette, subdued by the natural weakness of a woman, rose affrighted.
"Oh, I will fly! I will fly!" said she. "Yes, yes; I will fly! When he comes, when he speaks, I will saw the bar. I will await what God and my deliverers ordain me. I owe myself to my children. They shall not murder them; or if they slay them, and I am free—oh, then, at least—"
She did not conclude; her eyes closed, and her deep emotion checked all utterance. This was a frightful vision to the unfortunate queen, enclosed with gratings and iron bars. But soon this vision disappeared, and in its stead another presented itself to her view. Gratings and bolts had vanished. She saw herself in the midst of a dark, stern, inflexible army; she orders the fire to consume, the sword to leap from the scabbard, and vengeance to be taken on a people she will no longer claim as her own.
During this time Gilbert and Duchesne were conversing tranquilly, and preparing their evening repast.
At this time, also, Dixmer and Geneviève entered the Conciergerie, and installed themselves in the office as usual. At the end of an hour the registrar of the Palace, having completed his business, according to custom took his departure, leaving them alone to themselves.
Directly the door had closed on his colleague, Dixmer rushed toward the empty basket placed at the door in exchange for that of the evening. He seized the bread, broke it, and found the case. The queen's answer was enclosed within it; he grew pale on reading it.
Geneviève observed him tear it into a thousand pieces, and throw them into the mouth of the burning stove.
"It is well," said he; "all is arranged."
Then turning toward Geneviève,—
"Come here, Madame," said he; "I must speak with you, and must speak low." Geneviève, motionless and cold as marble, gave a gesture of assent, and approached him.
"The time has arrived, Madame; listen to me!"
"Yes, sir."
"You prefer a death beneficial to your cause,—a death that will insure you the blessings of your party and pity from the whole nation,—to an ignominious and revengeful end of life, do you not?"
"Yes, sir."
"I might have killed you on the spot when I found you in the house of your lover; but a man who, like myself, consecrates his life to a holy and honorable cause, ought to be able to profit by his own private griefs by rendering them subservient to this cause. This I have done, or rather intend to do. I have, as you see, denied myself the pleasure of doing myself justice, and have also spared your lover."
Something resembling a fugitive but appalling smile flitted over the lips of Geneviève.
"But as for your lover, you who know me should be well aware that I only bide my time."
"Monsieur," said Geneviève, "I am ready. Then wherefore all this prelude?"
"You are ready?"
"Yes, I am ready. Kill me, if you choose; you have good cause to do so."
Dixmer looked at Geneviève, and started in spite of himself. She at this moment appeared sublimely beautiful; a glory the most brilliant of all shone around her,—the glory that emanates from love.
"To continue," said Dixmer, "I have informed the queen; she expects you, notwithstanding she will in all probability raise numerous objections. You must overrule them all."
"Give me your orders, sir, and I will execute them."
"Immediately," continued Dixmer, "I shall knock at the door; Gilbert will open it, and with this poniard—" here Dixmer threw open his coat, and half drawing from its scabbard a double-edged poniard—"with this I shall kill him."
Geneviève shuddered.
Dixmer made a motion with his hand to command her attention.
"The instant I strike him, dart into the second chamber, that of the queen. There is, as you are aware, no door, only a screen. You will exchange clothes with her while I despatch the other soldier. Then I shall take the queen's arm, and pass through the wicket with her."
"Very well," said Geneviève, coldly.
"You understand me?" said Dixmer. "You have been seen each evening in your black taffeta mantle which conceals your face. Place your mantle upon her Majesty, and arrange it on her precisely as you have been accustomed to arrange it on yourself."
"All shall be done as you desire, sir."
"It remains now for me to pardon and to thank you, Madame."
Geneviève shook her head with a scornful smile.
"I neither want your pardon nor your thanks, sir," said she, extending her hand. "What I have done, or rather am about to do, would efface a crime. I haveonly been guilty of a weakness; and again, this weakness—recall your own conduct, sir—you all but forced me to commit. I withdrew myself from him; you drove me back into his arms; so you are at the same time instigator, judge, and avenger. It remains for me to pardon you my death; and I do pardon you. It is I who should thank you for death, since life has become insupportable to me, separated from the only man I love; since that hour especially when you severed by your savage vengeance every tie that bound me to him."
Dixmer drove his nails into his flesh. He strove to reply, but his voice failed him.
He moved toward the wicket.
"Time passes," said he, at last. "Madame, every moment is of consequence. Are you ready?"
"I have told you, sir," replied Geneviève, with the calmness and courage of a martyr, "I await you."
Dixmer collected his papers, saw that the gates were fast closed, so that no one could enter the wicket, and then wished to reiterate his instructions.
"It is unnecessary, sir," said Geneviève. "I know perfectly all I have to do."
"Then, adieu!" and Dixmer extended his hand, as if at this supreme moment all recrimination was effaced before the grandeur of the situation and the sublimity of the sacrifice.
Geneviève, shuddering, touched with the tips of her fingers the proffered hand of her husband.
"Place yourself near me, Madame, and the moment I have struck Gilbert, pass on."
"I am ready."
Then Dixmer grasped in his right hand his poniard; with his left he knocked at the gate.
CHAPTER XLIV.
THE PREPARATIONS OF THE CHEVALIER.
Duringthe scene described in the preceding chapter as passing at the door of the register-office leading into the prison of the queen, or rather into the first compartment occupied by the two gendarmes, other preparations were taking place on the opposite side,—that is to say, in the women's court.
Suddenly a man appeared, like a statue of stone which had detached itself from the wall. He was followed by two dogs, and was humming the "Ça ira," a song much in vogue at this period. He held in his hand a large bunch of keys, which, in passing, he had rattled against the bars which barricaded the window of the queen.
The royal prisoner at first started, but recognizing the signal, immediately opened her window softly to commence her work, with a hand more experienced than would have been believed; for more than once in the blacksmith's shop where her royal husband amused himself by passing part of the day, she had with her delicate fingers handled instruments similar to that upon which at this moment depended her every chance of safety and deliverance.
Directly the man with the keys heard the queen's window open, he knocked at that of the gendarmes.
"Ah! ah!" said Gilbert, looking through the window, "here is the Citizen Mardoche."
"Himself," said the turnkey. "Well, but it appears you keep strict watch?"
"Much as usual, Citizen Key-bearer. It seems to me you do not often find us at fault?"
"Ah!" said Mardoche; "and vigilance is more than ever necessary to-night."
"Bah!" said Duchesne, who had now approached.
"Truly."
"Why, then?"
"Open the window, and I will tell you all about it."
Gilbert opened it, and shook hands with Mardoche, who had already made friends with the two gendarmes.
"What is it, Citizen Mardoche?" repeated Gilbert.
"The sitting of the Convention has been rather hot to-day. Have you read about it?"
"No. What passed then?"
"It was first stated that the Citizen Hébert had made a discovery."
"What?"
"It is, that the conspirators believed to be dead are found to be alive, and very much alive indeed."
"Oh! yes," said Gilbert; "Delessart and Thierry; I have heard speak of that. They are in England, the scoundrels!"
"And the Chevalier de Maison-Rouge?" asked the key-bearer, raising his voice so that the queen might hear.
"What, is he in England also?"
"Not at all," said Mardoche; "he is in France," still speaking in the same loud key.
"He has returned, then?"
"He has never quitted it."
"Well, he, for one, has good courage," said Duchesne.
"Indeed, he has."
"Well, are they going to arrest him?"