"Yes," murmured Maurice, "in some retired house, the resort of the aristocrats. Confess, Citizeness, that, while outwardly demanding my protection, you laugh in your sleeve at my egregious folly."
"Why should I act thus?"
"You are aware that a Republican is your guide. Well, this Republican betrays his cause, that is all."
"But, Citizen," quickly rejoined the unknown, "I, as well as you, love the Republic; you labor under a mistake concerning me."
"Then, Citizeness, if you are a good patriot, you can have no cause for concealment. Where do you come from?"
"Monsieur, excuse me."
There was in this "monsieur" so much sweetness and modesty of expression, that Maurice believed it to be founded on some sentiment concealed.
"Surely," said he, "this woman is returning from some assignation."
At this moment, without knowing why, he felt deeply oppressed at this thought, and for a short time he remained silent.
When these two nocturnal promenaders had reached the Rue de la Verrerie, after having encountered three or four patrols, who, thanks to the password, allowed them free passage, the last watchman appeared somewhat suspicious. Maurice found it necessary to give his name and residence.
"That is all that is required from you," said the officer; "but the citizeness, who is she?"
"The sister of my wife."
The officer permitted them to pass.
"You are then married, sir?" murmured the unknown.
"No, Madame; why do you think so?"
"Then," said she, laughing, "you had better have said I was your wife."
"Madame," said Maurice, "the name of wife is rather too sacred to be lightly bestowed. I have not the honor of your acquaintance."
The unknown in her turn felt an oppression of the heart, and remained silent and confused. At this moment they crossed the Bridge Marie. The young woman quickened her pace as they approached the end of their journey. They crossed the Bridge de la Tournelle.
"We are now, I believe, in your quarter," said Maurice, planting his foot on the Quai Saint Bernard.
"Yes, Citizen," replied the young woman; "but it is precisely here I most require your kind assistance."
"Really, Madame," said Maurice, "you forbid me to be indiscreet, yet do all in your power to excite my curiosity. This is not generous. Grant me your confidence. I have merited it, I think. Will you not do me the honor to tell me to whom I speak?"
"You speak, sir," said the unknown, smiling, "to a woman whom you have saved from the greatest danger she has ever encountered; to one who owes you a debt of everlasting gratitude."
"I do not require so much, Madame; be less grateful, and pending the second we shall yet be together, tell me your name."
"Impossible!"
"You would have told it nevertheless to the first sectionary, if you had been taken to the station."
"No, never!" exclaimed the unknown.
"But in that case you would have gone to prison."
"I had considered all that."
"And prison at this moment—"
"Means the scaffold; I know all that."
"And you would have preferred the scaffold?"
"To treason,—to discover my name would be treason."
"I said truly, you compel me to act a singular part for a Republican!"
"You act the part of a truly generous man. You find a poor woman subjected to insult; you do not contemn her because she might be 'one of the people,' but that she may be exempted from fresh annoyances, to save her from shipwreck, you reconduct her to the miserable quarter she inhabits."
"As far as appearances go, you state the matter correctly, and I might have credited you, had I never either seen you or heard you speak; but your beauty and mode of expression stamp you as a woman of distinction, and it is just this distinction, in opposition to your costume and this miserable quarter, which proves to me that your absence from home at this unseasonable hour conceals some mystery. You are silent. We will speak no more. Are we far from your house, Madame?"
At this moment they entered the Rue des Fossés Saint Victor.
"You see that small dark building," said the unknown to Maurice, pointing toward a house situated beyond the walls of the Jardin des Plantes. "When we reach there you must quit me."
"Very well, Madame, issue your orders; I am here only to obey."
"You are angry."
"I angry?—not the least in the world; besides, what does it matter to you?"
"It matters much, since I have yet a favor to ask of you."
"What is that?"
"A kind and frank adieu,—the farewell of a friend."
"The farewell of a friend! Oh, Madame, you do me too great an honor. A singular friend, not to know the name of his friend, who even conceals from him where she resides, no doubt from the fear of being too much troubled with his company."
The young woman hung down her head, but did not reply to this sarcasm.
"As to the rest, Madame," continued Maurice, "if I have discovered a secret, I did so involuntarily, and without any effort on my part to do so."
"I have now reached my destination, sir," said the unknown.
They were opposite the old Rue Saint Jacques, lined with tall dark-looking houses, intersected by obscure narrow alleys, leading to streets occupied by manufactories and tanyards, as within two steps ran the little river De Bièvre.
"Here!" said Maurice, "is it here that you live?"
"Yes."
"Impossible!"
"It is so, nevertheless. And now, adieu! my brave chevalier, my generous protector, adieu!"
"Adieu! Madame," said Maurice, with slight irony of tone, "but first again assure me you run no further risk of danger."
"None whatever."
"In that case I will leave you."
Maurice then bowed coldly and retired a few paces. The unknown remained standing for an instant in the same place.
"I do not like to take my leave of you thus," said she. "Come, Monsieur Maurice, your hand."
Maurice approached, and held out his hand, and then felt the young woman slip a ring on his finger.
"Oh, Citizen! what have you done? Do you not perceive that you have lost one of your rings?"
"Sir, you wrong me much."
"The crime of ingratitude is wanting in me; is it not so, Madame?"
"Come, I beseech you, sir—my friend, do not leave me thus. What do you wish to know? What do you ask?"
"Payment—is it not so?" said the young man, bitterly.
"No," said the unknown, with a bewitching expression; "but forgive me the secrecy I am obliged to preserve toward you."
Maurice, seeing in the obscurity those beautiful eyes wet with tears, feeling the pressure of that soft hand reposing between his own, hearing the accents of that persuasive voice, which had almost descended to the depths of prayer, felt his anger all at once yield to admiration.
"What do I ask?" said he. "To see you again."
"Impossible! utterly impossible."
"If only for once—one hour, a minute, a second."
"I tell you it is impossible."
"Do you tell me seriously," said Maurice, "that I shall never see you again!"
"Never," said the unknown, in a desponding tone.
"Madame," said Maurice, "you certainly jest with me." Then, raising his noble head, he shook his hanging curls like a man wishing to escape from some power which, in spite of himself, still bound him. The unknown regarded him with an undefinable expression. It was evident she had not altogether escaped the sentiment she had inspired.
"Listen," said she, after a moment's silence, interrupted only by a sigh, which Maurice had in vain endeavored to suppress. "Swear to me, upon your honor, to shut your eyes the moment I desire you to do so, and to keep them closed while you count sixty. Mind, upon your honor."
"If I swear, what will happen to me?"
"It will happen that I will prove my gratitude to you in a manner that I faithfully promise you I will never again to any other person, should he even do more for me than you have done, which would be no easy matter."
"But, at least, am I not to know—"
"No; trust to me. You will see—"
"In truth, Madame, I know not whether you are angel or demon."
"Will you swear it?"
"Yes; I swear to do as you desire me."
"Whatever occurs, you will not open your eyes—whatever happens. You understand? even if you should feel yourself struck with a poniard."
"You bewilder me. My word of honor required with so much urgency?"
"Swear, then, Monsieur. It appears to me that you run no great risk in so doing."
"Well, I swear," said Maurice, "whatever may happen," closing his eyes.
He hesitated.
"Let me see you only once more—only once more," said he. "I entreat you."
The young woman let fall her hood, with a smile not quite free from coquetry, when, by the light of the moon, which at this moment shed its lustre between two clouds, he again beheld, for the second time, the raven hair hanging in masses of shining curls, the beautifully arched andpencilled eyebrows overshadowing the almond-shaped eyes, so soft and languishing, an exquisitely formed nose, and lips fresh and brilliant as coral.
"Oh, you are beautiful, lovely, divine!" said Maurice.
"Shut your eyes," said the unknown.
Maurice obeyed.
The young woman took both his hands within her own, and placed him in the desired position.
Suddenly he felt a warm perfume pervade his face, and lips slightly touch his mouth, leaving between his lips the disputed ring.
All passed rapid as thought. Maurice experienced a sensation almost amounting to pain, so deep was it and unexpected, penetrating to his very inmost soul.
He made a brusque movement, and extended his arms before him.
"Your oath!" said a voice, already in the distance.
Maurice clasped his hands over his eyes the more strenuously to resist the strong inclination he felt to perjure himself. He counted no more; he thought no more, but remained tottering, his nerves totally unstrung.
In about an instant he heard a noise like that of a door closing a few paces distant from him; then again everything was silent. Then he removed his hand, and opened his eyes, looking round about him like a man just awakened from a deep sleep, and might, perhaps, have fancied all that had occurred a passing dream, had he not held between his lips the identical ring, proving that the adventure, however incredible, was an incontestable reality.
CHAPTER IV.
MANNERS OF THE TIMES.
WhenMaurice came to himself, he looked around, but saw only the gloomy, dirty alleys extending to his right and left. He essayed to find out exactly where he was, that he might recognize it again; but his mind was disturbed, the night was dark, and the moon, which for a moment had appeared to light up the lovely face of the fair unknown, had again retired behind the clouds. The young man, after a moment of cruel incertitude, retraced his steps toward his own house, situated in the Rue de Roule.
Arriving at the Rue Sainte Avoie, Maurice was much surprised at the number of patrols in motion in that quarter of the Temple.
"What is the matter now, Sergeant?" inquired he, of the chief of patrol, who, all on the alert, had just been thoroughly searching the Rue des Fontaines.
"What is it?" said the sergeant. "It is this,mon officier. It was intended this night to carry off the woman Capet, and the whole nest besides."
"How was that?"
"A band of Royalists had, I do not know how, procured the password, and introduced themselves into the Temple in the costume of chasseurs of the National Guard. Fortunately, he who represented the corporal, when speaking to the officer on guard, addressed him as 'Monsieur.' He sold himself,—the aristocrat!"
"The devil!" said Maurice; "and have they not arrested the conspirators?"
"No. The Royalists reached the street, and dispersed."
"And is there any hope of capturing any of these fellows?"
"There is only one among the number of sufficient importance to arrest,—that is the chief, a very slight man, who had been introduced among the men on guard by one of the municipals of the service. We gave the villain chase, but he found a door behind, and fled through the Madelonnettes."
Under any other circumstances, Maurice would have remained for the rest of the night with the patriots who guarded the safety of the Republic; but since one short hour, love of country was no longer his sole engrossing thought. He continued his way, and the tidings he had just learned were soon banished from his mind by the recent stirring events in which he had himself taken so active a part. Besides, these pretended attempts at rescue had become very frequent, and the patriots themselves were aware that under certain circumstances politicians made use of them to advance their own ends; therefore, this news caused our young Republican no great disquietude.
On returning home, Maurice found his "official" (at this epoch they had no longer servants),—Maurice, say we, found his official waiting, but who, while waiting, had fallen asleep, and while sleeping snored uneasily. He awoke him, and with all due regard for his fellow-man, made him pull off his boots, then dismissed him, that he might not interrupt his cogitations, and jumping into bed, it being very late, and he also having youth on his side, slept soundly, notwithstanding the preoccupation of his thoughts.
The next day he discovered a letter on histable-de-nuit. This letter was written in a clear, elegant hand, but unknown to him. He looked at the seal. Engraved on it was the single English word, "Nothing." The letter merely contained these words, "Thank you. Everlasting gratitude in exchange for everlasting forgetfulness." Maurice summoned his domestic (the true patriot never rang, the bell denoted servility; indeed, many officials only entered the service of their masters on this express condition).
The official of Maurice had received, nearly thirty years before, at the baptismal font, the name of John; but in '92 he was, by private authority, rebaptized (John savoring of Aristocracy and Deism), and now called himself "Scævola."
"Scævola," demanded Maurice, "do you know where this letter came from?"
"No, Citizen."
"Who brought it to you?"
"The concierge."
"And who brought it to him?"
"A messenger, no doubt, since it has no post-mark."
"Go down, and request the concierge to walk up."
The concierge complied, because it was Maurice who made the request, and he was much beloved by all the officials with whom he was concerned in any way; but at the same time the concierge declared that had it been any other tenant, he should have asked him to walk down.
The concierge was called Aristide.
Maurice interrogated him. It was a stranger who had brought the letter, about eight in the morning. The young man multiplied his questions, and varied them in every possible shape, but could elicit nothing further.Maurice requested his acceptance of six francs, also desiring, if this stranger again presented himself, that he would follow him, without appearing to do so, and inform him (Maurice) where he went.
We hasten to say, that, much to the satisfaction of Aristide, who felt himself rather insulted by this proposition, the man returned no more.
Maurice remained alone, crushing the letter with vexation; he drew the ring from his finger, and placed it with the crumpled letter upon thetable-de-nuit, then turned toward the wall, with the foolish idea of sleeping afresh; but at the end of an hour Maurice, relinquishing his attempted coolness, kissed the ring and re-read the letter. The ring was a splendid sapphire; the letter, as we have said, was a charming little billet, displaying its aristocracy in every line.
As Maurice re-read and examined it, the door opened. Maurice hastily replaced the ring on his finger, and concealed the note under his pillow. Was this the modesty of newly awakened love; or was it the shame of a patriot, who would not wish it to be known that he was in relation with people imprudent enough to write such a billet, of which the perfume alone was sufficient to compromise both the hand that penned it and the hand that received it?
He who entered was a young man attired as a patriot, but a patriot of surpassing elegance. His jacket was composed of fine cloth, his breeches of cashmere, and his stockings of fine striped silk. As to his bonnet, it might have shamed from the elegance of its form and splendid purple color even those of the Trojan Paris himself. Added to all this, he carried in his belt a pair of pistols of the royal manufacture of Versailles, and a short sabre like those of the pupils of Champ-de-Mars.
"Ah! thou sleepest, Brutus," said the new-comer, "and the country is in danger.Fi, donc!"
"No, Lorin," said Maurice, laughing, "I do not sleep, I dream."
"Yes, I understand, of Eucharis."
"Well, as for me, I cannot understand."
"Bah!"
"Of whom do you speak? Who is this Eucharis?"
"Why the woman—"
"What woman?"
"The woman of the Rue Saint Honoré,—the woman of the patrol, the unknown, the woman for whom you and I risked our heads last night."
"Oh, yes," said Maurice, who knew perfectly well what his friend would say, and only feigned ignorance, "the unknown."
"Well, who was she?"
"I know nothing about her."
"Was she pretty?"
"Pshaw!" said Maurice, pouting his lips disdainfully.
"A poor woman forgotten in some love adventure.
"Yes; weak creatures that we are,'Tis Love that ever tortures man."
"Possibly," said Maurice, to whom such an idea was at this moment peculiarly repugnant, and who would have much preferred finding the unknown to be even a conspirator rather than a light woman.
"And where does she live?"
"I know nothing concerning her."
"Come, now; you know nothing, that's impossible!"
"Why so?"
"You escorted her back."
"She escaped from me at the Bridge Marie—"
"Escaped from you!" cried Lorin, with a roar of laughter; "a woman escape from you!
"Say, can the trembling dove eludeThe vulture,—tyrant of the air;The fawn, on whom the tiger rudeSprings from his solitary lair."
"Lorin," said Maurice, "I wish you would accustom yourself to speak like other people. You annoy me horribly with your atrocious poetry."
"To speak like other people, indeed! Now, it appears to me I speak better than most people. I speak as the Citizen Demoustier, both in prose and poetry. As for my poetry,mon cher, I know a certain Emilie who does not consider it so bad. But to return to yours."
"My poetry!"
"No; your Emilie."
"Have I an Emilie?"
"Ah, ah! your gazelle may have turned tigress, and shown her teeth in a manner that may not have pleased you, although in love."
"I in love?" said Maurice, shaking his head.
"Yes, you in love.
"Deadly are the bolts of Jove,But deadlier far the shafts of love."
"Lorin," said Maurice, arming himself with a pipe-key which lay upon the table; "I swear that if you will spout verses I will whistle."
"Then let us talk politics; besides, that brought me here. Have you heard the news?"
"I know that Widow Capet wished to escape."
"Oh, that is nothing!"
"What more is there, then?"
"The famous Chevalier de Maison-Rouge is in Paris!"
"Is that true?" said Maurice, raising himself to a sitting posture. "When did he come?"
"Yesterday evening."
"But how?"
"Disguised as a chasseur of the National Guard. A woman who is thought to be an aristocrat, disguised as a woman of the people, took him the clothes to the barrier gate; an instant afterward they came in arm-in-arm. It was not till after they had passed that the suspicion of the sentinel was excited. He had seen the woman pass with a bundle and repass accompanied by a soldier, when it suddenly struck him something was wrong, and he ran after them. They had disappeared in a hôtel of the Rue Saint Honoré, where the door was opened as if by magic. The hôtel had a second point of egress, leading on to the Champs Elysées.Bon soirto the Chevalier de Maison-Rouge and his companion; they had both vanished. Our rulers will demolish the hôtel and guillotine the proprietor, but that will not deter the chevalier from renewing the attempt which has hitherto failed; it is four months since his first failure, and yesterday was his second."
"Is he not arrested?" demanded Maurice.
"Ah! well. Yes,mon cher, as well attempt to stop Proteus, arrest Proteus; you know the trouble Aristæus had to accomplish it,—
"'Pastor Aristæus, fugiens Peneïa Tempe.'"
"Take care," said Maurice, carrying the key to his mouth.
"Take care yourself, for this time you will not whistle at me, but at Virgil."
"That is very true, and as long as you do not translate him I have nothing to say. Now, to return to the Chevalier de Maison-Rouge."
"We agree that he is a brave man."
"The fact is, that to undertake such things he must possess immense courage."
"Or intense adoration."
"Do you believe, then, in the love of the chevalier for the queen?"
"I do not believe it. I only mention what report says. Besides, she has turned the brains of so many others, that this would not be at all surprising. She once fascinated Barnave, they say."
"Never mind; the chevalier must have had confederates even in the Temple."
"Very possibly,—
"Love breaks through bars,And laughs at bolts."
"Lorin!"
"Ah! it is true."
"Then you think like the rest?"
"Why not?"
"Because according to your account the queen must have had already two hundred lovers."
"Two, three, four hundred. She is quite handsome enough for that. I do not say that she loves them; but in short, they love her. All the world beholds the sun, but the sun does not see all the world."
"You say, then, that the Chevalier de Maison-Rouge—"
"I say they are on his track at this moment, and if he escapes this time the bloodhounds of the Republic, he will be a cunning fox."
"And what does the Commune in all this affair?"
"The Commune is about to issue a decree, by which every house (like an open register) must display on the front the name of every inhabitant, both male and female.This is realizing the dream of the ancients,—why should there not be a window in every breast, that all the world may see what passes there?"
"An excellent idea that," said Maurice.
"To place windows in men's breasts?"
"No; but to place a list of names on every door."
Maurice felt, in fact, that this might be the means of assisting him to discover the unknown, or at least afford him some clew whereby he might be able to trace her.
"Is it not so?" said Lorin. "I have already betted this measure will secure us a batch of five hundred aristocrats. By the bye, we have received this morning, at our club, a deputation of enrolled Volunteers; they arrived conducted by our adversaries of last night, whom I had not abandoned till dead drunk,—they came, I tell you, with garlands of flowers and immortal crowns."
"Indeed," replied Maurice, laughing; "and how many were there?"
"They were thirty, and were shaved, wearing bouquets in their button-holes.
"'Citizens of the Club of Thermopyles,' said the orator, 'as true patriots, we wish the union of Frenchmen not to be interrupted by any misunderstanding; we therefore come to fraternize with you anew.'"
"Well, what then?"
"Then we again fraternized, and in this reiteration, as Diafoirus expresses himself, we raised an altar to the country, with the table of the secretary and two carafes in which the nosegays were deposited. As you were the hero of the feat, you were three times summoned to appear, that you might be crowned; but as you did not reply, seeing you were not present, and it was necessary to crown something, they crowned the bust of Washington. This was the order of the ceremony."
As Lorin concluded this statement, which at this epoch had nothing of burlesque, a noise was heard proceeding from the street; and drums, first heard in the distance, now approached nearer and nearer. This, at that period, was the common way of issuing general orders.
"What is all that?" said Maurice.
"The proclamation of the decree of the Commune," said Lorin.
"I will run to the station," said Maurice, leaping from his bed, and calling his servant to assist him.
"I will return home and go to bed," said Lorin. "I had not two hours' sleep last night, thanks to those outrageous Volunteers. If they only fight a little, let me sleep; but if they fight much, come and fetch me."
"But why are you so smart to-day?" said Maurice, eyeing him all over as he rose to withdraw.
"Because on my way here I am obliged to pass the 'Rue Béthisy,' and in the Rue Béthisy, on the third flat, is a window which always opens when I pass."
"Then you do not fear being taken for a fop?"
"I a fop! I am, on the contrary, known for a French sans-culotte. But one must make some sacrifice to the softer sex. The worship of the country does not exclude that of love; indeed, one commands the other:—
"Our Republicans professWe should follow ancient lore;Beauty we prize none the less,That we love our freedom more.
Dare to whistle to that, and I denounce you as an aristocrat. Adieu,mon ami."
Lorin held out his hand to Maurice, which the young secretary cordially shook, and went out thinking of a sonnet to Chloris.
CHAPTER V.
WHAT SORT OF MAN THE CITIZEN MAURICE LINDEY WAS.
WhileMaurice Lindey, having dressed quickly, proceeds to the section of the Rue Lepelletier, of which, as we already know, he was secretary, we will endeavor to lay before the public the antecedents of this young man, introduced upon the scene by one of those impulses so familiar to powerful and generous natures.
The young man had spoken the plain truth the preceding evening, when in reply he had said his name was Maurice Lindey, resident in the Rue du Roule. He might have added he was a child of that half aristocracy accorded to the gentlemen of the robe. His ancestors, for two hundred years, had distinguished themselves by that invariable parliamentary opposition which had rendered so illustrious the names of Molé and Maupeou. His father, honest Lindey, who had passed his life grumbling against despotism, when on the fourteenth of July, '89, the Bastille had fallen by the hands of the people, died from sudden fright and the shock of seeing despotism replaced by a liberty militant, leaving his only son independent in fortune and republican in principle.
The Revolution which had closely followed this great event found Maurice in all the vigor and maturity of manhood befitting a champion about to enter the lists; his republican education improved by his assiduous attendance of the clubs, and by his reading all the pamphlets of that period. God alone knows how manyMaurice had read. Deep and rational contempt for the hierarchy, philosophical consideration of the elements which form the social body, absolute denial of all nobility which is not personal, impartial appreciation of the past, ardor for new ideas, a sympathy with the people which was blended with a belief in aristocratic organizations,—such were the morals, not of the hero we should have chosen, but of him whom the journal from which we draw our facts has given us as the hero of our narrative.
As to his personal appearance he was in height five feet eight inches, from twenty-five to twenty-six years of age, and muscular as Hercules. His beauty was of the cast characteristic of the Frank,—that is to say, fair complexion, blue eyes, curling chestnut hair, rosy cheeks, and ivory teeth.
After the portrait of the man comes the position of the citizen. Maurice, not rich, but still independent, bore a name much respected, and above all popular. Maurice, known by his liberal education and principles still more liberal than his education,—Maurice placed himself, so to speak, at the head of a party composed of all the young citizen-patriots. It was well that with the sans-culottes he passed for rather lukewarm, and with the sectionaries as rather foppish. But the sans-culottes no longer remembered his lukewarmness when they saw him snap in twain the knotted cudgels, and the sectionaries pardoned his elegance when he one day scientifically planted a blow between two eyes that had been for some time watching him in an offensive manner.
And now for the physical, moral, and civic combined. Maurice had assisted at the taking of the Bastille; he had been on the expedition to Versailles, had fought like a lion on the 10th of August; and in this memorable journey, it is only justice to observe, he had killed asmany patriots as Swiss,—not being more willing to tolerate an assassin in a blouse than an enemy to the Republic in a red coat. It was he who in order to exhort the defenders of the chȃteau to surrender themselves, and to prevent the shedding of blood, threw himself before the mouth of a cannon which a Parisian artillery-man was about to discharge; it was he who by a window first entered the Louvre, regardless of the firing of five hundred Swiss and as many gentlemen in ambush; and when he perceived the signal of surrender, his avenging sword had already cut through more than ten uniforms. Then, seeing his friends leisurely massacring some prisoners, who having thrown down their arms and clasping their hands supplicated for life, he furiously attacked these friends, which gained for him a reputation worthy of the good days of Rome and of Greece. War declared, Maurice enrolled himself, and departed for the frontier in the rank of lieutenant, with the first 1500 volunteers the city sent against the invaders, which volunteers were each day to be followed by 1500 others.
At the first battle in which he assisted—that is to say at Jemappes—he was struck by a ball, which after having divided the muscles of his shoulder lodged against the bone. The representative of the people knew Maurice, and sent him back to Paris for surgical treatment.
For a whole month, consumed by fever, he tossed upon his bed of suffering; but in January was able to resume his command, if not by name, at least in fact, of the club of Thermopyles,—that is to say of one hundred young men of the Parisian citizens, armed to oppose any attempt in favor of the tyrant Capet. And yet more, Maurice, with contracted brows, dilated eyes, and pale face, his heart filled with a strange mixture of moral hatred and physical pity, assisted, sword in hand, at the execution of theking, and perhaps he alone of all that throng remained silent when the head of the son of Saint Louis fell on the scaffold; and then Maurice only raised on high his redoubtable sabre, while his friends, loudly shoutingVive la liberté, omitted to notice that on this occasion at least one voice did not unite itself with their own.
This was the individual who on the morning of the 14th of March bent his steps toward the Rue Lepelletier, and of whose stormy career our history will furnish further details.
Toward 10 o'clock, Maurice reached the section of which he was the secretary. The commotion was great. The question in agitation was, to vote an address to the Convention in order to repress the conspiracies of the Girondins. They impatiently awaited the arrival of Maurice.
The only subject talked about was the return of the Chevalier de Maison-Rouge, the audacity with which this arch-conspirator had for the second time entered Paris, where he well knew a price was now fixed on his head.
To this circumstance was attributed the attempt made the preceding evening on the Temple, and each one expressed his hatred and indignation against the traitors and aristocrats.
Contrary to the general expectation, Maurice appeared preoccupied and silent, wrote down the proclamation, finished his employment in three hours, demanded if the sitting had terminated, and receiving an answer in the affirmative, took his hat, and proceeded toward the Rue Saint Honoré.
Arrived there, Paris appeared quite different to him. He revisited the corner of the Rue du Coq, where during the night he had first seen the lovely unknown strugglingin the hands of soldiers. Thence he proceeded to the Pont Marie, the same road he had travelled by her side, stopping where the different patrols had stopped them, repeating in the same places (as if they had preserved an echo of their words) the sentences exchanged between them; only it was now one o'clock in the afternoon, and the sun, shining brilliantly upon this walk, reminded him at every step of the occurrences of the past night.
Maurice crossed the bridges, and entered directly the Rue Victor, as it was then called.
"Poor woman," murmured Maurice, "she did not reflect yesterday that the duration of the night was only twelve hours, and that her secret would not in all probability last longer than the night. By the light of the sun, I will endeavor to find the door through which she vanished, and who knows but I may perhaps even see her at a window?"
He then entered the old Rue Saint Jacques, and placed himself in the same spot as the unknown had placed him on the preceding evening. For an instant he closed his eyes, perhaps foolishly expecting the kiss he had then received would again impress his lips. But he felt nothing but the remembrance; 'tis true that burned yet.
Maurice opened his eyes and saw two little streets, one to the right, the other to the left. They were muddy, dirty, and badly paved, furnished with barriers, cut by little bridges thrown over a kennel. There might be seen the beams of arches, nooks, corners, and twenty doors propped up, fast falling into decay. Here was hard labor in all its misery, here was misery in all its hideousness. Here and there was a garden enclosed by a fence, others by palisades of poles, some by walls;skins were hanging in the out-houses, diffusing around that disgusting odor always arising from a tanyard.
Maurice's search lasted for nearly two hours, during which he found nothing, and divined nothing, and ten times he had retraced his steps to consider where he was. But all his efforts were in vain, his search was a fruitless one, as all trace of the young woman seemed to have been effaced by the fog and rain of the previous night.
"Truly," said Maurice, "I must be in a dream. This filthy place could not for an instant have afforded refuge for my beautiful fairy of last night."
There was, in this wild Republican, more real poetry than in his friend of the Anacreontic quatrains, since he clung to this idea, fearful to sully, even in thought, the spotless purity of the unknown. But all hope had now forsaken him.
"Adieu," said he; "mysterious beauty, you have treated me like a child and a fool. Would she have led me here if she really lived in this wretched locality? No; she would only pass as a swan over the infected marsh, and like a bird in the air leave no trace behind."
CHAPTER VI.
THE TEMPLE.
Thesame day and the same hour, when Maurice, disappointed and unhappy, repassed the Bridge de la Tournelle, several municipals, accompanied by Santerre, Commandant of the Parisian National Guard, made a visit of inquiry to the Temple, which had been transformed into a prison, since the 13th of August, 1792.
The visit was made especially to a portion of the third story, consisting of an antechamber and three rooms. One of these chambers was occupied by two females, a young girl, and a child of nine years old, all dressed in mourning. The elder of the females was about seven or eight and thirty. She was seated at a table reading.
The second, whose age appeared twenty-eight or twenty-nine, was engaged on a piece of tapestry.
The young girl, who was about fourteen, was seated near the child, who, ill and in bed, closed his eyes as if asleep, although that was utterly impossible, owing to the noise made by the municipals. While some moved the beds, others examined their clothes and linen; the rest, when their search was concluded, remained rudely staring at the unfortunate prisoners, who never even raised their eyes,—the one from her book, the other from her embroidery, and the third from her brother.
The eldest of these women was tall, handsome, and very pale. She appeared to concentrate all her attention on her book, although in all probability her eyes read, butnot her mind. One of the municipals approached her, brutally snatched away her book, and flung it into the middle of the room. The prisoner stretched her hand across the table, took up another book, and continued to read.
The Montagnard made a furious gesture, as if he would take away the second, as he had the first; but at this attempt, which startled the prisoner at her embroidery near the window, the young girl sprang forward, and encircling the reader's head with her arms, weeping, exclaimed, "My poor mother! my poor mother!" and then embraced her. As she did so the prisoner placed her mouth to her ear, and whispered: "Marie, there is a letter concealed in the stove; remove it."
"Come! come!" said the municipal, brutally dragging the young girl toward him, and separating her from her mother, "shall you soon have finished embracing?"
"Sir," said the girl, "has the Convention decreed that children shall not embrace their mothers?"
"No; but it has decreed that traitors, aristocrats, andci-devantsshall be punished. That is why I am here to interrogate you. Answer, Antoinette."
She who was thus grossly accosted did not even deign to look at her examiner, but turned her head aside, while a flush passed over her face, pale with grief and furrowed with tears.
"It is impossible," said he, "that you are ignorant of the attempt last night. Whence came it?"
The prisoners still maintained silence.
"Answer, Antoinette," said Santerre, approaching her, without remarking the almost frenzied horror which had seized the young woman at sight of this man, who, on the morning of the 21st of January, conducted Louis XVI. from the Temple to the scaffold. "Reply. They wereconspiring last night against the Republic, and seeking your escape from the captivity in which you are kept till you receive that punishment of your crimes which the will of the people may inflict upon you. Tell me, do you know who are the conspirators?"
Marie started at the harsh tone of that voice, which she endeavored to fly from by removing her chair to the greatest distance possible, but replied no more to this question than to the former ones, paid no more deference to Santerre than she had done to the municipal.
"You are then determined not to reply?" said Santerre, stamping his foot furiously.
The prisoner took up a third volume from the table, Santerre turned himself away. The brutal power of this man who commanded 80,000 men, who had only need of a gesture to drown the voice of the dying Louis XVI., was defeated by the dignity of a poor prisoner, whose head he could cause to fall, but whose will he could not bend.
"And you, Elizabeth," said he, addressing the other lady, who at that instant ceased from her embroidery to join her hands in prayer, not to these men, but to God, "will you reply?"
"I do not know what you ask," said she; "therefore I cannot reply."
"Morbleu!Citizen Capet," said Santerre, impatiently, "I think what I say is sufficiently clear too. I again tell you, that yesterday an attempt was made for your escape; and you certainly must know the culprits."
"Having no communication with those outside, Monsieur, we cannot possibly tell what people do, either for or against us."
"Very well," said the municipal; "we will now hear what your nephew will say."
And he approached the bed of the young dauphin. At this menace, Marie Antoinette suddenly rose.
"Monsieur," said she, "my son is ill, and now asleep—do not wake him."
"Reply then."
"I know nothing."
The municipal walked straight to the bed of the little prisoner, who, as we have said, feigned sleep.
"Come, wake up, Capet," said he, shaking him roughly.
The child opened his eyes and smiled.
The municipals then surrounded his bed.
The queen, agitated with fear and grief, made a sign to her daughter, who, profiting by this moment, glided from the apartment into the room adjoining, opened the mouth of the stove, drew out a letter and burned it; then, reentering the room, reassured her mother with a glance.
"What do you want with me?" asked the sick child.
"To inquire if you heard nothing during the night?"
"No; I was asleep."
"You are very fond of sleep, it seems."
"Yes; for when I sleep I dream."
"And what do you dream?"
"That I again see my father, whom you killed."
"Then you heard nothing!" said Santerre, quickly.
"Nothing."
"These wolf's cubs are, in truth, well-agreed with the she-wolf," said the municipal, furious with rage. "There has been, notwithstanding, a plot."
The queen smiled.
"She defies us, the Austrian!" cried the municipal. "Well, since it is thus, let us execute in all its rigor the decree of the Commune. Get up, Capet."
"What would you do?" said the queen, forgettingherself. "Do you not see my son is ill, and suffering from fever? Do you wish to kill him?"
"Your son," said the municipal, "is the cause of constant alarm to the Council of the Temple; he is the point at which all the conspirators aim, and flatter themselves they shall carry you all off together. Well, let them come. Tison—call Tison."
Tison was a species of journeyman, charged with all the heavy household work in the prison. He appeared. He was a man of forty years old, much sunburnt, of a rude and ferocious aspect, with matted black hair overhanging his eyebrows.
"Tison," said Santerre, "who came yesterday to bring the prisoners' food?"
Tison gave the name.
"And their linen, who brought it to them?"
"My daughter."
"Then your daughter is a laundress?"
"Certainly."
"And you gave her the washing of the prisoners?"
"Why not? She might as well gain that as another; it is no longer the tyrant's money, but belongs to the nation, who pays for them."
"You were told to examine the linen with the greatest attention."
"Well, do I ever fail in my duty? In proof of which, they had yesterday a handkerchief tied in two knots. I took it to the Council, who ordered my wife to undo the knots, iron, and return it to Madame Capet, without saying anything about it."
At this remark of two knots being tied in the pocket-handkerchief, the queen trembled, the pupils of her eyes dilated, and she and Madame Elizabeth exchanged hasty glances.
"Tison," said Santerre, "your daughter is a person of whose patriotism no one can entertain a doubt; but when she leaves the Temple to-day she returns there no more."
"Ah,mon Dieu!" said Tison, terrified, "what are you saying to me? Shall I not see my daughter except when I go out?"
"You shall go out no more," said Santerre.
Tison looked wildly around, without allowing his eye to remain fixed on any particular object, and suddenly exclaimed, "I am not to go out; that is it, is it? Well, then, I will go out altogether. Give me my dismissal. I am neither traitor nor aristocrat, that I should be detained in prison. I tell you I will go out."
"Citizen," said Santerre, "obey the orders of the Commune, and be silent; or I tell you it may be all the worse for you. Remain here and watch all that passes. There is an eye on you. I warn you."
During this time the queen, who thought herself for a moment forgotten, recovered by degrees, and replaced her son in his bed.
"Desire your wife to come up," said the municipal to Tison.
He obeyed without a word. The threats of Santerre had rendered him as meek as a lamb.
Tison's wife came up.
"Come here, Citizeness," said Santerre; "we are going into the antechamber; during that time, search all the prisoners."
"Listen, wife," said Tison; "they are not going to permit our daughter to come to the Temple any more."
"What! they will not permit our daughter to come here! Then we shall see her no more?"
Tison mournfully shook his head.
"What do you say to this?"
"I say we shall make a report to the Council of the Temple, and the Council will decide it. In the mean time—"
"In the mean time I will see my daughter again."
"Silence," said Santerre, "you were brought here for the purpose of searching the prisoners; search them, then, and afterward we shall see—"
"But—now—"
"Oh, oh!" said Santerre, knitting his brows, "you are contaminated, it appears to me."
"Do as the Citizen General tells you, wife," Tison said; "afterward, we shall see."
And Tison regarded Santerre with a humble smile.
"Very well," said the woman; "go, then, I am ready to search."
The men went out.
"My dear Madame Tison," said the queen, "you know—"
"I only know, Citizeness Capet," said the horrible woman, gnashing her teeth, "that you are the cause of all the misery of the people; and also that I have reason to suspect you, and you know it."
Four men waited at the door, to assist Tison's wife, if the queen offered any resistance.
The search commenced on the queen.
There was found on her person a handkerchief tied in three knots, which unfortunately appeared a reply to the one spoken of by Tison; a pencil, a scapulary, and some sealing-wax.
"Ah! I knew it," said Tison's wife; "I have often told the municipals she wrote, the Austrian! The other day I found a lump of sealing-wax in the socket of the candlestick."
"Ah, Madame," said the queen, in a supplicating tone, "only show the scapulary, I entreat you."
"Yes," said the woman, "I feel pity for you, who have felt so much pity for me to take my daughter from me."
Madame Elizabeth and Madame Royale had nothing found upon them.
The woman Tison recalled the municipals, who entered, Santerre at their head. She showed them the articles found upon the queen, which, as they passed from hand to hand, afforded subject for an infinite variety of conjectures; but the handkerchief tied in three knots excited, above all, the imagination of these persecutors of the royal race.
"Now," said Santerre, "we are going to read the decree of the Convention to you."
"What decree?" demanded the queen.
"The decree which orders you to be separated from your son."
"Is it, then, true that this decree exists?"
"Yes; the Convention has too much regard for the health of a child confided to its guardianship, to leave him in the care of a mother so depraved."
The eyes of the queen flashed lightning.
"But make some accusation at least, tigers that you are."
"That is not at all difficult," said a municipal; and he pronounced one of those infamous accusations brought by Suetonius against Agrippina.
"Oh!" cried the queen, standing, pale with indignation, "I appeal from it to the heart of every mother."
"That is all very fine," said a municipal; "but we have already been here two hours, and cannot lose the whole day. Get up, Capet, and follow us."
"Never, never!" cried the queen, rushing betweenthe municipals and the young Louis, and preparing to defend the approach to his bed, as a tigress the entrance to her den. "Never will I permit you to carry away my child!"
"Oh, Messieurs," said Madame Elizabeth, clasping her hands in the most touching attitude of prayer, "Messieurs, in the name of Heaven, have pity on us two mothers."
"Then speak," said Santerre; "state the names, avow the project of your accomplices; explain what they wished to intimate by the knots made in the pocket-handkerchief brought with your linen by Tison's daughter, and the meaning of those tied in the handkerchief found in your pocket, and on these conditions I will leave you your child."
A look from Madame Elizabeth seemed to implore the queen to submit to this dreadful sacrifice.
But quietly brushing from her eye a tear which sparkled like a diamond, "Adieu, my son!" cried she; "never forget your father who is in heaven, or your mother who will soon join him there, and never omit to repeat morning and evening the prayer I have taught you. Adieu! my son."
She gave him a last kiss; then rising calm and inflexible, "I know nothing, Messieurs," said she, "do as you please."
But the queen must have required more fortitude than is contained in the heart of a woman, and above all of a mother. She fell back fainting upon a chair, while they carried away the child, who with fast flowing tears held out his arms, but uttered not a single word or cry.
The door closed behind the municipals who carried away the royal child, and the three women remained alone. There was for a moment the deep silence of despair, interrupted only by occasional sobs.
The queen first broke silence.
"My daughter," said she, "that letter?"
"I burned it, as you desired me, mother."
"Without reading it?"
"Without reading it."
"Adieu, then, to the last ray of hope, divine hope!" murmured Madame Elizabeth.
"You are right, my sister, you are right; it is almost beyond endurance." Then turning toward her daughter, "But you at least saw the hand-writing, Marie?"
"Yes, mother, for a moment."
The queen rose, went to the door to make sure she was not observed; then drawing a pin from her hair, approached the wall, and from a chink drew out a small paper folded like a letter, and showing it to Madame Royale, "collect your thoughts before you reply, my child," said she; "was the writing the same as this?"
"Yes, yes, mother!" cried the princess; "I recognize it!"
"God be praised, then!" cried the queen, falling with fervor on her knees. "If he could write since this morning, he is safe. Thanks, O God! thanks! So noble a friend deserves thy miraculous preservation."
"Of whom do you speak, mother?" demanded Madame Royale. "Who is this friend? Tell me his name, that I may commend him to God in my prayers."
"You are right, my child; never forget it. This name, for it is the name of a gentleman replete with honor and courage, one not devoted to us through ambition, for he has only revealed himself since our misfortunes. He has never seen the queen of France, or rather the queen of France has never seen him, and he devotes his life to her defence. Perhaps he will be recompensed as all virtue is now recompensed, by a dreadful death. But—if hedies.—Oh! I shall still think of him in heaven. He is called—"
The queen looked uneasily around, then lowering her voice, "He is called the Chevalier de Maison-Rouge. Pray for him."
CHAPTER VII.
THE OATH OF THE GAMESTER.
Theattempted abduction however doubtful might be the fact, since if it had any reality it had failed in its very commencement, had excited the anger of some, and the interest of others. What afforded strong probability to the existence of such a project was the fact that the Committee for General Security learned that three weeks, or a month before, a number of emigrants had entered France from different parts of the frontier. It was evident that these people who thus risked their lives did not do so without design, and this design was in all probability to co-operate in carrying off the royal family.
Already, upon the proposition of the Conventionalist Usselin, the terrible decree had been promulgated, which condemned to death all emigrants convicted of having returned to France; all Frenchmen convicted of having intended to emigrate; every individual convicted of having assisted in their flight, or in their return, either a female or male emigrant; and lastly, all citizens convicted of having afforded shelter to an emigrant. With this dreadful law commenced the "Reign of Terror." All that was wanting was the law for suspected persons. The Chevalier de Maison-Rouge was an enemy far too active and audacious for his return to Paris, and his appearance in the Temple, not to call forth the gravest measures. More severe inspections than had previously taken place were made in a number of suspected houses; but with theexception of some female emigrants who allowed themselves to be taken, and some old men who did not care enough for their few remaining days to dispute with the executioner, their researches produced no other result.
The sections, as may be imagined, were after this event much occupied for several days, and consequently the secretary of the section Lepelletier, one of the most influential in Paris, had little time to think of his unknown fair one. At first, as he had resolved on quitting the old Rue Saint Jacques, he had tried to forget her, but, as his friend Lorin had observed to him,—
"Alas! endeavoring to forgetBut makes us recollect the more."
Maurice, however, neither said nor confessed anything. He buried in his heart all the details of that adventure which he had been able to conceal from the scrutiny of his friend. But Lorin, who knew Maurice to be of a joyous and hilarious nature, and now saw him constantly sad and thoughtful, seeking solitude, doubted not, to use his own expression, that the rogue Cupid had passed that way. It is remarkable, that, during its eighteen centuries of monarchy, France had had few years so mythological as the year of our Lord 1793.
In the mean time the chevalier was not taken, and he was no more spoken of. The widowed queen, cruelly robbed of her child, contented herself by weeping, in company with her sister and daughter. The young dauphin was consigned to the care of "Simon the Shoemaker," and entered upon that course of martyrdom which, in the short space of two years, was to reunite him with his father and mother. There was a moment's calm. The Montagnard volcano rested before devouring the Girondins.
Maurice felt the weight of this calm, as the heaviness of the atmosphere is felt in stormy weather, and not knowing how to dispose of his leisure, abandoned himself entirely to the ardor of a sentiment which if not actually love itself bordered closely upon it. He re-read his letter, again kissed his beautiful sapphire ring, and resolved (notwithstanding his oath) to make one more attempt, promising himself this should indeed be the last. The young man had first thought he would go to the section of the Jardin des Plantes, and there make inquiry from the secretary, his colleague. But the first idea (and we may add, which he still retained) that the beautiful unknown was mixed up in some political plot, still restrained him, as the thought that any indiscretion on his part might be the means of sending this lovely woman to the Place de la Révolution, and her head to the block, caused his blood to curdle and freeze in his veins. He therefore determined on seeking this adventure alone, and without any further information.
His plan, besides, was very simple. The catalogue of names inscribed on each door would certainly afford him some clew, and then by interrogating the porters he might be able to solve the mystery. In his capacity of secretary of the Rue Lepelletier, he possessed full and entire right to make all inquiries. Besides, Maurice, ignorant of the name of the unknown, was able to judge of it by analogy. It was impossible so lovely a creature should not possess a name in harmony with her form, some name appertaining to sylph, fairy, or angel, since her arrival on earth must have been hailed as that of a superior and supernatural being. This name would then most infallibly guide him.
Maurice then dressed himself in a coat of dark brown cloth, adorned his head with thebonnet-rougeworn ongreat occasions, and set out on his voyage of discovery alone. He had in his hand one of those knotted cudgels called aconstitution, which wielded by his vigorous hand was powerful as the club of Hercules, and in his pocket he placed his commission as secretary of the section Lepelletier. These were at once his physical security and his moral guarantee.
He prepared himself to review afresh the Rue Saint Victor, the old Rue Saint Jacques, reading by the light of the declining day all those names (inscribed by hands more or less practised) upon the panels of every door.
Maurice had reached the hundredth house, and consequently read the hundredth list, and nothing had yet occurred to induce him to imagine that he was in the least degree upon the trail of the unknown, as he had fully made up his mind that no name could be hers which did not belong to the class he had imagined, when a good-natured shoemaker, noticing the anxiety and impatience depicted on the young man's countenance, came out with his strap of leather and his punch, and looking at Maurice over his spectacles,—
"Do you wish any information respecting the tenants of this house, Citizen?" said he; "if so, I shall be happy to give it to you."
"Thanks, Citizen," stammered Maurice; "I am looking for the name of a friend."
"Tell me the name, Citizen; I know everybody in this quarter. Where does this friend live?"
"He lived, I think, in the old Rue Saint Jacques; but I fear he has removed."
"But how is he named? I must know that."
Maurice taken thus unawares hesitated for a moment, then pronounced the first name that presented itself to his memory.
"René," said he.
"And what trade?"
Maurice was surrounded by tanneries.
"A journeyman-tanner," said he.
"In that case," said a burgess, who stopped and regarded Maurice with a certain good-nature, not totally exempt from distrust, "you should address yourself to his master."
"That is true," said the door-keeper; "you are quite right, the masters know the names of their workmen; here is Citizen Dixmer, who is manager of a tannery, and has more than fifty workmen in his yard, he can perhaps tell you." Maurice turned round and saw a burgess of commanding figure and mild countenance, the richness of whose attire denoted opulence.
"Only as the citizen porter observes, it is necessary I should know the family name."
"The one I said,—René."
"René is his baptismal name; it is the family name I require. All my workmen sign their family name."
"Upon my word," said Maurice, growing impatient under this species of interrogation, "the family name? I do not know it."
"What," said the burgess, with a smile, in which Maurice thought he discerned more irony than he wished to appear,—"what, not know the surname of your friend!"