"No."
"In that case, it is not probable you will find him," and the burgess, gravely bowing to Maurice, walked a short distance and entered a house in the old Rue Saint Jacques.
"The fact is, that if you do not know his surname," said the porter—
"Well, I do not know it," said Maurice, who would not have been sorry to find some occasion to vent his ill-temper, and was at the moment much inclined to seek a quarrel. "What have you to say to that?"
"Nothing, Citizen, nothing at all; only since you do not know the name of your friend, it is as Citizen Dixmer said more than probable you will not find him," and the citizen porter went into his lodge, shrugging his shoulders. Maurice felt a great inclination to thrash this porter, but he was an old man, and his infirmities saved him. Had the porter been twenty years younger, Maurice would have given a scandalous illustration of the principle,—equal in law, unequal in physical force. Besides, the day was drawing to a close, and he had only a few moments of daylight left. He availed himself of it by returning to the first street, then to the second, examined every door, searched in every nook, looked under every palisade, climbed each wall, threw a glance into the interior of every gateway, looked through the keyholes, knocked at some deserted warehouses without receiving any reply, till at length nearly two hours had elapsed in this useless investigation.
Nine o'clock struck; no more noise was heard, no movement seen in this deserted quarter, whose life seemed to have retired with the light of day. Maurice in despair made a retrograde movement, when all at once, at the winding of a narrow alley, he discerned a light. He immediately ventured into the dark passage, without remarking that at that very moment a curious head, which for the last quarter of an hour (from the midst of a clump of trees, rising above the wall) had followed all his movements, then disappeared suddenly behind this wall. A short time after this head had disappeared, three men came out from a small door in this same wall, went intothe alley where Maurice had preceded them, while a fourth, for greater security, locked the door of entrance into the alley. At the end of the alley, Maurice discovered a court; it was on the opposite side of this court that the light was burning. He knocked at the door of a poor, solitary house, but at the first sound the light was extinguished. He redoubled his efforts, but no one answered his call; he saw they were determined to make no reply, so comprehending that it was only a useless waste of time, he crossed the court and re-entered the alley. At this moment the door of the house turned softly on its hinges, three men came out, and then the sound of a whistle was heard.
Maurice turned round, and saw three shadows within a short distance. He saw in the darkness also (his eyes having become accustomed to this obscurity) the reflection of three glittering blades. He knew that he was hemmed in. He would have brandished his club, but the alley was so narrow that it touched the wall on either side. At the same moment he was stunned by a violent blow on the head. This was an unforeseen assault made upon him by the four men who entered through the door in the wall. Seven men at the same time threw themselves upon Maurice, and notwithstanding a desperate resistance, overpowered him, and succeeded in binding his hands and bandaging his eyes.
Maurice had not even uttered a cry, or called for aid. Strength and true courage are self-reliant, and are ashamed of extraneous aid. Besides, Maurice had often heard that no one would enter this deserted quarter. Maurice was thus, as we have said, thrown down and bound, but had not uttered a single complaint. He had reflected as to what would follow,—that as they had bandaged his eyes they did not intend to kill him directly. At Maurice'sage respite becomes hope. He recovered his presence of mind, and listened patiently.
"Who are you?" demanded a voice, still breathless from the late struggle.
"I am a man they are murdering," replied Maurice.
"What is more, you are a dead man if you speak loud, or call for assistance, or even utter the least cry."
"If I had wished to cry, I need not have waited till now."
"Are you ready to answer my questions?"
"Let me hear them first; I shall then see whether I ought to reply."
"Who sent you here?"
"No one."
"You came then of your own accord?"
"Yes."
"You lie!"
Maurice made a desperate effort to disengage his hands, but it was in vain.
"I never lie," said he.
"In either case, whether you came of your own accord or were sent, you are a spy."
"And you are cowards!"
"We cowards!"
"You are seven or eight against one man bound, and you insult that man. Cowards! cowards! cowards!"
This violence on the part of Maurice, instead of enraging his adversaries, appeared to produce a contrary effect. It was even a proof that the young man was not what they had laid to his charge; a true spy would have trembled, and begged for mercy.
"There is nothing insulting in that," said a voice, milder yet firmer than any that had previously beenheard; "in the times we live in, one may be a spy without being a dishonest man, only it is at the risk of one's life."
"If that is your opinion, you are welcome to question me, I will answer you faithfully."
"What are you doing in this quarter?"
"Looking for a woman."
This excuse was received with a murmur of incredulity; the murmur increased and became a storm.
"You lie!" replied the same voice. "There is no woman in the matter, and we know what we mean by 'woman;' there is no woman to pursue in this quarter. Avow your project, or die."
"Come," said Maurice, "you will not kill me for pleasure, unless you are downright ruffians."
Maurice made a second effort, more violent and unexpected than the first, to disengage his hands from the cord which bound them, when suddenly a cold sensation, sharp and painful, shot through his breast.
Despite himself, Maurice fell back a step.
"Ah! you felt that," said one of the men. "Well, there are eight inches like the inch with which you have just become acquainted."
"Complete your work, then," said Maurice, resignedly; "it will at least soon be over."
"Come now, who are you?" asked the voice which was at once mild and commanding.
"Do you wish to know my name?"
"Yes, your name."
"Maurice Lindey."
"What!" exclaimed a voice, "Maurice Lindey, the revolu—the patriot? Maurice Lindey, secretary of the Lepelletier section?"
These words were pronounced with so much heat that Maurice saw clearly that they were decisive. To reply was in a manner to fix irrevocably his fate.
Maurice was incapable of cowardice. He drew himself up like a Spartan, and said in a firm voice,—
"Yes, Maurice Lindey; yes, Maurice Lindey, the secretary of the section Lepelletier; yes, Maurice Lindey, the patriot, the revolutionist, the Jacobin; Maurice Lindey, in short, whose brightest day on earth will be that on which he will die for liberty."
A death-like silence followed this reply.
Maurice presented his breast, expecting every moment that the blade, whose point he had already felt, would be plunged into his heart.
"Is your statement really true?" asked a voice which betrayed some emotion; "come, young man, do not lie."
"Search my pocket," said Maurice, "and you will find my commission. Look at my shirt-bosom, and if my blood has not effaced them, you will there see embroidered my initials,MandL."
Maurice at once felt himself lifted by strong arms which bore him a short distance. He heard first one door open, then another; but the second was narrower than the first, for his bearers could scarcely pass through with him.
The murmurs and whispers continued.
"I am lost," thought Maurice. "They are going to tie a stone round my neck and throw me into some hole of the Bièvre."
But in another moment he felt that the men ascended some steps, where the air was warmer, and where they placed him on a seat. He heard a double door shut andthe steps withdraw. He believed that he was left alone. He listened as intently as a man can whose life depends upon a word, and he believed that he heard that same voice whose tones had already struck him as mixing mildness with command, say to the others,—
"Let us deliberate."
CHAPTER VIII.
GENEVIÈVE.
A quarterof an hour elapsed, which seemed a century to Maurice. Nothing more natural; young, handsome, vigorous, supported in his strength by a hundred devoted friends, in combination with whom he sometimes dreamed of the accomplishment of great achievements, he found himself all at once without the least preparation in peril of losing his life in an ignominious den of assassins.
He understood that they had shut him up in some chamber; but was he watched?
Again he struggled to break his bonds. His muscles of steel swelled and contracted; the cord cut into his flesh, but did not break.
The most terrible thing was that his hands were fastened behind his back so that he could not remove the bandage from his eyes. If he could only see, he might escape.
As he had made these attempts to free himself without opposition, without anything stirring around him, he concluded that he was alone. The ground under his feet was soft and soundless, might be gravel or perhaps clay. An acrid and pungent smell announced the presence of vegetable matter. Maurice fancied he was in a greenhouse, or some place very like it. He took a step or two, hit the wall, turned, and groping with his hands, felt some garden-tools. He uttered an exclamation of joy.
With unparalleled exertion he examined these tools, one after the other. His flight now became a question of time. If chance, or Providence, granted him five minutes, and if among these tools he found a sharp instrument, he was saved.
He found a spade. From the way in which Maurice was bound, it required a great struggle to raise the spade a sufficient height for his purpose. He at length succeeded, and upon the blade of the spade which he supported against the wall with his back, he at last cut, or rather wore away, the cord which confined his wrists. The operation was tedious, the iron cut slowly. The perspiration streamed from his face; he heard a noise as of some one approaching; with a tremendous effort the cord, half-severed, broke. He could not help giving a cry of joy; now at least he was sure to die in defending himself.
Maurice tore the bandage from his eyes.
He had not been mistaken; he found himself not in a greenhouse, but in a kind of pavilion used as a receptacle for the more delicate plants unable to outlive the winter in the open air. In a corner the gardening implements were stowed away, one of which had been the means of rendering him so important a service. Facing him was a window; he rushed toward it; it was grated, and a man armed with a carbine placed sentinel before it.
On the other side of the garden, about thirty paces distant, rose a small turret, fellow to the one where Maurice remained prisoner. The blind was down, but through the blind a light was visible.
He approached the door and listened; another sentinel paced to and fro before this door. These were the footsteps he had heard.
But from the end of the corridor a confusion of voices resounded. The deliberation had evidently degenerated into disputation. Maurice could not hear distinctly what was said; some words, however, reached him, and amid these words—as if for them only the distance was short—he distinguished plainly, Spy! Poniard! Death!
Maurice redoubled his attention; a door opened, and he heard more distinctly.
"Yes," said one voice, "he is assuredly a spy; he has discovered something, and is certainly sent to take us and our secret unawares. In freeing him we run the risk of his denouncing us."
"But his word," said a voice.
"His word—he will give it only to betray us. Is he a gentleman that we should trust his word?"
Maurice ground his teeth at the idea which some folks still retained, that only a gentleman could keep his oath.
"But he does not know us; how can he denounce us?"
"No; he certainly does not know us nor our occupation, but he knows the address, and will return; next time he will be well accompanied."
This argument appeared conclusive.
"Then," said the voice which several times already had struck Maurice as belonging to the chief, "it is decided."
"Yes, a hundred times yes; I do not comprehend you with your magnanimity. My good sir, if the Committee for the Public Safety caught us, you would see if they acted toward us with so much ceremony."
"You persist, then, in your decision, gentlemen?"
"Without doubt, and you are not, we hope, going to oppose it."
"I have only one voice, gentlemen; it has been in favor of his liberation: you possess six, and they all vote for his death. Let it, then, be death."
Maurice felt the blood freeze in his veins.
"Of course he will howl," said a voice; "have you removed Madame Dixmer?"
"Madame Dixmer!" murmured Maurice; "I begin now to comprehend. I am in the house of the master-tanner who spoke to me in the old Rue Saint Jacques, and who went away laughing because I was unable to tell him the name of my friend. But how can it be to his interest to assassinate me?"
Looking round, Maurice perceived an iron stake with a handle of ash-tree wood.
"In any case," said he, "before they assassinate me, I will kill more than one of them."
And he sprang to secure this harmless instrument, which, in his hand, was to become a formidable weapon. He then retired behind the door, and so placed himself that he could see without being seen. His heart beat so tumultuously that in the deep silence its palpitations might be heard. Suddenly Maurice shuddered from head to foot. A voice had said,—
"If you act according to my advice, you will break a pane, and through the bars kill him with a shot from a carbine."
"Oh, no, no!—not an explosion," said another voice, "that might betray us. Besides, Dixmer, there is your wife."
"I have just looked at her through the blind; she suspects nothing—she is reading."
"Dixmer, you shall decide for us. Do you advocate a shot from the carbine, or a stroke from the poniard?"
"Avoid firearms as much as possible—the poniard."
"Then let it be the poniard. Come!"
"Come!" repeated five or six voices, together.
Maurice was a child of the Revolution, with a heart of flint, and in mind, like many others at that epoch, an atheist. But at the word "Come!" pronounced behind the door, which alone separated him from death, he remembered the sign of the cross, which his mother had taught him when an infant he said his prayers at her knee.
Steps approached, stopped; then the key turned in the lock, and the door slowly opened.
During this fleeting moment, Maurice had said to himself,—
"If I do not strike at once, I am a dead man. If I throw myself upon the assassins, I take them unawares—gain first the garden, then the street, and am saved!"
Immediately, with the spring of a lion, and uttering a fierce cry which savored more of menace than terror, he threw down the first two men, who believing him bound and blindfolded were quite unprepared for such an assault, scattered the others, took a tremendous leap over them, thanks to his iron muscles, saw at the end of the corridor a door leading into the garden wide open, rushed toward it, cleared at a bound six steps, found himself in the garden, and guessing his whereabouts as nearly as possible, rushed toward the gate. It was secured by a lock and a couple of bolts. Maurice drew back the bolts, tried to open the lock; but it had no key.
In the mean time his pursuers, who had reached the steps, perceived him.
"There he is!" cried they; "fire upon him, Dixmer, fire! Kill him—kill him!"
Maurice uttered a groan; he was enclosed in thegarden; he measured the walls with his eye—they were ten feet in height.
All this passed in a moment. The assassins rushed forward in pursuit.
Maurice was about thirty paces in advance; he looked about him with the air of a condemned man who seeks the shadow of a chance to save himself. He perceived the turret, the blind, and behind the blind the light.
He made but one bound,—a bound of six feet,—seized the blind, tore it down, passed through the window, smashing it, and alighted in a chamber where a lady sat reading.
The lady rose terrified, calling for help.
"Stand aside, Geneviève; stand aside!" cried the voice of Dixmer, "stand aside that I may kill him!"
And Maurice saw the carbine levelled at him.
But scarcely had the woman looked at him than she uttered a frightful cry, and instead of standing aside, as desired by her husband, rushed between him and the barrel of the gun.
This movement concentrated all Maurice's attention on the generous woman, whose first impulse was to protect him from danger and death.
In his turn he uttered a cry of astonishment.
It was the unknown whom he had so eagerly sought.
"You!" he exclaimed, "you—"
"Silence!" cried she.
Then, turning toward the assassins, who, variously armed, approached the window,—
"Ah! you will not kill him!" cried she.
"He is a spy," said Dixmer, whose usually placid countenance had assumed an expression of stern resolution,—"he is a spy, and therefore must die."
"A spy—he!" said Geneviève; "he a spy! Comehere, Dixmer; I need only say one word to prove that you are strangely deceived."
Dixmer and Geneviève approached the window, and in a low voice she uttered a few words.
The master-tanner raised his head quickly.
"He!" said he.
"He himself," said Geneviève.
"You are certain, quite certain?"
This time the young woman did not reply, but smiling held out her hand to Maurice.
The features of Dixmer now assumed a singular expression of coolness and gentleness. He rested the butt-end of his musket on the ground.
"This is quite another thing," said he.
Then making a sign to his companions to follow, he stepped aside with them, and after saying a few words, they disappeared.
"Conceal that ring," murmured Geneviève; "it is known by every one here."
Maurice quickly drew the ring from his finger, and slipped it into his waistcoat-pocket.
A moment afterward the door of the pavilion opened, and Dixmer, unarmed, advanced toward Maurice.
"Pardon me, Citizen," said he, "that I did not know sooner the obligation I am under to you. My wife, while retaining a grateful remembrance of the service you rendered her on the 10th of March, had forgotten your name. We were therefore completely in ignorance with whom we were concerned; otherwise, believe me, we should not for a moment have entertained suspicion either of your honor or intentions. I therefore again ask your pardon."
Maurice was bewildered; with the greatest difficulty he preserved his equilibrium; he felt his head turn round,and was near falling. He supported himself against the mantel-piece.
"Why on earth did you wish to kill me?" he asked.
"This is the secret, Citizen," said Dixmer; "I confide it to your keeping. I am, as you already know, a tanner, and principal in this concern. The greater part of the acids I employ in the preparation of my skins are prohibited goods. Now the smugglers have received intelligence of an information laid before the counsel-general. I feared you were an informer. My smugglers were more alarmed than myself at yourbonnet-rougeand formidable appearance, and I do not conceal from you that your death was resolved upon."
"Pardieu!and well I know it," said Maurice; "you tell me no news. I heard your consultation, and have seen your carbine."
"I have already apologized," said Dixmer, in a tone of marked kindness. "You must understand that, thanks to the unsettled state of the times, myself and partner, Monsieur Morand, are likely to realize an immense fortune. We have the furnishing of the military bags, and finish from fifteen hundred to two thousand each day. Owing to this blessed state of things in which we live, the municipality are much occupied, and have not time strictly to examine our accounts, so that it must be confessed we fish a little in troubled waters; the more so because, as I have already told you, the preparatory materials we procure by smuggling allow us to gain two hundred per cent."
"The devil!" said Maurice, "that appears to me an honest living enough, and I can now understand your dread lest a denunciation on my part should put an end to it; but now you know me, you fear me no longer. Is it not so?"
"Now," said Dixmer, "I do not even ask your word of honor." Then, placing his hand on his shoulder and smiling, "As it is only between friends," said he, "may I inquire what brought you here, young man? But of course, if you wish to keep it secret, you are perfectly at liberty to do so."
"I have already told you, I believe," murmured Maurice.
"Yes, a woman," said the burgess; "I know there was something about a woman."
"Mon Dieu!excuse me, Citizen, I am aware some sort of explanation is due to you. Well, then, I sought a female, who the other evening, disguised, told me she resided in this quarter. I neither know her name, position, or place of abode. I only know I am madly in love with her, that she is short—"
Geneviève was tall.
"That she is fair, and of a lively temperament."
Geneviève was a brunette, with large pensive eyes.
"A grisette, in short," continued Maurice; "so to please her, I assumed the popular dress."
"That explains all," said Dixmer, with a faith which a sly wink did not belie.
Geneviève colored, and feeling herself blush, turned away.
"Poor Citizen Lindey," said Dixmer, laughing; "what a miserable evening we have caused you to pass! and you are about the last I would wish to injure, so excellent a patriot, a brother; but, in short, I believed some confounded spy had usurped your name."
"Let us say no more on the subject," said Maurice, who knew it was time for him to withdraw; "put me on my road, and let us forget—"
"Put you on your road!" exclaimed Dixmer; "let you leave us! no indeed, not yet. I give—or rather mypartner and myself give—a supper to-night to those brave fellows who wished so much to slaughter you a little while ago. I reckon upon your supping with them, that you may see they are not such devils as they appear to be."
"But," said Maurice, overjoyed at the thought of being for a few hours near Geneviève, "I do not know really if I ought to accept—"
"If you ought to accept!" said Dixmer; "I know you ought; these are good and stanch patriots like yourself. Besides, I shall not consider that you have forgiven me unless we break bread together."
Geneviève uttered not a word. Maurice was in torment.
"The fact is," stammered Maurice, "I fear I may be a constraint upon you, Citizen—this dress—my ungentlemanly appearance—"
Geneviève looked timidly toward him.
"We invite you in all kindness," said she.
"I accept your invitation, Citizen," said he, bowing.
"I will go and secure our companions," said Dixmer; "in the mean time, warm yourself, my dear sir."
He went out. Maurice and Geneviève remained alone.
"Ah, Monsieur!" said the young woman, in an accent to which she in vain tried to convey a tone of reproach, "you have failed in your word; you have been exceedingly indiscreet."
"Madame," cried Maurice, "have I in any way compromised you? Ah! in that case, pardon me; I will retire, and never—"
"Goodness!" said she, rising, "you are wounded in the breast; your shirt is stained with blood."
Indeed, upon the fine, white shirt of Maurice—a shirt forming a strange contrast to his coarser clothes—a large red spot of blood had spread itself, and had dried there.
"Do not be under any alarm, Madame," said the young man, "one of the smugglers pricked me with his poniard."
Geneviève turned pale, and taking his hand,—
"Forgive me," said she, "the wrong that has been done you; you saved my life, and I have nearly caused your death."
"Am I not sufficiently recompensed in finding you? You cannot for a moment imagine it was for another that I sought."
"Come with me," said Geneviève, interrupting him; "I will find you some clean linen. Our guests must not see you thus; it would be too great a reproach to them."
"I am a great trouble to you, Madame, I fear," said Maurice, sighing.
"Not at all; I only do my duty; and," she added, "I do it with much pleasure."
Geneviève then conducted Maurice to a large dressing-room, arranged with an air of elegance he had not expected to find in the house of a master-tanner. It is true this master-tanner appeared to be a millionnaire. She then opened the wardrobes.
"Help yourself," said she; "you are at home." She withdrew.
When Maurice came out, he found Dixmer had returned.
"Come! come!" said he, "to table; we only wait for you."
CHAPTER IX.
THE SUPPER.
WhenMaurice entered with Dixmer and Geneviève into the dining-room, situated in the part of the house where they had first conducted him, the supper was ready but the room vacant. He saw all the guests enter successively. They were six in number, men of agreeable exterior, for the most part young and fashionably dressed; two or three even wore the blouse and red bonnet.
Dixmer introduced Maurice, naming his titles and qualifications. Then, turning toward Maurice,—
"You see," said he, "Citizen Lindey, all those who assist me in my trade. Thanks to the times in which we live, thanks to the revolutionary principles which have effaced all distinction, we all live upon the same footing of sacred equality. Every day we assemble twice at the same table, and I am happy you have been induced to partake of our family repast. Come! to table—citizens, to table."
"And—Monsieur Morand," said Geneviève, timidly, "do we not wait for him?"
"Ah, true!" said Dixmer. "This citizen of whom I have already spoken, Citizen Lindey, is my partner. He conducts, if I may so express myself, the moral part of the establishment. He attends to the writing, keeps the cash, superintends the factories, pays and receives the money, and, in short, works harder than any of us. The result is that he is sometimes rather late. I will go and tell him we are waiting."
At this moment the door opened, and the Citizen Morand entered.
He was a short man, dark, with bushy eyebrows, and wore green spectacles—like a man whose eyes are fatigued from excess of work—concealing his black eyes, but not effectually obstructing their scintillating gleams. At the first words he uttered, Maurice recognized that mild, yet commanding voice engaged in his behalf when endeavoring to save him from becoming a victim to that terrible discussion. He was habited in a brown coat, with large buttons, a white waistcoat; and his fine cambric shirt-frill was often during dinner smoothed by a hand which Maurice, no doubt from its being that of a tradesman, admired much for its beauty and delicacy of appearance.
They all took their seats. Morand was placed on Geneviève's right hand, Maurice on her left. Dixmer sat opposite his wife. The rest of the guests seated themselves promiscuously round an oblong table. The supper was excellent. Dixmer had a capital appetite, and did the honors of the table with much politeness. The workmen, or those who pretended to be such, under this example became excellent companions. The Citizen Morand spoke little, and ate still less; drank scarcely anything, and rarely smiled. Maurice, perhaps from the reminiscences his voice awakened, felt for him immediately a lively sympathy, only he was in doubt as to his age; and this rather annoyed him, as sometimes he imagined him to be a man of forty or forty-five years, and sometimes to be quite young.
Dixmer, on placing himself at table, felt obliged to offer some explanation to his guests for the admission of a stranger into their little circle. He acquitted himself like an artless man, one unaccustomed to deceit; but the guests, as it seemed, were not hard to manage on thispoint; for, notwithstanding the awkwardness displayed by the manufacturer of hides in the introduction of the young man, they all appeared perfectly satisfied.
Maurice regarded him with astonishment.
"Upon my honor," said he to himself, "I shall really soon think that I myself am deceived. Is that the same man who, with flaming eyes and threatening voice, pursued me, gun in hand, and absolutely wished to kill me three quarters of an hour since? Then I should have taken him for either a hero or an assassin. Goodness! how the love of hides does transform a man."
While making these observations Maurice experienced a strange feeling of joy and grief, and felt unable to analyze his own emotions. He at length found himself near his beautiful unknown, whom he had so ardently sought. As he had dreamed, she bore a charming name; he was intoxicated with the happiness of finding himself at her side; he drank in her every word; and at each sound of her voice the most secret chords of his heart vibrated; but he was deeply wounded by all he saw.
Geneviève was exactly what he had pictured her; the dream of a stormy night, reality had not destroyed. Here was an elegant woman, of sad demeanor but refined mind, affording another instance of what had so frequently occurred during the latter years preceding this present celebrated year '93. Here was a young woman of distinction compelled, from the ruin into which the nobility was ever falling, deeper and deeper, to ally herself to a commoner engaged in commerce. Dixmer appeared a trusty man. He was incontestably rich, and his manners to Geneviève were those of a man making every endeavor to render a woman happy. But could kindness, riches, or excellent intentions compensate her for what she had sacrificed, or remove the immense distance existing between husbandand wife, between a refined, distinguished, charming girl, and a vulgar-looking tradesman? With what could Geneviève fill up this abyss? Alas! Maurice now guessed too well. With love! And he therefore returned to that opinion of the young woman he had formed on the evening of their first meeting,—that she was returning from some love affair.
The idea of Geneviève loving any one was torture to Maurice. He sighed, and deeply regretted having exposed himself to the temptation of imbibing a still larger dose of that poison termed love. At other moments, while listening to that ductile voice, so soft and harmonious, examining that pure and open countenance which evinced no fear that he should read every secret of her soul, he arrived at the conclusion that it was utterly impossible that this matchless creature could descend to deceit; and then he found a bitter pleasure in remembering that this lovely woman belonged solely to this good citizen, with his honest smile and vulgar pleasantries, and would never be to him more than a passing acquaintance.
They conversed of course on politics. How could it be otherwise at an epoch when politics were mixed up with everything. Political subjects were even painted on the plates, political designs covered the walls, and politics were daily proclaimed in the streets. All at once, one of the guests who had hitherto preserved silence inquired concerning the prisoners of the Temple.
Maurice started, in spite of himself, at the ring of that voice. He recognized the voice of the man who, a strenuous advocate for extreme measures, had first struck him with his dagger, and then advocated his death. Nevertheless, this man, an honest tanner, and head of the manufactory, at least so Dixmer represented him,soon incited the good humor of Maurice by the expression of ideas the most patriotic, and principles the most revolutionary. The young man, under certain circumstances, was not inimical to these extreme measures, so much in fashion at this period, of which Danton was the apostle and hero. In this man's place, from the effect of whose voice and weapon he felt himself still smarting, he would not have attempted to assassinate the man he believed to be a spy, but would rather have locked him in the garden, and there, equally armed, sword to sword, have fought him without mercy, without pity. This is what Maurice would have done; but he comprehended soon that this was too much to expect of a journeyman-tanner.
This man of extreme measures, who appeared to possess in his political ideas the same violent system as in his private conduct, then spoke of the Temple, and expressed surprise that the prisoners were confided to the guardianship of a permanent council liable to be corrupted, and to municipals whose fidelity had already been more than once tempted.
"Yes," said the Citizen Morand; "but it must be remembered that on every occasion, up to the present time, the municipals have fully justified the confidence reposed in them by the nation, and history will record that the Citizen Robespierre alone has merited the title of 'Incorruptible.'"
"Without doubt, without doubt," replied the interlocutor; "but because a thing has not yet happened, it would be absurd to suppose it never can happen. As for the National Guard," continued the foreman of the manufactory, "well, the companies of the different sections are placed, each in their turn, on duty at the Temple, and that indifferently. Will you not admit that there mightbe, in a company of twenty or five-and-twenty men, a band of seven or eight determined characters, who some fine night might slaughter the sentinels and carry off the prisoners?"
"Bah!" said Maurice; "you see, Citizen, this would be a foolish expedient. In fact the thing was tried three weeks or a month ago, and did not succeed."
"Yes," replied Morand; "because one of those aristocrats who composed the patrol had the imprudence in speaking to let fall the word 'Monsieur,' I do not know to whom."
"And then," said Maurice, who wished to prove that the police of the Republic did their duty, "because the entrance of the Chevalier de Maison-Rouge into Paris was already known—"
"Bah!" cried Dixmer.
"They knew that Maison-Rouge had entered Paris?" coldly demanded Morand; "and did they know by what means he entered?"
"Perfectly."
"Indeed!" said Morand, leaning forward to look at Maurice, "I should be curious to know that, as up to the present moment no one can speak positively. But you, Citizen, you, secretary of one of the principal sections in Paris, ought to be better informed."
"Doubtless; therefore, what I am about to tell you is the true statement of facts."
All the guests and even Geneviève appeared prepared to pay the greatest attention to this recital.
"Well," said Maurice, "the Chevalier de Maison-Rouge came from Vendée, it appears; he had traversed all France with his usual good fortune. Arrived during the day at the Barrière du Roule, he waited till nine o'clock at night. At that hour a woman, disguised as awoman of the people, went out through the barrier, carrying to the chevalier a costume of chasseur of the National Guard. Ten minutes afterward she re-entered with him; but the sentinel, who had seen her go out alone, felt rather suspicious when he saw her return with a companion. He gave the alarm to the post; the post turned out, when the two culprits, knowing they were pursued, flung themselves into a hôtel where a second door opened into the Champs Elysées.
"It seems that a patrol devoted to the tyrants waited for the chevalier at the corner of the Rue Bar-du-Bec. You are acquainted with the rest."
"Ah, ah!" said Morand; "this is very strange."
"But positively true," said Maurice.
"Yes, it has an air of truth; but the female, do you know what became of her?"
"No; she has disappeared, and they are quite ignorant who she is, or what she is."
The partner of Citizen Dixmer, and Citizen Dixmer himself, appeared to breathe more freely.
Geneviève had listened to the whole of this recital, pale, silent, and immovable.
"But," said Morand, with his usual coolness, "who can say that the Chevalier de Maison-Rouge made one of the patrol who gave the alarm at the Temple?"
"A municipal, one of my friends, that day on duty at the Temple. He recognized him."
"He knew him from description?"
"He had seen him before."
"And what sort of man, personally, is this Chevalier de Maison-Rouge?"
"A man of five or six and twenty, short, fair, and of a pleasing countenance, with magnificent eyes and superb teeth."
There was a profound silence.
"Well," said Morand, "if your friend the municipal recognized this pretended Chevalier de Maison-Rouge, why did he not arrest him?"
"In the first place, not knowing of his arrival at Paris, he feared being the dupe of a resemblance; and then my friend, being rather lukewarm, acted as the lukewarm generally act,—gave him the benefit of his doubt, and let him alone."
"You would not have acted thus, Citizen?" said Dixmer, laughing boisterously.
"No," said Maurice; "I confess it, I would rather find myself deceived than allow so dangerous a man as the Chevalier de Maison-Rouge to escape."
"And what would you have done, then, Monsieur?" timidly inquired Geneviève.
"What would I have done, Citizeness?" said Maurice. "Oh, by Jove! I would have made short work of it. I would have had every door in the Temple shut. I would have walked straight up to the patrol, have placed my hand on his collar, and said to him, 'Chevalier de Maison-Rouge, I arrest you as a traitor to the nation;' and my hand once upon his collar, I would not soon release him, I can tell you."
"And what would have happened then?" asked Geneviève.
"It would have happened that he and his accomplices would have been arrested, and that very hour would have been guillotined; that is all."
Geneviève shuddered, and darted on her neighbor a look of affright. But the Citizen Morand did not appear to notice this glance, and phlegmatically emptied his glass.
"The Citizen Lindey is right," said he; "there wasnothing else to do; but, unfortunately, it was not done."
"And," demanded Geneviève, "do you know what has become of the Chevalier de Maison-Rouge?"
"Bah!" said Dixmer, "in all probability he did not wish to remain longer, and finding his attempt abortive, quitted Paris immediately."
"And perhaps even France," added Morand.
"Not at all, not at all," said Maurice.
"What! has he had the imprudence to remain in Paris?" asked Geneviève.
"He has not stirred."
A movement of general astonishment followed this assertion which Maurice had stated with so much confidence.
"This is only a supposition, Citizen, on your part," said Morand,—"merely a supposition, that is all."
"No; I affirm it as a positive fact."
"Ah!" said Geneviève; "I acknowledge, for my part, I cannot believe it is as you say; it would be such an unpardonable imprudence."
"You are a woman, Citizen; and can comprehend, then, what would outweigh, with a man of such a character as the Chevalier de Maison-Rouge, all considerations of personal security?"
"And what can outweigh the dread of losing one's life in a manner so dreadful?"
"Ah, Citizeness!" answered Maurice, "love."
"Love!" repeated Geneviève.
"Certainly. Do you not know, then, that the Chevalier de Maison-Rouge is enamored of Marie Antoinette?"
Two or three incredulous laughs were faintly heard. Dixmer looked at Maurice as if he sought to penetrate the very depths of his soul. Geneviève felt the tearssuffuse her eyes, and a shuddering she could not conceal from Maurice ran through her frame. The Citizen Morand spilled some wine from his glass, which he was then in the act of putting to his lips. His paleness would have alarmed Maurice, had not all the young man's attention been at the time centred on Geneviève.
"You are moved, Citizeness," murmured Maurice.
"Did you not say I should understand this because I was a woman? Well, we women feel for such devotion even if opposed to our principles."
"And that of the Chevalier de Maison-Rouge is the height of devotion, as it is said he has never even spoken to the queen."
"Ah! there now, Citizen Lindey," said the man of extreme measures; "it seems to me, permit me to observe, that you are very indulgent to the Chevalier—"
"Monsieur," said Maurice, perhaps intentionally making use of a word which had ceased to be in vogue, "I love all brave and courageous natures, which does not prevent my fighting them when I meet them in the ranks of my enemies. I do not despair of one day encountering the Chevalier de Maison-Rouge."
"And—" said Geneviève.
"If I meet him—well, I shall fight him."
The supper was finished. Geneviève set the example of retiring, by herself rising from table. At this moment the clock struck.
"Midnight!" said Morand, coolly.
"Midnight," exclaimed Maurice,—"midnight already?"
"That exclamation affords me much pleasure," said Dixmer; "it proves you are not wearied, and induces me to hope we may see you again. It is the door of a true patriot which opens to receive you; and, I trust, ere long, you will find it that of a sincere friend."
Maurice bowed, and turning toward Geneviève,—
"Will the Citizeness also permit me to repeat my visit?" demanded he.
"I do more than permit, I request you to do so. Adieu, Citizen," and Geneviève retired.
Maurice took leave of all the guests, particularly saluting Morand, with whom he was much pleased; pressed Dixmer's hand, and went away bewildered, but on the whole more joyful than sad, from the various and unexpected events of the evening.
"Unfortunate encounter, unfortunate encounter!" said the young woman, after Maurice's departure, and then burst into tears in the presence of her husband, who had conducted her to her room.
"Bah!" said Dixmer, "the Citizen Lindey, a known patriot, secretary to a section, admired, worshipped, and highly popular, is, on the contrary, a great acquisition to a poor tanner who has contraband merchandise on his premises."
"Do you think so,mon ami?" asked Geneviève, timidly.
"I think it is a warrant of patriotism, a seal of absolution, placed upon our house; and I think, after this evening, that the Chevalier de Maison-Rouge himself would be safe at our house."
And Dixmer kissed his wife with an affection more paternal than conjugal, and left her in the little pavilion set apart for her special benefit, passing himself into another part of the building, which he inhabited with the guests we have seen assembled round his table.
CHAPTER X.
SIMON THE SHOEMAKER.
Themonth of May had commenced. A bright clear day expanded the lungs tired of inhaling the icy fogs of winter, and the rays of the sun, warm and exhilarating, shone upon the black walls of the Temple. At the wicket of the interior, which separated the tower from the gardens, the soldiers of the post were smoking and laughing. But, notwithstanding the beauty of the day, and the offer made to the prisoners to descend and walk in the garden, the three females refused to do so; as, since the execution of her husband, the queen had obstinately secluded herself in her chamber, not wishing to pass the door of the apartment lately occupied by the king on the second story. When by any chance she took the air, since the fatal occurrence of the 21st of January, she did so on the platform of the tower, where even the battlements were inclosed with shutters.
The National Guards on duty, who knew the three females had received permission to go out, waited in vain all day, expecting them to turn the authority to some account. Toward five o'clock a man descended, and approached the sergeant in command of the post.
"Ah! ah! is that you, Father Tison?" said the sergeant, who appeared to be a right merry fellow.
"Yes, it is I, Citizen; I bring you, on the part of the municipal Maurice Lindey, your friend, who is now upstairs, this permission, granted by the Council of the Temple to my daughter, to pay a visit to her mother this evening."
"And you are going out just as your daughter is coming in? Unnatural father!" said the sergeant.
"I am going much against my inclination, Citizen Sergeant. I also hoped to see my poor child, whom I have not seen for two months, and to embrace her this evening. I am going out now. This service, this damned service, compels me to go out. It is necessary I should go to the Commune to make my report. A fiacre is waiting for me at the door, with two gendarmes, and it is exactly the time when my poor Sophie will arrive."
"Unhappy parent!" said the sergeant.
"And, Citizen Sergeant, when my child comes to see her poor mother, who is dying to see her, you will allow her to pass?"
"The order is correct," replied the sergeant, whom the reader has no doubt recognized as our friend Lorin; "so I have nothing to say against it; when your daughter comes, she may pass."
"Thanks, brave Thermopyle! thanks," said Tison; and he went out to make his report to the Commune, murmuring, "My poor wife, how happy she will be!"
"Do you know, Sergeant," said one of the National Guard, seeing Tison depart, and overhearing the last words,—"do you know there is something in these things that makes my blood run cold?"
"What things, Citizen Devaux?" demanded Lorin.
"Why," replied the compassionate National Guard, "to see this man, with his surly face and heart of stone, this pitiless guardian of the queen, go out with his eyes full of tears, partly of joy, partly of grief, thinking that his wife will see his daughter, and he shall not. It doesnot do to reflect upon it too much, Sergeant; it is really grievous."
"Doubtless that is why he does not reflect upon it himself, this man who goes out with tears in his eyes, as you term it."
"Upon what should he reflect?"
"That it is three months since this woman he so brutally uses has seen her child. He does not think of her grief, only of his own; that is all. It is true this woman was queen," continued the sergeant, in an ironical tone rather difficult of comprehension; "and one is not obliged to feel the same respect for a queen as for the wife of a journeyman."
"Notwithstanding, all this is very sad," said Devaux.
"Sad, but necessary," said Lorin. "The best way then, is, as you say, not to think of it," and he began to sing—
"Where the branches metOn a rocky stoneThere I found Nicette,Seated all alone."
Lorin was in the midst of his pastoral ditty, when suddenly a loud noise was heard from the left side of the post, composed of oaths, menaces, and tears.
"What is that?" demanded Devaux.
"It sounded like the voice of a child," said Lorin, listening.
"In fact," said the National Guard, "it is a poor little one they are beating. Truly they ought only to send here those who have no children."
"Will you sing?" said a hoarse and drunken voice.
And the voice sung in example—
"Madame Veto promisedThat all our heads should fall—"
"No," said the child, "I will not sing."
"Will you sing?"
And the voice recommenced—
"Madame Veto promised—"
"No! no!" said the child. "No, no, no!"
"Ah! little beggar," said the hoarse voice; and the noise of a lash whirring through the air was distinctly heard. The infant screamed with agony.
"Ah!sacre bleu!" said Lorin; "it is that rascally Simon beating the little Capet."
Several of the National Guards shrugged their shoulders. Two or three tried to smile. Devaux rose and went out.
"I said truly," murmured he, "that parents should never enter here."
All at once a low door opened, and the royal child, chased by the whip of his guardian made a flying leap into the court, when something hard struck his leg, and fell on the ground behind him.
He stumbled, and fell upon his knee.
"Bring me my last, little monster, or else—"
The child rose and shook his head, in token of refusal.
"Ah! this is it, is it?" cried the same voice. "Wait, you shall see," and the shoemaker Simon rushed from his hut as a wild beast from its den.
"Hallo! hallo!" cried Lorin, frowning. "Where are you going so fast, Master Simon?"
"To chastise this little wolf's cub," said the shoemaker.
"To chastise him, for what?"
"For what?"
"Yes."
"Because the little beggar will neither sing like a good patriot, nor work like a good citizen."
"Well, what have you to do with that?" demanded Lorin. "Did the nation confide Capet to you that you might teach him to sing?"
"And what business have you to interfere, I should like to know, Citizen Sergeant?" said Simon, astonished.
"I interfere, as it becomes every man of feeling to do. It is unworthy of a man to see a child beaten, and to suffer him to be beaten."
"Bah! the son of a tyrant."
"He is a child; and the child has not participated in the crimes of the father. The child is not culpable, and, consequently, ought not to be punished."
"And I tell you he was placed with me to do what I choose with him. I choose that he shall sing 'Madame Veto,' and sing it he shall."
"Contemptible wretch!" said Lorin. "'Madame Veto' is mother to this child. Would you yourself like your child to be made to sing that you were one of the canaille?"
"Me!" cried Simon. "Vile aristocrat of a sergeant!"
"No names," said Lorin. "I am not Capet; and they shall not make me sing by force."
"I will have you arrested, vileci-devant!"
"You!" said Lorin; "you have me arrested! you had better try to arrest a Thermopyle."
"Good, good; he laughs best who laughs last. And now, Capet, pick up my last, and come and finish your shoe, or by thunder!—"
"And I," said Lorin, turning deadly pale, and advancing a step forward, his hands clinched, and his teeth set,— "I tell you he shall not pick up your last, he shall not make shoes; do you hear, idiot? Oh, yes! you have your big sword there, but I am no more afraid of it than I am of yourself. Just you dare to draw it."
"Ah!massacre," roared Simon, turning pale with rage.
At this moment two women entered the court. One of them held a paper in her hand. She addressed herself to the sentinel.
"Sergeant," cried the sentinel, "it is Tison's daughter, who asks to see her mother."
"Let her pass, since the Council of the Temple permit it," said Lorin, who did not wish to leave for a moment, for fear Simon should avail himself of his absence and again beat the child.
The sentinel allowed the two women to pass; but hardly had they ascended four steps on the dark staircase, when they encountered Maurice Lindey, who was descending into the court. It was almost dark, so that he was unable to distinguish their features. Maurice stopped them.
"Who are you, citizens?" said he; "and what do you want?"
"I am Sophie Tison," said one of the women; "I obtained permission to visit my mother, and have come to see her."
"Yes," said Maurice; "but this permission was for yourself only, Citizeness."
"I brought my friend, that there might be two of us in the midst of the soldiers, at least."
"Very good; but your friend cannot go up."
"As you please, Citizen," said Sophie Tison, pressing the hand of her friend, who, close against the wall, seemed paralyzed with surprise and terror.
"Citizen sentinels," said Maurice, raising his voice and addressing the sentinels who were stationed on every landing, "allow the Citizen Tison to pass, but do not permit her friend to pass; she will remain on the staircase. See that she is treated with all due respect."
"Yes, Citizen," replied the sentinels.
"Go up, then," said Maurice.
The two women then passed on; and Maurice, leaping over the remaining five or six steps, advanced rapidly into the court.
"What is all this?" said he to the National Guard; "and what is the cause of this noise? The cries of a child were heard as far as the prisoners' antechamber."
"It is this," said Simon, who, accustomed to the manners of the municipals, believed, on perceiving Maurice, that he came as an ally; "this traitor, this spy, thisci-devant, this aristocrat, prevents me from belaboring Capet," and he shook his fist at Lorin.
"Yes, by Heaven, I did prevent it," said Lorin, drawing his sword; "and if you again call meci-devant, aristocrat, or traitor, I will run my sword through your body."
"A threat!" cried Simon; "guard! guard!"
"I am the guard," said Lorin; "so you had better not call; for if I come to you, I will exterminate you."
"Come here, Citizen Municipal, come here," said Simon, now seriously alarmed at Lorin's threats.
"The sergeant is quite right," said the municipal, to whom he had appealed for assistance; "you are a disgrace to the nation, coward, to beat a child."
"And why did he beat him? Do you know the reason, Maurice? Because the child would not sing 'Madame Veto;' because the child would not insult his mother."
"The miserable wretch!" said Maurice.
"And you also?" said Simon. "Am I surrounded by traitors?"
"You villain!" cried the municipal, seizing Simon by the throat, and tearing the last from his hand; "try to prove that Maurice Lindey is a traitor," and he applied the leather strap vigorously to the shoulders of the shoemaker.
"Thanks, sir," said the child, who regarded this scene with the coolness of a Stoic; "but he will revenge himself upon me."
"Come, Capet, come, my child," said Lorin; "if he beats you again, call for help; I will chastise him, the hangman. And now, little Capet, return to your tower."
"Why do you call me Capet, even you who protect me? You know very well that Capet is not my name."
"Not your name!" said Lorin; "what is your name, then?"
"I am called Louis Charles de Bourbon. Capet is the name of one of my ancestors. I know the history of France; my father taught me."
"And you want to teach a child to mend old shoes, to whom a king has taught the history of France?" cried Lorin; "it beats everything."
"You need not be concerned," said Maurice to the child; "I will make my report."
"And I mine," said Simon; "and among other things I shall say that instead of allowing one woman to enter the tower, you permitted two to pass."
At this moment the two women went out from the keep. Maurice ran after them.
"Well, Citizeness," said he, addressing the one by his side, "have you seen your mother?"
Sophie Tison placed herself immediately between the municipal and her companion.
"Yes, Citizen, thank you," said she.
Maurice had wished to see the young girl's friend, or at least to hear her voice, but she was enveloped in her mantle, and seemed determined not to utter a single word. He also thought that she trembled. This appearance of fear excited his suspicion. He reascended the stairsquickly, and through the glass partition saw the queen endeavoring to hide something in her pocket which looked like a billet.
"Ah! ah!" said he, "I have been duped."
He called his colleague.
"Citizen Agricola," said he, "enter Marie Antoinette's room, and do not lose sight of her."
"Heyday!" said the municipal, "is it because—"
"Enter, I tell you, and do not lose sight of her for an instant, a moment, a second."
The municipal entered the queen's apartment.
"Call the woman Tison," said he to one of the National Guard.
Five minutes afterward Tison's wife arrived in high spirits.
"I have seen my daughter," said she.
"Where was that?" demanded Maurice.
"Here, of course, in this antechamber."
"Well; and did not your daughter ask to see the Austrian?"
"No."
"Did she not enter her room?"
"No."
"And during the time you were conversing with your daughter, did no one come out of the prisoners' chamber?"
"How should I know? I was fully occupied with my daughter, whom I had not seen for three months."
"Recollect yourself."
"Ah, yes; I think I remember."
"What?"
"The young girl came out."
"Marie Thérèse?"
"Yes."
"Did she speak to your daughter?"
"No."
"Your daughter gave nothing to her?"
"No."
"Did she pick up nothing from the ground?"
"My daughter?"
"No, the daughter of Marie Antoinette."
"She picked up her pocket-handkerchief."
"Oh, woman! what were you thinking of?" cried Maurice.
And he rushed toward a bell-cord, which he pulled violently. It was an alarm-bell.
CHAPTER XI.
THE BILLET.
Theother two municipal guards came up hastily. A detachment of the post accompanied them. The doors were shut, and two sentinels intercepted the egress from each chamber.
"What do you want, sir?" said the queen to Maurice when he entered. "I was about to retire, when, five minutes since, the citizen municipal suddenly forced his entrance into my chamber, without informing me what he desired."
"Madame," said Maurice, bowing, "it is not my colleague who desires anything from you, it is myself."
"You, sir?" demanded Marie Antoinette, looking at Maurice, whose courteous behavior had caused her to regard him with some favor; "and what do you desire?"
"I request that you will be kind enough to show me the letter you were concealing when I entered just now."
Madame Royale and Madame Elizabeth trembled. The queen turned very pale.
"You are mistaken, sir; I concealed nothing."
"You lie, Austrian!" cried Agricola.
Maurice quickly placed his hand on the arm of his colleague.
"One moment, my dear colleague," said he; "leave me to speak to the citizeness, I am a little bit of a lawyer."
"Go on then; but do not stand on ceremony with her,morbleu!"
"You have concealed a letter, Citizen," said Maurice, austerely; "now it is necessary we should see this letter."