"But what letter?"
"The letter that Tison's daughter brought you, and which the citizeness, your daughter" (Maurice alluded to the young princess), "picked up with her pocket-handkerchief."
The three females looked at each other with terror.
"But, Monsieur, this is worse than tyranny," said the queen; "we are women! women!"
"Do not mistake," said Maurice, with firmness; "we are neither judges nor executioners, we are overseers,—that is to say, your fellow-citizens,—commissioned to guard you. We have our order; to violate it is treason. Citizeness, I pray you to give me the letter you have concealed."
"Gentlemen," said the queen, with much hauteur, "since you are overseers, search, and deprive us of our rest to-night as usual."
"God forbid we should lay our hands upon women! I am now going to inform the Commune, and shall await its orders. But you cannot retire to bed; you may sleep upon these easy-chairs, if you please, and we shall guard you. If necessary, they will search you."
"What is the matter?" said Tison's wife, appearing at the door quite bewildered.
"It is this, Citizeness," said Maurice, "that by lending yourself to treasonable practices, you have debarred yourself from seeing your daughter any more."
"From seeing my daughter? What do you tell me then, Citizen," demanded Tison's wife, who could not yet comprehend why she was not to see her daughter.
"I tell you, that your daughter did not come here tosee you, but to bring a letter to the Citizen Capet; and therefore she shall return here no more."
"But if she does not come here, I shall not be able to see her, as we are forbidden to go out."
"This time you have no one to blame but yourself,—it is your own fault," said Maurice.
"Oh!" screamed the poor woman, "my fault! why do you say it is my fault? Nothing has happened, I assure you. If I thought anything could have happened, woe to you, Antoinette; you should pay dearly for it," and the exasperated woman shook her fist at the queen.
"Threaten no one," said Maurice; "but rather gain by kindness what we demand, for you are a woman, and the Citizeness Marie Antoinette, who is herself a mother, will take pity on you. To-morrow your daughter will be arrested,—to-morrow imprisoned; then, if they discover anything, and you know that when they choose they always can do so, she is lost, and also her companion."
The woman Tison, who had listened to Maurice with increasing terror, turned wildly toward the queen.
"You hear, Antoinette? My daughter! It is you who will ruin my child!"
The queen in her turn appeared bewildered, not by the fury which sparkled in the eyes of her female jailer, but by her evident despair. "Come with me, Madame Tison," said she, "I have something to say to you."
"Holloa! No cajolery; we are not in your way here," said Maurice's colleague. "Before the municipality—everything open and above board."
"Never mind, Citizen Agricola," whispered Maurice, "provided we discover the truth, it does not matter in what fashion we do so."
"You are right, Citizen Maurice; but—"
"Let us pass behind the glazed partition, Citizen Agricola; and if you agree with me, we will turn our backs, and I am certain the individual for whom we evince this consideration will not make us repent it."
The queen heard these words, intended for her to hear, and cast upon the young man a look of grateful acknowledgment. Maurice carelessly turned his head, and walked to the other side of the glazed partition. Agricola followed him.
"You see this queen," said he to Agricola: "as a queen she is very culpable, as a woman she is high-minded and dignified. It is well to destroy crowns; princes are purified by misfortune."
"By thunder! you speak well, Citizen Maurice; I like to hear you talk, and your friend Lorin. Is that poetry you recited?"
Maurice smiled.
During this conversation, the scene which Maurice had anticipated was passing on the other side.
The woman Tison approached the queen.
"Madame," said the queen, "your despair grieves me. I do not wish to deprive you of your daughter,—that would be too cruel; but pray consider, perhaps by doing what these men require, your child will be lost none the less."
"Do what they tell you!" cried the woman,—"do what they tell you!"
"But first, at least, hear what is the matter."
"What is the matter?" demanded the woman, with almost savage curiosity.
"Your daughter brought a friend with her."
"Yes, a work-woman like herself. She did not like to come alone, because of the soldiers."
"This friend committed a letter to your daughter; your daughter let it fall. Marie, who was passing, pickedit up. It is, doubtless, a paper of no consequence, but still one upon which evil-minded people might put a bad construction. Did not the municipal just tell you, when they wish that they can always do so?"
"Well, go on."
"That is all; you wish me to give up this paper,—do you wish me to sacrifice a friend, without perhaps benefiting your daughter?"
"Do what they tell you!" shrieked the woman,—"do what they tell you!"
"But if this paper implicates your daughter," said the queen; "do try to understand."
"My daughter is, like myself, a good patriot," cried the hag. "Thank God, the Tisons are well known. Do what they tell you!"
"Good Heavens!" said the queen; "how can I make you understand?"
"My child, I want them to return me my child," cried Tison's wife, stamping her feet. "Give me the paper, Antoinette, give me the paper!"
"There it is, Madame," and the queen tendered a paper to the wretched creature, which she seized, and held joyfully above her head, crying,—
"Come here, come here, citizen municipals. I have the paper; take it, and give me back my child."
"You sacrifice our friends, sister," said Elizabeth.
"No, sister," replied the queen, mournfully; "I only sacrifice ourselves. The paper implicates no one."
At the cries of the woman Tison, Maurice and his colleague came toward her, when she immediately held out the paper to them. They opened it and read,—
"At L'Orient [the east] a friend still watches."
Maurice had no sooner cast his eyes on this paperthan he started. The hand-writing seemed to him not unknown.
"My God!" cried he, "can it be that of Geneviève? But no, it is impossible; I am mad. It resembles hers, certainly; but what can Geneviève have to do with the queen?"
He turned round, and observed that Marie Antoinette was watching him attentively. As for the woman Tison, as she awaited her fate, she devoured Maurice with her eyes.
"You have done a good action," said he, to Tison's wife; "and you, Citizeness, a great one," addressing the queen.
"Then, sir," replied Marie Antoinette, "follow my example. Burn the paper, and you will perform a charitable one."
"You are joking, Austrian," said Agricola. "Burn a paper that may perhaps enable us to discover a whole covey of aristocrats? Good faith! no; we are not quite such fools as that."
"Ah, yes! do burn it; it might compromise my daughter," implored the woman Tison.
"I believe you; your daughter and some others," said Agricola, taking the paper from the hands of Maurice, which the latter, had he been alone, would most certainly have destroyed.
Ten minutes afterward, the paper was deposited on the bureau of the members of the Commune. It was instantly opened and commented upon in various ways.
"'At L'Orient—a friend watches.' What the devil can that mean?" said one.
"Why," replied a geographer, "at Lorient, that is clear enough. Lorient is a little town of Brittany, situated between Vannes and Quimper. Egad! we ought toburn the town, if it be true that it shelters aristocrats who are watching still over the Austrian."
"It is all the more dangerous," said another, "because Lorient being a sea-port, they might establish communication with England."
"I propose," said a third, "that we send a committee to Lorient, and that a thorough search of the place be instituted."
This proposition made the minority smile, but was approved by the majority; they accordingly resolved that a committee be sent to Lorient to watch the aristocrats.
Maurice had been informed of the consultation.
"I think it may perhaps mean the East," said he; "but I am quite sure it is not in Brittany."
The next day the queen, who, as we have previously said, would no more enter the garden, to avoid passing the door of the apartment where her husband had been imprisoned, requested permission to ascend the tower to take the air, with her daughter and Madame Elizabeth. Her wish was instantly acceded to; but Maurice followed her, and mounting the stairs, ensconced himself behind a little turret where, concealed, he awaited the result of the letter of the preceding evening. The queen at first walked without manifesting any concern, with Madame Elizabeth and her daughter, then stopped, while the two princesses continued their promenade, and turning toward the "East," observed intently a house at the windows of which several persons were visible, one of whom held a white handkerchief.
Maurice, on his part, drew a telescope from his pocket, and while he adjusted it, the queen made a quick movement, as if to request those at the window to retire; but Maurice had already remarked the head of a man, with fair hair and pale complexion, whose salutation wasso respectful as almost to border on humility. Behind this young man, for he appeared to be five, or six, and twenty years of age, stood a woman partially concealed from his view. Maurice directed his glass toward her, and thinking that he recognized Geneviève, inadvertently made a motion which brought him under the notice of the party. Immediately the female, who also held a telescope in her hand, drew back, dragging the young man away with her. Was it really Geneviève? Had she also recognized Maurice? Had this couple only retired at the signal given them by the queen? Maurice waited a moment to see if the young man and woman would reappear; but seeing the window remain unoccupied, he recommended the strictest vigilance to his colleague, Agricola, quickly descended the staircase, and went and concealed himself at the corner of the Rue Portefoin, to see if they came out of the house. It was in vain; no one appeared. He could not resist the suspicion which had entered his mind from the moment the companion of Tison's daughter had persisted in maintaining so obstinate a silence. Maurice directed his course toward the old Rue Saint Jacques, where he arrived, bewildered by the strangest suspicions, doubts, and fears. When he entered, Geneviève, attired in a white morning-dress, was seated under an arbor of jasmine, where she was accustomed to breakfast. She, as usual, accorded Maurice a friendly greeting, and invited him to take a cup of chocolate with her. Dixmer on his part, who had in the mean time arrived, expressed the greatest joy at meeting Maurice at this unwonted hour; but before he permitted Maurice to take the cup of chocolate he had accepted, always enthusiastically attached to his trade, he insisted that his friend the secretary to the section Lepelletier should come with him and see the manufactory.
On their way to the workshops Dixmer, taking Maurice's arm and hurrying him along, observed,—
"My dear Maurice, I have important news for you."
"Political?" asked Maurice, always occupied with one idea.
"Ah! dear Citizen," said Dixmer, smiling, "do you think we trouble ourselves about politics? No, no; relating to our business, thank Heaven! My honored friend, Morand, who, as you know, is a celebrated chemist, has discovered the secret of staining morocco red in an unequalled manner,—that is to say, the color remains unalterable,—by a process never discovered till now. It is this color I want to show you. Besides, you will see Morand at work; he is quite an artist."
Maurice did not exactly comprehend how making a red dye constituted an artist; but nevertheless accompanied Dixmer across the tanyards, and in a separate sort of office saw the Citizen Morand at work. He had on his blue spectacles, was in his working-dress, and seemed entirely absorbed in the intensely interesting process of changing a sheep-skin from dirty white to purple. He had tucked up his sleeves, and his hands and arms were red to the elbow. As Dixmer remarked, he had devoted himself heart and soul to cochineal.
So entirely was he preoccupied that he merely moved his head to Maurice.
"Well, Citizen Morand," said Dixmer, "what say we?"
"We shall gain a hundred thousand francs yearly by this process alone; but I have not slept for eight days, and these acids have affected my sight."
Maurice left Dixmer with Morand and joined Geneviève as he said to himself, "It must be confessed the trade of municipal is degrading to the hero! About eight days in the Temple one might fancy one's self an aristocratand denounce one's self. Honest Dixmer! Plodding Morand! Gentle Geneviève! And I, idiot that I was, to have suspected them for a moment!"
Geneviève awaited Maurice with a sweet smile calculated most effectually to dispel every vestige of suspicion. She was as usual sweet, amiable, and charming.
The hours passed in Geneviève's society were those only in which Maurice could be said really to exist. At all other times he was infected with that fever which might be termed the fever of '93, by which Paris was separated into two hostile camps, and existence rendered a perpetual combat. Toward noon, however, he had to part with Geneviève, and return to the Tower of the Temple.
At the end of Rue Sainte Avoie he met Lorin, who was bringing down his guard from duty. He left the ranks and came to meet Maurice, who still wore upon his countenance the impress of the happiness he had enjoyed in the society of the lovely Geneviève.
"Ah!" said Lorin, cordially shaking his friend by the hand,—
"In vain you seek your anguishWithin your heart to hide,I know for whom you languish,For whom so long you've sighed;Within your heart, within your eyes,Love reigns, and triumphs in his prize."
Maurice put his hand in his pocket in search of his key. This was the method he adopted to put a stop to his friend's poetical vein. But Lorin saw the movement, and ran away, laughing. "Apropos," said he retracing his steps, "you have three days more at the Temple; I recommend poor little Capet to your care."
CHAPTER XII.
LOVE.
Infact Maurice for some time had experienced a strange medley of happiness and misery. It is always thus at the commencement of the tender passion. His daily occupation at the section Lepelletier, his evening visits to the old Rue Saint Jacques, and some occasional visits to the club of the Thermopyles, filled up his days.
He did not deceive himself. He well knew that to see Geneviève daily was to imbibe large draughts of a hopeless love.
Geneviève was a woman of retired manners and pleasing appearance, who would frankly tender her hand to a friend, and would innocently approach his face with her lips, with the confidence of a sister, and the ignorance of a vestal before whom the words of love appear as blasphemy.
Thus in the purest dreams that the first style of Raphael has traced upon the canvas is a Madonna with smiling lips, chaste eyes, and heavenly expression. This creation of the divine pupil of Perugino may help us to portray the likeness of Geneviève.
In the midst of flowers she imbibed their freshness and perfume; isolated from the occupation of her husband, and from her husband himself, she appeared to Maurice each time he saw her like a living enigma, of which he could not divine the meaning, and dared not ask it.
One evening when, as usual, he had remained alone with her, they were both seated at the same window by which he had entered, a few nights since, with so little ceremony; the perfume of the lilacs in full bloom floated upon the soft breeze that had succeeded the radiant sunset. After a long silence, Maurice, having during this silence followed the intelligent and holy eye of Geneviève as she watched the appearance of the stars in the azure vault of heaven, ventured to inquire concerning the great disparity between herself and husband. She so young, and he already past the middle age; she so refined in manner, while everything around announced him a man of inferior birth and education; she so sublime in her thoughts and aspirations, while her husband had not an idea beyond his manufactory.
"Here, at the abode of a master-tanner, are harp, piano, and drawings, which you acknowledge to be your own. How is it that here I meet with aristocracy which though I detest it in others, I adore in you?"
Geneviève fixed upon Maurice a look full of candor.
"Thanks," said she, "for this inquiry; it proves to me that you are a man of delicacy, and that you have not sought information concerning me from any one else."
"Never, Madame," said Maurice. "I have a devoted friend who would die for me; I have a hundred comrades ready to follow wherever I may lead them,—but among all these hearts, when a woman is concerned, and above all, such a woman as Geneviève, I know but one I would trust, and that one is my own."
"Thanks, Maurice," said the young woman, "I will myself tell you, then, all you desire to know."
"Your maiden name first," said Maurice. "I only know your married one at present."
Geneviève detected the selfishness of love in this question, and smiled.
"Geneviève du Treilly," said she.
Maurice repeated, "Geneviève du Treilly!"
"My family," continued Geneviève, "was ruined after the American war, in which both my father and elder brother had taken part."
"Gentlemen both?" said Maurice.
"No, no," said Geneviève, blushing.
"And yet you said your maiden name was Geneviève du Treilly."
"Frankly, Monsieur Maurice, my family was rich, but had no claim to nobility."
"You do not trust me," said the young man, smiling.
"Oh, yes! I do," replied Geneviève. "In America my father was connected with the father of Monsieur Morand. Monsieur Dixmer was managing man to Monsieur Morand. We were ruined, and Monsieur Morand, knowing that Monsieur Dixmer was a man of independent fortune, presented him to my father, who in his turn presented him to me. I saw that my father had beforehand resolved on my marriage. I understood it was the wish of my family. I did not love Monsieur Dixmer, neither had I ever loved any one, but I accepted him.
"I have now been Dixmer's wife for three years, and I am bound to say that he has proved to me so good and excellent a husband, that notwithstanding the difference of taste and the disparity of age you have remarked, I have never even for a moment experienced the slightest feeling of regret."
"But," said Maurice, "when you married Monsieur Dixmer he was not at the head of this manufactory."
"No, we lived at Blois. After the 10th of AugustMonsieur Dixmer purchased this house and the adjoining workshops; and that I might not be annoyed by the workmen, and to spare me the sight of many things repulsive to a person of my habits,—which are, as you observed, Maurice, a little aristocratic,—he gave me this pavilion, where I live alone, retired, gratifying my various fancies and desires, and happy when a friend like yourself, Maurice, comes either to distract or partake in my reveries."
And Geneviève tendered her hand to Maurice, which he ardently kissed. Geneviève blushed slightly.
"Now, my friend," said the young woman, drawing away her hand, "you know how I became the wife of Monsieur Dixmer."
"Yes," said Maurice, regarding Geneviève with great attention; "but you have not told me how Monsieur Morand came to be associated with your husband."
"Oh, that is very simple," said Geneviève. "Monsieur Dixmer had, as I have told you, some fortune, but still not sufficient to engage alone in a large concern like this. The son of Monsieur Morand, his protector, as I have already mentioned,—this friend of my father, you will remember,—provided half the funds, and as he possesses a good knowledge of chemistry, he devotes himself to various improvements with the energy you have remarked, and, thanks to which, the business of Monsieur Dixmer, who has charge of all the practical part, has extended immensely."
"Monsieur Morand is also a great friend of yours, is he not, Madame?" said Maurice.
"Monsieur Morand is a noble-hearted being, one of the worthiest men in existence," gravely replied Geneviève.
"If he has given you no other proofs," said Maurice, a little piqued at the importance accorded by Geneviève to the young man, the partner of her husband, "than dividing the expenses of this establishment with Monsieur Dixmer, and inventing a new dye for morocco, allow me to say that you rather over-rate his merits."
"He has given me many other proofs, sir," said Geneviève.
"He is young, is he not?" said Maurice. "His green spectacles render it difficult to tell his age."
"He is thirty-five."
"You have known him then a long time?"
"From infancy."
Maurice bit his lips; he had always suspected Morand loved Geneviève.
"Oh!" said Maurice, "that explains his familiarity with you."
"It seems to me, sir," said Geneviève, smiling, "that this familiarity, which is hardly even that of a friend, does not need any explanation."
"Oh, pardon me, Madame, you know all affectionate natures are jealous, and my friendship was jealous of that you appear to feel for Monsieur Morand."
He ceased talking. Geneviève also remained silent. Nothing further was said that day respecting Morand, and Maurice quitted Geneviève more than ever in love, for he was jealous.
However blinded the young man might be by his passion, whatever turmoil might be in his heart, there were in the recital of Geneviève many gaps, much hesitation, and many concealments, to which at the moment he had paid no attention, but which now returned to his memory and strangely tortured him. The feeling that there was some mystery about the family could not be dispelled even by the liberty allowed him by Dixmer of conversing with Geneviève as often and as long as he pleased, nor by the solitary interview they had togetherevery evening. Moreover, Maurice had now become a constant and expected guest at the house, where he not only enjoyed unrestrained intercourse with Geneviève, who seemed guarded by her angelic purity from any advances on the part of the young man, but he now escorted her in all the excursions made from time to time in the quarter in which she lived. In the midst of this established intimacy one thing surprised him. The more he sought (perhaps the better to watch his sentiments for Geneviève) the friendship of Morand, by whose genius, notwithstanding his prejudice, he felt himself captivated, and whose pleasing manners won him more and more every day, the greater the inclination evinced by this whimsical man to avoid him. Of this he complained bitterly to Geneviève; for he did not doubt that Morand had discerned in him a rival, and that his conduct proceeded from jealousy.
"The Citizen Morand hates me," said he one day to Geneviève.
"You?" said Geneviève, with a look of astonishment. "You?—Monsieur Morand hates you?"
"Yes; I am sure of it."
"And why should he hate you?"
"Do you wish me to tell you?" cried Maurice.
"Certainly," replied Geneviève.
"Well, then, because I—"
Maurice stopped; he was going to say, "because I love you."
"I cannot tell you why," replied Maurice, coloring. The fierce Republican near Geneviève was as timid and as confused as a young girl.
Geneviève smiled.
"Say," replied she, "there is no sympathy between you, and I may perhaps believe you. You are of a sanguinetemperament, have a brilliant intellect; and you are a man of birth and education, while Morand is a merchant grafted on a chemist. He is timid and retiring. It is this timidity that deters him from taking the first step toward your acquaintance."
"And who asks him to make the first advance toward me? I have made fifty to him, and he has never responded. No," continued Maurice, shaking his head; "that cannot be the reason."
"What is it, then?" said Geneviève.
Maurice chose to remain silent.
The day after this conversation with Geneviève, he visited her at two o'clock in the afternoon, and found her ready dressed to go out. "Welcome," said she, "you will act as my chevalier."
"Where are we going, then?" demanded Maurice.
"I am going to Auteuil. The weather is delightful. I mean to walk part of the way. Our carriage will convey us to the barrier, where it will wait for us. We will then walk to Auteuil, and when I have finished my business there, we will return."
"Oh!" said Maurice, "what a delightful day you offer me!"
The two young people went on their journey. Beyond Passy the carriage put them down, and they continued their journey on foot.
On arriving at Auteuil, Geneviève stopped.
"Wait for me," said she, "at the entrance to the park; when I have finished I will rejoin you."
"Where are you going then?" demanded Maurice.
"To a friend's house."
"Where I cannot accompany you?"
Geneviève smilingly shook her head.
"Impossible!" said she.
Maurice bit his lips.
"Very well," said he; "I will wait."
"Ah! what?" said Geneviève.
"Nothing," replied Maurice. "Shall you be long?"
"If I had thought it would inconvenience you, Maurice, if I had known you were engaged," said Geneviève, "I would not have requested you to do me the slight favor to accompany me to-day. I might have asked—"
"Monsieur Morand," interrupted Maurice, sharply.
"No; you are aware Monsieur Morand is at the manufactory at Rambouillet, and does not return till this evening."
"Oh, it is to that circumstance that I owe the honor?"
"Maurice," said Geneviève, softly, "I cannot keep the person I came to see waiting; but if this puts you to the least inconvenience return to Paris, only send back the carriage for me."
"No, no, Madame," replied Maurice, quickly, "I am at your service." He bowed to Geneviève, who, sighing softly, proceeded on her way, and entered Auteuil.
Maurice went to the appointed place, and commenced walking backward and forward with long impatient strides, cutting off with his cane like Tarquin all the heads of the weeds, flowers, and thistles, which he found upon the road; and like all persons whose thoughts are preoccupied, he continued without pausing to trace and retrace his footsteps.
And what occupied his thoughts? The desire to know whether Geneviève loved him or not. Her manner to him was that of a friend or sister, but he felt this was no longer sufficient. He loved her with an entire love. She had become his sole thought by day, his constantly renewed dream by night. At one time, he only asked to see her again; nothing could satisfy him now but her love.
Geneviève was absent for an hour, which to him had appeared an age; he then saw her approaching him with a smile upon her lips. Maurice, on the contrary, went to meet her with a frowning brow.
Geneviève, smiling, took his arm.
"Here I am," said she; "pardon me,mon ami, for having made you wait."
Maurice only replied by a bow; and they then entered a shady lane, which, by a winding path, conducted them into the high-road.
It was one of those delicious evenings in spring when every plant sends its fragrance on high, when every bird, either seated on the branches, or skipping from spray to spray, warbles its songs of praise to God; one of those evenings that seem destined to live forever in our memory. Maurice was silent, Geneviève pensive. She fondled with one hand the flowers of a bouquet which she held in the other that rested on the arm of Maurice.
"What is the matter with you?" said he, all at once, to Geneviève; "and what makes you so sad to-day?"
Geneviève might have answered, My happiness. She regarded him tenderly.
"But you," said she, "are you not more than usually sad to-day?"
"I," said Maurice, "have reason to be sad,—I am unhappy; but you—"
"You unhappy?"
"Doubtless; do you not perceive sometimes from my tremulous tones how much I suffer? Does it not often happen, when I am talking with you or your husband, I am compelled suddenly to seek the air, because I feel as if my heart would burst?"
"But," demanded Geneviève, embarrassed, "to what do you attribute this suffering?"
"If I were an affected lady," said Maurice, attempting a laugh, "I should say it was a nervous attack."
"And at this moment do you suffer?"
"Much," said Maurice.
"Let us return, then."
"What, already, Madame?"
"Certainly."
"True," said the young man, "I forgot Monsieur Morand would return from Rambouillet this evening; and it is fast approaching." Geneviève looked at him reproachfully.
"Oh, again!" said she.
"Why then did you, the other day, favor me with so high a eulogium of Monsieur Morand? It is your own fault."
"How long is it since, to people we esteem," demanded Geneviève, "we may not express our real opinion of an estimable man?"
"It must be a very lively esteem to cause you to accelerate your pace, as you at this moment are doing, for fear of being too late by a few minutes."
"You are to-day absolutely unjust, Maurice. Have I not passed part of the day with you?"
"You are right; and I am indeed too exacting," replied Maurice, giving way to his impetuosity. "Let us return to meet Monsieur Morand."
Geneviève felt her displeasure pass from her mind to her heart.
"Yes," said she; "let us return to Monsieur Morand. He at least is a friend who never causes me the slightest pain."
"They are, indeed, valuable friends," said Maurice,choking with jealousy, "and I, for my part, should like a few such."
They were now upon the high-road; the horizon crimsoned as the departing rays of the setting sun glistened upon the gilt moldings of the dome of the Hôtel des Invalides. A star which on a previous evening had attracted the attention of Geneviève, sparkled in the azure of heaven. Geneviève released Maurice's arm with melancholy resignation.
"Why have you made me suffer?" said she.
"Ah!" said Maurice, "I am not so clever as some people, and do not know how to make myself loved."
"Maurice!" said Geneviève.
"Oh, Madame, if he is always good, always composed, it is because he does not suffer."
Geneviève again placed her white hand on the powerful arm of Maurice.
"I pray you," said she, in an altered tone, "to speak no more; to speak no more!"
"And why?"
"Because your voice makes me ill."
"You are displeased with everything about me, even my voice?"
"Be silent, I conjure you."
"I will obey you, Madame," and the impetuous young man passed his hand over his face, damp with perspiration.
Geneviève saw that he really suffered. People of Maurice's temperament have griefs of their own, little known or understood by the generality of mankind.
"You are my friend, Maurice, a precious friend," said Geneviève, looking at him kindly; "do not deprive me of your valuable friendship."
"Oh, you would not long regret it," said Maurice.
"You are mistaken," said Geneviève, "I should regret it very long, and forever."
"Geneviève! Geneviève!" cried Maurice, "have pity upon me."
Geneviève shuddered. It was the first time Maurice had uttered her name in these passionate accents.
"And now," continued Maurice, "since you have divined me, let me tell you all, Geneviève, for though you should kill me with a look, I have been silent too long; I will speak, Geneviève."
"Sir," said the young woman, "I have supplicated you in the name of our friendship to remain silent; I still pray you to do so, for my sake, if not for your own. Not another word; in the name of Heaven! not another word!"
"Friendship, friendship! if it be a friendship like this you profess for me, that you feel for Monsieur Morand, I wish for no more of your friendship,—I, Geneviève, require more than others."
"Enough," said Madame Dixmer, with the gesture of a queen,—"enough, Monsieur Lindey; here is our carriage, please to conduct me to my husband's house."
Maurice trembled with fever and emotion, when Geneviève, to rejoin the carriage, which indeed was only a few paces distant, placed her hand on his arm.
They both entered the carriage; Geneviève took the front seat, and Maurice the one opposite. They traversed Paris without either one or the other having uttered a word. Only, all the way, Geneviève had held her handkerchief before her eyes. When they entered the building, Dixmer was occupied in his counting-house, Morand had just returned from Rambouillet, and was changing his dress. Geneviève held out her hand to Maurice, as she entered her chamber.
"Adieu! Maurice, you have wished it."
Maurice said nothing, but walked directly to the mantel-piece, where hung a portrait of Geneviève. He ardently kissed it, pressed it to his heart, replaced it, and went out. Maurice reached home without knowing how he arrived there; he had passed through Paris without seeing anything, without hearing anything; all that had happened to him appeared like a dream; he was unable to account for his actions, his words, or the sentiments which had induced them. There are moments when the most serene spirits succumb under the violence of their own emotions.
It was, as we have said, rather a race than a return, on the part of Maurice. He undressed himself without the assistance of hisvalet-de-chambre, nor did he reply to his cook, who displayed his supper duly prepared for him, but taking the day's letters from the table, he read them all, one after the other, without comprehending a single word. The mists of jealousy, that intoxication of reason, were not yet dissipated. At ten o'clock Maurice mechanically sought his bed, as, indeed, he had done everything else since his parting with Geneviève.
If Maurice in his cooler moments had been told of this extraordinary behavior in another, he would not have been able to comprehend it, but would have considered him mad to have pursued this desperate conduct, totally unauthorized either by too much reserve or too much "abandon" on the part of Geneviève. He now only felt that a terrible blow had been dealt to all his hopes, of which he had never even to himself rendered an account, and upon which, vague as they were, reposed all his visions of happiness,—dreams which like an intangible vapor floated shapelessly toward the horizon, and there disappeared. Thus it happened, as it nearly always does insuch cases, that Maurice, stunned by this blow, dropped asleep directly he found himself in bed, where he remained free from all sentiment till the morrow. He was awakened by the noise of the official opening the door, who came as usual to unclose the windows which looked upon a large garden, and to bring some flowers.
At that time, in the year '93, much attention was paid to the culture of forced flowers, and Maurice dearly loved all flowers; but now without even bestowing a glance upon them, he half raised his heavy head, and supporting it on his hand, endeavored to recall the events of the preceding evening. Maurice asked himself, without being able to account for it, the cause of this mad folly. The sole cause was jealousy of Morand; but the moment was certainly ill-chosen to give vent to his jealousy of a man when this man was at Rambouillet, and while enjoying atête-à-têtewith the woman one loves, surrounded by the most enchanting scenery, on one of the lovely days of spring.
It was not suspicion of the inmates at the house at Auteuil, where Geneviève had remained an hour; no, the incessant torment of his life was the idea that Morand loved Geneviève, and yet—singular phantasy of the brain, strange combination of caprice—not a gesture, a look, not even a word from Dixmer's partner had afforded the slightest grounds for this belief.
The voice of thevalet-de-chambrearoused him from this revery.
"Citizen," said he, showing him the open letters on the table, "have you selected those you wish to keep, or shall they all be burned?"
"Burn what?" said Maurice.
"The letters the Citizen read last night, before he retired to bed."
Maurice could not remember having read one.
"Burn all," said he.
"Here are to-day's letters, Citizen," said the official.
He presented a packet of letters to Maurice, and threw the others in the fire. Maurice took the letters, felt the impression of a seal, and fancied that he recognized the perfume of a friend, and looking over his correspondence he found a sealed envelope and hand-writing that made him tremble. This man, who bravely faced danger, trembled before the odor of a letter. The official approached him to inquire what was the matter, but Maurice signified a wish to be alone.
He turned and returned this letter; he felt a presentiment it contained misery for him, and started and trembled before unknown misfortune.
Having collected all his courage he at length opened it, and read as follows:—
Citizen Maurice,—It has become necessary that we should burst these bonds—bonds which, on your side, affect to exceed the bounds of friendship. You are a man of honor, Citizen, and now that a night has passed since the occurrences of yesterday evening, you ought to comprehend that your presence at our house is no longer desirable. I leave it to you to excuse yourself in any way you think best to my husband. On the arrival this day of any letter from you to Monsieur Dixmer I shall be convinced that I have to regret the loss of a friend who has unfortunately been most imprudent, and whom all social propriety will deter me from meeting for the future. Adieu forever.Geneviève.P.S. The bearer awaits your reply.
Citizen Maurice,—It has become necessary that we should burst these bonds—bonds which, on your side, affect to exceed the bounds of friendship. You are a man of honor, Citizen, and now that a night has passed since the occurrences of yesterday evening, you ought to comprehend that your presence at our house is no longer desirable. I leave it to you to excuse yourself in any way you think best to my husband. On the arrival this day of any letter from you to Monsieur Dixmer I shall be convinced that I have to regret the loss of a friend who has unfortunately been most imprudent, and whom all social propriety will deter me from meeting for the future. Adieu forever.
Geneviève.
P.S. The bearer awaits your reply.
Maurice called; thevalet-de-chambrereappeared.
"Who brought this letter?"
"A messenger."
"Is he waiting?"
"Yes."
Maurice did not sigh, did not for a moment hesitate, but, partly dressing, seated himself before his writing-desk, and taking the first sheet of paper that came to hand (he found it had on it the impression of a head with the name of the section), he wrote,—
"Citizen Dixmer,—I respected you, and I still do so; but I cannot visit you any longer."
"Citizen Dixmer,—I respected you, and I still do so; but I cannot visit you any longer."
Maurice considered what reason he could assign for not visiting Dixmer, and one idea alone presented itself to his mind, that which at this epoch would have occurred to any one. He thus continued,—
"Certain rumors are afloat relative to your lukewarmness in public affairs. I have no wish to accuse you, and no mission to defend you. Receive my respects, and feel assured your secrets will remain forever buried in my heart."
"Certain rumors are afloat relative to your lukewarmness in public affairs. I have no wish to accuse you, and no mission to defend you. Receive my respects, and feel assured your secrets will remain forever buried in my heart."
Maurice did not even revise this letter, written, as we have said, under the impression of the first idea that presented itself. He did not doubt the effect it would produce. Dixmer, an excellent patriot, as Maurice imagined from his conversation at least, would be much grieved at receiving it, his wife and Monsieur Morand would no doubt influence him not to reply, and forgetfulness would gradually spread itself like a dark veil over the happy past, transforming it into a dark and melancholy future. Maurice signed and sealed his letter, gave it to the official, and the messenger departed.
Then a heart-felt sigh escaped the Republican; he took his hat and gloves and proceeded to the section.
He hoped, poor Brutus, to recover his stoicism by occupying himself with public affairs.
Public affairs were indeed terrible; the 31st of May was preparing. The "Terreur," which, like a torrent, precipitated itself from the height of the Montagne, endeavored to carry away the dike opposed to it by the Girondins, those audacious "Modéréts" who had dared to demand vengeance for the massacres of September, and to wrestle for an instant to save the life of the king.
While Maurice was working with an energy that drove the fever from his heart to his head, the messenger had re-entered the old Rue Saint Jacques, filling the dwelling there with terror and astonishment.
The letter, after passing through Geneviève's hands, was given by her to Dixmer.
Dixmer opened and read it, without at first understanding it; he then communicated the contents to the Citizen Morand, who, becoming as pale as death, supported his head upon his hand.
In the situation in which Dixmer, Morand, and their companions found themselves (a situation totally unknown to Maurice, but which our readers have penetrated) this letter was like a thunderbolt.
"Is this an upright, honest man?" asked Dixmer, in great distress.
"Yes," replied Morand, without the least hesitation.
"Never mind," said the advocate for extreme measures, "you see we were very wrong not to kill him."
"My friend," said Morand, "we struggle against violence, we brand it with the name of crime. We have acted rightly, whatever may be the result, in not assassinating this man. I repeat, I believe Maurice to possess a noble, generous spirit."
"Yes; but if so noble and generous a spirit belongs to this warm Republican, perhaps he may regard it in the light of a crime, if he has made any discovery, not to immolate his own honor, as they say, 'on the altar of his country.'"
"But," said Morand, "do you think he knows anything?"
"Do you not understand? He speaks of secrets buried in his heart.
"These secrets are evidently those confided to him by me relative to our contraband transactions. He knows no others."
"But," said Morand, "this interview at Auteuil? does he suspect anything? You know he accompanied your wife?"
"It was I who told Geneviève to take Maurice with her as a protector."
"Listen," said Morand, "we shall soon see if these surmises be true. The turn of our battalion to guard the Temple happens on the 2d of June,—that is to say in eight days. You are captain, Dixmer, and I lieutenant; if our battalion or even our company receives a counter-order, like that received the other day by the battalion of Buttes-des-Moulins, which Santerre has replaced by that of Gravilliers, all is discovered, and we have only to flee from Paris, or die fighting. But if all follows in the usual course of things—"
"We are lost all the same," replied Dixmer.
"How so?"
"Pardieu!does not all revolve upon the co-operation of this young municipal? Was it not he who, without knowing it, was to open the road for us to the queen?"
"That is true!" said Morand, confounded.
"You see, then," said Dixmer, knitting his brows, "that at any price we must renew our intimacy with this young man."
"But if he refuse, if he fear to compromise himself?"
"Listen!" said Dixmer, "I will question Geneviève; she saw him last, perhaps she may know something more."
"Dixmer," said Morand, "it is with pain I see you mixing Geneviève with all our plots; not that I fear any indiscretion on her part. O great God! the drama we are acting is a dreadful one, and I at once blush and tremble to place the head of a woman at stake."
"The head of a woman," said Dixmer, "weighs as heavily as that of a man, where stratagem, candor, and beauty can do as much and sometimes even more than force, strength, power, or courage. Geneviève shares in our convictions and our sympathies. Geneviève shall also share our fate."
"Well, my friend," said Morand, "I have said all I ought to say. Geneviève is in every way worthy of the mission you have given her, or rather, that she has taken upon herself. It is saints who become martyrs."
And he held out his delicate and effeminate hand to Dixmer, who roughly pressed it between his own. Then Dixmer, recommending Morand and his companions to watch with increased vigilance, quitted them, and entered Geneviève's apartments.
She was seated before a table, bending over a piece of embroidery. She turned round at the noise of the opening door, and recognized Dixmer.
"Ah! is it you,mon ami?" said she.
"Yes," said Dixmer, with a placid, smiling countenance. "I have received a letter from our friend Maurice, which I cannot understand in the least. Read it, and tell me what you think of it."
Geneviève took the letter with a hand of which (with all her self-command) she could not disguise the tremor, and read. Dixmer followed her eyes as they ran over every line.
"Well?" said he, when she had finished.
"Well! I think that Monsieur Maurice Lindey is anhonest man, and from him we have nothing to fear," replied Geneviève, with the greatest calmness.
"You think he is ignorant who the persons are you visited at Auteuil?"
"I am certain that he is."
"Why then this sudden determination? Did he appear yesterday less friendly or more excited than usual?"
"No," said Geneviève; "I believe he was just the same."
"Consider well what you tell me, Geneviève, for you must understand your reply will greatly influence our future projects."
"Wait, then," said she, with an emotion that overthrew all her attempt at calmness. "Wait—"
"Well!" said Dixmer, all the muscles of his face slightly contracting; "collect your thoughts, Geneviève."
"Yes!" said the young woman, "yes, I remember, yesterday he was not particularly civil. Monsieur Maurice," continued she, "is a little tyrannical in his friendship, and," hesitatingly added, "sometimes we have quarrelled for whole weeks."
"This is then merely a quarrel?" demanded Dixmer.
"Most probably."
"Geneviève, understand this: in our position it is not probability that will suffice, it is certitude we require."
"Ah, well, dear, I am certain."
"This letter, then, can be only a pretext for not visiting us again?"
"Mon ami, how can you wish that I should speak to you about such things?"
"Speak, Geneviève, speak; of any other woman I would not ask it."
"It is a pretext," said Geneviève, looking down.
"Ah!" said Dixmer. Then after a moment's silence, placing upon his wife's chair the hand with which he had been striving to compress the beatings of his heart,—
"Will you do me a service?" said he.
"What service?" said Geneviève, turning around surprised.
"To prevent even the shadow of danger. Maurice is, perhaps, deeper in our secrets than we imagine. That which you believe a pretext may, perhaps, be a reality. Write him a line."
"I!" said Geneviève, starting.
"Yes, you. Tell him that you have opened the letter and desire an explanation. He will then call, you can interrogate him, and will easily discover what is the matter."
"Oh, no!" cried Geneviève, "I cannot do as you wish me; I will not do it."
"Dear Geneviève, when interests so powerful as those that rest upon us are at stake, will you recoil before any paltry consideration of self-love?"
"I have told you my opinion of Maurice, Monsieur," said Geneviève, "he is honest and brave, but capricious; and I do not choose to submit to any authority but that of my husband."
This answer, returned with so much calmness, and at the same time firmness, convinced Dixmer that to insist further at this moment would be worse than useless. He did not add another word, but looked at Geneviève without seeming to do so, wiped the perspiration from his forehead, and went out.
Morand was awaiting his return with great anxiety. Dixmer repeated word for word all that had been said.
"Well!" said Morand, "we will wait, and think no more about it; rather than I would cast a shadow of careon your wife, rather than wound her self-love, I would renounce—"
Dixmer placed his hand upon his shoulder.
"You are mad, sir," said he, looking at him steadily, "or else you do not know what you are saying."
"What! Dixmer, do you think—"
"I think, Chevalier, that you have no more self-command than I have, to give utterance to sentiments on the impulse of the moment. Neither you, I, nor Geneviève belong to ourselves, Morand. We are the chosen defenders of a certain cause, and this cause depends upon its supporters."
Morand trembled, and preserved a gloomy and thoughtful silence. They took several turns round the garden without exchanging a word. Then Dixmer left Morand.
"I have some orders to give," said he, in a calm voice. "I must leave you, Monsieur Morand."
Morand held out his hand to Dixmer, and looked after him as he turned away.
"Poor Dixmer," said he, "I fear much that in all this you risk the most."
Dixmer returned to the manufactory, and having issued several orders, looked over the day-book, and distributed bread and fuel to the poor of the section, went home, and changed his working dress for his walking costume immediately on his arrival there.
An hour afterward Maurice Lindey, while deeply engaged in his readings and allocutions, was interrupted by the voice of his official, whispering in his ear,—
"Citizen Lindey, some one who, so he pretends at least, has something of importance to say to you, is waiting at your house."
Maurice, on entering, was much surprised at meeting the master-tanner, who had there comfortably installedhimself, and was turning over the newspapers. All the way along he had questioned the domestic, who, of course, not knowing Dixmer, could afford him no clew to his identity.
On perceiving Dixmer, Maurice stopped at the threshold of the door, and blushed in spite of himself.
Dixmer smilingly arose, and held out his hand.
"What ails you? and what have you written to me?" he inquired of the young man. "Indeed, my dear Maurice, I feel it sensibly. You designate me as 'lukewarm and a false patriot.' Now as you dare not repeat these accusations to my face, acknowledge you wish to seek a quarrel with me."
"I will avow anything you please, my dear Dixmer, for your conduct to me has always been that of a worthy man; but I have nevertheless made a resolution, and that resolution is irrevocable."
"But how is that?" said Dixmer, "when according to your own confession you have nothing to reproach us with, and yet, notwithstanding, you leave us?"
"My dear Dixmer, believe me, acting as I now am, and depriving myself of such a friend, I must be actuated by powerful motives."
"Yes; but under any circumstances," said Dixmer, affecting to smile, "these reasons are not those you have written. What you have written to me is merely a subterfuge."
Maurice reflected an instant.
"Listen, Dixmer," said he; "we live in an epoch when a doubt conveyed in a letter can and must annoy you; this I can well understand. It would then be acting like a dishonorable man to allow you to remain in this state of inquietude. Yes, Dixmer, the reasons I gave you were not the true ones."
This avowal, which should have cleared the face of the merchant, only seemed the more to cloud it.
"But at least tell me the true motive," said Dixmer.
"I cannot tell you," said Maurice; "and yet I am certain if you knew it, you would afford me your approval."
Dixmer still continued to press him.
"Then you really wish to know it," said Maurice.
"Yes," replied Dixmer.
"Well, then," replied Maurice, who felt a sensation of relief as he approached the truth; "this is the truth. You have a young and beautiful wife, who is as virtuous as she is beautiful; yet Madame Dixmer's well-known character cannot prevent my frequent visits to your house from being misinterpreted."
Dixmer turned rather pale.
"Indeed!" said he. "Then, my dear Maurice, the husband should thank you for the wrong you do the friend?"
"Understand," said Maurice, "I have not the folly to suppose my presence can be dangerous to your repose, or that of your wife; but it might, perhaps, afford subject for calumny, and you are aware the more absurd the scandal, the easier it gains belief."
"Absurd!" said Dixmer, shrugging his shoulders.
"Absurd, as much as you please," said Maurice, "but separate, we shall not the less be good friends, for we shall have nothing to reproach ourselves with; while, on the contrary, if near—"
"Well! What then?"
"There would be food for scandal."
"Do you think, Maurice, that I should believe—"
"Oh, let us say no more," said the young man.
"But why did you write this instead of telling it to me, Maurice?"
"Just to avoid the scene of this moment."
"And are you vexed, Maurice, that I respected you sufficiently to demand an explanation?"
"No; on the contrary, I swear I am glad to have seen you once again before our final separation."
"Our final separation, Citizen! you whom we esteem so much!" taking Maurice's hand and pressing it between his own.
Maurice started.
"Morand," continued Dixmer, who failed not to notice this start, "Morand said to me again and again this morning, 'Do all in your power to bring back Maurice.'"
"Monsieur," said the young man, frowning and drawing away his hand, "I did not believe I stood very high in the estimation of Monsieur Morand."
"Do you doubt it?" said Dixmer.
"I!" replied Maurice, "I neither believe nor doubt it, and have no motive to inquire on the subject. When I went to your house it was to visit yourself and your wife, and not on account of Monsieur Morand."
"You do not know him, Maurice," said Dixmer; "Morand possesses a noble soul."
"I grant it," said Maurice, smiling bitterly.
"Let us, however, return to the object of my visit," continued Dixmer.
Maurice bowed, like a man who hears all, but has nothing more to say.
"You say, then, that these reports have already circulated?"
"Yes, Citizen."
"Well, then, let us speak frankly. Why should you pay any attention to the silly prattling of idle neighbors? Have you not your own clear conscience, Maurice; and Geneviève, has she not her sense of honor?"
"I am younger than you," said Maurice, who began to be astonished at this pertinacity, "and perhaps view things with more susceptibility. This is why I declare that on the reputation of such a woman as Geneviève a shadow even should not be permitted to be cast. Permit me, therefore, my dear Dixmer, to adhere to my former resolution."
"And now," said Dixmer, "since we are in order for confession, tell me one thing more."
"What!" said Maurice, coloring, "what more do you wish me to avow?"
"That it is neither politics, nor the report of your assiduity at my house, that induces you to leave us."
"What is it, then?"
"The secret you have discovered."
"What secret?" demanded Maurice, with sonaïvean expression of curiosity, as completely to reassure the tanner.
"The secret of the smuggling affair, which you discovered the same evening when our acquaintance commenced in so strange a manner. You have never forgiven me this fraud, and accuse me of being a bad Republican because I employ English products in my manufactory."
"My dear Dixmer, I solemnly declare to you that when I visited at your house, I had totally forgotten I was in the house of a smuggler."
"Truly?"
"Truly."
"You really, then, had no other reason for abandoning the house than that you have stated?"
"Upon my honor."
"Well," said Dixmer, rising and taking the young man's hand, "I hope you will re-consider this resolutionwhich has been productive of pain to us all, and will again return to us as usual."
Maurice bowed, but made no reply, which was of course equivalent to a refusal. Dixmer left, annoyed at not having been able to re-establish an intimacy with this man whom certain circumstances had rendered not only useful to him but almost indispensable. Maurice was agitated by a variety of emotions of a contrary nature. Dixmer entreated him to return. Geneviève would pardon him. Why then should he despond? Lorin in his place would have selected a crowd of aphorisms from his favorite authors. But then he had Geneviève's letter, that formal dismissal, which he had carried with him to the section and placed near his heart; also the little word received from her the day after he had rescued her from the cowards who insulted her; and lastly, the obstinate jealousy entertained by the young man against the detestable Morand, the first cause of his rupture with Geneviève.
Maurice remained inflexible in his resolution. But it must be acknowledged the privation of his daily visits to the old Rue Saint Jacques formed a sad blank in his existence; and when the hour arrived at which he had been accustomed to pay his daily visit to the quarter Saint Victor, he fell into a profound fit of melancholy, and began, from that moment, to experience every aspect of hope and regret.
Each morning on awakening he expected to receive a letter from Dixmer, and acknowledged to himself that he who had so firmly resisted all personal persuasion, would now at last yield to a letter; each day he sallied out in hopes of meeting Geneviève, and, beforehand, had arranged a thousand means of accosting her; each evening he returned home in hopes of there finding that messengerwho had one morning unwittingly brought him the grief which had now become his constant companion.
Often, in his hours of despair, his strong nature rebelled at the idea of enduring so much torture, without retaliating upon the primary cause of all his suffering and all his misery, Morand. Then he formed a project to go and seek some quarrel with Morand; but Dixmer's partner was so inoffensive and gentlemanly that to insult or provoke him would be a cowardly proceeding on the part of a Colossus like Maurice.
It was fortunate that Lorin came to distract the attention of Maurice from troubles which he obstinately concealed from his friend, though he did not deny to him their existence. Lorin had used every argument of theory and practice to secure to its country that heart overwhelmed in grief by another love. But although the political situation was grave, and although in another state of mind it might have dragged Maurice into the centre of the whirlpool, it could not restore to the young Republican that first activity which had distinguished him as a hero on the 14th of July and the 10th of August.
In fact, two systems, for the last ten months in view of each other, which thus far had only made some light attacks on each other, and had engaged in a few skirmishes as a prelude, now prepared to meet body to body, and it was evident that the struggle once begun would end fatally for one or the other. These two systems, born in the bosom of the Revolution itself, were those of Moderation, represented by the Girondins,—that is to say, by Brissot, Pétion, Vergniaud, Valazé, Lanjuinais, Barbaroux, etc.,—and the Terror, or the Mountain, represented by Danton, Robespierre, Chénier, Fabre, Marat, Collot d'Herbois, Hébert, etc.
After the 10th of August, as after every action, the power appeared to pass into the hands of the Moderates. A ministry had been formed from the wreck of the former ministry, and of a new coalition. Roland, Servien, and Clavières, former ministers, had been recalled; Danton, Monge, and Le Brun had been nominated afresh. With one exception only, all these ministers belonged to the Moderate party. Of course when we say "Moderate" we speak relatively.
But the 10th of August had had its echo from afar, and the coalition hastened to march, not to the assistance of Louis XVI. personally, but of the royalist principle tottering at its basis. Then were heard the menacing words of Brunswick, and as a terrible realization, Longwy and Verdun had fallen into the power of the enemy. Then the Terrorist reaction had taken place; then Danton had dreams of the days of September, and had realized the bloody dream which displayed to the enemy all France as a scene of wholesale assassination, and ready to struggle for her precarious existence with all the energy of despair. September had saved France, but in saving her had rendered her lawless. France saved, and the Energetic party having become powerless, the Moderates regained some strength, and wished to recriminate those dreadful days. The words "murderer" and "assassin" had been uttered; a new name had even been added to the national vocabulary,—it was that of "Septembriseur."