"Widow Capet, you may eat."
The queen shook her head, signifying she was not hungry. But at this moment Madame Royale advanced, as if to embrace her mother, and whispered,—
"Seat yourself at table, Madame. I fancied Turgy made a sign."
The queen, tremblingly, raised her head. Turgy was opposite to her. The napkin laid over his left arm, and with his right hand he touched his eye.
She immediately rose, without any further objection, and resumed her usual place at table.
The two municipals assisted at the meal, being strictly prohibited from leaving the princesses alone for an instant with Turgy.
The feet of the queen and Madame Elizabeth met, and pressed each other under the table.
As the queen was seated opposite Turgy, not one of his gestures escaped her notice; besides, they were all so natural that they neither could nor did inspire the municipals with any suspicion whatever.
At the removal of the supper the same precautions were used as before; the smallest pieces of bread were taken up and examined. After which, Turgy went out first, the two municipals following; the woman Tison remained.
This woman had become ferocious since her separationfrom her daughter, of whose fate she was totally ignorant. Every time the queen lavished a caress on Madame Royale, it threw her into an excess of rage almost bordering on frenzy; so much so, that the queen, who so well understood the griefs of a mother, often denied herself this consolation—now, alas! the only one left her—of pressing her daughter to her heart.
Tison came now to seek for his wife, who at first declared she would not leave till Widow Capet was in bed.
Madame Elizabeth then wished the queen good-night, and entered her chamber.
The queen and princess having also retired, Tison's wife took the candle and went out.
The municipals had already thrown themselves upon their beds in the corridor.
The moon, pale visitant of the unhappy princesses, shone through the window of the roof, casting her rays across the foot of the queen's bed.
For an instant everything remained calm and silent in the chamber.
Then a door turned softly on its hinges, a shadow passed across the rays of the moon, and approached the queen,—it was Madame Elizabeth.
"Did you notice?" said she, in a whisper.
"Yes," replied the queen.
"And you understood?"
"So well that I dare not believe it."
"Let us see; repeat the signs."
"First, then, he touched his eye to indicate he had some news for us; then he passed his napkin from his left to his right, which meant that they were occupied in our deliverance. Then he put his hand to his face, to signify that the expected aid would reach us from the interior, and not from a stranger; then when you asked him not to forget the milk of almonds to-morrow, he made two knots in his pocket-handkerchief. Thus it is again the Chevalier de Maison-Rouge,—noble-hearted man that he is."
"It is he," said Madame Elizabeth.
"Are you asleep, my child?" demanded the queen.
"No,ma mère," replied Madame Royale.
"Then pray for you know whom."
Madame Elizabeth quietly regained her chamber, and for some minutes during the silence of the night the soft, sweet voice of the youthful princess might be heard addressing her prayer to God. It was at that moment, at a signal from Morand, the first stroke of the pick-axe sounded in the small house at Rue de la Corderie.
CHAPTER XVIII.
CLOUDS.
Asidefrom the intoxication of renewed visits, Maurice was certainly much disappointed at the reception of Geneviève, and reckoned upon solitary interviews to regain the road he had lost, or seemed to have lost, in her affections.
But Geneviève had wisely arranged her plan, and did not intend to allow him an opportunity for atête-à-tête, being conscious of their danger even from the happiness they afforded her.
Maurice trusted to the morrow. A kinswoman of Geneviève's, no doubt previously invited, came to call upon her, and Geneviève had retained her. This time there was nothing to be said; it could not be the fault of Geneviève. When leaving, Maurice was requested to escort this relation to Rue des Fossés Saint Victor, where she resided. Maurice went away pouting, but Geneviève smiled, and he construed this smile into a promise.
Alas! Maurice deceived himself. The next day, the 2d of June, that terrible day that witnessed the downfall of the Girondins, Maurice dismissed his friend Lorin, who absolutely wished to carry him off to the Convention, and put everything aside that he might visit his fair friend. The Goddess of Liberty had a powerful rival in Geneviève.
Maurice found Geneviève in her little salon, all grace and amiability, but near her was a youngfemme-de-chambrewith the tricolored cockade, engaged in marking pocket-handkerchiefs in the corner of the window, who never left her place.
Maurice knitted his brows, and Geneviève, perceiving he was not in the best temper possible, redoubled her assiduities; but since her amiability was not carried so far as to dismiss the young official, he impatiently left an hour earlier than usual.
All this might have perhaps happened by chance. Maurice took patience. The political situation, besides, was so terrible that long as it was since he had interested himself in public affairs, the report reached even him. It required nothing less than the downfall of a party who had reigned in France for ten months to withdraw his attention from his all-engrossing passion for Geneviève.
The next day witnessed the same management on the part of Geneviève, and Maurice, having foreseen this, had arranged his plan. So ten minutes after his arrival, seeing that the young woman, having finished marking a dozen pocket-handkerchiefs, commenced six dozen of table napkins, Maurice, we say, drew out his watch, rose, bowed to Geneviève, and went out without saying one word.
Still more, as he left, he did not even once look back.
Geneviève, who had risen to watch him across the garden, remained an instant speechless, pale, and trembling, then dropped into her chair, thunderstruck at the effect of her diplomacy.
At this moment Dixmer entered.
"Maurice gone?" said he, with astonishment.
"Yes," stammered Geneviève.
"But he had only just arrived."
"He was here a quarter of an hour, or nearly so."
"Then he will return?"
"I much doubt it."
"Leave us, Muguet [lily of the valley]," said Dixmer.
Thefemme-de-chambrehad assumed the name of the flower from hatred to her baptismal name of Marie, which was unfortunately that of the Austrian.
She rose at the command of her master, and quitted the room.
"Well, dear Geneviève," said Dixmer, "is peace restored between you and Maurice?"
"On the contrary, I think we are cooler than ever."
"And this time, who is to blame?" said Dixmer.
"Maurice, without the slightest doubt."
"Permit me to judge."
"What!" said Geneviève, blushing, "you cannot guess—"
"Why he is angry? No."
"It seems to me, it is some whim about Muguet."
"Bah! truly; then you must send the girl away. I will not deprive myself of a friend like Maurice for the sake of afemme-de-chambre."
"Oh!" said Geneviève, "he is not, I think, so angry as to require her to be sent away; it will suffice to—"
"What?"
"To exile her from my chamber."
"And Maurice is right," said Dixmer; "it is you he comes to visit, and not Muguet; it is therefore quite unnecessary that she should be present."
"But, my dear Dixmer," replied she, regarding her husband with astonishment.
"Geneviève," replied Dixmer, "I hoped to have found in you an ally who would render more easy the task imposed upon me, and find, on the contrary, that your fears redouble our dangers and difficulties. Four days sinceI thought all was settled between us, and now everything must be done over again. Have I not told you that I confide in you, in your honor? Have I not told you that it is positively necessary that Maurice should become our friend, more intimate than before, but less suspicious than ever? Oh,mon Dieu!these women are an everlasting obstacle to our projects."
"But, is there no other way? I have told you before, that for all our sakes it would be better if Monsieur Maurice returned here no more."
"Yes, for our sakes, perhaps; but for the sake of her who is far above us, of her for whom we have promised to sacrifice our lives, fortune, and happiness, it is necessary that this young man should return. Are you aware they begin to suspect Turgy, and talk of placing another servant near the queen?"
"Well, I will send away Muguet."
"Gracious Heaven! Geneviève," said Dixmer, with a movement of impatience very unusual with him, "why do you speak to me thus; why stifle the ardor of my ideas by your own; why strive to create difficulties where too many already exist? Geneviève, act like an honorable, devoted woman; act as you feel you ought to act. I tell you, to-morrow I go out—to-morrow I take Morand's place as engineer. I shall not dine with you, but he will; he has something to ask Maurice, and will explain to you what it is. What he has to request you may imagine, Geneviève, is a thing of vital import; it is not indeed the goal to which we march, but the way leading to it. It is the last hope of that devoted, noble-minded man, our protector, to whom we are bound to dedicate our lives."
"And for whom I will freely give mine," cried Geneviève, with enthusiasm.
"Well, this man, Geneviève, I cannot tell why, as you must have seen is not loved by Maurice, by whom, above all things, it is necessary he should be respected. In short, from the bad temper in which you have put Maurice to-day, he may perhaps refuse Morand that which it is so imperative we should obtain at any price. Do I now need to tell you, Geneviève, to what dread end your petty delicacy and sentimentality are leading Morand?"
"Oh, sir!" cried Geneviève, clasping her hands and turning pale, "let us never mention that!"
"Then," said Dixmer, pressing his lips to his wife's forehead, "reflect upon it, and form your resolution;" and he went out.
"O my God!" murmured Geneviève, with anguish, "with what violence do they compel me to accept this love toward which my whole soul inclines!"
The next day, as we have already said, was Sunday.
It was customary in the family of Dixmer, as in all the bourgeoise families at that period, that the dinner should be longer and more ceremonious on that day than on any other. Since their intimacy, Maurice, having received a general invitation, never omitted to dine with them on that day. Although they did not dine till two o'clock, Maurice used to come at noon.
From the manner of their parting, however, Geneviève almost despaired of seeing him that Sunday.
In short, twelve o'clock struck, then half-past, then one.
It would be impossible to describe what passed in the heart of Geneviève during this period of anxious expectation.
She was at first dressed with the greatest simplicity; then, seeing that he delayed his coming, she, with a feeling of coquetry natural to the heart of woman, hadplaced a flower at her side, a flower in her hair, and still listened, her heart each moment beating faster and faster. The dinner-hour had almost arrived, and Maurice had not appeared.
At ten minutes to two, Geneviève heard the sound of a horse's feet, that sound she knew so well.
"Oh!" cried she, "his pride could not wrestle against his love. He loves me! he loves me!"
Maurice dismounted, and gave his horse to the gardener, desiring him to remain where he was. Geneviève saw with anxiety that the gardener did not lead the horse to the stables.
Maurice on this day looked superlatively handsome. A splendid black coat, a white waistcoat, breeches of chamois leather designed for limbs after the model of Apollo, a white cambric stock, and his waving hair, displaying a fresh, beaming face, formed altogether a type of manly beauty.
He entered. As we have already said, his presence swelled the heart of Geneviève, who received him joyfully. "Ah!" said she, holding out her hand, "you have come to dine with us, have you not?"
"On the contrary, Citizen," said Maurice, coldly, "I have come to ask your permission to absent myself."
"To absent yourself?"
"Yes; the sectional affairs claim my attention. I feared you might wait, and would accuse me of being wanting in politeness, therefore came to make my excuses in person."
Geneviève again felt her heart sink within her.
"Ah,mon Dieu!" cried she, "and Dixmer, who does not dine at home, counted upon finding you here on his return, and desired me to detain you."
"Ah, then, Madame! I comprehend your importunity,it is a command of your husband's; and I not to guess all this! I shall never cure myself of conceit."
"Maurice!"
"It is for me, Madame, to draw my inference from your actions rather than your words; it is for me therefore to comprehend that if Dixmer is absent the greater the reason I should not remain. His absence would surely add to your constraint."
"Why so?" timidly inquired Geneviève.
"Because you appear, since my return, sedulously to avoid me, notwithstanding I returned for your sake, and yours only; and you well know,mon Dieu!that ever since my return I have invariably found some one with you."
"Then," said Geneviève, "you are still angry,mon ami, although I endeavor to act for the best."
"No, Geneviève; you would do much better to receive me as before, or drive me away altogether."
"Maurice," said Geneviève, tenderly, "understand my situation, consider my anguish, and do not enact the tyrant over me any longer."
And the young woman regarded him mournfully.
Maurice remained silent.
"What do you require then?" continued she.
"I require your love, Geneviève; since I now feel I cannot live without that love."
"Maurice! have pity on me."
"Then, Madame, you leave me to die."
"To die?"
"Yes, to die, or to forget."
"You could then forget?" said Geneviève, the tears rushing from her heart to her eyes.
"Ah, no, no!" said Maurice, falling on his knees before her; "no, Geneviève, I may die, perhaps, but forget you, never, never!"
"And yet," replied Geneviève, with firmness, "that would be the best, Maurice; for this love is criminal."
"Have you said this to Monsieur Morand?" said Maurice, recalled to himself by her sudden frigidity of manner.
"Monsieur Morand is not a madman like yourself, and has never yet compelled me to indicate to him how he should conduct himself in the house of a friend."
"I wager," said Maurice, smiling ironically, "that if Dixmer dines out Morand is not absent. Ah, Geneviève, by this means you can always deter me from loving you; for while Morand is here, forever at your side, not quitting you even for a single moment," continued he, contemptuously, "I should not love you, or rather I should not confess that I loved you."
"And I," cried Geneviève, driven to extremity by this eternal suspicion, and seizing the young man's arm with a species of frenzy, "I swear solemnly—now, Maurice, mark me well, and let it be once for all—that Morand has never breathed to me a word of love, that he neither loves me nor ever will love me. I swear this on my honor; I swear this by the soul of my mother.
"Alas! alas!" said Maurice, "I wish I could believe you."
"Oh, believe me, poor foolish youth!" said she, with a smile which, to any one else than one blind with jealousy, would have been a charming confession of the state of her heart,—"believe me. Besides, if you wish to know more, Morand loves a woman in whose presence all others sink into insignificance, as the flowers of the field fade before the stars of heaven."
"And who is this woman who is able to eclipse all other women," demanded Maurice, "when among the number we find Geneviève?"
"Do we not always," said Geneviève, smiling, "consider the one we love as thechef d'œuvreof the creation?"
"Then," said Maurice, "if you do not love me, Geneviève—"
The young woman waited with anxiety the end of the sentence.
"If you do not love me," continued Maurice, "will you at least swear never to love another?"
"Ah! that, Maurice, I will swear with all my heart," cried the young woman, delighted that he had thus compromised with her conscience.
Maurice seized the hands she was raising to Heaven, and covered them with ardent kisses.
"And now," said he, "I will be kind, indulgent, and confiding. I will even be generous. I wish to see you smile, and myself to be happy."
"And you will ask me nothing more?"
"I will endeavor."
"And now," said Geneviève, "I think it will be useless to hold the horse any longer. The section will wait."
"Oh, Geneviève! the whole world might wait, if I could only stay with you!"
Steps were heard in the court-yard.
"They come to tell us that dinner is ready," said Geneviève. They silently pressed each other's hands.
It was Morand, who came to tell them they only awaited their presence at table. He also was in full dress for the Sunday's dinner.
CHAPTER XIX.
THE REQUEST.
Inthe mean time Morand did not a little excite the curiosity of Maurice. The most refined of fops could not discover a fault in the tie of his cravat, the folds of his boots, or the texture of his linen; but it must be allowed his hair and spectacles were always the same. It then appeared to Maurice, so much was he reassured by the oath of Geneviève, that he now for the first time viewed these locks and spectacles in a proper light.
"The devil!" said Maurice to himself as he went to meet him,—"the devil take me if I am now ever again jealous of this worthy Citizen Morand. Put on every day, if you choose, your full-dress coat, or even make yourself one of cloth of gold, since from this time I promise to see nothing but your hair and spectacles, and above all, never again to accuse you of loving Geneviève."
We can easily understand that the shake of the hand bestowed upon the Citizen Morand at the conclusion of this soliloquy was more frank and cordial than usual. Contrary to custom, the party was small, covers being placed for only three on a narrow table.
Geneviève was seated nearly opposite Maurice, between himself and the light, which reflected on her luxuriant black curls, tingeing them with the blue hue of the raven's wing, and enhancing the brilliancy of her eyes and complexion.
Beyond his pigeon-colored suit, Morand appeared to have dismissed all recollection of the day from his mind,—that brilliant wit which Maurice had sometimes heard burst fresh from the lips of this singular man, which would no doubt have been accompanied by flashes from his eyes, had they not been totally obscured by the green spectacles.
He uttered a thousand witticisms, but never himself smiled; indeed, what added piquancy to his witticisms and a strange charm to his sallies was his own imperturbable gravity. This merchant, who had made numerous voyages and visited various countries, trading in every sort of skin, from the skin of the panther to that of the rabbit; this chemist, with arms dyed with his own chemical preparations,—was as conversant with Egypt as Herodotus, Africa as Lavaillant, and the Opera and the boudoir as any fop.
"But the devil take me, Monsieur Morand," said Maurice, "you are not only a clever man, but a scholar also."
"Ah! I have both seen and read much," said Morand; "and then it is necessary I should prepare myself in some degree for the life of pleasure I intend to lead when I retire on my fortune. It is time, Citizen Maurice, it is time."
"Bah!" said Maurice; "you talk like an old man. What age then are you?"
Morand turned round, startled by this question, natural as it certainly was.
"I am thirty-eight," said he. "Ah! see what it is to be a scholar, as you term it. It makes one old."
Geneviève began to laugh, and Maurice joined in; but Morand merely smiled.
"You have, then, made several voyages?" demanded Maurice, pressing Geneviève's foot between his own.
"Part of my youth," replied Morand, "was passed in a foreign land."
"And you have seen much?—pardon me, I ought to say, have observed much; for a man like yourself cannot see without observing," replied Maurice.
"Ma foi!yes; seen much?" replied Morand, "I have seen almost everything."
"Everything, Citizen," replied Maurice, laughing; "that is saying a great deal. If you were to search—"
"Ah, yes! you are right; there are two things I have never seen. It is true, in our days, these two things are becoming more and more rare."
"What are they, then?" demanded Maurice.
"The first," said Morand, gravely, "is a god."
"Ah!" said Maurice, "but in lieu of a god I shall be able to show you a goddess, Citizen Morand."
"How so?" interrupted Geneviève.
"Yes; a goddess of quite modern creation,—the Goddess Reason. I have a friend, of whom you have sometimes heard me speak,—my dear and brave Lorin,—with a heart of gold, whose only fault is that of making verses and vile puns."
"Well?"
"Well, he selected for Paris a Goddess Reason, in good condition, and in whom they can discover nothing at all objectionable. It is the Citizeness Arthémise, ex-dancer at the Opera, and at present dealer in perfumes, Rue Martin. As soon as she is definitely received as goddess, I will show her to you."
Morand bowed his head in token of thanks, and continued,—
"The other," said he gravely, "is a king."
"Ah! that is more difficult," said Geneviève; "there are no more of them," she added, forcing a smile.
"You should have seen the last," said Maurice; "it would have been prudent to do so."
"The result is," said Morand, "I have not the least idea of a crowned head; it must be very sad?"
"Very sad, indeed," said Maurice; "I will answer for it,—I who see one nearly every month."
"A crowned head?" demanded Geneviève.
"At least," said Maurice, "one that has borne the weight and miserable burden of a crown."
"Ah, yes! the queen," said Morand; "truly, Monsieur Maurice, it must be a melancholy sight—"
"Is she as proud and beautiful as they say?" demanded Geneviève.
"Have you never seen her then, Madame?" demanded Maurice, surprised in his turn.
"I? never!" replied the young woman.
"Indeed!" said Maurice, "that is strange."
"And why strange?" said Geneviève. "We lived in the country till '91; since '91 we have resided in the old Rue Saint Jacques, which much resembles the country, only here they have neither light nor air, and still less flowers. You are acquainted with my life, Citizen Maurice? It has always been the same. How do you suppose I could have seen the queen, when I have had no opportunity whatever of so doing?"
"And I do not think you will avail yourself of that which unfortunately, perhaps, may present itself," said Maurice.
"What do you mean?" demanded Geneviève.
"The Citizen Maurice," replied Morand, "alludes to a thing no longer a secret."
"To what?" demanded Geneviève.
"To the probable condemnation of Marie Antoinette, and to her death upon the same scaffold where her husband died. The citizen said, in short, that you would not avail yourself of the opportunity offered you of seeing her the day when she will quit the Temple for the Place de la Révolution."
"Oh, certainly not!" cried Geneviève, as Morand pronounced these words with the utmost sang-froid.
"Then you can only lament," said the impassible chemist; "for the Austrian is well guarded, and the Republic a fairy that renders invisible whatever she pleases."
"I acknowledge, however," said Geneviève, "I have been very desirous to see this poor woman."
"Let us see," said Maurice, anxious to gratify all the wishes of Geneviève; "have you really such an inclination? Then only say the word. I agree with the Citizen Morand that the Republic is a fairy; but I, in quality of municipal, am somewhat of a wizard."
"Could you procure me a sight of the queen, you, Monsieur?" cried Geneviève.
"Certainly, I can."
"And how?" demanded Morand, exchanging a rapid glance with Geneviève, which escaped the notice of the young man.
"Nothing more simple," said Maurice. "There are certainly some municipals of whom they are distrustful; but as for me, I have given sufficient evidence of my devotion to the cause of liberty to render me above all suspicion. Besides, admittance to the Temple depends conjointly on the municipals and the chiefs of the post. Now, the chief of the post is, just at this moment, my friend Lorin, who appears to me to be called indubitably to replace General Santerre, seeing that in three months he has risen from the rank of corporal to that of adjutant-major. Well, come and see me at theTemple the day I shall be on guard,—that is to say, next Thursday."
"Well," said Morand, "I hope now your wishes will be gratified. There is the whole matter arranged."
"Oh! no, no," said Geneviève; "indeed, I would not have it thus."
"And wherefore not?" said Maurice, who only anticipated in this visit to the Temple an opportunity of seeing Geneviève on a day when he had expected to be deprived of this happiness.
"Because," answered Geneviève, "it might perhaps, dear Maurice, expose you to some unpleasant dispute; and if anything were to happen to you through gratifying a whim of mine, I should never, while I lived, forgive myself."
"You have spoken wisely, Geneviève," said Morand. "Suspicion is at present very rife; the best patriots even are now suspected. Renounce this project, which, as you say, is after all a mere caprice of curiosity."
"They will say that you are envious, Morand, and that not having yourself seen either king or queen, you do not wish others to do so. Come, to end all discussion, join the party."
"I! good faith! No."
"It is then no longer the Citizen Dixmer who wishes to visit the Temple; it is I who entreat both her and you to come there, to divert a poor prisoner. For the great door once closed upon me, I remain for twenty-four hours as much a prisoner as the king would be, or a prince of the blood." And pressing between his own feet the foot of Geneviève, "Come then," said he, "I entreat you!"
"What do you say, Morand," said Geneviève, "will you come with me?"
"It will be losing a day," said Morand, "and will retard by just so long the time when I expect to retire from business."
"Then I shall not go," said Geneviève.
"But why?" demanded Morand.
"Because I cannot depend upon my husband to escort me; and if you will not accompany me—you, a respectable man, thirty-eight years of age—I have not the hardihood to encounter alone all the chasseurs, artillery-men, and grenadiers, requesting to speak to one of the municipals only three or four years older than myself."
"Then," said Morand, "since you deem my presence indispensable, Citizeness—"
"Come! come! learned Citizen, be as gallant as if you were simply an ordinary man, and sacrifice half a day to the wife of your friend," said Maurice.
"Well, let it be so," said Morand.
"Now," said Maurice, "I only require one thing from you,—that is, discretion. Visiting the Temple is considered a suspicious proceeding, and should any accident occur in consequence, we should all be guillotined. The Jacobins do not jest.Peste!you see how they have treated the Girondins."
"The devil!" said Morand, "this observation of the Citizen Maurice requires consideration. This would be a sort of retiring from business that would not suit me at all."
"Did you not hear," said Geneviève, smiling, "that the Citizen Maurice saidall?"
"Well, what of that? All?"
"All together."
"Yes, without doubt," said Morand, "company is very agreeable; but I much prefer, fair sentimentalist, to live in your society than to die in it."
"What the devil was I thinking of," said Maurice to himself, "when I imagined this man loved Geneviève?"
"Then it is all settled," said Geneviève. "I address myself to you, Morand, thoughtful, absent man that you are,—remember it is on Thursday next; so do not on the Wednesday evening commence some chemical experiment that will occupy your time and attention for the next twenty-four hours, as very frequently happens."
"You may be perfectly easy on that point," said Morand. "Besides, you can remind me."
Geneviève then rose from table, and Maurice followed her example. Morand was about to leave also, and perhaps to follow them, when one of the workmen brought the chemist a small vial containing some liquid which instantly engrossed all his attention.
"Let us make haste," said Maurice, drawing away Geneviève.
"Oh, be assured," said she, "he will remain there for an hour at the very least."
And the young woman allowed him to take her hand, which he tenderly pressed between his own. She felt remorse for her treachery, and tried to compensate for it by her kindness.
"Do you see," said she to Maurice, crossing the garden and showing him the carnations, which had been removed into the air with the hope of reviving them,—"do you see my flowers are all dead?"
"What killed them?" said Maurice; "your neglect? Poor carnations!"
"It was not my neglect, but your desertion, kind sir."
"They required, my little Geneviève, some water, that was all; besides, my absence should have left you plenty of time."
"Ah!" said Geneviève, "if flowers were watered withtears, the poor carnations, as you call them, would not have died."
Maurice threw his arms round Geneviève, and drawing her to him, before she had time to prevent him, pressed his lips upon the half-smiling, half-languishing eye, now fixed upon the drooping, dying flowers.
Geneviève felt so much self-reproach it made her lenient to others.
Dixmer returned home late, and on his return found Morand, Maurice, and Geneviève talking botany in the garden.
CHAPTER XX.
THE FLOWER-GIRL.
Atlength the anticipated Thursday, the day of Maurice's guard, arrived. It was now the month of June. The sky was of a deep and cloudless blue, and against this sheet of blue rose the heavy white mass of new houses. The coming of the dreadful dog-star was already foreseen,—that dog represented by the ancients as thirsting with an unquenchable thirst, and which, to borrow the phraseology of the plebeian Parisians, licked the pavement very dry. Paris was clean as a carpet, and perfumes filled the air, mounting from the trees, emanating from the flowers, circulating and intoxicating with joy, as if to render the inhabitants of the capital forgetful for a few moments of that vapor of blood which rose without intermission from the pavement of their streets.
It was Maurice's duty to enter the Temple at nine o'clock; his two colleagues were Mercevault and Agricola. At eight o'clock he was in the old Rue Saint Jacques, in grand costume as citizen municipal,—that is to say, with a tricolored scarf tightly fastened round his lithe, muscular frame. He as usual rode there on horseback, and on his route won the sincere approbation, admiration, and eulogiums of the fair patriots who saw him pass. Geneviève was already prepared; she wore a simple muslin dress, a species of light taffeta mantle, and a small bonnet ornamented with the tricolored cockade. Thus attired, she was of dazzling beauty.
Morand, who, as we have seen, had been earnestly solicited to accompany them, had, no doubt for fear of being mistaken for an aristocrat, attired himself in his usual costume,—half-burgess, half-artisan. He had just entered, and his countenance betrayed great fatigue; he said he had been at work all night, in order to complete some urgent business.
Dixmer had gone out immediately on the return of his friend Morand.
"Well," demanded Geneviève, "what have you decided on, Maurice; and how are we to see the queen?"
"Listen," said Maurice, "I have arranged everything. I shall arrive at the Temple with you, and then introduce you to my friend Lorin, who commands the guard; I then take my post, and on the first opportunity will come for you."
"But," demanded Morand, "where are we to see the prisoners, and how are we to see them?"
"At either their breakfast or their dinner, if that will suit you, through the glazed partition of the municipals."
"Perfectly," said Morand.
Maurice then saw Morand approach a cupboard at the farther end of thesalle-à-manger, and drink hastily a glass of pure wine, which rather surprised him, as Morand was usually very abstemious, his strongest beverage being water merely colored with wine.
Geneviève saw that Maurice regarded him with astonishment.
"Only imagine," said she, "he must be half-dead with fatigue; he has taken nothing since yesterday morning."
"Did he not dine here?" asked Maurice.
"No; he was trying some experiments in the city."
Geneviève took a useless precaution with respect to Maurice, since lover-like he was an egotist, and had merelybestowed upon the action of Morand that superficial attention which an amorous man accords to everything except the woman whom he loves.
To his glass of wine Morand added a crust of bread, which he hastily swallowed.
"And now," said he, "dear Citizen Maurice, I am quite ready; when you choose we will depart."
Maurice, who was stripping the decayed petals from one of the dead carnations he had plucked in passing, now offered his arm to Geneviève, saying,—
"Let us start."
On their way Maurice felt so happy that he could scarcely contain himself; he would have uttered cries of joy had he not restrained his emotion. What could he desire more? Not only had he acquired the certainty that she did not love Morand, but also the hope that he possessed her affection. The glorious sun shone upon the world, the arm of Geneviève was reposing within his own, while the public criers, shouting at the top of their voices the triumph of the Jacobins and the defeat of Brissot and his party, announced that the country was saved.
There are truly moments in life when the heart of man seems too small to contain the joy or grief concentrated there.
"Oh, what a lovely day!" exclaimed Morand.
Maurice turned round in surprise. This was the first burst of feeling he had ever heard issue from the lips of this singularly reserved and absent man.
"Oh, yes; it is indeed lovely," said Geneviève, pressing closer the arm of Maurice; "would that it may continue till evening pure and cloudless as it is now!"
Maurice applied these words to himself, and his happiness redoubled each moment.
Morand at the same time regarded Geneviève throughhis green spectacles with a peculiar, grateful expression. Perhaps he also applied her wish to himself.
They thus crossed the Petit Pont, the Rue de la Juiverie, and the Bridge Notre Dame; they then proceeded to the Place de l'Hôtel de Ville, the Rue Barre-du-Bec, and the Rue Sainte Avoie. As they progressed, Maurice's step became more and more elastic, while on the contrary those of his male and female companions waxed slower and slower.
They had reached the corner of the Rue des Vieilles-Audriettes, when all at once a flower-girl impeded their passage, by offering them her basket filled with flowers.
"Oh, what magnificent carnations!" cried Maurice.
"Oh, yes, very beautiful!" said Geneviève; "it seems the cultivator of these had no preoccupation to distress him, for they are not withered and dead."
This speech sank deep into the heart of the young man.
"Ah! my brave Municipal," said the flower-girl, "purchase a bouquet for the pretty citizen. She is dressed in white; look at these superb crimson carnations; white and purple look well together. She will place the bouquet upon her heart, and as her heart is near to your blue coat, you will have there the national colors."
The flower-girl was young and pretty; her compliment was well-turned and well-chosen, for had it been made expressly for that occasion, it could not have better applied to the circumstances. Besides, the flowers were almost symbolical; they were similar to those now dead.
"I will purchase some," said Maurice, "since they are carnations; all other flowers I detest."
"Ah, Maurice," said Geneviève, "it is useless, we have so many of them in the garden."
But although her lips uttered the refusal, her eyes expressed a longing desire to possess them.
Maurice selected the most beautiful of the bouquets. It was the one the pretty flower-girl had presented to him.
It consisted of twenty deep red carnations, emitting an odor at once sweet and pungent; in the centre, towering above the rest, rose a magnificent carnation.
"Here," said Maurice to the seller, throwing on her basket a bill of five francs, "that is for you."
"Thanks, my brave Municipal," said the flower-girl, "a thousand thanks."
And she went toward another couple, trusting the day commenced thus auspiciously would so continue till its close. During this apparently simple scene, which had only occupied a few seconds at most, Morand seemed scarcely able to support himself, and wiped the perspiration from his pallid brow, while Geneviève also turned pale and trembled. She took the nosegay which Maurice presented to her, and clasping it in her lovely hand, held it to her face, less to inhale the odor than to conceal her emotion.
The remainder of the journey was pleasant, at least so far as concerned Maurice. As for Geneviève, her gayety seemed affected, and Morand evinced his enjoyment in a fashion peculiar to himself,—that is to say, in smothered sighs or startling bursts of laughter, and occasionally uttering some formidable witticisms which fell upon the passers-by like sparks of fire.
At nine o'clock they reached the Temple.
Santerre called over the municipals.
"I am here," said Maurice, leaving Geneviève under the care of Morand.
"Welcome," said Santerre, holding out his hand to the young man.
Maurice took care not to refuse the hand thus offeredto him. The friendship of Santerre was certainly most valuable at this epoch. At sight of this man who had commanded the famous rolling of drums, Geneviève shuddered, and Morand turned pale.
"Who is this lovely citizeness?" demanded Santerre of Maurice, "and what does she here?"
"She is the wife of the brave Citizen Dixmer; you have heard this excellent patriot spoken of, Citizen General?"
"Yes, yes," replied Santerre; "the chief of a tannery, captain of chasseurs of the legion Victor."
"The same."
"Good! good! My faith, she is pretty. And this ugly fellow who has given her his arm?"
"That is the Citizen Morand, her husband's partner, and chasseur in Dixmer's company."
Santerre approached Geneviève.
"Good-day, Citizeness," said he.
Geneviève made an effort.
"Good-day, Citizen General," replied she, smiling.
Santerre felt flattered by both title and smile.
"And what brings you here, fair patriot?" continued Santerre.
"The citizeness," replied Maurice, "has never seen Widow Capet, and would like to see her."
"Yes," said Santerre, "before—" and he made an atrocious gesture.
"Precisely," replied Maurice, coldly.
"Very well," said Santerre, "only mind they are not seen entering the keep: it would be a bad example; in other respects, do as you think fit."
Santerre again shook hands with Maurice, made an inclination of his head to Geneviève in a friendly and protecting manner, and went to attend to his other duties.
After a great many evolutions of gendarmes and chasseurs, after some manœuvring with cannon, the heavy reverberations of which, it was considered, carried to the environs a salutary admonition, Maurice gave Geneviève his arm, and followed closely by Morand, advanced toward the post, at the door of which Lorin was vociferating loudly, commanding the manœuvres of his battalion.
"Good!" cried he, "why there is Maurice;peste!with a female too who appears to me rather agreeable. Does the sly rascal wish to bring her into competition with my Goddess Reason? If it were so, poor Arthémise!"
"Hallo! Citizen Adjutant," said the captain.
"Ah! that's right; attention!" said Lorin; "file to the left, left—Good-day, Maurice; not so quickly—"
The drums rolled, the company dispersed to their respective places, and when each was at his post, Lorin hastened to exchange compliments with his friend. Maurice presented Lorin to Geneviève and Morand. Then an explanation commenced as to the purport of their visit.
"Yes, I understand," said Lorin; "you wish your friends to enter the keep; that is easily managed. I will go directly and station the sentinels, then I will order them to admit you and your friends."
In ten minutes afterward Geneviève and Morand entered behind the three municipals, and placed themselves behind the glazed partition.
CHAPTER XXI.
THE CRIMSON CARNATION.
Thequeen had just risen. Having been indisposed for two or three days, she had remained in bed longer than usual; but having heard from her sister that there had been a splendid sunrise, she made an effort to quit her couch, and that she might be enabled to breathe the pure air with her daughter, had requested permission to walk on the platform, which had been granted her without the slightest difficulty.
She had also been induced to act thus from another cause. Once, and it is true once only, from the height of the tower she had seen the dauphin playing in the garden. But at the first signal of recognition between the mother and child, Simon interfered, and compelled the boy to retire immediately.
Nevertheless, she had seen him; that was a great source of happiness to her. True, the poor little prisoner was very pale and much changed. Then he was dressed as a child of the people, in a blouse and coarse trousers. But his beautiful fair waving curls were still left him, forming around him a glory which God no doubt intended the infant martyr to retain in heaven.
If she could only see him once again, oh, what a cordial to the heart of the unhappy mother!
There was yet another motive.
"My sister," Madame Elizabeth had said to her, "you know we found in the corridor a straw standing uprightin a corner of the wall. In the language of our signs this desires us to be watchful, as a friend is coming near us."
"That is true," replied the queen; who, regarding her sister and child with pity, would not on their account permit herself to despair of their ultimate safety.
The duties of the service accomplished, Maurice was then highest in authority in the keep of the Temple, since chance had elected him as guard during the day, and the other municipals, Agricola and Mercevault, as guards during the night.
The municipals had left, after laying theirprocès-verbalbefore the Council of the Temple.
"Ah, Citizen Municipal," said the woman Tison, coming forward to salute Maurice, "you bring company, then, to see our caged pigeons? It is only I who am condemned no more to see my poor Sophie."
"They are friends of mine," said Maurice, "who have never yet seen the Widow Capet."
"Ah! well, they will see admirably behind the partition."
"Assuredly," said Morand.
"Only," said Geneviève, "we shall seem to be actuated by that cruel curiosity which induces some persons to mock the misery of unfortunate prisoners from the outside of an iron grating."
"Ah! then why not take your friends to the tower walk, since the woman Capet will take an airing there to-day with her sister and her daughter; for they have left her a daughter, while I who am not guilty, have been deprived of mine. Oh, these aristocrats! it will always be the case; let us do what we will, favor is always shown to them, Citizen Maurice."
"But they have taken from her her son," replied he.
"Ah! if I had a son," murmured the female jailer, "I should lament my daughter less."
Geneviève during this time had exchanged looks with Morand several times.
"Mon ami," said the young woman to Maurice, "the citizen is in the right. If you could by any means place me in the way of Marie Antoinette, it would be less repugnant to my feelings than gazing at her here. It seems to me that this manner of viewing people is at once humiliating both to them and to us."
"Kind Geneviève," said Maurice, "you possess true delicacy of mind."
"Egad! Citizen," said one of Maurice's colleagues who was at that moment breakfasting in the antechamber on bread and sausages, "if you were the prisoner, and Capet's wife felt curiosity to see you, she would not be so very particular about the indulgence of her fancy,—the jade!"
Geneviève, with a movement quicker than lightning, threw a rapid glance toward Morand, to note the effect of these words upon him. In effect, Morand quivered, a strange phosphorescent light gleamed from under his eyelids, and his hands were clinched for an instant; but all this was so momentary that it passed unperceived.
"What is the name of this municipal?" asked she of Maurice.
"It is the Citizen Mercevault," replied the young man; and then added, as if to apologize for his coarseness, "a stone-cutter."
Mercevault heard it, and cast a sidelong glance at Maurice.
"Come! come!" said the woman Tison; "finish your sausage and your half-bottle, that I may clear the table."
"It is not the fault of the Austrian if I finish them now," grumbled the municipal; "for if she could have murdered me on the 10th of August she would have done so; thus the day when she 'sneezes in the sack' I shall be in the first rank, firm at my post."
Morand turned as pale as death.
"Come! Citizen Maurice," said Geneviève, "let us go where you promised to take us; here it seems as if I were a prisoner. I feel suffocated."
Maurice conducted Geneviève and Morand out, when the sentinels, previously instructed by Lorin, allowed them to pass without any difficulty. They installed themselves in a little passage on the upper story, so that the moment when the queen, Madame Royale, or Madame Elizabeth ascended to the gallery, these august personages could not do otherwise than pass before them.
As the promenade was fixed for ten o'clock, and they had only a few minutes to wait, Maurice not only did not quit his friends, but further, in order that the slightest suspicion might not be excited by this rather illegal proceeding, having met Agricola, he took that municipal with him.
It struck ten.
"Open!" cried a voice from the base of the tower, which Maurice knew to be that of General Santerre.
Immediately the guard assumed arms and closed the iron gratings; the sentinels also presented arms. There was then heard in all the court a confused noise of iron, stones, and footsteps, which vividly impressed both Morand and Geneviève, for Maurice observed them both turn pale.
"All these precautions to guard three poor women," murmured Geneviève.
"Yes," said Morand, endeavoring to smile; "if those who tempt them to escape were now here, and in our place saw what we see, it would disgust them with their trade."
"In fact," continued Geneviève, "I begin to think they will never escape."
"I hope they never will," said Maurice, inclining over the staircase as he spoke.
"Attention," cried he; "here are the prisoners."
"Name them to me," said Geneviève, "for I do not know any of them."
"The first two who are ascending are the sister and daughter of Capet. The last one, preceded by a little dog, is Marie Antoinette."
Geneviève made a step forward. Morand, on the contrary, instead of looking at them, pressed himself close against the wall, his lips more livid and earthy than the stones of the keep.
Geneviève, with her white robe and bright pure eyes, appeared like an angel awaiting the prisoners to cheer them on their dark and dreary road, and to administer in passing a ray of comfort to their desolate and blighted hearts.
Madame Elizabeth and Madame Royale pursued their way, having only thrown a glance of astonishment at the strangers. No doubt the former imagined they were those whom the signals announced, for turning round quickly to Madame Royale, she pressed her hand, and while so doing, dropped her handkerchief, as if to inform the queen.
"Pay attention, my sister," said she; "I have dropped my handkerchief."
And she passed on with the young princess.
The queen, with panting breath accompanied with ashort dry cough indicating ill-health, stooped to pick up the handkerchief which had fallen at her feet, when her little dog, more agile than its mistress, seized it, and ran forward with it to Madame Elizabeth. The queen continued her ascent slowly, and after some steps found herself in her turn before Geneviève, Morand, and the young municipal.
"Flowers!" cried she; "oh, how long it is since I have seen any flowers! How deliciously they smell! You are happy to possess these flowers, Madame."
Quick as the idea formed in her mind, prompted by these melancholy words, Geneviève extended her hand to offer her bouquet to the queen.
Then Marie Antoinette raised her head, looked at her, and an almost imperceptible blush passed over her colorless face.
But by a natural movement, from an habitual passive obedience to regulation, Maurice put out his hand to arrest the arm of Geneviève.
The queen then remained hesitating, when, looking at Maurice, she recognized him as the young municipal who had always spoken to her with so much firmness, but at the same time tempered with equal respect.
"Is this forbidden, sir?" said she.
"No, no, Madame. Geneviève, you can offer your bouquet," said Maurice.
"Oh, thanks, thanks, sir," said the queen, with grateful acknowledgments; and bowing with gracious affability to Geneviève, the queen extended her emaciated hand, and selected at random a single carnation from the mass of flowers.
"Take them all, Madame, take them all," timidly said Geneviève.
"No," said the queen, with a fascinating smile; "thisbouquet may come perhaps from one you love. I will not deprive you of it."
Geneviève blushed, and at this blush the queen smiled.
"Move on! Citizen Capet," said Agricola, "you must continue your route."
The queen bowed, and ascended the steps, but before she disappeared, turned around and murmured,—
"How sweet these carnations smell! and what a beautiful young lady!"
"She has not seen me," murmured Morand, who, almost kneeling in the shade of the corridor, had quite escaped the notice of the queen.
"But you had a good view of her, had you not, Morand? Had not you, Geneviève?" said Maurice, doubly happy, first from the sight he had procured his friends, and also that he had afforded ever so slight a gratification to the unhappy prisoner.
"Oh, yes, yes!" said Geneviève; "I saw her very well, and were I to live for a thousand years, I should never forget her."
"And what do you think of her?"
"She is charming."
"And you, Morand."
Morand clasped his hands, but made no reply.
"Tell me," said Maurice, laughing, in a whisper to Geneviève, "is it the queen of whom Morand is enamoured?"
Geneviève started, but recovering herself instantly, replied smilingly,—
"It really looks like it."
"You have not yet told me what you think of her, Morand," persisted Maurice.
"I thought her very pale," replied he.
Maurice retook the arm of Geneviève, to descend toward the court. In the dark staircase it seemed to him that Geneviève kissed his hand.
"Ha! what does that mean, Geneviève?"
"It means, Maurice, that I shall never forget that to gratify a whim of mine you have risked your life."
"Oh!" said Maurice, "what exaggeration, Geneviève! Between you and me, you well know that gratitude is not the sentiment I wish to inspire you with."
Geneviève pressed his arm softly.
Morand followed with faltering steps.
When they reached the court, Lorin came and identified the two visitors, showing them to the gate.
Before leaving the Temple, Geneviève made Maurice promise to dine the next day in the old Rue Saint Jacques.
CHAPTER XXII.
SIMON THE CENSOR.
WhenMaurice returned to his post, in a state of transcendent happiness, he found Tison's wife weeping.
"What have they done to you now, mother?" asked Maurice.
"All this makes me furious," replied the female jailer.
"Why?"
"Because there is nothing but injustice for poor people in this world."
"But how?"
"You are rich, you are a bourgeois, you come here only for a day, and they permit pretty women to visit you here, who present bouquets to the Austrian; while I who nestle everlastingly in this dove-cot am not allowed to see my poor Sophie."
Maurice took her hand, and slipped into it a bill of ten francs.
"There, good woman, take that, and do not despair. Goodness! the Austrian will not last forever."
"Ten francs," said the female jailer, "that is kind of you; but I would rather have even a curl-paper from my poor girl's hair."
As she finished these words, Simon, who was then coming up, heard them, and saw the female jailer put in her pocket the bill Maurice had given her.
We will mention what sort of a temper Simon was in.
He came from the court where he had encountered Lorin. Now, a decided antipathy existed between these two men.
This hatred was less induced by the violent scenes with which our readers are already familiar than by difference of race, an everlasting source of detestation, which, however mysterious it may at first appear, is easily explained.
Simon was hideous, Lorin handsome; Simon was vulgar, Lorin the very opposite; Simon was a Republican bully, Lorin one of those ardent patriots who had sacrificed everything to the Revolution; and then, if they had on a former occasion come to blows, Simon instinctively felt that the fist of the fop, no less effectually than that of Maurice, would have inflicted upon him a plebeian punishment.
Simon on perceiving Lorin, stopped short, and turned pale.
"It is still this battalion that mounts guard," growled he.
"Well," said a gendarme who overheard this apostrophe, "it is as good as another, it seems to me."
Simon drew a pencil from his pocket, and pretended to note down something on a piece of paper almost as black as his hands.
"Ah!" said Lorin, "you know how to write then, Simon, since you are tutor to young Capet? Look, citizens, upon my honor he takes notes; he is Simon the Censor."
A universal shout of laughter proceeded from the ranks of the young National Guards, almost all men of education, at the ridiculous title bestowed upon the wretched cobbler.
"Very well, very well," said he, grinding his teeth,and turning white with rage; "they say you have permitted strangers to enter the keep, and that without the consent of the Commune. Very well, I am going to draw out theprocès-verbalby the municipal."
"He at least knows how to write," said Lorin; "it is Maurice, Maurice with the Iron Hand; don't you know him?"
At this moment Morand and Geneviève went out.
On seeing this, Simon rushed into the keep, at the very moment, as we have said, when Maurice, by way of consoling her, presented the woman Tison with the bill of ten francs.
Maurice paid no attention to the presence of this miserable wretch, whom by a natural instinct he always avoided if he by any chance encountered him, regarding him in the light of a disgusting and venomous reptile.
"Ah, well!" said Simon to Tison's wife, who was wiping her eyes with her apron; "so you wish to bring yourself to the guillotine, Citizen?"
"I!" said the woman, "what put such a thought into your head?"
"Why, because you receive money from the municipal for allowing aristocrats entrance to the Austrian."
"I!" said the woman Tison; "be silent, you are mad!"
"This shall be entered in theprocès-verbal," said Simon, emphatically.
"Come, now, they are friends of the Municipal Maurice, one of the best patriots that ever existed."
"Conspirators, I tell you. Besides, the Commune shall be informed; it will judge for itself."
"What! you mean to lodge information about me then, spy of the police!"
"Exactly so, if you do not lodge information yourself."
"Information about what? About what do you wish me to lodge information?"
"About what has happened."
"But nothing has happened."
"Where were these aristocrats?"
"There, upon the staircase."
"When Capet's wife ascended the stairs?"
"Yes."
"And they spoke to her?"
"They exchanged two words."
"Two words! Besides, there is a perfume of the aristocrat here."
"It is the scent of carnations."
"Carnations! what carnations?"
"Why, the citizen had a bunch of them, which perfumed the whole place."
"What citizen?"
"The one who saw the queen pass."
"Oh, the thing is clear; you saythe queen! Ma'am Tison; this consorting with aristocrats will be your ruin! Ah, what is this I am treading upon?" continued Simon, stooping down.