"Ah!" said Maurice, "perhaps you still mean to pretend that you love me. Really, women are sadly weak and contemptible."
Then turning to the young Royalist,—
"Now, sir," said he, "you must either kill me or die yourself."
"Why so?"
"Because, if you do not kill me, I shall arrest you."
Maurice extended his hand to seize him by the collar.
"I shall not dispute my life with you," said the Chevalier de Maison-Rouge; and he flung his pistols on a chair.
"And why do you not dispute your life?"
"Because my life is not equivalent in value to the remorse I should experience in feeling that I had killed a brave man, and more than all since Geneviève loves you."
"Ah!" cried the young woman, clasping her hands, "you are always kind, great, loyal, and generous, Armand!"
Maurice regarded them both, almost stupefied with astonishment.
"One moment," said the Chevalier, "allow me to return to my chamber. I give you my word of honor it is not to escape; I wish to conceal a portrait."
Maurice turned his eyes quickly toward that of Geneviève; it hung in its place. Perhaps the Chevalier divined Maurice's thoughts, or perhaps he wished to try his generosity to the utmost.
"Come," said he, "I know you are a Republican, but I know also that you possess a pure and loyal heart. I will trust you to the end. Look!"
And he drew a miniature from his breast, and displayedit to Maurice. He beheld before him the portrait of the queen. Maurice bowed his head, and rested his forehead on his hand.
"I await your orders, sir," said Maison-Rouge; "if you desire my arrest, knock at this door when it is time for me to give myself up. I care not for my life from the moment it is not sustained by the hope of saving my queen."
The Chevalier quitted the room without a gesture from Maurice offering to detain him.
As he left the chamber Geneviève cast herself at the young man's feet.
"Pardon, Maurice," sobbed she,—"pardon for all the evil I have done. Forgive my deception; forgive me, if only on account of my tears and suffering, for believe me I have wept much and suffered much. My husband left me this morning; I know not where he is gone, and perhaps I may see him no more. And now I have only one friend left,—nay more than friend, a brother,—and you will destroy him. Pardon, Maurice, pardon!"
Maurice raised the young woman.
"What would you?" said he. "There is fatality in all this. Every one stakes his life in these days; the Chevalier de Maison-Rouge has played like all the rest, but he has lost the game, and he must therefore pay."
"That means that he must die, if I understand you rightly?"
"Yes."
"He must die; and it is you who tell me this?"
"It is not I, Geneviève; it is fatality."
"Fatality has not uttered its last word, since you can save him."
"At the expense of my word, and consequently of my honor. I comprehend, Geneviève."
"Shut your eyes, Maurice; that is all I ask; and as far as a woman may evince her gratitude I will promise you mine."
"I should close my eyes to little purpose, Madame; there is a password given, and without this password no one could go out. Besides, the house, as I have told you, is surrounded."
"And you know the word?"
"Certainly I know it."
"Maurice!"
"Well?"
"Dear friend Maurice, tell me this password; I must know it."
"Geneviève," cried Maurice, "do you mean to say to me, 'Maurice, for the love I bear you, sacrifice your word and your honor, betray your cause, abjure your opinions.' What do you offer me, Geneviève, in exchange for all this, you who tempt me thus?"
"Oh, Maurice, save him, save him first! and then ask of me my life."
"Geneviève," replied Maurice, in a desponding tone, "hear me! I have one foot on the road to infamy; before I make a final descent I wish at least to find a sufficient excuse for so doing. Geneviève, swear to me you do not love the Chevalier de Maison-Rouge!"
"I love him as a sister and a friend; not otherwise, I swear."
"Geneviève, do you love me?"
"Maurice, I do love you; it is true, as God now hears me."
"If I do what you ask me, will you abandon relatives, friends, country, and fly with the traitor?"
"Maurice! Maurice!"
"She hesitates! Oh, she hesitates!"
And he turned from her with all the violence of disdain. Geneviève, who was leaning upon him, feeling suddenly her support give way, fell upon her knees.
"Maurice," said she, wringing her hands, "I will swear to do all that you require of me. Order, and I will obey."
"You will be mine, Geneviève?"
"I will."
"Swear it, by Christ."
Geneviève extended her arms.
"My God," cried she, "thou didst pardon one poor woman who had gone astray; I trust in thy mercy that thou wilt also pardon me."
And the great tears rained down her cheeks, falling upon her long hair hanging dishevelled on her bosom.
"Not thus!" said Maurice, "swear not thus! or I cannot accept that oath."
"O Heaven!" replied she, "I swear to devote my life to Maurice, to die with him, and if requisite, for him, if he will save my friend, my brother, my protector, the Chevalier de Maison-Rouge."
"'T is well: he shall be saved," said Maurice.
And he went toward his chamber.
"Sir," said he, "resume your costume of the tanner Morand; I return your parole, you are free. And you, Madame," said he turning to Geneviève, "this is the password, 'Carnation and Vault.'" And as if horrified to remain in the chamber where he had pronounced the words which constituted him a traitor, he opened the window, and sprang from the room into the garden below.
CHAPTER XXXI.
THE SEARCH.
Mauricehad returned to his post in the garden, opposite the window of Geneviève, only it was now quite dark, she having left her apartment to enter that of the Chevalier.
It was time Maurice returned, for scarcely had he reached the corner of the conservatory when the garden-door opened, and the man in gray appeared, followed by Lorin, and five or six gendarmes.
"Well?" asked Lorin.
"You see I am at my post," said Maurice.
"And no one has attempted to force past you?" said Lorin.
"No one," replied Maurice, happy to escape by an evasion, from the way in which the question was put to him. "No one. And what have you done?"
"Why, we have acquired the certainty that the Chevalier entered the house an hour ago, and has not left it since," replied the agent of police.
"Do you know his chamber?" said Lorin.
"His room is only separated from that of Madame Dixmer by a corridor."
"Ah! ah!" said Lorin. "It appears this Chevalier de Maison-Rouge is a gallant."
Maurice felt the hot blood rush to his forehead; he closed his eyes, yet saw a thousand internal lights.
"Well, but Citizen Dixmer, what said he to that?" asked Lorin.
"Why, he thought himself highly honored."
"Come," said Maurice, in a choking voice; "upon what do we decide?"
"We have decided," said the police agent, "to arrest him in his chamber, perhaps in his bed."
"He does not, then, suspect anything?"
"Absolutely nothing?"
"What is the ground plan?" inquired Lorin.
"We have an exact plan," said the man in gray. "A pavilion situated at a corner of the garden, there it is; you ascend four steps—do you see them here?—and find yourself on a landing; to the right is the apartment of Madame Dixmer,—no doubt it is that of which we see the window. Facing this window, at the back part, is a door opening on the corridor, and in this corridor the entrance to the chamber of the traitor."
"Well, with so careful a specimen of topography," said Lorin, "we might, I think, easily find our way blindfold, much more with our eyes open. Come on!"
"Are the streets well guarded?" said Maurice, with an interest which the assistants very naturally attributed to his fear lest the Chevalier should escape.
"The streets, the passages, even the crossings," said the man in gray. "I defy any one to pass who has not the watchword."
Maurice shuddered; all these precautions being taken, made him fear that he had uselessly parted with his honor to add to his happiness.
"Now," said the man in gray, "how many men do you require to secure the Chevalier?"
"How many men?" said Lorin. "I hope Maurice and I are sufficient for that. Are we not, Maurice?"
"Yes," murmured the municipal, "we are certainly sufficient."
"Listen!" said the police agent; "no vain boasting. Do you mean to take him?"
"Zounds! Do we mean it?" said Lorin; "I should think so! We are bound to take him, are we not, Maurice?" Lorin laid a stress upon these words, for as he had truly said, suspicion began to settle upon them; and it was not wise to allow time for suspicion, which marched with such rapid strides at this epoch, to assume a firmer consistence, for Lorin well knew that no one would presume to doubt the stanch patriotism of any two men who had captured the Chevalier de Maison-Rouge.
"Well, then," said the police agent, "if you are in earnest, better take three men than two, and four than three, with you. The Chevalier invariably sleeps with pistols under his pillow, and his sword on a table by his side."
"Deuce take it!" said one of the gendarmes of Lorin's company. "Let us go in, without standing on ceremony who should enter first. If he resists, we will cut him to pieces; if he surrender, we will reserve him for the guillotine."
"Well said!" exclaimed Lorin; "do we go in by the door or the window?"
"By the door," said the agent of police; "it may be the key is in the lock, while if we enter by the window we must break some panes, and that would make a noise."
"On for the door, then!" said Lorin; "as long as we enter, it little matters how. Forward! sword in hand, Maurice."
Maurice mechanically drew his sword from the scabbard, and the little troop advanced toward the pavilion. The information of the man in gray proved perfectly correct; they first found the steps, then the landing, and at last entered the vestibule.
"Ah!" cried Lorin, joyfully, "the key is in the door." In short, extending his hand in the dark, his fingers had encountered the cold key.
"Then open it, Citizen Lieutenant," said the man in gray.
Lorin cautiously turned the key in the lock. The door opened. Maurice wiped the perspiration from his brow.
"We shall find him here," said Lorin.
"Not yet," said the man in gray; "if our chart is correct, this is the apartment of Citizeness Dixmer."
"We can soon ascertain that," said Lorin; "light a wax candle; there is some fire in the grate."
"Light the torches," said the man in gray, "they are not so soon extinguished as candles," at the same time taking two torches from the hand of a gendarme, which he lighted by the dying embers. He placed one in the hand of Maurice, the other in that of Lorin. "You see," said he, "I was not deceived; here is the door opening into Citizeness Dixmer's sleeping apartment, and here the one opening into the corridor."
"On, for the corridor!" said Lorin. They opened the door at the farther end, which was not more firmly secured than the first, and found themselves fronting the door of the Chevalier's chamber. Maurice had seen this door twenty times before, and never thought of inquiring where it led to. All his world was centred in the room where he was received by Geneviève.
"Oh! oh!" said Lorin, in a low voice, "here we must change our tactics; no more keys, and the door locked."
"Are you," asked Maurice, hardly able to articulate, "sure that he is here?"
"If our plan is correct, he ought to be here," replied the police agent; "besides, we shall soon see. Gendarmes,force open the door; and you, citizens, hold yourselves in readiness, and the instant the door is opened, dash into the chamber!"
Four men, selected by the emissary of police, raised the butt-ends of their muskets, and on a signal from the man who conducted this enterprise, gave one blow all together, when the door flew into a thousand fragments.
"Surrender, or you are a dead man!" cried Lorin, rushing into the chamber.
No one replied, and the curtains of the bed were closely drawn.
"Mind the bed!" said the emissary of police; "at the first movement of the curtains, fire!"
"Wait!" said Maurice, "I will open them."
And no doubt in the hope that the Chevalier de Maison-Rouge might be concealed behind them, and that it would be his lot to meet the first stab or pistol shot, Maurice hastily pulled apart the curtains, which, creaking along the iron rod, left the tenantless bed exposed to view.
"The devil!" exclaimed Lorin, "there is no one here."
"He must have escaped," murmured Maurice.
"Impossible, citizens, impossible!" cried the man in gray. "I tell you he was seen to enter here an hour ago, and no one has been seen to go out, and all the outlets from the garden are well guarded."
Lorin opened the cabinets, the wardrobes, and looked everywhere, even where it was physically impossible that a man could be concealed.
"You see, however, that no one is here."
"No one!" repeated Maurice, with an emotion easily understood,—"you see no one is here."
"To the chamber of Madame Dixmer," said the police agent, "perhaps he may be there?"
"Oh!" said Maurice, "respect the chamber of a woman."
"Certainly we will respect it," said Lorin, "and Madame Dixmer also, but for all that we must visit it."
"Then," said Maurice, "permit me to pass first."
"Pass on, then," said Lorin, "you are captain: honor the powers that be," and leaving two men to guard the apartment, they returned to that where they had lighted the torches. Maurice approached the door opening into the chamber of Geneviève. It was the first time he had ever entered there. His heart beat violently. The key was in the door. Maurice laid his hand upon the key, but still hesitated.
"Well," said Lorin, "open!"
"But," said Maurice, "if Madame Dixmer should be in bed?"
"We shall look in her bed, under her bed, in the chimney, in the wardrobes, and then if we find no one there but herself, we shall wish her good-night," said Lorin.
"No, not so," said the police agent; "we shall arrest her; Citizeness Geneviève Dixmer is an aristocrat who has been recognized as an accomplice of the girl Tison and the Chevalier de Maison-Rouge."
"Open it yourself, then," said Maurice, "I do not arrest women." The agent of police looked at Maurice, sideways, and the men murmured among themselves.
"Oh, you grumble, do you?" said Lorin; "then you shall have two to grumble about. I am of Maurice's opinion," and he made a step backward.
The man in gray seized the key, opened the door, and the soldiers rushed into the chamber. Two wax lights burned upon a little table, but the chamber of Geneviève, like that of the Chevalier de Maison-Rouge, was uninhabited.
"Empty!" cried the police agent.
"Empty!" cried Maurice, turning pale; "where is she, then?"
Lorin regarded Maurice with astonishment.
"Let us search," said the agent of police, and closely followed by the military, he began to rummage the house from the cellars to the workshops. At length, when their backs were turned, Maurice, who had followed them impatiently with his eyes, in his turn darted into the chamber, opening the presses, which had already been opened, and calling in a voice replete with anxiety, "Geneviève! Geneviève!" But Geneviève made no reply; the chamber was indeed vacated. Then he began to search the house in a species of frenzy, out-houses, conservatories, sheds,—nothing was omitted, but all without success.
Suddenly a noise was heard, a troop of armed men presented themselves at the door, exchanged the password with the sentinel, entered the garden, and dispersed themselves over the house. At the head of this reinforcement waved the red plume of Santerre.
"Well!" said he to Lorin, "where is the conspirator?"
"How! where is the conspirator?"
"Yes! I asked what have you done with him?"
"I shall ask you that question. If your detachment had guarded the outlets properly, ere this he must have been arrested, since he was not in the house when we entered it."
"What! do you mean to say," cried the furious general, "that you have really allowed the Chevalier to escape?"
"We could not allow him to escape since we have never taken him."
"Then I can comprehend nothing," said Santerre.
"Of what?" said Lorin.
"Of the message you sent me by your envoy."
"We sent you an envoy!"
"Yes; a man in a brown coat, with black hair, and green spectacles, who came from you to inform me you were on the eve of capturing Maison-Rouge, but that he was defending himself like a lion; upon hearing which I hastened to your assistance."
"A man in a brown coat, black hair, and green spectacles?" repeated Lorin.
"Yes, with a female on his arm."
"Young and pretty?" cried Maurice, glancing toward the general.
"Yes, young and pretty."
"It was he and Madame Dixmer," said Maurice.
"What, he!" exclaimed Santerre. "Maison-Rouge! Oh, blockhead that I was not to have killed them both! Come, Citizen Lindey, we may capture them yet."
"But how the devil," asked Lorin, "came you to let them pass?"
"Zounds!" said Santerre, "I let them pass because they gave the password."
"They had the password?" exclaimed Lorin; "then there is surely a traitor among us!"
"No, no, Citizen Lorin; you are known, and we well know that there are no traitors among you."
Lorin looked around him as if to detect the miscreant, and publicly proclaim his shame. He encountered the gloomy face and wandering eye of Maurice.
"Ah!" murmured he, "what means this?"
"The man cannot be very far off," said Santerre; "let us search the environs; perhaps he has fallen in with some patrol who, more wide awake than we, did not allow themselves to be gulled so easily."
"Yes, yes; let us search," said Lorin; and, underthe pretence of so doing, he seized Maurice by the arm, and drew him into the garden.
"Yes, let us search," said the soldiers; "but before we search—" and one of them flung his still burning torch into an adjacent shed, filled with bundles of fagots and dried herbs.
"Come," said Lorin, "come!"
Maurice offered no resistance. He followed Lorin like a child; they both ran as far as the bridge without speaking; there they stopped, and Maurice turned round. The sky was red from the horizon to the Faubourg, and above the houses ascended innumerable sparks.
CHAPTER XXXII.
THE FIRE.
Mauriceshuddered as he extended his hand toward the Rue Saint Jacques.
"The fire!" said he,—"the fire!"
"Yes," said Lorin, "the fire; what then?"
"Gracious Heavens! if she has returned."
"Who?"
"Geneviève."
"Geneviève means Madame Dixmer, does it not?"
"Yes."
"There is no danger of her return; she did not go away for that purpose."
"Lorin, I must find her. I will have my revenge."
"Oh, oh!" said Lorin.
"None can escape thy puissant sceptre, Love.Thou reign'st on earth and in the heavens above."
"You will assist me in my search, will you not, Lorin?"
"Zounds! there will be no difficulty in that."
"Why so?"
"Without doubt, if you are so much interested, as to me you appear to be, in Madame Dixmer's fate, you, being intimate with her, ought, knowing her, also to know her friends. She has not quitted Paris; her friends have every motive to stay; she has taken refuge in the house of some confidential acquaintance, and to-morrow morning you will receive a billet by some 'Rose,' or some 'Marton,' couched as follows,—
"Wouldst see again, my Mars, thy Venus true?Borrow of Night her scarf of azure hue.
And requesting you to present yourself at the porter's lodge, such a number, such a street, and to inquire for Madame Three-stars; that is all."
Maurice shrugged his shoulders; he well knew there was no one with whom Geneviève could take refuge.
"We shall not find her," said he.
"Will you permit me to say one thing, Maurice?"
"What?"
"That it will be no great misfortune if we should not find her."
"If we do not, Lorin, I shall die."
"The devil!" exclaimed the young man; "it was, then, of this love that you lately so nearly died."
"Yes," replied Maurice.
Lorin reflected an instant. "Maurice," said he, "it is now nearly eleven o'clock; this quarter is deserted; here is a stone seat, particularly adapted for the reception of two friends. Accord me the favor of a private interview, as they used to say, under the ancient régime. I give you my word of honor that I shall speak only in prose."
They seated themselves upon the bench.
"Speak!" said Maurice, resting his aching head upon his hand.
"Without exordium, periphrasis, or commentary, I tell you one thing, old fellow,—it is this, that we are ruining ourselves, or rather that you are ruining us."
"How so?" demanded Maurice.
"There is, my friend, a decree issued by the Committee of Public Safety, which declares every man a traitor to his country who enters into any relationship with the acknowledged enemies of the said country. Eh! do you know this decree?"
"To be sure I do," replied Maurice.
"Well, it seems to me, you are not a vile traitor to your country. What say you? as Manlius says."
"Lorin!"
"Undoubtedly; unless you believe that those idolize their country who give house-room, bed, and board to Monsieur le Chevalier de Maison-Rouge, who is not a high Republican, as I suppose, and has not been accused at any time of having taken part in the days of September."
"Ah! Lorin," said Maurice, sighing heavily.
"Still, it appears to me," continued the moralist, "that you have been, and still are, too intimate with the enemies of your country. Come! Come, friend Maurice, do not rebel! you are like the whilom Enceladus; you move a mountain each time you turn yourself."
Lorin pronounced these words in the kindest manner possible, and glossed them over with an artifice truly Ciceronian.
Maurice merely made a gesture of dissent, but the gesture was unheeded, and Lorin continued,—
"If we exist in a greenhouse temperature, a healthy atmosphere, where, according to botanic rules, the barometer invariably points to sixteen degrees, I should say, my dear Maurice, that this is elegant, satisfactory; what though we are occasionally rather aristocratic, we flourish and do well. But if scorched in a heat of thirty-five or forty degrees, the sap burns, so that it rises slowly, and from the excess of heat seems cold; when cold, then comes the blight of suspicion,—you know this, Maurice,—and once suspected, you possess too much good sensenot to know what we shall be, or rather that ere long we shall be no more."
"Well, then," said Maurice, "they can kill me, and there will be an end of me, for I am weary of my life."
"For the last quarter of an hour," said Lorin; "indeed scarcely so long that I should leave you to act according to your own pleasure on this subject; and then to die now, it is necessary to die a Republican while you would die an aristocrat."
"Ah!" said Maurice, whose blood began to boil from impassioned grief, resulting from the consciousness of his own criminality, "you go too far, friend Lorin."
"I shall go farther still, and forewarn you, that if you turn aristocrat—"
"You will denounce me?"
"For shame! No. I will confine you in a cellar, and have you sought after to the sound of the drum, like something lost; then I will proclaim that the aristocrats, knowing what you had in reserve for them, had seized, victimized, and starved you, so that, like Provost Élie de Beaumont, Monsieur Latude, and others, when found, you will be publicly crowned with flowers by the ladies of La Halle, and the ragpickers of Section Victor. Make haste, then, to appear again an Aristides, else your business is concluded."
"Lorin! Lorin! I feel that you are right; but I am dragged along. I am sliding down the precipice. Are you displeased with me, because my fate drags me onward?"
"I am not displeased with you, but I shall remonstrate with you. Call to mind a few of the scenes enacted daily between Pylades and Orestes,—scenes which prove beyond all doubt that friendship is a paradox, since these model friends quarrelled without ceasing."
"Leave me to my fate, Lorin, you had much better do so."
"I will never abandon you."
"Then, allow me to love, to be mad, at my ease; to be criminal, perhaps, for if I again see her, I fear I shall kill her."
"Or fall upon your knees. Ah, ah, Maurice, Maurice, to love an aristocrat, I never could have credited it! It is like poor Osselin with the Marquise de Charny."
"No more, Lorin, I beseech you."
"Maurice, I will cure you, or may the Devil take me! I do not wish you to be drawn in the lottery of Saint Guillotine, as the grocer of the Rue des Lombards observes. Maurice, you will exasperate me! Maurice, you will render me bloodthirsty! I feel as if I wanted to set fire to the isle of Saint Louis! A torch! a firebrand!
"The toil were idle. Maurice, thy passion direSufficient is Paris to set on fire."
Maurice smiled in spite of himself.
"You know," said he, "that it was agreed between us that we should speak only in prose."
"But you exasperate me with your folly," said Lorin. "Drink, Maurice, become a drunkard, do anything, study political economy; but for the love of Jupiter, let us fall in love with nothing but Liberty!"
"Or Reason?"
"Ah! that is true; by the way, the Goddess Reason talks much about you. She thinks you are a charming mortal."
"Are you not jealous?"
"Maurice, to save a friend I feel capable of any sacrifice."
"Thanks, my poor Lorin, and I truly appreciate yourdevotion; but the best way to console me is to leave me to sate my grief. Adieu! Lorin, go to your Arthémise."
"And you; where are you going?"
"I shall return home."
And Maurice turned toward the bridge.
"You live, then, in the direction of the old Rue Saint Jacques now?"
"No; but it pleases me to go that way."
"To look once again upon the place inhabited by your fair inconstant?"
"To see if she has not returned where she knows I am awaiting her. Ah, Geneviève! Geneviève! I could not have believed you capable of so much deceit!"
"Maurice, a tyrant who well knew the fair sex, since he died from having loved them too well, said,—
"'Woe to the man who trusts his heartTo woman, changeful as the breeze.'"
Maurice sighed, and the two friends took the road to the old Rue Saint Jacques.
As they approached they heard a great noise, and saw the light increase; they listened to patriotic chants, which on a brilliant day in the glorious sunshine, or in the atmosphere of combat, sounded like hymns of heroism, but which by the red light of an incendiary fire savored more of the diabolic incantations of drunken cannibals.
"Oh, my God! my God!" cried Maurice, forgetting that God had been abolished, as he wiped the perspiration from his face.
Lorin watched him attentively and muttered,—
"Alas! when caught in Cupid's snare,To Prudence we must bid adieu."
All the inhabitants of Paris appeared moving toward the theatre of the events we have just narrated. Maurice was obliged to cross a hedge formed by the gendarmes, the ranks of the sections, then the impetuous crowd of this always furious populace, at this epoch easily aroused, and who ran howling from spectacle to spectacle without intermission. As they approached, Maurice impatiently hastened his steps; Lorin, with some trouble, kept close behind him, for he did not like to leave his friend to himself at such a moment.
It was nearly all over. The fire had communicated from the shed where the soldier had flung his torch to the workshops, constructed of planks so put together as to allow the free circulation of air; the merchandise was consumed, and the house itself was now in flames.
"O God!" said Maurice to himself, "if she has returned, should she find herself in a chamber encircled by the devouring element, waiting for me, calling on me—" and Maurice, nearly insensible from grief, liked better to think of the folly of those he loved than of his treason. He rushed headlong toward the door, of which he caught a glimpse through the mass of burning flame. Lorin still followed him. He would have followed him to the infernal regions. The roof was in flames; the fire had now indeed commenced its work of destruction on the staircase. Maurice hastened to visit the first floor, the parlor, the chamber of Geneviève, of the Chevalier de Maison-Rouge, and the corridors, calling, in stifled accents, "Geneviève! Geneviève!"
No one replied. On returning from the search our two friends saw volumes of flame now entering the door; but not heeding the shouts of Lorin, who pointed to the window, Maurice passed through the flames, then ran to the house, crossed, notwithstanding all impediments, acourt-yard strewed with broken furniture, searched the dining-room, Dixmer's parlor, Morand's laboratory,—all filled with smoke, fragments, and broken glass. The fire had reached this part of the house, and the work of destruction would soon be complete. Maurice, as in the pavilion, did not omit visiting a single chamber, or leave unexamined even a corridor. He then descended to the cellars; perhaps Geneviève had taken refuge from the fire there. He found no one.
"Zounds!" said Lorin; "no one but a salamander could take refuge here, and it is not that fabulous animal that you are in search of. Let us go; we can make inquiry in this assemblage. Some one has perhaps seen her."
It needed all Lorin's force to drag away Maurice; hope still detained him there.
Then they commenced their investigation; they visited the environs, stopped all the females who passed, searched all the alleys, without any result. It was now one o'clock in the morning, and Maurice, notwithstanding his athletic vigor, was overpowered and broken down with fatigue, and at length desisted from his worse than useless efforts.
A carriage passed; Lorin hailed it.
"Come, bear up, old fellow," said he to Maurice; "we have done all in the range of human possibility to recover Geneviève. We have broken our backs, been roasted, and have been cruelly cuffed for her. Cupid, however exacting he may be, could require no more from a man in love, and above all, from one who is not. So jump into the carriage, and let us return home."
Maurice submitted without making any reply. They arrived at Maurice's door without either of the friends having uttered a single word. As Maurice descendedfrom the carriage, they heard a window of his apartment closed.
"All right!" said Lorin, "he is waiting; I shall rest easy now. Knock, however."
Maurice knocked, the door opened.
"Good-night!" said Lorin, "wait for me to-morrow morning to go out!"
"Good-night," said Maurice, mechanically, as the door closed behind him. Upon the first steps of the staircase he met his official.
"Ah! Citizen Lindey," he exclaimed, "how much uneasiness you have caused us!" The wordusstruck Maurice.
"You?" said he.
"Yes, me and the little lady who is waiting for you."
"The little lady," repeated Maurice, feeling the moment ill-chosen to remind him of his former loves; "you were right to tell me. I shall sleep at Lorin's."
"That is impossible; she was at the window, and saw you alight, and cried out, 'There he is!'"
"What care I whether she knows I am here or not? I have no heart for love. Go upstairs, and tell this woman she is mistaken."
The official made a movement as if to obey him, then stopped.
"Ah! Citizen," said he, "you are wrong. The little lady is already very sad; your message will drive her to despair."
"But," asked Maurice, "who is this woman?"
"Citizen, I have not seen her face; it is concealed by her mantle, and she weeps, that is all I know."
"She weeps!" exclaimed Maurice.
"Yes, but very softly, stifling her sobs."
"She weeps," repeated Maurice; "there is then some one in the world who loves me sufficiently to feel anxious in my absence?" and he ascended slowly behind the official.
"Here he is, Citizen, here he is!" cried the latter, rushing into the chamber. Maurice entered behind him.
He then beheld in a corner of the room the trembling form of a woman whose face was hid in the cushions, and whom he would have thought dead, but for her convulsive moaning, which made him start. He signed to his official to leave the room, who went out, closing the door behind him. Then Maurice ran to the young woman, who raised her head.
"Geneviève!" cried the young man, "Geneviève here! good Heavens! am I then mad?"
"No, you are in possession of your senses, my friend," replied the young woman. "I promised to be yours if you would save the Chevalier de Maison-Rouge. You have saved him, and I am here; I was awaiting you."
Maurice mistook the meaning of these words; he recoiled a step, and looked sadly at the young woman.
"Geneviève," said he, "you do not love me."
Geneviève regarded him with tearful eyes; then turning from him, leaned her head on the pillow of the sofa, and gave free vent to her sobs and tears.
"Alas!" said Maurice, "it is evident that you no longer love me; and not only that you love me no more, Geneviève, but that you must entertain a feeling of hatred toward me, to experience this despair."
Maurice had spoken so nobly, yet with so much feeling, that Geneviève arose and took his hand.
"Mon Dieu!" said she, "and is it ever thus that those we think the best prove merely egotists?"
"Egotists, Geneviève! what do you mean?"
"Can you not then imagine what I suffer? My husband a fugitive, my brother proscribed, our house in flames, and all this in one night; and then that dreadful scene between you and the Chevalier was added to the rest!"
Maurice listened with delight, for it was impossible even for the maddest passion not to admit that this accumulation of trouble was more than sufficient excuse for Geneviève's deep and violent grief.
"And now you are come, I shall keep you; you shall leave me no more!"
Geneviève started.
"Where should I go?" replied she, with bitterness. "Have I an asylum, a shelter, a protector, save he who has put a price upon his protection? Oh, rash and foolish that I am! I stepped over the Pont Neuf, Maurice, and in passing I stopped to gaze at the dark water, dashing angrily against the corners of the arches; it attracted and fascinated me. Then said I to myself, there, poor woman, is a shelter for you; there inviolable repose and oblivion!"
"Geneviève! Geneviève!" cried Maurice, "you said that? Then you do not love me?"
"I said it," replied Geneviève,—"I said it; but I am here."
Maurice drew a deep breath, and fell at her feet.
"Geneviève," murmured he, "weep no more! Geneviève, console yourself for all your grief, since you love me. Tell me, Geneviève, for the sake of Heaven! that it was not the violence of my menaces that brought you hither. Assure me that even had you not seen me this evening, on finding yourself alone, isolated, and without an asylum, you would have come to me; and accept theoath which I now make you, to annul the one that I compelled you to take."
Geneviève looked down upon the young man with an expression of ineffable gratitude. "Generous!" said she; "Oh, my God! I thank thee, he is generous."
"Listen, Geneviève!" said Maurice. "God, whom they have here driven from their temples, but whom they cannot expel from our hearts, where he has implanted love, has made this evening in appearance dark and gloomy, but conceals behind its sombre curtain a silvery cloud. God has conducted you to me, Geneviève, and speaks to you through me. God is at length willing to compensate us for all the sufferings we have endured, for the virtue we have displayed in combating this love, as if this sentiment so long entertained, and so profound, could be a crime! Weep no more, Geneviève, weep no more; give me your hand! Do you wish to live in the house of your brother? Do you wish he should kiss the hem of your robe, and pass over the threshold of his door without turning his head? Well, say but the word, make but one sign, and I am gone, and you are free. But on the other hand, my adored Geneviève, will you call to mind that I have loved you so ardently that I had almost died of this love, which it remains with you to render so fatal or so fortunate to me; that for this love I have been a traitor to my party, and am become vile and contemptible in my own eyes,—will you now consider all the happiness which the future has in store for us, the strength and energy which our youth and love possess to defend this happiness, now but in the bud, from all who would dare attack it? Ah! Geneviève, what will you reply? You who are an angel of mercy, will you render a man so happy that he no longer regrets life, and ceases to desire eternal felicity? Then, instead of repelling me, smile, my Geneviève; let me place your hand upon my heart, and incline toward one who worships you from the inmost recesses of his soul. Geneviève, my love, my life, do not take back your vow!"
The heart of the young woman swelled at these words. The fatigue of her late suffering had worn out her strength, and though her tears no longer flowed, occasional sobs relieved her overcharged bosom.
Maurice saw that she no longer had the force to resist, and seized her in his arms. Then she let her head fall on his shoulder, and her long hair brushed against her lover's burning cheeks.
At the same time Maurice felt the heaving of her chest, still disturbed like the ocean after a storm.
"You still weep, my Geneviève," continued Maurice, with profound melancholy,—"you still weep. Oh, reassure yourself! I will never impose my love on scornful grief, and never soil my lips with a kiss empoisoned by a single tear of regret."
He unwound the living girdle of her arms, averted his face, and coldly turned away.
But as quick as thought, in a moment of reaction so natural in a woman who struggles contrary to her own inclination, Geneviève threw her trembling arms around Maurice's neck, pressed him nervously to her heart, and laid her cold cheek, still wet with the tears which had ceased to flow, against the young man's burning one.
"Ah, Maurice!" murmured Geneviève, "do not abandon me, Maurice; I have no one left me in the world but you!"
CHAPTER XXXIII.
THE MORROW.
A beautifulsun beamed across the green window-blinds, gilding the leaves of three large roses placed in a flower-stand before the window of Maurice. These flowers, more precious as the season was on the decline, perfumed with a delicious fragrance the little dining-room of spotless neatness, where at a table served with every elegancy, but without profusion, sat Maurice and Geneviève. The door was closed, for as the table contained all that was requisite, it was understood they waited on themselves. They heard the official stirring in the adjoining room. The warmth and life of the last few lovely days entered through the half-open jalousie, making glitter like emeralds and rubies the rose-leaves caressed by the rays of the sun.
Geneviève let fall upon her plate the golden fruit she held in her hand. She appeared to be deep in thought, and smiling only with her lips, while her eyes languished with a melancholy expression. She remained thus silent, abstracted, and happy in the sun of her love, as the beautiful flowers in the sun of heaven. Soon her eyes sought those of Maurice, and encountered his gazing upon her. She placed her soft white arm upon the young man's shoulder, and leaned on his breast with that faith and confidence far exceeding love.
Geneviève looked at him without speaking, and blushed as she regarded him. Maurice slightly inclined his headto imprint a kiss upon the half-open lips of Geneviève. He bent his head, while she turned pale, and closed her eyes as the delicate flower conceals its calyx from the rays of light. They remained dreaming thus, when a sharp ring at the door-bell suddenly startled them.
The official entered mysteriously, and closed the door.
"Here is the Citizen Lorin," said he.
"Ah! dear Lorin," said Maurice, "I will go and dismiss him. Pardon, Geneviève."
Geneviève stopped him.
"Dismiss your friend, Maurice!" said she, "and such a friend! one who has consoled, assisted, and sustained you? No; I would no more drive such a friend from your house than from your heart. Let him come in, Maurice; let him come in."
"With your permission?" said Maurice.
"I wish it," said Geneviève.
"Ah! you will find that to love you is not enough," cried Maurice, delighted with her delicacy; "it is necessary to adore you!"
Geneviève held her blushing face to the young man. He opened the door, and Lorin entered, smart as usual in his costume of demi-muscadin. On perceiving Geneviève he manifested great surprise, which was succeeded by a respectful salute.
"Come here, Lorin, come here, and look at the lady! You are dethroned, Lorin. I have now some one I prefer to yourself. I would have given my life for you; for her,—I tell you nothing new, Lorin,—for her I have sacrificed my honor."
"Madame," replied Lorin, in accents of deep emotion, "I shall endeavor to value Maurice the more, that he has not altogether ceased to care for me."
"Sit down, sir," said Geneviève, smiling.
"Yes, sit down," said Maurice, who, having pressed in his right hand that of his friend, and in his left that of his mistress, presented the appearance of a man arrived at the height of human felicity.
"Then you do not wish to die now; do not wish any longer to kill yourself?"
"What do you mean?" asked Geneviève, turning pale.
"Oh, in good truth!" said Lorin, "man is a most versatile animal, and philosophers have good cause to despise his levity. Here is one, would you believe it, Madame, who no longer ago than yesterday evening wished to leap into the fire, throw himself into the water; who declared there was no more happiness for him in this world. And behold him this morning, gay, joyous, with a smile upon his lips, his countenance resplendent with happiness, life in his heart, seated at a well-furnished table; it is true he has not eaten much, but that does not prove he is unhappy."
"Did he wish to do all this?" said Geneviève.
"All this, and much more. I will tell you all, some day, but at this moment I am very hungry; it is all Maurice's fault for making me yesterday evening run all over the Quarter Saint Jacques. Permit me, then, to make an attack upon the breakfast, which I perceive you have neither of you yet touched."
"That is right," said Maurice, with childish glee; "I have not breakfasted, nor have you, Geneviève."
He watched Lorin's eyes as he uttered her name; but Lorin evinced no surprise.
"Ah!" said Maurice, "you have already surmised who it is, Lorin."
"Zounds!" said Lorin, cutting himself a large slice of white and rosy ham, and not seeming to hear Maurice's remark.
"I, also, am hungry," said Geneviève, holding her plate.
"Lorin," said Maurice, "I was ill yesterday."
"You were worse than ill; you were mad."
"Well, I think it is you who are suffering at this moment."
"Why?"
"You have not yet given us any verses."
"I will sing you one this moment," said Lorin,—
"Phœbus, in the midst of the Graces,The lyre in his hand still retained,Till following of Venus the traces,T was lost, and could not be regained."
"Always ready with a quatrain," said Maurice, laughing.
"And you will have to be contented with it, as it is now necessary to turn our attention to more serious affairs."
"Has anything new occurred, then?" said Maurice, anxiously.
"I am ordered on guard at the Conciergerie."
"At the Conciergerie!" said Geneviève, "near the queen?"
"Near the queen. I believe so, Madame."
Geneviève turned pale. Maurice frowned, and made a sign to Lorin, who cut himself another slice of ham, double the size of the first. The queen had indeed been removed to the Conciergerie, whither we shall follow her.
CHAPTER XXXIV.
THE CONCIERGERIE.
Ata corner of the Pont-au-Change and of the Quai aux Fleurs rose the remains of the old palace of Saint Louis, calledpar excellencethe palace, as Rome is called the city, and which still continues to retain the royal cognomen, when the only kings who inhabit it are the registrars, the judges, and the pleaders.
The house of justice was a large and sombre building, exciting more fear than love for the merciless goddess. There might be seen united in this narrow space all the instruments and attributes of human vengeance. The first wards were assigned to those who had been arraigned for crime; farther on were the halls of judgment, and lower down the dungeons of the condemned. By the door was a small space where the red-hot iron stamped its mark of infamy; and about one hundred and fifty paces from the first another space, far more extensive, where the last act of the fearful tragedy took place,—that is to say, La Grève, where they finished the work previously sketched out for them at the Palace. Justice, as we see, reigned paramount over all.
All these portions of the edifice joined one with another, sullen-looking, dark, and gray, pierced by iron-grated windows where the gaping arches resemble the grated dens extending along the side of the Quai des Lunettes. This is the Conciergerie.
This prison contains dens washed by the black mud from the waters of the Seine; it also possesses mysterious outlets, through which were formerly conducted to the river those miserable victims whom it was thought necessary to remove.
As seen in 1793, the Conciergerie, unwearyingprocureurfor the scaffold,—the Conciergerie overflowed with occupants, who within an hour became the victims of the guillotine. At this epoch the old prison of Saint Louis was literally the Inn of Death. Under the arches some gates were hung, and at night a red lantern was suspended there, fit emblem of this abode of misery and despair.
The evening preceding the day when Lorin, Maurice, and Geneviève were breakfasting together, a dull rumbling shook the pavement of the quay and rattled the windows of the prison, then ceased before the arched gate. The gendarmes knocked with the handles of their swords, the gate opened, and a carriage entered the court; when the hinges had turned, and the rusty bolts had creaked, a female descended.
The gaping wicket opened immediately to receive her, and closed upon her. Three or four curious heads, protruding to gaze upon the prisoner by the light of the torches, appeared in mezzo-tinto, then vanished in the darkness, while vulgar jokes and rude laughter passed between the men leaving, who could be heard though not seen.
The person thus brought remained within the first wicket with the gendarmes; she saw it would be necessary to pass through a second, but forgot at the same time to raise the foot and lower the head, as there is a step to ascend and a beam which descends. The prisoner, not yet well habituated to prison architecture, notwithstanding her long sojourn there, omittedto stoop, and struck her forehead violently against the bar.
"Are you much hurt, Citizeness?" demanded one of the gendarmes.
"Nothing can hurt me now," she replied tranquilly, and passed on without uttering a single complaint, although sanguinary traces of the injury remained upon her brow.
Shortly the arm-chair of the keeper became visible,—a chair more venerated by the prisoners than the throne of the king by his courtiers; for the keeper of a prison is the dispenser of favor, and all mercy is important to a prisoner, as sometimes the smallest kindness may change the darkest gloom to a heaven of light.
The keeper Richard, installed in his arm-chair, felt a due perception of his own importance. He remained undisturbed even when the rumbling of the carriage announced a new arrival. He inhaled some snuff, regarded the prisoner, opened a large register, and looked for a pen in the little ink-horn of black wood, where the ink, incrusted on the sides, retained in the centre a mouldy humidity, as in the midst of the crater of a volcano there always remains some melted matter.
"Citizen Keeper," said the chief of the escort, "write, and write quickly, for they are impatiently awaiting us at the Commune."
"I will not be long," said the porter, at the same time emptying into the inkstand some drops of wine remaining at the bottom of his glass; "I am a good hand at this, thank God! Your name and surname, Citizen," said he, and dipping his pen at the same time into this improvised ink, he commenced entering the new arrival at the bottom of a page already nearly filled; while standing behind his chair, Madame Richard, a female of benevolentaspect, contemplated, with a mixture of astonishment and respect, this woman, so sad, so noble, and so proud, whom her husband interrogated.
"Marie Antoinette Jeanne Josèphe de Lorraine," replied the prisoner, "Archduchess of Austria and Queen of France."
"Queen of France!" repeated the keeper, raising himself in astonishment by the arms of his chair.
"Queen of France," repeated the prisoner, in the same voice.
"Otherwise called the Widow Capet," said the chief of the escort.
"Under which of these names am I to enter her?" demanded the keeper.
"Whichever you please, only do it quickly," said the chief of the escort.
The keeper reseated himself, and with a trembling hand wrote down the name, surname, and titles given him by the prisoner, inscriptions the ink of which still appears visible to this day upon the register of which the revolutionary rats of the Conciergerie have nibbled the leaf at its most precious part.
Richard's wife still retained her position behind her husband's chair, and remained standing with her hands clasped together, commiserating the situation of the unfortunate being before her.
"Your age?" continued the keeper.
"Thirty-seven years and nine months," replied the queen.
Richard wrote this down, then the description, and finished with the regular notes and forms.
"There," said he, "that is completed."
"Where shall we conduct the prisoner?" said the chief of the escort.
Richard helped himself to a second pinch of snuff, and looked at his wife.
"Indeed," said she, "we did not anticipate this, and have had but brief notice, so that we hardly know—"
"You must find out," said the brigadier.
"There is the council chamber," said Richard's wife.
"Too large," murmured Richard.
"The larger the better; we can the more easily place the guards."
"Go to the council chamber," said Richard. "But it is not habitable at this moment; it has no bed."
"True," replied his wife, "I had quite forgotten that."
"Bah!" said one of the gendarmes, "you can put a bed there to-morrow, and to-morrow will soon be here."
"Besides, the citizen could occupy our chamber for one night; could she not, good man?" said Richard's wife.
"And what are we to do?" said the keeper.
"Oh, we can do without a bed for one night; and as the citizen gendarme observes, 'the night is nearly gone.'"
"Then," said Richard, "conduct the citizeness to our chamber."
"And in the mean while you will prepare our receipt?"
"It shall be ready on your return."
Richard's wife took the candle from the table, and led the way.
Marie Antoinette followed without uttering a word, calm and pale as usual. Two turnkeys, at a sign from Richard's wife, followed them. The queen was shown her bed, on which the woman hastened to place clean sheets. The turnkeys installed themselves outside; the door was double-locked; and Marie Antoinette was left alone.
How she passed that night no one ever knew, as shepassed it in close communion with her God. On the next day the queen was conducted to the council chamber, a long four-sided room, the wicket-door of which opened upon a corridor of the Conciergerie, and which had been divided in its whole length by a partition which did not reach the height of the ceiling.
One of these compartments was occupied by the men on guard. The other was the chamber of the queen. A window, thickly-grated with small iron bars, lighted both these cells. A folding-screen, the substitute for a door, secluded the queen from the guards, and closed the aperture in the middle. The whole of this room was paved with brick. The walls, at one period or another, had been covered with gilded wood, where still hung some shreds of paper fleur-de-lis. A bed was placed opposite the window, and a single chair near the light. This was all the furniture the royal prison contained.
On entering, the queen requested that her books and work might be brought her. They brought her the "Revolutions of England," which she had commenced in the Temple, the "Voyage du Jeune Anacharsis," and her tapestry.
The gendarmes established themselves in the adjoining compartment. History has preserved their names, as it has done that of many others more infamous, associated by destiny in great events, and who see reflected on themselves a fragment of that light cast by the thunderbolt which destroys the thrones of kings, perhaps even the kings themselves.
They were called Duchesne and Gilbert.
These two men were selected by the Commune, who knew them to be stanch patriots. They were to remain at their post in their cell till the sentence of Marie Antoinette. They hoped by this measure to avoid theirregularities consequent upon a change of office several times during the day, and therefore laid the guards under a heavy responsibility.
The queen first became acquainted with this new regulation from the conversation of the gendarmes, whose discourse, not being softly uttered, reached her ears. She experienced at once joy and disquietude; for if on the one hand she felt that these men ought to be trustworthy since they had been chosen from a multitude, on the other side she reflected that her friends might more easily corrupt two known men at their post than a hundred unknown individuals selected by chance, passing near her occasionally, and then only for a single day.
On the first night before she retired one of the gendarmes, according to his usual custom, began to smoke. The noxious vapor glided imperceptibly through the apertures of the partition, enveloping the unfortunate queen, whose misfortunes had irritated instead of deadening her nerves. She soon felt herself seized with nausea and swimming in the head; but true to her indomitable system of firmness, she uttered no complaint.
During her melancholy vigil, while nothing disturbed the deep silence of the night, she fancied she heard plaintive cries outside. These cries were mournful and prolonged; there was about them something weird and piercing, like the howling of wind in the dark and deserted corridor when the tempest borrows the human voice to animate the passions of the elements.
She soon became aware that the noise that had at first startled her was the doleful and persevering cry of a dog howling on the quay. She immediately remembered her poor little Jet, whom she had not thought of when they removed her from the Temple, and now believed shecould recognize his voice. Indeed, the poor little animal, who by his mistaken vigilance had ruined his mistress, had unperceived descended behind her, had followed the carriage as far as the grating of the Conciergerie, where he continued till he narrowly escaped being cut in two by the double iron portcullis which closed behind her.
But the faithful creature had soon returned, and comprehending that his mistress was confined in this great stone building, he whined and howled, waiting, within ten feet of the sentinel, a caressing reply. The queen replied by a heart-broken sigh which reached the ears of her guards; but as this sigh was not repeated, and no other sound proceeded from the queen's chamber, they again composed themselves, and relapsed into their former state of drowsiness.
At break of day the queen rose and dressed herself, then took her seat near the window, the light from which, intercepted by the grating of iron bars, fell with a bluish tint upon her emaciated hands, in which she held a book. She was apparently reading, but her thoughts were far away.
The Gendarme Gilbert half opened the screen, and regarded her in silence. The queen heard the noise of the screen, but did not turn her head. She was so seated that the gendarme could see her head bathed in the morning light. Gilbert made a sign to his comrade to advance and look through the opening with him. Duchesne approached.
"Look!" said Gilbert, in a low tone; "how very pale she is; it is frightful! Those red circles round her eyes denote her suffering. She has surely been weeping."
"You well know," said Duchesne, "Capet's widow never weeps. She is too proud for that."
"Then she must be ill," said Gilbert, and raising his voice, "Tell me, Citizen Capet," said he, "are you ill?"
The queen slowly raised her eyes, and fixed an inquiring look upon the two men.
"Did you address me, gentlemen?" demanded she, in a voice full of sweetness, for she fancied she detected the accent of kindness in him who had spoken to her.
"Yes, Citizeness, we spoke to you," replied Gilbert; "we feared you were ill."
"Why so?"
"Because your eyes are so red."
"And at the same time you are so pale," added Duchesne.
"Thank you, gentlemen, I am not ill; only I suffered much last night."
"Ah, yes, your misfortunes!"
"No, gentlemen, my miseries are always the same; and my religion having taught me to carry them to the foot of the cross, I do not suffer more one day than another. No; I am out of sorts because I could not rest last night."