The Knight of Maison-Rouge_ A Novel of Marie Antoinette - Alexandre Dumas [106]
Maurice read:
Given that we are certain that the former Knight of Maison-Rouge is in Paris; that he has been seen about town in sundry places; that he has left traces of his passage in several plots happily dismantled, I invite all the heads of sections to redouble their vigilance.
“What do you make of that?” said the president. “I’m forced to believe you, citizen president,” cried Maurice. He continued to read:
Profile of the Knight of Maison-Rouge: five foot three inches tall, blond hair, blue eyes, straight nose, chestnut-colored beard, round chin, softly spoken, hands of a woman. Thirty-five to thirty-six years old.
At this description a strange light traveled across Maurice’s brain. He thought of the young man commanding the troop of muscadins who had saved Lorin’s and his life the day before, and how resolutely he had struck out at the Marseillais with his sapper’s sword.
“Good grief!” murmured Maurice. “Could that be him? In that case, the denunciation that says I’ve been seen talking to him would not be wrong. But I don’t remember shaking his hand.”
“Well then, Maurice,” said the president, “what do you say to all that now, my friend?”
“I say I believe you,” replied Maurice, slipping into a contemplative melancholy, for without knowing what evil influence was making his life so sad, he had felt gloom descending all around him for some little time now.
“Don’t toy with your popularity like this, Maurice,” the president advised. “Today popularity means life. Watch out: unpopularity means suspicion of treason, and citizen Lindey can’t be suspected of being a traitor.”
Maurice had nothing with which to counter a doctrine he recognized as his own. He thanked his old friend and left the section.
“Ah,” he murmured, “I need to breathe for a bit. That’s enough suspicion and combat for one day. Let’s take the straight road to rest, innocence, and joy. Let’s go directly to Geneviève.”
And so Maurice opted for the way to the old rue Saint-Jacques. When he arrived at the master tanner’s, Dixmer and Morand were supporting Geneviève, who had fallen victim to an attack of nerves. Instead of allowing him free passage as usual, a domestic servant barred his way.
“Announce me anyway,” said Maurice anxiously. “If Dixmer can’t see me, I’ll leave.”
The servant went into the little pavilion while Maurice stayed in the garden. It seemed to him that something strange was going on in the house. The tannery workers were not at their work, scurrying instead across the garden looking deeply anxious. Dixmer himself came to the door.
“Come in,” he said, “dear Maurice, come in. You aren’t one of those to whom the door is closed.”
“But what’s going on? “the young man asked.
“Geneviève is ill,” said Dixmer. “Worse than ill, she’s delirious.”
“Oh, my God!” cried the young man, overcome at finding trouble and suffering even here. “What’s ailing her?”
“You know, dear boy,” said Dixmer, “no one knows much about women’s troubles, especially not the husband.”
Geneviève was recumbent on a sort of chaise longue. Near her stood Morand, getting her to sniff salts.
“Well?” asked Dixmer.
“The same,” answered Morand.
“Héloïse! Héloïse!” murmured the young woman through white lips and clenched teeth.
“Héloïse!” Maurice repeated, stunned.
“Oh, God, yes!” Dixmer said vehemently. “Geneviève had the misfortune to go out yesterday and see that awful cart passing with some poor girl called Héloïse in it; they were taking her to the guillotine. From that moment, she has had five or six attacks of nerves and just repeats that name.”
“What struck her especially was that she recognized the girl as the flower girl who sold her the carnations you know about.”
“I certainly do know, since they nearly got my throat cut.”
“Yes, we heard about that, dear Maurice, and please believe me we were horrified; but Morand was at the session and he saw you get off scot free.