The Knight of Maison-Rouge_ A Novel of Marie Antoinette - Alexandre Dumas [115]
“Ah!” cried Lorin gleefully. “The key is in the door!”
He had reached out in the dark and, incredibly, felt the cold metal of the key.
“What are we waiting for! Open up, citizen lieutenant!” said the grey man.
Lorin turned the key in the lock with care; the door opened. Maurice wiped his forehead, dripping with sweat.
“Here we are,” said Lorin.
“Not yet,” said the grey man. “If our topographical information is correct, we are now in the apartment of citizeness Dixmer.”
“We can check,” said Lorin. “Light some candles, there’s still a bit of a fire in the grate.”
“Let’s light the torches,” said the grey man. “Torches don’t go out like candles.”
He took two torches from the hands of a grenadier and lit them by the dying fire. He stuck one in Maurice’s hand and the other in Lorin’s.
“You see,” he said, “I was not mistaken: here’s the door that leads to citizeness Dixmer’s bedroom and here’s the one that leads to the hallway.”
“Forward!” said Lorin. “Into the hallway!”
They opened the door at the back, which was no more locked than the first had been, and found themselves opposite the door to the Knight’s apartment. Maurice had seen this door twenty times and had never asked where it led. For him, the world was centered on the salon where Geneviève received him.
“Oh! Oh!” Lorin whispered. “Here we change our tune; there is no key and the door is locked.”
“But,” croaked Maurice, barely able to speak, “are you sure this is the one?”
“If the plan is correct, this must be it,” replied the man from the police. “Anyway, we’ll soon see. Grenadiers, break the door down. And you, citizens, stand ready; as soon as the door’s down, run into the room.”
Four men designated by the police envoy raised the butts of their rifles and, at a sign from the man directing the show, struck the door with a single blow each: the door splintered and fell apart.
“Give yourself up or you’re dead!” shouted Lorin, hurling himself into the room.
No one replied: the curtains on the bed were closed.
“The alley! Watch the alley!” cried the man from the police. “Take aim at the bed, and at the first signs of movement from behind the curtains, fire.”
“Wait!” said Maurice. “I’ll draw them.”
With that, apparently in the hope that Maison-Rouge was hiding behind the curtains and that the first thrust of a dagger or shot of a pistol would have done him in, Maurice rushed at the curtains and flung them back squealing on their rod.
The bed was empty.
“Damn!” cried Lorin. “No one!”
“He must have got away,” stammered Maurice.
“He can’t have, citizens! It’s not possible!” cried the grey man. “I tell you he was seen entering an hour ago and no one saw him come out; all the exits are guarded.”
Lorin opened cabinets and cupboards and poked around everywhere, even where it was plainly impossible for a man to hide.
“No one! You see for yourself: no one!”
“No one,” repeated Maurice with an emotion easy to understand. “You can see for yourself, in fact, there is no one.”
“Citizeness Dixmer’s room!” said the man from the police. “Maybe he’s there?”
“Oh!” Maurice protested. “Surely we should respect a woman’s bedroom.”
“What are you talking about?” said Lorin. “Certainly we’ll respect it, and citizeness Dixmer too, but we’ll enter all the same.”
“Enter citizeness Dixmer?” snickered one of the grenadiers, delighted to crack a rude joke.
“No,” said Lorin, “just the room.”
“Well then,” said Maurice, “let me go first.”
“Go on,” said Lorin, “you’re the captain: honor where honor is due.”
They left two men behind to guard the room and went back to the room where they had lit the torches. Maurice approached the door leading to Geneviève’s bedroom.
It was the first time he would be entering it. His heart was beating like a hammer. The key was in the door. Maurice brought his hand to the key, but then hesitated.
“Well then,” said Lorin, “open it!”
“But