The Knight of Maison-Rouge_ A Novel of Marie Antoinette - Alexandre Dumas [120]
“My dear Maurice,” he said, “we’ve done all that is humanly possible to find your Geneviève. We’ve worn ourselves out; we’ve gotten ourselves scorched; we’ve gotten ourselves beaten up for her. Cupid may be demanding, but he can’t demand any more than that from a man in love, and especially from one who’s not. Let’s get in the fiacre and let’s both go home to bed.”
Maurice did not reply, he just let himself go with it. They arrived at his door without exchanging another word. The moment Maurice got out of the cab, a window of his apartment could be heard shutting.
“Oh, good! They’ve waited up for you. I feel happier about that. Now knock.”
Maurice knocked and the door opened.
“Good night!” said Lorin. “Wait for me in the morning before you go out.”
“Good night,” Maurice said, like a zombie. And the door closed behind him.
On the very first flight of steps he ran into his officieux.
“Oh, citizen Lindey!” the man cried. “We’ve been so worried about you!”
Maurice was struck by the word we.
“We?” he asked.
“Yes, me and the little lady who’s waiting for you.”
“The little lady!” Maurice repeated, thinking it was a bad moment for one of his old flames to turn up. “I’m glad you told me; I’ll go sleep at Lorin’s.”
“Oh, no, you can’t. She was at the window, she saw you get out of the cab, and she cried out: ‘There he is!’ ”
“Hmmph. What’s it to me if she knows it’s me; I don’t have the heart to make love! Go back up and tell this woman she was mistaken.”
The officieux turned to obey, then stopped.
“Oh, citizen! This isn’t right! The little lady is already so sad; if I tell her that, she’ll despair.”
“Who on earth is this woman?” Maurice asked.
“Citizen, I didn’t see her face; she’s all wrapped up in a cloak and she’s in tears; that’s all I know.”
“In tears!” Maurice exclaimed.
“Yes, just quietly, putting on a brave show, trying to hold back her sobs.”
“In tears,” Maurice repeated. “So there is someone in the world who loves me enough to worry about my absence to the point of tears?”
He climbed the stairs slowly behind the officieux.
“Here he is, citizeness, here he is!” cried the officieux, rushing into the room.
Maurice came in behind him. He spotted a quivering heap in the corner with her face buried in cushions, a woman you’d have thought was dead if it weren’t for the convulsive moans that racked her.
He signaled to his officieux to leave. The man obeyed, shutting the door behind him. Maurice ran to her and lifted up her head.
“Geneviève!” he cried. “Geneviève, you’re here, at my place! Have I gone mad, God?”
“No, you haven’t lost your mind, my friend,” replied the young woman. “I promised you I’d be yours if you saved the Knight of Maison-Rouge. You saved him, so here I am! I’ve been waiting for you.”
Maurice misunderstood. He stepped back and looked at her sadly.
“Geneviève,” he said softly, “so you don’t love me?”
Geneviève’s gaze was clouded with tears. She turned her head away and, leaning against the back of the sofa, burst out crying again.
“Alas!” said Maurice. “You see for yourself you don’t love me anymore; and not only don’t you love me anymore, Geneviève, but you must feel something like hate for me to despair like this.”
Maurice packed so much exhilaration and pain into these last words that Geneviève sat up and took his hand.
“My God!” she said. “Must the man I think of as the best of men always be such an egotist!”
“An egotist, Geneviève? What do you mean?”
“But don’t you understand what I’m going through? My husband has flown the coop, my brother’s been outlawed, my house is in