The Knight of Maison-Rouge_ A Novel of Marie Antoinette - Alexandre Dumas [130]
This joke made Simon laugh and even cheered up Fouquier.
“Right you are,” he said, “and if you didn’t do it, you should have. Leave us, please; Simon has something for me.”
Théodore moved off, scarcely offended by the brusque manner of the citizen public prosecutor.
“Hang on!” cried Simon. “Don’t send him packing just yet; let’s hear his denunciation first.”
“Ah!” Fouquier-Tinville said distractedly. “A denunciation?”
“Yes, a nest of ‘em,” said Simon.
“Marvelous! Tell me. What are we talking about here?”
“Oh, it’s practically nothing! Only citizen Maison-Rouge and friends.”
Fouquier leapt back; Simon raised his arms to the heavens.
“Really?” the two men chimed.
“Nothing but the truth. Do you want to nab them?”
“Immediately. Where are they?”
“I met Maison-Rouge on the rue de la Grande-Truanderie.”
“You’re mistaken, he’s not in Paris,” replied Fouquier.
“I saw him, I tell you.”
“You can’t have. We put a hundred men on his tail. He’s the last person who’d show up in the street.”
“It was him, as sure as there’s a nose on your face,” said the patriot. “A brute with brown hair, big, and hairy as a bear’s ass.”
Fouquier shrugged his shoulders with contempt.
“Another piece of garbage,” he said. “Maison-Rouge is small and thin and hasn’t a whisker of a beard.”
The patriot dropped his arms to his sides with a disconcerted air.
“Never mind, good intentions are always appreciated. Well then, Simon, it’s you and me; get on with it, they’re waiting for me at the clerk’s office; this is the time the carts go out.”
“Well, nothing new; the kid’s going well.”
The patriot turned his back so as not to appear indiscreet—and so that he could eavesdrop undeterred.
“I’ll be off if I’m in your way,” he said.
“Adieu,” said Simon. “Good-bye,” said Fouquier.
“Tell your friend you got it wrong,” Simon added.
“All right, I’ll wait for him.”
With that, Théodore moved to a spot where he was still within earshot and leaned on his cudgel.
“Ah! The little fellow’s going well,” Fouquier said. “But what about his morale?”
“He’s putty in my hands.”
“So he’s talking?”
“When I want him to.”
“Do you think he could testify at Antoinette’s trial?”
“I don’t think so—I know so!”
Théodore leaned against a pillar, his eye on the doors. But that eye was sightless, while his ears suddenly pricked up under the vast fur cap. He may well have seen nothing—but he certainly caught an earful.
“Think carefully,” said Fouquier. “We don’t want to make the Committee look bad—no what they call clerks’ bungles! Are you sure Capet will talk?”
“He’ll say whatever I want him to.”
“He talked to you about what we are going to ask him about?”
“He did.”
“This is important, citizen Simon, what you are promising here. Such a confession on the part of the child will be fatal for the mother.”
“I bloody well hope so!”
“Nothing like it has been seen since Nero’s confession to Narcissus,”2 muttered Fouquier in a somber voice. “Think again, Simon.”
“You’d think you took me for an idiot, citizen. You keep repeating the same thing. Listen, here’s a comparison for you: when I put the leather in water, does it become supple?”
“But … I have no idea,” said Fouquier.
“It becomes supple. Well now, the little Capet becomes as supple in my hands as the softest leather. I’ve got ways and means, you see.”
“So be it,” stammered Fouquier. “That’s all you wanted to tell me?”
“That’s all.… Oh, I forgot! Here’s a denunciation.”
“Another one! You want to kill me with work?”
“A man’s got to serve his country.”
With that, Simon presented a piece of paper as black as one of the leather skins he’d just referred to, but decidedly less supple. Fouquier took it and read it.
“Your citizen Lorin again; you really hate that man, don’t you?”
“I find he’s always hostile to the law. He said ‘Adieu, madame’ to a woman who waved at him from her window last night.… Tomorrow I hope to give you something about another suspect: that Maurice, who was one of the municipal officers in the Temple at the time of the red carnation.”
“Details! Details!