The Knight of Maison-Rouge_ A Novel of Marie Antoinette - Alexandre Dumas [181]
Dixmer was frightening in his rage and his hate. He had grabbed Maurice’s hand in his and shook it with a force the young man had never once come across before. It had a sobering effect on Maurice: the more wildly excited Dixmer became, the calmer Maurice felt.
“Listen,” said the young man. “There’s one thing lacking in your revenge.”
“What?”
“It is being able to say to her: ‘While I was leaving the Tribunal, I saw your lover and I killed him.’ ”
“On the contrary, I’d prefer to tell her that you’re alive and kicking and that for the rest of your life you will suffer from the sight of her death.”
“And yet you will kill me,” said Maurice, looking around to check whether he was master of the situation. “Or I will kill you.”
Feeling the white heat of his emotion, exalted by fury, his strength doubled by the self-control he’d imposed on himself in order to hear Dixmer’s terrible scheme to the end, Maurice seized Dixmer’s throat and yanked him toward him, walking backward all the while toward a set of stairs that led to the banks of the Seine.
At the touch of Maurice’s hand, Dixmer too felt all the hate rise up like lava.
“Right!” he said. “You don’t need to drag me by force. I’m coming.”
“Come then, you are armed.”
I’ll follow you.”
“No, you go first. But I warn you, the faintest hint of movement and I’ll split your head in two with my sword.”
“Oh! You know very well you don’t frighten me,” said Dixmer with that smile that the ghastly pallor of his lips made so alarming.
“My sword doesn’t frighten you, no,” muttered Maurice, “but losing your revenge does. And yet, now that we are face-to-face, you can kiss revenge good-bye.”
They had actually reached the water’s edge, and if they could still be seen where they were, no one could arrive in time to prevent the duel from taking place. Besides, an equal rage devoured both men.
While they spoke they had descended the small set of steps that lead down from the square in front of the Palais. The quay was virtually deserted at this hour, for it was just past two and, as the condemnations continued, the crowd was still packing the courtroom, corridors, and courtyards of the Palais.
Dixmer seemed as thirsty for Maurice’s blood as Maurice was for his. They dived under one of the arches that lead from the prison cells of the Conciergerie to the river, today putrid sewers, but once full of blood and used for carrying more than one corpse far away from the black holes of the dungeons. Maurice stood between Dixmer and the water.
“I really do think it is I who will kill you, Maurice,” said Dixmer. “You’re shaking like a leaf.”
“And I,” said Maurice, taking his sword in hand and carefully cutting off any retreat, “on the contrary, Dixmer, think that it is I who will kill you and, having killed you, will remove from your wallet that pass from the Palais registrar. Oh! Never mind about buttoning up your coat; I can tell you now my sword would tear it open even if you were wearing an antique bronze breastplate.”
“You intend to take the pass?” said Dixmer.
“Yes!” said Maurice. “I’m the one who’ll get to use it, your little pass; I’m the one who’ll get to flash the pass and go in to Geneviève; I’m the one who’ll sit next to her on the cart; I’m the one who’ll murmur in her ear for the time remaining to her to live: I love you. And when her head falls: I loved you.”
Dixmer made a move with his left hand to transfer the pass from his right and throw it with the wallet into the river. But, quick as a flash of lightning, slicing like an ax, Maurice’s saber came down and severed that hand entirely from the wrist.
The mutilated man gave out a cry, shaking his bleeding stump and moved into the en garde position as a terrible