The Knight of Maison-Rouge_ A Novel of Marie Antoinette - Alexandre Dumas [182]
Dixmer felt his blood run out of him and knew his strength would flow out with it. He charged at Maurice with such violence that Maurice was forced to take a step back. As he broke away, his left foot slipped and the point of his enemy’s sword grazed his chest. But with a movement as speedy as thought, on his knees though he was, he flipped the blade back up with his left hand and held the point at Dixmer, who surged forward, airborne with anger, on sloping ground, fell on his sword, and impaled himself.
A terrible curse was heard, then the two bodies rolled together out from under the vault.
Only one man got up again and that man was Maurice, Maurice covered in blood, but the blood was the blood of his enemy. He plucked his sword from the body and, as he did so, he seemed to suck out the rest of the life that still quivered through Dixmer’s limbs in a nervous tremor.
When he had thoroughly assured himself that Dixmer was dead, he leaned over the body, opened the dead man’s coat, took the wallet out, and dashed off.
Giving himself a rapid glance, he could see that he wouldn’t go four steps in the street without being arrested, for he was covered in blood. He went and crouched down at the water’s edge and washed his hands and clothes. Then he bounded back up the stairs, casting one last look behind him. A steaming red thread was coming out from under the arches and streaming toward the river.
When Maurice had almost reached the Palais, he opened the wallet and found the pass signed by the Palais registrar.
“Justice exists! Thank you, God!” he murmured.
And on that note he swiftly mounted the steps that lead to the Hall of the Dead as the clock struck three.
54
THE HALL OF THE DEAD
You will recall that the Palais registrar had opened his registers of nuts and bolts for Dixmer and enjoyed relations with him that the presence of Madame Dixmer did nothing to sour.
This man, as you may well imagine, was frightened out of his wits when the revelations about Dixmer’s plot got out. Indeed, for him, the issue was no less grave than whether he looked to others like he might be one of Dixmer’s phony colleague accomplices—thereby being condemned to death as surely as Geneviève.
Fouquier-Tinville had summoned him to appear before him.
You can understand the pains the poor man took to establish his innocence in the eyes of the public prosecutor. He succeeded, largely thanks to Geneviève’s confession, which established the man’s ignorance of her husband’s plans—and partly thanks to Dixmer’s flight, but above all thanks to the interests of Fouquier-Tinville who wanted to keep his administration free from taint of any kind.
“Citizen,” the registrar had said, throwing himself on his knees, “forgive me, I let myself be hoodwinked.”
“Citizen,” the public prosecutor had replied, “an employee of the nation who lets himself be hoodwinked in times such as these deserves to be guillotined.”
“But a person can be stupid, citizen,” the proud registrar went on, dying to call Fouquier-Tinville monseigneur.1
“Stupid or otherwise,” said the public prosecutor, “no one should allow themselves to doze off in their love for the Republic. The geese on the Capitol2 were stupid, too, mere creatures, yet they managed to wake up in time and save Rome.”
The registrar had nothing to say to such an argument; he merely groaned and waited.
“I pardon you,” said Fouquier. “I’d even go so far as to defend you—I don’t want one of my employees suspected for a second. But just remember, at the slightest word that reaches my ears, at the slightest reminder of this business, it’s off with your head.”
There is no need to say with what enthusiasm and solicitude the registrar ran