The Knight of Maison-Rouge_ A Novel of Marie Antoinette - Alexandre Dumas [26]
Maurice felt the weight of this lull, the way you feel how heavy the atmosphere is before a storm, and he did not know what to do with the spare time that delivered him over entirely to passionate feelings which, if not love, certainly bore all the hallmarks. He reread the woman’s letter, kissed the beautiful sapphire she had given him, and resolved that, though he had sworn not to, he would try one last time to find her.
The young man had of course thought of one thing, which was to go to the Jardin des Plantes section to gather information there from his colleague the secretary. But his initial thought, indeed, we might say his only thought, that his beautiful stranger might be involved in some kind of political intrigue, held him back. The idea that some indiscretion on his part might lead such a lovely woman to the place de la Révolution8 and cause her angelic head to fall on the guillotine made his blood run cold.
And so he opted to go it alone, blindly. His plan, in any case, was very simple. The lists posted on every door should provide him with a few basic pointers; he could then question the concierges and thereby have light shed on the mystery. As secretary of the Lepelletier section, he had every right to conduct inquiries of the sort.
In any case, Maurice had no idea of the woman’s name and would have to be guided by analogy. It was impossible that such a charming creature would not have a name in keeping with her appearance: the name of some sylph, fairy, or angel; for when she arrived on earth, her advent had to have been greeted as that of a superior and supernatural being. The name would thus, infallibly, guide him in his groping.
Maurice donned a carmagnole of coarse brown cloth, clapped a red cap on his head, and set off on his exploration without telling a soul what he was up to. In his hand, he held the gnarled cudgel known as a constitution; tucked into his manly wrist, this weapon was as good as Hercules’ club. In his pocket, he carried his commission as secretary of the Lepelletier section, which was meant to ensure his physical safety and vouch for his moral stature at once.
So once more he found himself walking up and down the rue Saint-Victor and the old rue Saint-Jacques, trying to decipher in the dwindling daylight the names scrawled more or less legibly on the panel of each door.
He was up to his hundredth house, and, of course, his hundredth list, without in any way feeling he was getting any closer to tracking down his mystery woman, whom he would be unable to recognize in any case unless his eyes were to light on some fancy name of the kind he’d been dreaming about, when a brave cobbler read frustration writ large across his face and so opened his door and came out, leather thong and bodkin in hand, to peer over his glasses at Maurice.
“Do you need information about any of the tenants of this house? If so, speak, I’m prepared to tell you.”
“Thank you, citizen,” Maurice stammered, “but I’m looking for the name of a friend of mine.”
“Tell me his name, citizen; I know everyone on the block. Where does this friend live?”
“He used to live in the old rue Saint-Jacques, I think; but I fear he may have moved.”
“But what’s his name? I need to know his name.”
Maurice was stumped; he hesitated for a moment then said the first name that came into his head. “René.”
“And what’s he do, this René?”
Maurice was surrounded by tanneries. “He’s a tanner’s assistant.”
“In that case,” said a burgher who had stopped and was looking at Maurice with a friendly expression that did not exclude a certain mistrust, “you should address yourself to the master.”
“That’s right,” said the doorman, “good advice. The masters know the names of their workers, and here’s citizen Dixmer. Hang on, he’s the manager of a tannery with more than fifty