The Knight of Maison-Rouge_ A Novel of Marie Antoinette - Alexandre Dumas [32]
“Well!” said Maurice. “That seems to me to be an honest enough profit, and now I understand why you were afraid it would dry up if I denounced you. But now you know who I am, surely you are reassured?”
“Now,” said Dixmer, “I wouldn’t even ask you for your word of honor.” He put his hand on Maurice’s shoulder and beamed at him. “Come. Now we’ve had a bit of a talk and are among friends, tell me what you’re really here for, young man. Of course,” the master tanner added, “if you don’t want to say, you’re perfectly at liberty not to.”
“But I think I told you,” stammered Maurice.
“Yes, something about a woman,” said the burgher. “I know there was talk of a woman.”
“My God! Forgive me, citizen,” said Maurice. “I’m only too well aware that I owe you an explanation. So, I was looking for a woman who told me, the other night—she was wearing a mask at the time—that she lived somewhere in this neighborhood. I don’t know her name or her social standing or which house she lives in. I only know that I’m madly in love with her and that she was short.”
Geneviève was tall.
“She was blond and pert.…”
Geneviève was dark with great soulful eyes.
“A working-class lass, I’d say.… That’s why I’m decked out like a real man of the people like this—I thought she’d approve.”
“So that explains everything,” said Dixmer with an angelic naïveté not belied by even the slightest sly glimmer in his eye. Geneviève, though, had blushed and, feeling herself blush, turned away.
“Poor citizen Lindey,” said Dixmer, laughing. “What a nasty hour we put you through, and you’re the last person I’d have wanted to harm. Such a good patriot, such a brother! … But I truly thought someone with evil intentions had usurped your name.”
“Let’s say no more about it,” said Maurice, who realized it was time to get cracking. “Point me in the right direction and we’ll forget it ever happened.…”
“Point you in the right direction?” cried Dixmer. “Send you packing? Not on your life! This evening I, or rather my partner and I, are hosting a supper for the brave boys who wanted to cut your throat a moment ago. I’m counting on you to eat with them so that you can see they’re not quite as diabolical as they seem.”
“But,” protested Maurice, full of joy at the prospect of spending a few hours close to Geneviève, “I don’t know if I really ought to accept.”
“Why not! I think you really ought to accept,” said Dixmer. “They’re all good solid patriots like you; besides, I won’t believe you’ve forgiven me until we’ve broken bread together.”
Geneviève didn’t say a word. Maurice was in agony.
“If the truth be known,” he stammered, “I’m afraid of imposing on you, citizen.… In this getup, I look … pretty rough.…”
Geneviève gave him a timid glance.
“Our invitation is sincere,” she said.
“I accept then, citizeness,” Maurice said with a bow.
“Well then, I’ll go and reassure our companions,” said the master tanner. “Warm up a bit, meanwhile, dear friend.”
He left. Maurice and Geneviève were alone.
“Ah, monsieur!” said the young woman with a woeful attempt at a rebuke. “You didn’t keep your word, you’ve been indiscreet.”
“What!” cried Maurice. “Oh, madame, have I compromised you? Please forgive me if I have; you won’t see me again.…”
“My God!” she cried, getting to her feet. “You’ve been wounded in the chest! Your shirt is stained with blood!”
Indeed, on Maurice’s amazingly fine and amazingly white cambric shirt, a shirt that contrasted oddly with the rest of his