The Knight of Maison-Rouge_ A Novel of Marie Antoinette - Alexandre Dumas [46]
With that, Geneviève gave Maurice her hand, which he kissed fervently, bringing the color back to her face.
“Now, my friend,” she said, withdrawing her hand, “you know how I became Monsieur Dixmer’s wife.”
“Yes,” said Maurice, not taking his eyes off her. “But you haven’t told me how Monsieur Morand became Monsieur Dixmer’s partner.”
“Oh! That’s simple enough.… As I told you, Monsieur Dixmer had something of a fortune, yet not enough of one to take on a factory this size all by himself. The son of Monsieur Morand, his protector, as I said, my father’s friend, as you’ll recall, put up half the money. As he had studied chemistry, he devoted himself to the development of the activity you’ve witnessed and thanks to which Monsieur Dixmer’s business, of which he’s in charge of the material side, has expanded enormously.”
“Tell me, Monsieur Morand is also one of your close friends, is he not, madame?”
“Monsieur Morand is a noble soul, one of the purest hearts you will find under heaven.” Geneviève spoke gravely.
“If the only proof he’s given you of that,” said Maurice, more than a little piqued at her high regard for her husband’s partner, “is in sharing your husband’s business and inventing a new leather dye, permit me to observe that your praise of him is extremely overdone.”
“He has given me other proof, monsieur,” said Geneviève.
“But he’s still young, isn’t he?” asked Maurice. “Although it is hard to tell with those green goggles exactly how old he is.”
“He’s thirty-five.”
“Have you known each other long?”
“Since childhood.”
Maurice bit his lip. He had from the first suspected Morand of being in love with Geneviève.
“Ah!” Maurice exclaimed. “That explains his familiarity with you.”
“Restrained as it is within the limits you’ve always seen, monsieur,” replied Geneviève, smiling, “it seems to me this familiarity, which is scarcely that of a friend, needs no explaining.”
“Oh, forgive me, madame,” said Maurice, “you know how jealous all strong affection is. As a friend I’m jealous of the friendship you seem to have with Monsieur Morand.”
He shut up. Geneviève, too, remained silent. There was no more talk of Morand that day, and Maurice left Geneviève more in love than ever. For now he was jealous.
Love is blind, they say, and our young man certainly was, but whatever blindfold lay over his eyes, however troubled at heart his passion left him, there were many gaps in Geneviève’s story, many hesitations, many things glossed over, which he hadn’t really noticed at the time but which came back to haunt him strangely afterward, when he was out of her orbit. All the freedom Dixmer gave him to talk to Geneviève as often as he liked and as long as he liked, in the kind of solitude they both enjoyed every evening, could not do much to reassure him. There was something else: having become the regular dinner guest of the house, Maurice was not only left on his own with Geneviève in all confidence—it seemed to him that she was, after all, safely protected against his desires by her angelic purity—he also got to escort her on the little expeditions she was obliged to carry out in the neighborhood from time to time.
The better his standing with the household, the more one thing amazed him, and that was that the more he sought to be in a position, you could say, to police the feelings he believed Morand to have for Geneviève; the more he sought, let’s say, to get acquainted with Morand, whose mind, despite his reservations, seduced him and whose refined manners captivated him increasingly every day; the more the bizarre man seemed keen to elude him. Maurice complained bitterly about this to Geneviève, for he had no doubt Morand felt him to be a rival and that jealousy on Morand’s side drove him to