The Knight of Maison-Rouge_ A Novel of Marie Antoinette - Alexandre Dumas [51]
While Maurice worked so assiduously, and the fever he was trying to work off racked his brain instead of his heart, the messenger had returned to the old rue Saint-Jacques and sent the place into a horrified spin. Geneviève gave the handwriting the once-over before handing it to Dixmer, who at first read the note without comprehending; he then communicated its message to citizen Morand, who smacked his alabaster white forehead with both hands.
In the situation in which Dixmer, Morand, and company found themselves, a situation Maurice knew absolutely nothing about but which our readers have been able to penetrate, the letter was, of course, a bolt from the blue.
“Can this man mean what he says?” Dixmer wondered anxiously.
“Yes,” said Morand without hesitation.
“What does it matter!” said the extremist. “You see now we were wrong not to kill him.”
“My friend,” said Morand, “we are fighting against violence; we condemn it as a crime. We did the right thing not to kill a man, whatever happens. But then, as I’ve said before, I believe Maurice’s to be a noble and honest heart.”
“Yes, but if this noble and honest heart is that of a republican fanatic, perhaps he himself would think it was a crime, if he has stumbled on something, not to sacrifice his honor on the altar of the nation, as they say.”
“But,” said Morand, “do you really think he knows something?”
“Ha! Just listen to him! He talks about secrets that will remain buried in his heart.”
“Those secrets are obviously those I confided in him about our contraband. He doesn’t know about any others.”
“Still,” said Morand, “that meeting in Auteuil, you don’t suppose he suspected something? You know he accompanied your wife?”
“I’m the one who told Geneviève to take him with her, to look after her.”
“Listen,” said Morand, “we’ll soon see if these suspicions are well founded. Our battalion’s on patrol at the Temple on the second of June—that is, in a week. You are the captain, Dixmer, and I’m the lieutenant. If your battalion or even our company receives a counterorder, like the Butte-de-Moulins battalion received the other day, when Santerre switched it with the Gravilliers battalion, it will mean they are onto us, and all that will be left for us to do will be to get out of Paris or die in combat. But if things go as planned …”
“We’re sunk just as surely,” replied Dixmer.
“How so?”
“Good Lord! Didn’t everything depend on the cooperation of this particular municipal officer? Wasn’t it he that was supposed to lead us straight to the Queen, albeit unwittingly? ”
“That’s true,” said Morand, crushed.
“So you see,” Dixmer continued gruffly, “we must get this young man back on board at any cost.”
“But what if he refuses, what if he fears he’s compromising himself?” said Morand.
“Listen,” said Dixmer. “I’ll have a word with Geneviève; she saw him last, she may know something.”
“Dixmer,” said Morand, “I can’t see you getting Geneviève involved in our plots; not that I fear any indiscretion on her part, good Lord, no! But the game we’re playing is a matter of life and death, and I would feel shame and pity, putting a woman’s head on the line here.”
“A woman’s head,” said Dixmer, “weighs as much as a man’s wherever cunning, candor, or beauty can do as much and sometimes more than brute force, power, and courage; Geneviève shares our convictions and our sympathies, Geneviève will share our fate.”
“Go ahead then, my friend,” said Morand. “I’ve said all I have to say. Go ahead: Geneviève is in all respects up to the mission you intend to give her, or rather that she has given herself. Martyrs are made of saints.”
And he held out his effeminate white hand to Dixmer, who pressed it between his own big hairy hands. Then Dixmer, cautioning Morand and company to be more vigilant than ever, went