The Knight of Maison-Rouge_ A Novel of Marie Antoinette - Alexandre Dumas [53]
Morand shuddered and kept his silence, a silence that was pensive and painful. They circled the garden a few times without exchanging a single word before Dixmer took his leave.
“I have a few orders to give,” he said in a perfectly calm voice. “I’ll be off, Monsieur Morand.”
Morand gave Dixmer his hand and watched him recede.
“Poor Dixmer,” he said to himself. “I’m afraid that out of all of us, he is the one who stands to lose the most.”
Dixmer did in fact go back to his workshop, issue a few orders, go over his newspapers again, order a distribution of bread and slops to the poor in that section of Paris, and then return home, get out of his work gear, and put on his Sunday best.
An hour later, Maurice was interrupted in the middle of his reading and public speaking practice by the voice of his officieux, who leaned toward his ear and whispered, “Citizen Lindey, there is someone with something very important to say to you, or so he says at least, waiting for you at your place.”
Maurice swiftly returned home and was flabbergasted to find Dixmer settled in comfortably, leafing through the papers. On the way back he had questioned his servant the whole time, but the man had never met the master tanner and could hardly offer any enlightenment.
On seeing Dixmer, Maurice stopped dead in the doorway, coloring uncontrollably. Dixmer shot up and held out his hand, smiling.
“What’s gotten into you? Why did you write me that nonsense?” he asked the young man. “In all truth, it was a bit below the belt, my dear Maurice. Me, lukewarm—a false patriot, you say? Come, come. You can’t repeat such accusations to my face, can you? Why don’t you just admit that you were trying to pick a fight with me.”
“I’ll admit whatever you like, my dear Dixmer, for you’ve always treated me like a gentleman; but that doesn’t mean my mind is not made up. My decision is irrevocable.…”
“But why?” asked Dixmer. “On your own admission you have nothing to reproach us with, yet you’re still determined to turn your back on us?”
“Dear Dixmer, please believe that to act as I do, to deprive myself of a friend like you, I must have pretty good reasons.”
“Yes, but whatever they are,” Dixmer continued, affecting a smile, “these reasons are not the ones you wrote to me. The ones you wrote to me are just an excuse.”
Maurice reflected for a moment.
“Listen, Dixmer,” he said, “we are living in an age when any letter expressing doubt can and should worry you. I realize it does not behoove a man of honor to leave you laboring under the weight of such anxiety. So, yes, Dixmer, the reasons I gave you were just an excuse.”
This admission, which should have cleared the businessman’s brow, on the contrary seemed to darken it.
“Well then, what’s the real motive?” said Dixmer.
“I can’t tell you. But if you knew what it was, you’d approve, I’m sure.”
Dixmer pressed him.
“Do you really want to know?” asked Maurice. “
Yes,” Dixmer replied.
“All right,” said Maurice, who felt a certain relief in approximating the truth. “The reason is that you have a wife who is young and beautiful, and the chastity of this young and beautiful woman, however well established it is, has not stopped people from misinterpreting my visits to your home.”
Dixmer paled slightly.
“Really?” he said. “Well then, my dear Maurice, the husband should thank you for the wrong you do the friend.”
“You realize that I’m not silly enough to think my presence could possibly be dangerous for your peace of mind or that of your wife, but it could set malicious tongues wagging, and you know very well the more absurd calumny is the more readily it is believed.”
“You child!” scoffed Dixmer, shrugging his shoulders.
“Scoff at me as much as you like,” Maurice replied, “but from afar we won’t be any less good friends, for we won’t have anything to hold