The Knight of Maison-Rouge_ A Novel of Marie Antoinette - Alexandre Dumas [58]
“Ah, Captain! You wouldn’t credit it, but the last slice has just been taken.”
“Well, then,” said the captain, “no Brie, no Saumur. Pity, I was going to treat the whole company—that would have been worth your while.”
“My dear Captain, if you’ll just give me five minutes, I’ll run and get some from the citizen concierge who is in competition with me—he always has some. I’ll pay more for it, but you’re too good a patriot not to reimburse me.”
“Yes, yes, off you go,” Dixmer replied. “Meanwhile, we’ll go downstairs and select our wine ourselves.”
“Make yourself at home, Captain, please.”
With that the widow Plumeau began to run in ungainly haste to the concierge’s lodge, while the captain and the chasseur, armed with a candle, lifted the trapdoor and went down into the cellar.
“Perfect!” said Morand after a cursory inspection. “The cellar extends toward the rue Porte-Foin, it’s nine to ten feet deep, and there is no masonry.”
“What’s the soil like?” asked Dixmer.
“Chalky tufa. It’s all made ground; all these gardens have been turned over at different times, there are no rocks anywhere.”
“Quick,” cried Dixmer, “I can hear our vivandière’s clogs; grab a couple of bottles of wine and we’ll go back up.”
They both popped up at the mouth of the trapdoor just as Mother Plumeau returned, carrying the famous Brie demanded with such insistence. Behind her traipsed several chasseurs, lured by the fine appearance of the cheese.
Dixmer did the honors, treating his company to a good twenty bottles of wine, while citizen Morand told of the devotion of Curtius, the disinterestedness of Fabricius, and the patriotism of Brutus and Cassius,2 all stories almost as much appreciated as the cheese from Brie and the wine from Anjou Dixmer provided—which is saying a lot.
Eleven o’clock struck. It was at eleven-thirty that the sentries were due to be relieved.
“Doesn’t the Austrian woman normally take a stroll between twelve and one?” Dixmer asked Tison, who was trotting past the hut.
“Between twelve and one, quite right.” And the man began to sing:
“Madame mounts her tower,
Uncle, beef, and onion stew … ”
This facetiousness was greeted with chuckles all round from the National Guards.
Dixmer immediately called the roll of the men of his company who were to mount the guard from eleven-thirty to one-thirty, recommended that lunch be hurried up, and got Morand to take up his arms in order to place him, as agreed, on the last floor of the tower, in that same sentry box in which Maurice had hidden the day he intercepted signals intended for the Queen from a window in the rue Porte-Foin.
If you could have seen Morand when he received these instructions, simple and expected as they were, you’d have seen him turn as white as a ghost beneath his long black locks.
All of a sudden a dull roar shook the courtyards of the Temple and a great tornado of shouts and growls could be heard in the distance.
“What’s that?” Dixmer asked Tison.
“Hmmph! That’s nothing!” said the jailer. “Brissotin3 and his wretched cohorts, the Girondins, are just kicking up a bit of a stink before they’re carted off to the guillotine.”
The noise became more and more alarming; artillery could be heard rolling along and a throng of people passed close by the Temple, screaming: “Long live the sections! Long live Hanriot! Down with the Brissotins! Down with the Rolandists!4 Down with Madame Veto!”
“Great!” said Tison, rubbing his hands. “Think I’ll go and open up for Madame Veto so she can enjoy unimpeded the love her people bear her.”
With that he approached the dungeon wicket.
“Hey! Tison!” boomed a formidable voice.
“My general?” Tison replied, stopping in his tracks.
“No outing today,” said Santerre. “The prisoners will not leave their room.”
The order was without appeal.
“Suits me!” said Tison. “That’s one thing less to worry about.”
Dixmer and Morand exchanged