The Knight of Maison-Rouge_ A Novel of Marie Antoinette - Alexandre Dumas [61]
Geneviève reflected for a moment.
“But,” she said, “can’t we find a less compromising means to restore the good understanding between you and Monsieur Maurice?”
“Compromising, you say? On the contrary, it seems a perfectly natural way to do it to me.”
“Not to me, my friend.”
“You really are stubborn as an ox, Geneviève.”
“Allow me to observe that this is the first time you’ve noticed, at least.”
Dixmer, who had been twisting his handkerchief for some little time, used it to wipe his forehead, which was covered in sweat.
“Yes,” he said, “which is why I’m all the more astounded.”
“My God!” said Geneviève. “Is it possible, Dixmer, that you really don’t know why I’m resisting? Must you force me to speak?”
With that she hung her head and dropped her arms to her sides, exhausted, enfeebled, pushed to the limits. Dixmer appeared to be making a violent effort at self-control; he took Geneviève’s hand, forced her to lift her head, and, focusing on a point between her eyes, burst out laughing in a way that would have seemed particularly forced to Geneviève if she herself had been any less agitated at that moment.
“I know what it is!” said Dixmer. “In truth, you’re right. I was blind. For all your wit, my dear Geneviève, for all your distinction, you let yourself fall for a cliché: you were frightened Maurice might be in love with you.”
Geneviève felt something like a mortal chill pierce her heart. This irony of her husband’s about the love Maurice felt for her, a love of which, from what she knew of his nature, she could imagine all the violence, a love, in a word, that, without admitting it to herself other than by the nagging tug of remorse, she herself shared in her heart of hearts—this irony turned her to stone. She didn’t have the strength to look up. She knew she couldn’t possibly reply.
“I guessed right, didn’t I?” crowed Dixmer. “Well, rest assured, Geneviève, I know Maurice. He’s a fierce republican with no other love in his heart than love of his homeland.”
“Monsieur,” cried Geneviève. “Are you sure of what you’re saying?”
“There’s no doubt about it,” Dixmer said. “If Maurice loved you, instead of falling out with me he would have turned himself inside out showing how much he cared about me as the man he needed to deceive. If Maurice loved you, he would not so easily have given up his position as firm friend of the family, by means of which this kind of betrayal is usually cloaked.”
“For the sake of honor,” said Geneviève, “please don’t joke about such things!”
“I’m not joking, madame; I’m telling you Maurice doesn’t love you, that’s all.”
“And I’m telling you,” cried Geneviève, flushing wildly, “I’m telling you you’re wrong.”
“In that case,” said Dixmer, “Maurice has had the strength to clear out rather than betray the confidence of his host; he is a good man. Now, good men are rare, Geneviève; you can’t do too much to bring them back when they stay away. Geneviève, you will write to Maurice, won’t you?”
“Oh, God!” said the young woman.
With that she dropped her head into both hands, for the one she was about to lean on at such a dangerous juncture suddenly wasn’t there, and her head fell. Dixmer looked at her for a second, then forced himself to smile.
“Come, dear friend,” he said, “no feminine pride. If Maurice makes some great declaration to you again, just laugh it off as you did the first time. I know you, Geneviève, you are a worthy and noble soul. I’m sure of you.”
“Oh!” cried Geneviève, losing her footing so that one of her knees slipped and hit the ground. “Oh, God! Who can be sure of anyone else when no one can be sure of themselves?”
Dixmer went pale as though all his blood had rushed to his heart.
“Geneviève,” he said. “I was wrong to put you through all the anguish you’ve been