The Knight of Maison-Rouge_ A Novel of Marie Antoinette - Alexandre Dumas [66]
Morand elaborated a theory about women in politics, starting with Théroigne de Méricourt,1 the heroine of the tenth of August, and ending with Madame Roland,2 that soul of the Gironde. In passing, he said what he thought of the tricoteuses—those bloodthirsty crones who did their knitting at the foot of the guillotine. His words made Maurice smile despite the cruel derision of these female patriots, later given the hideous name of guillotine-lickers.
“Ah! Citizen Morand,” said Dixmer, “let’s show a little respect for patriotism, even when it errs.”
“As for me,” said Maurice, “when it comes to patriotism, I find women are always patriotic enough as long as they’re not too aristocratic.”
“You’re right there,” said Morand. “Me, I frankly admit that I find a woman rather despicable when she puts on masculine airs and that a man is a coward when he insults a woman, even if that woman is his bitterest enemy.”
Morand had just lured Maurice onto delicate ground. Maurice in turn gave a nod: the contenders had entered the lists. Like a herald ringing the bell, Dixmer then added, “One moment, one moment, citizen Morand. You except, I hope, women who are enemies of the nation.”
A silence of several seconds followed this riposte to Morand’s remark and Maurice’s signal. It was Maurice who broke the silence.
“Let’s not except anyone,” he said sadly. “Alas! the women who have been enemies of the nation have been thoroughly punished by now, it seems to me.”
“Do you mean the prisoners in the Temple, the Austrian woman and Capet’s sister and daughter?” asked Dixmer so loudly his words came out devoid of all expression.
Morand went pale as he waited for the young municipal officer to reply. If you could have seen how deeply he dug his nails into his chest, you would have said they’d leave a scar.
“That’s precisely who I mean,” said Maurice.
“What!” said Morand in a strangled voice. “Is what they’re saying true, citizen Maurice?”
“What are they saying?” asked the young man.
“That the prisoners are badly mistreated, at times, by those whose duty it is to protect them.”
“There are men,” said Maurice, “who aren’t worthy of the name. There are cowards who did not fight and who need to torture the vanquished to persuade themselves they are the conquerors.”
“Oh! You’re not of those men, not you, Maurice, I’m certain of that,” cried Geneviève.
“Madame,” Maurice replied, “I who am speaking to you now, I mounted the guard on the scaffold on which the late King died. I had my sword in hand and I was there to kill with my own hands anyone who tried to save him. Yet when he came near me, in spite of myself, I took off my hat and turned to my men and I said to them: ‘Citizens, I warn you, I’ll run my sword through the body of the first person who insults this man who once was king.’ Oh! I defy anyone to say a single cry was heard from my company. And it was I who wrote with my own hand the first of the thousands of notices that went up around Paris when the King came back from Varennes:3 ‘Whoever salutes the king will be mowed down; whoever insults him will be hanged.’
“Well,” Maurice continued, without registering the terrible effect his words were having on the assembled company, “well, I’ve proved I’m a good and honest patriot, that I hate kings and their followers. And yet I declare, in spite of my opinions, which are nothing less than profound convictions, in spite of the certainty I have that the Austrian woman has had a hand in the calamities that are devastating France—in spite of all this, I say no man, not even Santerre himself, will ever, ever insult the former Queen in my presence.”
“Citizen,” Dixmer interrupted, shaking his head as though disapproving of such recklessness, “you know you have to be pretty sure of us to say such things