The Knight of Maison-Rouge_ A Novel of Marie Antoinette - Alexandre Dumas [73]
“All right; I’ll send Peony away.”
“My God, Geneviève!” said Dixmer, with a (rare) gesture of impatience. “Why are you bothering me with all this? Why fan the fire of my distress with yours? Why create difficulties for me in the midst of difficulty itself? Do what you have to do as an honest, devoted wife, Geneviève; that’s what I’m saying to you. Tomorrow I won’t be here; tomorrow I’ll be replacing Morand in the engineering works. I won’t be dining with you, but he will be; there’s something he wants to ask Maurice—he’ll explain to you what it is. What Morand asks Maurice, remember, Geneviève, that is the important thing. It may not be the end toward which we are working, but it is the means; it is the last hope of this good, noble, devoted man, your protector and mine, for whom we should lay down our lives.”
“And for whom I would gladly lay down mine!” cried Geneviève with glee.
“Well then, this man, Geneviève, I don’t know how it’s happened, but you haven’t managed to make Maurice love him, and it was especially important that he do so. So that now, in the lousy state you’ve left Maurice in, he will perhaps refuse what Morand asks him to do—and which he must at all costs do. Do you want me to spell out where all your delicacy and sentimentality have landed Morand, Geneviève?”
“Oh, monsieur!” cried Geneviève, joining her hands together in entreaty and blanching. “Monsieur, let’s not broach that subject again, ever.”
“Well then,” Dixmer went on, bringing his lips to his wife’s brow, “be strong and use your head.”
With that, he spun on his heels and left.
“Oh, my God! My God!” murmured Geneviève in anguish. “Look how they’re hammering me to get me to accept a love to which my whole soul soars!”
The next day, as we have already said, was a décadi1—the tenth day of the new ten-day division of time. There was a practice in the Dixmer family, as in all bourgeois families of the time, to have a longer and more ceremonious lunch on Sunday than on the other days of the week. Since Maurice had become a close friend of the family with a standing invitation to Sunday lunch, he had never missed one. That particular day, he arrived at twelve—even though the meal was never served before two o’clock—but hung back well out of sight without dismounting and waited.
The way he had stomped off last time, Geneviève almost despaired of seeing him. Indeed, it struck twelve without any sign of Maurice; then twelve-thirty, then one o’clock.
Words cannot tell what passed through Geneviève’s heart while she waited. At first she had dressed as simply as possible; then, seeing he was dragging his feet, she had pinned a flower to her bodice and tucked another in her hair with the coquetry that comes so naturally to a woman, and she had gone on waiting, feeling her heart getting tighter and tighter. Finally it was almost time to eat, and still Maurice hadn’t shown.
At ten to two, Geneviève heard the clip-clop of Maurice’s horse, that sound she knew so well.
“Oh! Here he is,” she cried silently. “His pride could not win out over his love. He loves me! He loves me!”
Maurice jumped down from his horse and handed it over to the assistant gardener, though ordering him to stay where he was. Geneviève watched him dismount and saw with anxiety that the gardener was not leading the horse off to the stables.
Maurice entered. That particular day he was resplendent in his big checked coat with wide lapels, his white vest and white cambric shirt, and suede pants that hugged his legs in the Apollo mold; his beautiful hair was brushed back, revealing a broad, polished brow. All in all, he looked the picture of elegant virility.
He entered and his presence filled Geneviève’s heart with joy: she welcomed him, beaming radiantly.
“Ah! Here you are,” she said, holding out her hand. “You will be eating with us, won’t you?”
“On the contrary, citizeness,” said Maurice frostily.