• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

“Oh, Maurice!” said Geneviève. “There’s no point: we have so many in the garden!”

But despite this token rejection of the offer, Geneviève’s glittering eyes told Maurice she was dying for a bunch. He chose the biggest and best of the bouquets, which just happened to be the one the pretty flower girl had held out to him.

It was composed of about twenty poppy carnations with a scent at once acrid and suave. Smack-dab in the middle of them all, dominating the others like a king, one enormous carnation stood out.

“Here,” said Maurice to the flower girl, tossing an assignat of five livres onto her tray. “That’s for you.”

“Thanks, my handsome municipal officer,” said the flower girl. “Many thanks!”

With that, she steered toward another couple of citizens in the hope that a day that had started so magnificently would turn out to be a good day. While this scene was taking place, apparently straightforwardly and lasting only a matter of seconds, Morand tottered on his pins and wiped his forehead and Geneviève paled and trembled. She gripped the bouquet Maurice presented to her with a clenched hand and brought it to her face, not so much to breathe in the scent as to hide her emotion.

They went the rest of the way gaily, or Maurice at least did. As for Geneviève, her gaiety was fairly restrained. Morand was gay in his own bizarre way, stifling sighs, bursting out laughing suddenly, and cracking outrageous jokes that rained down upon passersby like rounds of ammunition.

The party arrived at the Temple at nine o’clock, just as Santerre was calling the roll of municipal officers.

“Present!” shouted Maurice, leaving Geneviève under Morand’s protection.

“Welcome back!” said Santerre, holding out his hand to the young man.

Maurice was careful to shake the hand that was offered him most warmly. Santerre’s friendship was certainly one of the most precious you could enjoy in those days. At the mere sight of the man who had commanded the famous drumroll when the King was killed, Geneviève shivered and Morand turned white as a sheet.

“So who’s the beautiful citizeness?” Santerre asked Maurice. “And what’s she doing here?”

“That’s the wife of good citizen Dixmer; you must have heard of that brave patriot, citizen general?”

“Yes, yes,” said Santerre. “The head of a tannery, captain of the chasseurs of the Victor legion.”

“That’s the one.”

“Good! Good! Cripes, she’s easy on the eye. And who’s that ape hanging on her arm?”

“That’s citizen Morand, her husband’s partner, a chasseur in Dixmer’s company.”

Santerre went over to Geneviève.

“Good day, citizeness,” he said.

Geneviève made an effort. “Good day, citizen general,” she replied with a bright smile.

Santerre was flattered by both the smile and the title.

“And what are you doing here, my lovely patriot?” Santerre went on.

Maurice leapt in. “The citizeness has never seen the Widow Capet and she’d like to see her.”

“Yes,” said Santerre, “before …” And he made an atrocious gesture.

“Exactly,” Maurice replied, stiffly.

“All right,” said Santerre. “Just make sure no one sees her going into the dungeon. It would set a bad example. Anyway, I have total confidence in you.”

Santerre shook Maurice’s hand once again, gave Geneviève a protective, avuncular nod, and went off to tend to his other duties.

After many movements of grenadiers and chasseurs and after a few cannon maneuvers, which produced the dull thuds thought to be good for spraying a bit of salutary intimidation around the neighborhood, Maurice took Geneviève’s arm once more and, with Morand in tow, walked toward the command post at whose gate Lorin was madly yelling commands, directing his battalion in a maneuver.

“Well, I’ll be!” he said to himself. “Here’s Maurice, damn it! With a woman who looks a bit all right. Is the sly dog trying to give my Goddess of Reason a bit of competition? If he is, that’s it for Artemisia!”

“What now, citizen chief?” asked the captain.

“Ah! That’s right. Attention!” barked Lorin. “Left, left … Hello, Maurice. Quick march … March!