The Knight of Maison-Rouge_ A Novel of Marie Antoinette - Alexandre Dumas [9]
The woman herself understood as much, for she dropped her head upon her chest with a heavy sigh. Maurice stood frowning, his upper lip curled in a disdainful sneer, his sword unsheathed, as he wavered between manly instincts that compelled him to defend this woman and his duties as a citizen, which urged him to hand her over.
Suddenly, at the corner of the rue des Bons-Enfants, several rifles flashed like streaks of lightning and the measured tread of a patrol on the march could be heard. At the sight of people gathered together, the patrol halted, roughly ten feet away, and the voice of their lance corporal sounded the cry: “Who goes there?”
“Friend! Friend!” cried Maurice. “Over here, Lorin.” The man to whom this injunction was addressed sallied forth at the head of eight men, who followed hot on his heels.
“Ah! It’s you, Maurice,” said the corporal. “You devil! What are you doing gadding about the streets at this time of night?”
“As you can probably tell, I’ve just left the Frères et Amis section.”
“Yes, only to hook up with the Sæurs et Amies.1 I know all about that:
Listen, ma belle:
On the stroke of twelve
An eager hand
The hand of a lover
Will silently glide
Through the shadows
And slide back the bolts
That have locked you in
Since nightfall.
“That about sums it up, n’est-ce pas?”
“No, my friend, you’ve got it wrong. I was heading straight home when I found this citizeness struggling in the hands of these citizen recruits. I ran over and asked them why they wanted to arrest her.”
“That sounds like you,” said Lorin. “Such is the nature of the French cavaliers,2 as Voltaire said.” The corporal-poet then turned toward the recruits. “And why were you arresting this woman?” he demanded.
“We already told the lieutenant,” came the reply from the chief of the smaller troop. “Because she doesn’t have an identity card.”
“Oh, what poppycock!” said Lorin. “There’s a juicy crime for you!”
“Don’t you know about the Commune decree, then?” asked the chief of the volunteers.
“Yes, of course I do; but there’s another decree that renders that one null and void.”
“What decree?”
“It goes like this:
On the Pindus and Parnassus3
Love has decreed
That Beauty, Youth, and Grace
May, any hour of the day,
At their own pace
Pass without a pass.
“How do you like that as a decree, citizen? Sounds quite gallant to me.”
“Yes, but it doesn’t strike me as exactly decisive. For a start, it’s not in that popular rag Le Moniteur;4 second, we are not on the Pindus or Parnassus; further, this is night, not day; and lastly, the citizeness may well be neither young, beautiful, nor graceful.”
“I bet you the opposite,” said Lorin. “Let’s have a look, citizeness. Prove to me that I am right. Take down your hood and let everyone see whether you meet the conditions of the decree.”
“Oh, monsieur!” said the young woman, hiding behind Maurice. “You protected me from your enemies; please protect me from your friends.”
“You see, you see!” cried the chief of the volunteers. “She’s hiding. I reckon she’s some kind of spy for the aristocrats, the little hussy, some kind of nocturnal man-eater.”
“Oh, monsieur!” cried the young woman, pulling Maurice toward her and unveiling a face at once ravishingly beautiful, youthful, and distinguished, radiant in the light of the streetlamp. “Look at me! How do I look?”
Maurice was dazzled. Never had he dreamed of anything remotely resembling what he glimpsed. We say glimpsed, for the stranger covered her face up again almost as swiftly as she had uncovered it.
“Lorin,” Maurice whispered. “You take charge of conducting the prisoner to the station. You have a right to, as head of the patrol.”
“Right you are!” said the young corporal. “Say no more.” Then, turning to the stranger, he said, “Follow me, ma belle; since