Knight of Maison-Rouge

by Alexandre Dumas

  The cortege grew and grew, so rare was it to see a virtuous man, even in those days, till there were at least several thousand young citizens by the time the bouquet was offered to Artemisia—a tribute that made several other Reasons, who had lined up, so sick they came down with migraines.

  It was that very evening that the famous cantata spread throughout Paris:

  Long live the Goddess of Reason!

  Pure flame, gentle light.

  And since it has come down to us without the name of its author, something that has certainly taxed revolutionary archaeologists, we might be so bold as to assert that it was written for the beautiful Artemisia by our friend Hyacinthe Lorin.

  16

  THE PRODIGAL SON

  Maurice could not have gone any faster if he’d had wings. The streets were full of people, but Maurice only noticed the crowd at all because it hampered his progress. People were saying that the Convention was under siege, that the sovereignty of the people had been attacked along with its representatives, that no one was allowed to leave.… And all this was more than likely, for you could hear the clamoring of tocsins and the thundering of cannon fire sounding the alarm.

  But what did cannon fire and tocsins matter to Maurice at this point in time? What was it to him whether the deputies could or could not leave the Convention, since the prohibition didn’t extend to him? He just ran.

  And as he ran, he imagined Geneviève waiting for him at her little window, gazing across the garden, ready to flash him her most charming smile the second she laid eyes on him in the distance.

  Dixmer, too, had no doubt been alerted about this happy return and he would hold out his good old fat hand, so frank and so loyal in its handshake. He loved Dixmer that day; he loved everyone, even Morand, with his black hair and his green goggles behind which, till now, he’d always felt he could see a sly eye gleaming.

  Maurice loved creation in its entirety, for he was happy; he would gladly have showered everyone with flowers so they could be as happy as he. Yet what he so hoped for was not to be. Poor Maurice got it wrong—which happens nine times out of ten when a man thinks with his heart and not his head.

  Instead of the sweet smile awaiting Maurice, which was supposed to greet him from afar the moment he appeared, Geneviève had promised herself to show him only a frosty politeness—a weak rampart she busily erected to stem the torrent that threatened to swamp her heart. She had retired to her room on the first floor and intended to come down to the ground floor only when called.

  Alas! Geneviève got it wrong, too.

  Only Dixmer got it right. He was watching out for Maurice through a wire fence and smiling with a smirk of irony. Meanwhile, citizen Morand was phlegmatically applying black dye to little tails that were to be stuck on white catskins to turn them into ermine.

  Maurice pushed open the little alley door and entered the garden the old familiar way. The doorbell rang the way it used to do to indicate that it was Maurice who had opened the door.

  Geneviève, who was standing by her closed window, gave a start. She dropped the curtain she had parted.

  The first thing Maurice felt on returning to his host’s was therefore disappointment; not only was Geneviève not waiting for him at her ground-floor window, but even when he entered the small salon where he had taken his leave of her she wasn’t there, and he was forced to have himself announced as though these three weeks of absence had turned him into a stranger.

  His heart sank.

  It was Dixmer Maurice saw first, Dixmer who ran up bleating for joy and gave Maurice a hug. Only then did Geneviève come down. She had whipped her cheeks with her mother-of-pearl spatula to bring the blood back, but by the time she’d descended the twenty steps, the artificially induced red had disappeared as the blood rushed back to her heart.

  Maurice saw Geneviève appear in the doorway; with a smile on his face, he went toward her to kiss her hand. It was only then that he registered how much she had changed. On her side, she remarked with fright how thin Maurice had become, and the alarmingly feverish light in his eyes.

  “So you are here, monsieur?” she said to him in a voice whose emotion she could not control. She’d promised to toss him an indifferent, “Hello, citizen Maurice. Why have you made yourself so scarce?” The variant still sounded frosty to Maurice, and yet, what a difference between the two!

  Dixmer cut short the mutual prolonged examinations and recriminations. He saw to it that dinner was served, for it was close to two o’clock. Passing into the dining room, Maurice saw that his place had been set. Citizen Morand then arrived, dressed in the same brown outfit and the same jacket and still wearing his green glasses, his long limp strands of black hair, and his white ruffle. Maurice felt something like affection for the whole getup now—close up, it was infinitely less threatening than at a distance.

  Indeed, what was the likelihood that Geneviève loved this little chemist? You’d have to be head over heels in love, and therefore completely mad, to dream up such poppycock. Besides, this was not the moment to be jealous. Maurice was carrying Geneviève’s letter in the pocket of his jacket and his heart was beating beneath it, pounding fit to rupture with sheer joy.

  Geneviève had regained her composure. Women are built in such a peculiar way as to be almost always able to wipe out all traces of the past and all threats of the future in favor of the present. Finding herself feeling happy, Geneviève regained her self-control, which meant she returned to being calm and collected, though affectionate—another nuance that Maurice wasn’t quite strong enough to understand. Lorin would have found the explanation in Parny, the poet, or Bertin or Gentil-Bernard.

  The conversation turned to the Goddess of Reason. The fall of the Girondins and the new cult of worship that caused the inheritance of the heavens to pass into female hands were the two main events of the day. Dixmer claimed he wouldn’t have minded seeing this inestimable honor fall to Geneviève. Maurice nearly laughed out loud at the suggestion, but Geneviève sided with her husband and Maurice looked at them both, amazed that a mind as reasonable as Dixmer’s and a nature as poetic as Geneviève’s could be so led astray by patriotism.

  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 in front of us?”

  “In front of you as in front of anyone who’ll listen, Dixmer; and I’ll add this: she may perhaps perish on the same scaffold as her husband, but I’m not among those who are frightened of a woman, and I will always respect whoever is weaker than I am.”

  “And the Queen,” Geneviève timidly asked, “has she at times shown you, Monsieur Maurice, that she was sensitive to this tact, to which she is far from accustomed?”

  “The prisoner has thanked me several times for my consideration for her, madame.”

  “Then she must see your tour of duty come around with pleasure?”

  “I think so,” said Maurice.

  “Then,” said Morand, trembling like a girl, “since you’re admitting what no one admits anymore these days—that is, to having a generous heart—you don’t persecute children, either, I suppose?”

  “Me?” said Maurice. “Ask that scoundrel Simon what it’s like to be on the receiving end of the fist of a municipal officer in whose presence he’s had the audacity to beat little Capet.”

  This response sent a spontaneous ripple around Dixmer’s table. The whole company rose respectfully, Maurice alone remaining seated, without having any idea that he had caused such an outburst of admiration.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked, baffled.

  “I thought someone was calling from the workshop,” said Dixmer.

  “No, no,” said Geneviève. “I thought so too at first, but we’re mistaken.”

  And everyone resumed their seats.

  “Ah! So it’s you, citizen Maurice!” said Morand with a quiver in his voice. “You’re the municipal officer everyone’s been talking about, the man who so nobly defended a child?”

  “People have been talking about it?” said Maurice with almost sublime naïveté.

  “Oh, there’s a noble soul for you,” said Morand, getting up from the table so as not to burst a blood vessel and withdrawing to the workshop as though some pressing project was claiming him.

  “Yes, citizen,” said Dixmer, “yes, everyone’s talking about it, and I should say that anyone who has a heart and a modicum of courage has sung your praises without knowing who you are.”

  “And let’s leave him anonymous,” said Geneviève, “the glory we would crown him with would be too dangerous a glory.”

  And so in this odd conversation everyone, unwittingly, had said their bit about heroism, devotion, and sensitivity.

  There had even been a cry of love.

  17

  THE MINERS

  As they were leaving the table, Dixmer was informed that his notary was waiting for him in his office. He excused himself to Maurice, whom he was in the habit of quitting at this point in any case, and went to meet his legal worthy.

  At issue was the purchase of a small house in the rue de la Corderie, opposite the Temple gardens. In fact it was more a position than a house Dixmer was buying, for the actual structure was falling in ruins, though he intended to have it rebuilt.

  So negotiations with the owner can hardly be said to have dragged on. The very same morning, the notary had seen the vendor and negotiated a figure of 19,500 livres. He had now come to Dixmer’s to have the contract signed and get the money in exchange for the building. The vendor was to clear the house out completely that same day and the workers were to be installed the following day.

  With the contract signed, Dixmer and Morand accompanied the notary to the rue de la Corderie to see the new acquisition without wasting a moment, for it had been bought sight unseen.

  The house was located more or less where number twenty stands today; it was three stories high and surmounted by a mansard. The lower part had once been rented by a wine merchant and possessed magnificent cellars. These cellars were the special boast of the vendor, for they were the truly noteworthy part of the house, though Dixmer and Morand showed only mild interest in them. Yet both went down into what the owner called his underground tunnel, though seemingly only out of politeness.

  Unlike most proprietors, this one had not lied: the cellars were superb; one of them extended right under the rue de la Corderie, and when you were down there you could hear carriages rolling along overhead.

  Dixmer and Morand appeared to appreciate this advantage only mildly and even spoke of having the cellars filled in, for, although all very well for a wine merchant, they were useless for good burghers intent on occupying the whole house.

  After the cellars they visited the ground floor, the second floor, the third. From the third the view looked straight down on the Temple garden; as usual it was invaded by the National Guard, who had had it to themselves since the Queen stopped taking walks there.

  Dixmer and Morand recognized their friend the widow Plumeau, going about her usual business doing the honors of her canteen. But doubtless their desire to be recognized by her was not great, for they stood hidden behind the owner as he pointed out to them the advantages of such a varied and pleasant view.

  The buyer then asked to see the mansard, but the owner was obviously not expecting such a request, for he didn’t have the key on him. Prompted by the wad of assignats1 he was shown, though, he quickly ran down to get it.

  “I was not mistaken,” said Morand. “This house is perfect for our purposes.”

  “And what do you think of the cellar?”

  “That it’s a godsend that will save us days of work.”

  “Do you think it goes all the way to the canteen?”

  “It runs a bit to the left, but that won’t matter.”

  “But,” asked Dixmer, “how can you follow your line underground and be sure of ending up where you want to?”

  “Don’t worry, my friend, that’s my concern.”

  “What if we always give the signal from here that we’re keeping watch?”

  “But the Queen wouldn’t be able to see it from the top of the tower; I think only the mansard is on the same level as the tower platform—and I’m not even sure of that.”

  “Never mind,” said Dixmer. “Either Toulan or Turgy will
see it from some opening somewhere, and they’ll tell Her Majesty.”

  With that Dixmer tied knots at the bottom of a white calico curtain and threaded the curtain out the window as if it had been blown out by the wind. Then both men, pretending to be impatient to visit the mansard, went to wait for the proprietor on the stairs, after closing the door to the third floor behind them so the good man would not get the idea of pulling in his floating curtain.

  The mansards, as Morand had anticipated, was not quite as high as the top of the tower. This was both a problem and an advantage: a problem because it meant not being able to communicate by signals with the Queen; an advantage because this impossibility would remove any suspicion. Tall houses were naturally the most carefully monitored.

  “We’ll have to find a way of telling her to be on the lookout—through Turgy or Toulan or the Tison girl,” murmured Dixmer.

  “I’ll work on it,” said Morand.

  They went back down. The notary was waiting in the salon with the contract all signed.

  “Wonderful,” said Dixmer. “The house suits me. Count out the 19,500 livres agreed on for the citizen and get him to sign.”

  The proprietor carefully counted out the money and signed.

  “You know, citizen,” said Dixmer, “the principal clause stipulates that the house will be handed over to me this very evening so that I can put my workers to work first thing tomorrow morning.”

  “And I’ll stick to that, citizen; you can take the keys away with you. This evening at eight o’clock sharp it will be perfectly free.”

  “One moment!” said Dixmer. “Didn’t you tell me, citizen notary, that there was a way out onto the rue Porte-Foin?”

  “There is, citizen,” answered the proprietor, “but I had it blocked off, since I have only one officieux and the poor devil was run off his feet trying to keep his eye on two doors. In any case, the exit is constructed in such a way that you can easily open it up again with a couple of hours’ work, if that. Do you want to see for yourselves, citizens?”