“Well then, I won’t go,” said Geneviève.
“Why not?” asked Morand.
“Lord knows it’s simple enough,” said Geneviève. “I can’t count on my husband to accompany me, so if you won’t, as a decent man, a man of thirty-eight, I would never be so reckless as to go and confront on my own all those artillerymen, grenadiers, and chasseurs, asking for a municipal officer only three or four years my senior.”
“Well,” said Morand, “if you really think my presence is indispensable, citizeness …”
“Come on, citizen savant, be gallant, as if you were actually just an ordinary man,” said Maurice. “Sacrifice half of your day to the wife of your friend.”
“So be it!” said Morand.
“Now,” said Maurice, “I ask only one thing of you and that is discretion. Any visit to the Temple is suspect conduct, and any mishap that might occur as a result of this visit will get us all guillotined. The Jacobins don’t joke, damn them! You’ve seen how they treated the Girondins.”
“Good Lord!” said Morand. “That’s something to think about, what citizen Maurice is saying: such a way of retiring from commerce wouldn’t suit me at all.”
“Didn’t you hear?” Geneviève said, smiling. “The citizen said us all?”
“So, us all?”
“All together.”
“Yes, well, no doubt the company is perfectly pleasant,” said Morand, “but I’d prefer to live in your company than to die in it, my sentimental beauty.”
“Hear that! What was I thinking,” Maurice said to himself, “when I thought this man was in love with Geneviève?”
“So it’s agreed,” said Geneviève. “Morand, it’s you I’m talking to, you the absentminded professor, you the dreamer. We are set for next Thursday—so see that you don’t go and start some chemical experiment Wednesday night that will keep you busy for twenty-four hours, as sometimes happens.”
“Don’t worry,” said Morand. “You can always remind me, between now and then.”
Geneviève rose from the table and Maurice followed suit. Morand was just about to rise too, and perhaps follow them, when one of the workers brought the chemist a small vial of liquid that absorbed all his attention.
“Quick,” said Maurice, dragging Geneviève off.
“Oh! Don’t worry,” she said. “He’ll be at it for a good hour at least.”
With that, the young woman abandoned her hand in his and he squeezed it tenderly. She felt remorse for her treachery and so was rewarding him for her remorse by making him happy.
“You see,” she said as they walked across the garden, pointing out the carnations that had been moved into the open air in their mahogany box to revive them if possible. “You see, my flowers died.”
“And who killed them? You did, you neglected them,” said Maurice. “Poor carnations!”
“It wasn’t me who neglected them, it was you who abandoned them.”
“But they asked for so very little, Geneviève, a bit of water, that’s all. And my not being around must have left you plenty of time.”
“Ah!” said Geneviève. “If flowers were watered with tears, these poor carnations, as you call them, would not have died.”
Maurice wrapped his arms around her and pulled her fiercely toward him. Before she had time to defend herself, he pressed his lips to her half-smiling, half-swooning eyes as they gazed at the ravaged carnations.
Geneviève had so many things with which to reproach herself, she let him have his way without a struggle.
Dixmer came home late, and when he did he found Morand, Geneviève, and Maurice chatting about botany in the garden.
20
THE FLOWER GIRL
At last the big day arrived, the Thursday when Maurice was standing guard in the Temple.
The month of June had just begun. The sky was a deep blue, and against this backdrop of indigo the flat white of the new houses that had been built stood out. You could just feel the arrival of that terrible dog that the ancients represented as parched with an insatiable thirst and which, according to the commoners of Paris, licks the pavement clean. You could have eaten your dinner off the cobblestones of Paris they were so pristine, and a host of scents rained down from above, where they wafted from the trees and flowers in bloom, swirling around, intoxicating, as though to make the inhabitants of the capital forget for a while the vapor of blood fuming incessantly on the cobblestones of Paris’s squares.
Maurice was to clock in at the Temple at nine. His two colleagues were to be Mercerault and Agricola. At eight o’clock he was at the old rue Saint-Jacques, all decked out in the full regalia of a citizen municipal officer, which included a red, white, and blue scarf tied tightly around his strong and supple waist. He had come as usual to Geneviève’s on horseback and en route had attracted the unabashed praise and drooling approbation of the good female patriots who watched him ride by.
Geneviève was ready and waiting, wearing a simple muslin frock, a kind of mantilla in light taffeta, and a small bonnet decorated with the red, white, and blue cockade, and in such simple apparel she was dazzlingly beautiful.
Morand, who had had to be begged, as we have seen, had donned his everyday garb, this half-bourgeois, half-artisanal combination, no doubt out of fear of being suspected as an aristocrat otherwise. He had just gotten home and his face showed signs of exhaustion.
He claimed to have been up working half the night finishing an urgent job.
Dixmer had gone out as soon as his friend Morand had returned.
“Well then,” said Geneviève, “what have you decided, Maurice? How are we to see the Queen?”
“Listen,” said Maurice. “I have a plan. I’ll arrive with you at the Temple; I’ll hand you over to Lorin, my friend who’s chief of the guard. I’ll take up my post, and when there’s a favorable moment I’ll come and get you.”
“But where will we see the prisoners and how will we see them?” asked Morand.
“While they’re having dinner or supper, if that’s all right with you, through the glass partition where the municipal officers are.”
“Perfect!” said Morand.
Maurice then saw Morand go to the cupboard at the back of the kitchen and swiftly down a glass of strong wine. This surprised him. Morand was a most sober man and usually only drank water with a drop of red in it.
Geneviève noticed that Maurice was watching Morand drink in amazement.
“Imagine,” she said, “he’s killing himself with work, poor old Morand, so much so that he’s capable of not having had anything to eat or drink since yesterday morning.”
“So he didn’t dine here last night?” asked Maurice.
“No, he’s conducting experiments in town.”
Geneviève’s precaution was pointless, for Maurice, like a true lover, that is, like an egoist, had only remarked Morand’s action with the superficial attention a man in love accords anything that is not his beloved.
To the glass of wine Morand added a slice of bread, which he gulped down.
“And now,” he said with his mouth full, “I am ready, dear citizen Maurice. Whenever you are.”
Maurice, who brushed the withered pistils off one of the dead carnations he had picked in passing, offered Geneviève his arm, saying, “Off we go.”
And off they went. Maurice was so happy that his chest could barely contain his happiness; he would have cried for joy if he hadn’t held himself in check. Indeed, what more could he desire? Not only was Morand not loved, he was sure of that now, but he himself, he hoped, was loved. God had sent beautiful sunshine raining down over the earth, Geneviève’s arm trembled beneath his own, and the town criers, screaming their heads off about the triumph of the Jacobins and the fall of Brissot and his accomplices, announced that the nation was saved.
There truly are moments in life when a man’s heart is too small to hold the joy or pain that builds there.
“Oh, what a beautiful day!” cried Morand.
M
aurice turned round with amazement; this was the first such outburst to issue forth to his knowledge from this eternally buttoned-up man, who always seemed to be elsewhere.
“Oh, yes! Yes, it really is beautiful,” said Geneviève, leaning on Maurice’s arm. “Let’s hope it remains clear and without a cloud until tonight, just as it is at this moment!”
Maurice thought her words were meant for him, and his happiness redoubled.
Morand looked at Geneviève through his green glasses, with a special expression of gratitude. Perhaps he, too, thought her words were meant for him.
And so they crossed the Petit-Pont, the rue de la Juiverie and the pont Notre-Dame, before crossing the place de l’Hôtel-de-Ville and following the rue Barre-du-Bec and the rue Sainte-Avoye. As they went along Maurice’s step became lighter, whereas, on the contrary, his partner and her companion slowed more and more perceptibly.
They had reached the rue des Vieilles-Audriettes when, all of a sudden, a flower girl blocked their way, presenting them with her tray of flowers.
“Oh! Look at the magnificent carnations!” cried Maurice.
“Oh! Yes, aren’t they gorgeous!” cried Geneviève. “Whoever grew them can’t have had anything else to do, for they are not dead, not these.”
This remark was music to the young man’s ears.
“Ah! My handsome municipal officer,” said the flower girl. “Buy a bouquet for the citizeness. She’s all in white, and here are some superb red carnations. Red and white go well together—and when she holds the bouquet to her heart, since her heart is very close to your blue uniform, between you you’ll have the national colors.”
The flower girl was young and pretty. She delivered her little compliment with a special kind of grace, and besides, her compliment was admirably apt and she couldn’t have done better in the circumstances if she’d been working at it. Furthermore, the flowers were almost symbolic. They were carnations similar to the ones that had died in the mahogany planter.
“Yes,” said Maurice, “I’ll buy you some, but only because they are carnations, you understand? I won’t even look at other flowers.”
“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!”
The drums rolled, the companies went to take up their posts, and when everyone was in position, Lorin came running.
Initial compliments were exchanged all around as Maurice introduced Lorin to Geneviève and Morand before embarking on a few explanations.
“Yes, yes, I get you,” said Lorin. “You want the citizen and the citizeness to go into the dungeon: that’s easy, I’ll put the sentries in place and tell them to let you and your party pass.”
Ten minutes later, Geneviève and Morand entered the dungeon in the wake of three municipal officers and took their place behind the glass partition.
21
THE RED CARNATION
The Queen had only just arisen. Ill for two or three days, she had stayed in bed longer than usual. But having learned from her sister that the sun was up, magnificent, she had made an effort and had asked to take a walk on the terrace so that her daughter could get some air. The request was granted without any problems.
Then again, there was another reason that decided her. Once—just once, it is true—she had seen the Dauphin in the garden from the top of the tower. But at the first gesture exchanged between mother and son, Simon had intervened and whisked the child back inside.
But that didn’t matter; she had seen him and that meant so much. It’s true the poor little prisoner was very pale and wan and looked much the worse for wear. And then he was dressed like a child of the people, with a carmagnole and big baggy pants. But they’d left his beautiful curly blond hair, which gave him a halo that God no doubt wished the child martyr to take with him into heaven.
If only she co
uld see him again one more time, what a sight for his mother’s sore eyes.
Then again, there was a further reason.
“My sister,” Madame Elisabeth had said to her, “you know we found a wisp of straw in the corridor, propped up in a corner against the wall. In our sign language that means to be alert to what is going on around us and that a friend is drawing near.”
“That’s right,” the Queen had answered, looking with pity at her sister and daughter and reminding herself not to despair of their salvation.
The requirements of duty were completed and Maurice was all the more master of the Temple dungeon, as chance had singled him out for day duty and put the municipal officers Agricola and Mercerault on the night watch. The outgoing officers had left after dropping off their report to the Temple Council.
“So then, citizen municipal officer,” said Mother Tison as she came to greet Maurice, “you’ve brought some company to have a peek at our pigeons? I’m the only one condemned not to see my poor Héloïse.”
“They are friends of mine,” said Maurice, “who’ve never seen the wife of Capet.”
“Well then, they’d be in a perfect spot behind the glass partition.”
“Indeed they would,” said Maurice.
“Only,” said Geneviève, “we’ll look like cruel gawkers who have come to enjoy a prisoner’s torment from the other side of the bars.”
“Well then, why don’t you put your friends on the stairs leading up to the top of the tower; since the Widow Capet is taking a walk there today with her sister and her daughter. They let her keep her daughter, all right! But I, who am not guilty, they took mine away from me. Oh, bloody aristocrats! Whatever happens, there’ll always be perks for them, citizen Maurice.”
“But they took her son away from her,” Maurice replied.
“Ah! If only I had a son,” muttered the jailer, “I reckon I wouldn’t miss my daughter so much.”
Geneviève meanwhile had exchanged a few looks with Morand.
“My friend,” the young woman said to Maurice, “the citizeness is right. If you don’t mind placing me somehow along Marie Antoinette’s passage, that would be less awful for me than peering at her from here. It seems to me that this way of ogling people is humiliating both for them and for us.”
Knight of Maison-Rouge Page 19