Knight of Maison-Rouge

by Alexandre Dumas

  As he got closer, Maurice sped up in his crazed anxiety, leaving Lorin to keep pace with him as best he could; but Lorin loved him too much to leave him on his own at such a moment.

  The show was almost over when they got there. The fire had spread from the shed where the soldier had thrown his flaming torch to the workshops, built of weatherboard and so assembled as to leave decent air vents; all the stock and merchandise had burned to ash, and now the house itself was starting to go up.

  “Oh, my God!” Maurice said to himself. “What if she came back, what if she was in one of the rooms, encircled by flames, waiting for me, calling out to me.…”

  And, half out of his mind with misery, preferring to believe in the madness of the woman he loved rather than in her treachery, Maurice launched himself headfirst at the pavilion door, which he could just make out through the smoke.

  Lorin was still following behind; he would have followed Maurice to hell.

  The roof was ablaze; the fire was beginning to spread to the stairs.

  Maurice, panting, combed the first floor, the salon, Geneviève’s bedroom, the bedroom of the Knight of Maison-Rouge, the hallways, calling out in a choking voice:

  “Geneviève! Geneviève!”

  No one answered.

  Going back to the first room, the two friends saw gusts of flames lapping around the door. Despite Lorin shouting directions to the window, Maurice passed through the flames.

  Then he ran to the house and crossed the courtyard strewn with broken furniture, found the dining room, Dixmer’s salon, the cabinet of Morand the chemist; all of it full of smoke, debris, shattered glass, but Maurice would stop for nothing. The fire had just reached this part of the house too, and swiftly began to devour it.

  He did what he had done in the pavilion, searching every room, every hall and recess, and then went down to the cellars, imagining perhaps that Geneviève had taken refuge from the fire below ground.

  But there was no one.

  “Damn!” cried Lorin. “You can see for yourself that no one could hold out here, except perhaps for a few salamanders, and I don’t think that’s the fabulous creature you’re looking for. Come on, let’s get out of here. We’ll ask around, we’ll find out from all these gawkers whether anyone has seen her.”

  Wild horses could not have dragged Maurice away from the house. Only hope, to which he clung by a thread, was able to drag him out and back onto the street to begin investigations. They combed the whole area, stopping any women passing by, scouring the myriad alleyways, but to no avail. It was one o’clock in the morning. Despite his athletic vigor, Maurice was shattered with fatigue. He finally gave up running around, going up and down, endlessly battling the crowd. A fiacre came along; Lorin flagged it down.

  “My dear Maurice,” he said, “we’ve done all that is humanly possible to find your Geneviève. We’ve worn ourselves out; we’ve gotten ourselves scorched; we’ve gotten ourselves beaten up for her. Cupid may be demanding, but he can’t demand any more than that from a man in love, and especially from one who’s not. Let’s get in the fiacre and let’s both go home to bed.”

  Maurice did not reply, he just let himself go with it. They arrived at his door without exchanging another word. The moment Maurice got out of the cab, a window of his apartment could be heard shutting.

  “Oh, good! They’ve waited up for you. I feel happier about that. Now knock.”

  Maurice knocked and the door opened.

  “Good night!” said Lorin. “Wait for me in the morning before you go out.”

  “Good night,” Maurice said, like a zombie. And the door closed behind him.

  On the very first flight of steps he ran into his officieux.

  “Oh, citizen Lindey!” the man cried. “We’ve been so worried about you!”

  Maurice was struck by the word we.

  “We?” he asked.

  “Yes, me and the little lady who’s waiting for you.”

  “The little lady!” Maurice repeated, thinking it was a bad moment for one of his old flames to turn up. “I’m glad you told me; I’ll go sleep at Lorin’s.”

  “Oh, no, you can’t. She was at the window, she saw you get out of the cab, and she cried out: ‘There he is!’ ”

  “Hmmph. What’s it to me if she knows it’s me; I don’t have the heart to make love! Go back up and tell this woman she was mistaken.”

  The officieux turned to obey, then stopped.

  “Oh, citizen! This isn’t right! The little lady is already so sad; if I tell her that, she’ll despair.”

  “Who on earth is this woman?” Maurice asked.

  “Citizen, I didn’t see her face; she’s all wrapped up in a cloak and she’s in tears; that’s all I know.”

  “In tears!” Maurice exclaimed.

  “Yes, just quietly, putting on a brave show, trying to hold back her sobs.”

  “In tears,” Maurice repeated. “So there is someone in the world who loves me enough to worry about my absence to the point of tears?”

  He climbed the stairs slowly behind the officieux.

  “Here he is, citizeness, here he is!” cried the officieux, rushing into the room.

  Maurice came in behind him. He spotted a quivering heap in the corner with her face buried in cushions, a woman you’d have thought was dead if it weren’t for the convulsive moans that racked her.

  He signaled to his officieux to leave. The man obeyed, shutting the door behind him. Maurice ran to her and lifted up her head.

  “Geneviève!” he cried. “Geneviève, you’re here, at my place! Have I gone mad, God?”

  “No, you haven’t lost your mind, my friend,” replied the young woman. “I promised you I’d be yours if you saved the Knight of Maison-Rouge. You saved him, so here I am! I’ve been waiting for you.”

  Maurice misunderstood. He stepped back and looked at her sadly.

  “Geneviève,” he said softly, “so you don’t love me?”

  Geneviève’s gaze was clouded with tears. She turned her head away and, leaning against the back of the sofa, burst out crying again.

  “Alas!” said Maurice. “You see for yourself you don’t love me anymore; and not only don’t you love me anymore, Geneviève, but you must feel something like hate for me to despair like this.”

  Maurice packed so much exhilaration and pain into these last words that Geneviève sat up and took his hand.

  “My God!” she said. “Must the man I think of as the best of men always be such an egotist!”

  “An egotist, Geneviève? What do you mean?”

  “But don’t you understand what I’m going through? My husband has flown the coop, my brother’s been outlawed, my house is in flames—all that in one night—and then that horrible scene between you and the Knight!”

  Maurice listened to her enraptured, for it was impossible, even under the influence of the maddest passion, not to accept that such accumulated griefs could lead to the state of pain Geneviève was in.

  “So you have come, you are here, I’m holding you, you won’t leave me again!”

  Geneviève shivered.

  “Where else could I have gone?” she replied with a flash of bitterness.

  “Do I have a refuge, a safe place, a protector other than a man who named a price for his protection? Oh, I was wild with rage, Maurice. I ran onto the Pont-Neuf and stopped to look at the black water swirling around the arches below; and I have to say it drew me, mesmerized me. The jig is up for you, you poor woman, I said to myself. There lies shelter, down there. There lies inviolable rest. There lies oblivion.”

  “Geneviève! Geneviève!” cried Maurice. “Is that what you thought? … So you don’t love me?”

  “I told you,” Geneviève whispered. “I told you, and I came.”

  Maurice let out a breath and let himself slide to her feet.

  “Geneviève,” he murmured, “stop crying, Geneviève. Console yourself for all your misfortune, since you love me. In the name of heaven, Geneviève,
tell me it’s not the violence of my threats that brought you here. Tell me that even if you hadn’t seen me tonight, finding yourself alone, on your own, without a refuge, you would have come to me; and accept the vow I’m making now to release you from the oath I made you swear.”

  Geneviève gazed down upon Maurice with an ineffable expression of gratitude in her eyes.

  “So generous!” she said. “Thank you, God, for making him so generous!”

  “Listen, Geneviève,” said Maurice. “They may be hunting God out of the temples here, but they can’t hunt Him out of our hearts, where he has put love; and it’s God who has made tonight look so dark and gloomy on the surface, but underneath it’s sparkling with joy and happiness. God has led you to me, Geneviève; He has placed you in my arms. He speaks to you through my breath. God, God Himself, finally wants to reward us for all the suffering we’ve endured, all the virtue we have shown in fighting a love that seemed illicit—as though a feeling so lastingly pure and deep could be a crime! So don’t cry anymore, Geneviève, dry your eyes! Give me your hand. Do you want to feel like you’re in a brother’s house? Do you want this brother to kiss the hem of your dress and leave you alone? Do you want him to say a prayer for you and go out the door without so much as a backward glance? Well then! Just say the word, give me a sign and I’ll go; you’ll be alone, free and safe as a virgin in a church. But if, on the other hand, my adored Geneviève, you care to remember that I’ve loved you so much I nearly died of it, that because of this love, which you could make fatal or a source of bliss, I’ve betrayed my own people, I’ve made myself odious and vile even to myself—then think of all the happiness the future holds for us, of the strength and energy we have because we’re young and in love and we can defend our dawning happiness against whoever and whatever tries to attack it! Oh, Geneviève! You, you who are an angel of goodness, tell me—is this what you want? Do you want to make one man so happy he’ll stop regretting this life and looking forward to eternal happiness in the next? Well then, if you do, stop pushing me away. Give me a smile, my Geneviève, let me put your hand on my heart. Come to me. I long for you with all my strength, all my desire, all my soul. Geneviève, my love, my life; Geneviève, don’t take back your vow!”

  The young woman’s heart soared at these words: the languor of love, combined with the fatigue of all her suffering, overcame all her resistance; the tears no longer sprang to her eyes, and yet her burning breast still heaved with stifled sobs.

  Maurice sensed she no longer had the courage to resist; he seized her in his arms. She dropped her head on his shoulder and her long hair spilled down over the fiery cheeks of her lover.

  At the same time Maurice felt her breast rise, heaving like waves after a storm.

  “Oh! You’re crying again, Geneviève,” he said with deep sadness. “You’re crying. Oh, don’t worry! I will never force myself where I’m not wanted. My lips will never besmirch themselves with a kiss that a single tear of regret would poison.”

  With that he pulled his arms from around her, he unlocked his brow from hers and slowly turned away. But immediately, in one of those reactions that come so naturally to a woman who defends herself while feeling acute desire, Geneviève threw her trembling arms around Maurice’s neck, pressed herself against him violently, and plastered her cheek, still cold and wet with tears, against his burning face.

  “Oh!” she murmured. “Don’t abandon me, Maurice, you’re all I have left in the world!”

  33

  THE MORNING AFTER

  Golden sunshine streamed through the green shutters, gilding the leaves of three tall rose trees standing in wooden boxes on Maurice’s windowsill.

  The roses were all the more precious since the season was almost over. Their perfume filled the air of a small, stone-floored, sparkling clean dining room where Geneviève and Maurice had just sat down to a table sparsely but elegantly laden.

  The door was closed, for the table held everything the couple could want. And naturally they had both agreed to serve themselves.

  Yet the officieux could be heard bustling about in the room next door, all in a flurry, like Phedra’s Ardelio. The heat and vibrancy of the last lovely days of summer filtered through the shutters along with the light, making the sun-kissed rose leaves glimmer like gold and emeralds.

  Geneviève dropped the fruit she was holding onto her plate and smiled dreamily, but with her mouth only, while her great big eyes drooped forlornly; she remained silent, numb, even though she was alive and happy and basking in the sunshine of love as the gorgeous roses were soaking up the sunshine from the sky above.

  Her eyes soon sought those of Maurice, which she found fixed on her; he was gazing at her and dreaming. She stretched her arm, so soft, so luminously white, and draped it across the young man’s shoulder, causing him to shudder with pleasure; then she leaned her head there with that confidence and abandon that are so much more than love.

  Geneviève returned his gaze in silence and blushed. Maurice had only to incline his head slightly for his lips to press the open lips of his lover; he inclined his head. The color drained from Geneviève’s face, and her eyes closed like the petals of a flower hiding its inner cup from the rays of the sun.

  They were still in this half-asleep state, enjoying unaccustomed bliss, when the sharp noise of the doorbell made them jump. They leapt apart as the officieux entered and mysteriously shut the door.

  “It’s citizen Lorin,” he said.

  “Ah! Good old Lorin,” said Maurice. “I’ll go and get rid of him. Excuse me, Geneviève.”

  Geneviève stopped him.

  “Get rid of your friend, Maurice!” she said. “A friend, a friend who has comforted you, helped you, supported you? No, I don’t want to chase such a friend from your house any more than your heart. Let him in, Maurice, let him in.”

  “Really? You don’t mind?”

  “I want him to come in,” said Geneviève.

  “Oh! So you don’t think I love you enough,” cried Maurice, delighted by this delicacy. “You want to be idolized.”

  Geneviève flushed and gave Maurice a nod; Maurice opened the door and Lorin strode in, beautiful as the day in his foppish muscadin getup. Seeing Geneviève, he showed surprise but swiftly followed this with a respectful greeting.

  “Come, Lorin, come,” said Maurice, “you see madame. You’ve been dethroned, Lorin; there is now someone I prefer to you. I would have given my life for you. For her—I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know, Lorin, I know—but for her I’ve given my honor.”

  “Madame,” said Lorin with a gravity that betrayed profound emotion, “I’ll try to love Maurice more than you do so he won’t stop loving me completely.”

  “Please sit down, monsieur,” said Geneviève, smiling.

  “Yes, do sit down,” said Maurice, who had just given his friend his right hand and Geneviève his left, and so was brimming with all the joy a man can hope for in this world.

  “So you’re not thinking about throwing in the towel and curling up your toes anymore? You no longer want to get yourself killed?”

  “What do you mean?” asked Geneviève.

  “Oh, God!” said Lorin. “What a versatile animal man is; philosophers are right to despise his flightiness! Here’s a man, if you can believe it, madame, who only last night wanted to throw himself in the river and drown; who declared there was no happiness left on Earth for him. And here I find him this morning gay as a lark, jubilant, a smile on his lips, happiness on his brow, life in his heart, before a wellladen table. True, he’s not eating, but that doesn’t mean he’s unhappy about it all.”

  “Really!” said Geneviève. “Was it that bad?”

  “Worse. I’ll tell you all about it later. Right now I’m starving. It’s Maurice’s fault, he had me running all over the quartier Saint-Jacques last night. Allow me to dig into your breakfast, which I see neither of you has touched.”

  “You know, he’s right!” cried Maurice, with
infantile joy. “Let’s eat. I haven’t had a thing and neither have you, Geneviève.”

  He glanced at Lorin when he said her name, but Lorin didn’t bat an eye.

  “So you guessed it was her? Really?” he asked Lorin. “It wasn’t exactly hard!” replied Lorin, cutting himself a thick slice of rosy ham.

  “I’m hungry too,” said Geneviève, holding out her plate.

  “Lorin,” said Maurice, “last night I was sick, you know.”

  “You were more than sick, you were out of your mind.”

  “So be it! But I think it’s you who aren’t feeling well this morning.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “You haven’t yet made up a rhyme.”

  “I was just getting around to it, this very instant,” said Lorin.

  “When he sits among the Graces

  Phoebus always strums his lyre;

  But when he follows Venus’s traces

  Phoebus of music can quickly tire.”

  “That’s more like it! He’s always got a quatrain up his sleeve!” laughed Maurice.

  “But you’ll have to make do with that one, since we’re about to broach matters that aren’t so gay.”

  “What is it now?” asked Maurice anxiously.

  “What it is is that I’ll soon be on guard duty at the Conciergerie.”

  “At the Conciergerie!” cried Geneviève. “Near the Queen?”

  “Near the Queen … I think so, yes, madame.”

  Geneviève went pale. Maurice frowned and made a sign to Lorin, who cut himself another slice of ham, twice the size of the first.

  The Queen had, in fact, been conducted to the Conciergerie, where we will now follow her.

  34

  THE CONCIERGERIE

  At the corner of the pont-au-Change and the quai aux Fleurs, where the flower market is, sit the remains of the old palace of Saint Louis,1 which was known as the Palace par excellence, just as Rome was once called the Capital; it continues to bear this sovereign name even though, for some time now, the only kings to inhabit it are clerks of the court, judges, and litigants.