Knight of Maison-Rouge

by Alexandre Dumas

  “Very well,” said Geneviève coldly.

  “Do you follow?” Dixmer continued. “Every night you’re seen wearing this mantle of black taffeta that hides your face. Put your mantle on Her Majesty and drape it the way you usually drape it on yourself.”

  “I’ll do exactly as you say.”

  “It now remains for me to forgive you and to thank you, madame,” said Dixmer.

  Geneviève shook her head with a chilling smile.

  “I don’t need your forgiveness, monsieur, or your thanks,” she said, raising her hand dismissively. “What I am doing, or rather what I am going to do, would erase any crime, and I am guilty of mere weakness. Furthermore, this weakness, if you recall your own conduct, monsieur, was practically forced upon me by you. I removed myself from him, yet you pushed me into his arms. You are the instigator, the judge, and the avenger rolled into one. So it is now up to me to forgive you for my death—and I do forgive you. And it is now up to me to thank you, monsieur, for taking away my life, since that life would have been unbearable separated from the only man I love, particularly once you cut me off from him by your vicious revenge.”

  Dixmer dug his nails into his chest; he tried to say something but his voice failed. He circled the office.

  “Time is passing,” he said at last. “Every second counts, so let’s get on with it, madame. Are you ready?”

  “I’ve said so, monsieur,” Geneviève answered with the calm peculiar to martyrs. “I’m waiting!”

  Dixmer gathered all his papers, went to see if the doors were properly shut and to check that no one could get into the office, then began to reiterate the instructions to his wife.

  “Save your breath, monsieur,” said Geneviève. “I’m well aware what I have to do.”

  “Well then, adieu!”

  With that Dixmer held out his hand, as though, at this extreme moment, all recriminations should subside in the face of the momentousness of the situation and the sublimeness of the sacrifice.

  Geneviève shivered as she touched her husband’s hand with her fingertips.

  “Stay close to me, madame,” said Dixmer. “And as soon as I’ve struck Gilbert, go in.”

  “I’m ready.”

  Dixmer then gripped his enormous dagger in his right hand and, with his left, knocked on the door.

  44

  THE PREPARATIONS OF THE KNIGHT OF MAISON-ROUGE

  While the scene just described was taking place at the door of the Queen’s prison cell, or rather of the outer section occupied by the two gendarmes, other preparations were forging ahead on the opposite side of the cell, out in the Women’s Courtyard.

  A man suddenly emerged like a statue made of stone that had broken away from the wall. This man was followed by two dogs, and while humming the “Ça ira,” a song very much in vogue at the time, he had scraped the five iron bars that secured the Queen’s window with the bunch of keys he held in his hand.

  At first the Queen had jumped; but, recognizing the event as a signal, she had immediately opened her window quietly and got down to the task at hand with a surer method than anyone would have imagined, for more than once, in the locksmith’s workshop where her royal spouse used to spend a good part of every day amusing himself, her dainty fingers had handled tools similar to the one on which all her hopes of salvation now rested.

  As soon as the man with the bunch of keys heard the Queen’s window opening, he knocked on the wardens’ window.

  “Ah! Ah!” said Gilbert, looking through the glass pane. “It’s citizen Mardoche.”

  “The man himself,” replied the wicket clerk. “Well then, looks like we’re going about our business, keeping watch?”

  “As usual, citizen turnkey. It seems to me you don’t often catch us lying down on the job.”

  “Ah!” said Mardoche. “It’s just that tonight vigilance is more necessary than ever.”

  “Bah!” said Duchesne, who had come over.

  “No, I’m serious.”

  “What’s up, then?”

  “Open the window and I’ll tell you all about it.”

  “Open it,” said Duchesne.

  Gilbert opened the window and shook hands with the turnkey, who had already carefully befriended the two gendarmes.

  “So what’s up, citizen Mardoche?” repeated Gilbert.

  “What’s up is that the session of the Convention got a bit heated. Did you read about it?”

  “No. What happened?”

  “Ah! What happened first is that citizen Hébert was onto something.”

  “What?”

  “He found out that the plotters, who were thought to be dead, are very much alive and kicking.”

  “Ah, yes,” said Gilbert. “Delessart and Thierry. I heard about that; they’re in England, the rotters.”

  “And the Knight of Maison-Rouge?” said the turnkey, raising his voice so that the Queen would hear him.

  “What! Don’t tell me he’s in England too, that one?”

  “Not at all, he’s in France,” continued Mardoche, keeping his voice at the same pitch.

  “You mean he came back?”

  “He never left.”

  “He’s got guts, I’ll give him that,” said Duchesne.

  “That’s how he is.”

  “Well then, we’ll have to try to stop him.”

  “Of course we’ll try to stop him, but that’s not an easy task, apparently.”

  At that moment the Queen’s file screeched loudly against the iron; fearing that it would be heard despite the efforts he was making to cover it, the turnkey brought his heel down hard on one of the dog’s front paws, and it gave a yowl of pain.

  “Oh, poor thing,” said Gilbert.

  “Bah!” said the turnkey. “He should have worn his sabots. Quiet, Girondin, quiet!”

  “His name’s Girondin, your dog, eh, citizen Mardoche?”

  “Yes, it’s just a name I gave him, no reason.”

  “So you were saying,” Duchesne said. A prisoner himself, he took as much interest in any bit of news as any other prisoner. “You were saying?”

  “Ah, yes, that’s right, I was saying that citizen Hébert—now there’s a patriot! I was saying that citizen Hébert made a motion to bring the Austrian woman back to the Temple.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Why do you think! He reckons they only took her out of the Temple to stop her being searched pronto by the Commune of Paris.”

  “Oh! Not to mention to get her away from this damned Maison-Rouge with all his escape plans,” said Gilbert. “I believe the underground tunnel exists.”

  “That’s what citizen Santerre said by way of reply; but Hébert said that from the moment they were alerted there was no more danger; that they could guard Marie Antoinette at the Temple with half the precautions they need to guard her here, and, I have to say, the Temple is a lot more solid and secure a building than the Conciergerie.”

  “And I have to say,” said Gilbert, “that I’d love it if they took her back to the Temple.”

  “I can imagine, you must be bored stiff watching over her all the time.”

  “No, it makes me sad, that’s all.”

  Maison-Rouge coughed loudly as the file made more and more noise the further it ate into the iron bar.

  “And what did they decide?” asked Duchesne when the turnkey’s coughing fit had subsided.

  “They decided she’d stay here, but that they’d start her trial immediately.”

  “Oh, the poor woman!” said Gilbert.

  Duchesne, whose hearing was no doubt finer than that of his colleague, or who was perhaps less spellbound by Mardoche’s tale, cocked an ear in the direction of the compartment on the left, a move the turnkey noticed.

  “So, you see, citizen Duchesne,” he shouted, “the attempts of the plotters are going to become all the more desperate when they find out they’ve got less time ahead of them to carry out their plots. They’re going to double the guards on all the prisons, given th
at it’s a question of nothing less than an armed insurrection in the Conciergerie. The plotters will kill everyone until they’ve gotten in to the Queen, until they’ve reached the Widow Capet, I meant to say.”

  “Hummph! How can they get in, your plotters?”

  “Dressed up as patriots: they’ll pretend to be reenacting another second of September, the mongrels. And then, once the doors are open, curtains!”

  There was a moment of silence occasioned by the stupor of the gendarmes. The turnkey heard the file grinding away with a mixture of joy and terror. Nine o’clock sounded.

  At that same moment, someone knocked on the door of the outer cell. But the two gendarmes were so preoccupied they didn’t answer.

  “Well then, we’ll be extra careful, we’ll keep our eyes peeled,” said Gilbert.

  “And if we have to, we’ll die at our post as true republicans,” Duchesne added.

  “Surely she must soon be finished,” the turnkey said to himself, wiping the sweat trickling into his eyes.

  “And you be careful too,” said Gilbert. “You won’t be spared any more than we would be if anything like the event you describe occurs.”

  “I agree,” said the turnkey. “I spend my nights doing the rounds; and I’m at the end of my rope. You fellows, at least you get relieved and you can sleep one night out of two.”

  There was a second knock on the door of the wicket. Mardoche gave a start; any event, no matter how trivial, could foil his plan.

  “What’s that, then?” he asked before he could stop himself.

  “Nothing, nothing,” said Gilbert. “It’s just the clerk from the War Ministry letting me know he’s on his way out.”

  “Oh, well and good!” said the turnkey.

  But the clerk continued to knock.

  “All right! All right!” cried Gilbert without leaving the window. “Good night! Good-bye!…”

  “I think he’s saying something to you,” said Duchesne, turning round to face the door. “Answer him, then.…”

  They heard the voice of the clerk.

  “Come here for a moment, citizen gendarme, would you?” he called. “I want to have a word with you.”

  That voice, altered by strong emotion though it was, caused the turnkey to prick up his ears, for he felt he recognized it.

  “What do you want then, citizen Durand?” asked Gilbert.

  “Just a word.”

  “Well then, you can speak to me tomorrow.”

  “No, tonight; I must speak to you tonight,” the voice insisted.

  “Oh, no!” murmured the turnkey. “Now what’s going to happen? That’s Dixmer’s voice.”

  Sinister and vibrant, the voice seemed somehow to borrow something morbid from the distant echo down the long corridor. Duchesne turned back.

  “Right!” said Gilbert. “Since he insists …”

  With that he went toward the door. The turnkey took advantage of the gendarmes’ momentary distraction. He ran to the Queen’s window.

  “Is it done?” he asked.

  “I’m more than halfway,” answered the Queen.

  “Oh, God! God!” he murmured. “Hurry up! Hurry up!”

  “Well then, citizen Mardoche,” said Duchesne, “where’ve you got to?”

  “Here I am,” cried the turnkey, swiftly returning to the window of the front compartment.

  At that very moment, as he was about to resume his place, a terrible cry rang out through the prison, followed by swearing and then the sound of a sword sliding out of its metal sheath.

  “Oh, you mongrel! Oh, you bastard!” cried Gilbert.

  The noise of a struggle in the corridor was heard. At the same time the door swung open, revealing to Mardoche’s stunned gaze two shadows glued together in the wicket suddenly giving way to a woman, who shunted Duchesne aside and rushed headlong into the Queen’s compartment.

  Duchesne did not bother with the woman but ran instead to help his embattled comrade. Mardoche leapt to the other window, where he saw the woman at the Queen’s knees, begging her, pleading with the illustrious prisoner to change into her clothes.

  He strained, eyes blazing, to make out the woman’s face, which he feared he already recognized. All of a sudden he gave a mournful cry.

  “Geneviève! Geneviève!” he cried.

  The Queen had dropped the file and looked annihilated by yet another aborted attempt at escape.

  Mardoche grabbed the iron bar, half sawed off by the file, with both hands and shook it in a supreme effort. But the steel bite was not deep enough; the bar resisted.

  Meanwhile, Dixmer had managed to push Gilbert back into the cell and was about to go in after him when Duchesne threw his weight against the door and managed to push it back, though he couldn’t quite close it, for Dixmer in his desperation had jammed his arm between the door and the wall. At the end of this arm was the dagger, which, though blunted by the copper guard of his sword belt, had sliced all the way down the gendarme’s chest, slitting open his clothes and tearing the flesh.

  The two men rallied with all their combined force and managed to raise the cry for help at the same time. Dixmer felt his arm was about to break; he rammed his shoulder against the door and managed to pull his bruised arm out before the door banged shut and Duchesne slid the bolts into place as Gilbert turned the key.

  Rapid steps were heard in the corridor, and then it was all over but the shouting. The two gendarmes looked at each other and gazed about them. They heard the noise the phony turnkey was making as he tried to break the bar.

  Gilbert rushed to the Queen’s cell, where he found Geneviève on her knees, pleading with the Queen to change into her clothes. Duchesne grabbed his rifle and ran to the window. He saw a man hanging by the bars, which he was shaking with rage and trying in vain to scale.

  Gilbert took aim. The young man saw the barrel of the rifle being lowered at him.

  “Go ahead!” he shouted. “Shoot! Kill me!”

  Sublime in despair, the Knight stuck out his chest in defiance of a mere bullet.

  “Knight!” cried the Queen. “Knight, I beg you. Stay alive! Live!”

  At the sound of Marie Antoinette’s voice, Maison-Rouge dropped to his knees. The shot left the gun, but that movement saved him and the bullet flew over his head. But Geneviève believed her friend had been killed and she fell senseless to the hard brick floor.

  When the smoke cleared, there was no one left in the Women’s Courtyard.

  Ten minutes later, thirty soldiers led by two commissioners turned the Conciergerie inside out, paying particular attention to its most inaccessible recesses. But they found nobody. The clerk had sauntered past old man Richard in his armchair, serene and smiling. As for the turnkey, he had run out shouting: “Alarm! Alarm! Sound the alarm!”

  The sentry on duty at the entrance had wanted to pin him with his bayonet, but the turnkey’s dogs had leapt at the sentry’s throat.

  Only Geneviève was arrested, interrogated, thrown in jail.

  45

  SEARCHING

  We can no longer leave in the shade one of the principal characters of this story, the man who, while the accumulated events of the preceding chapter were being accomplished, suffered more than anyone, and whose sufferings most deserve to kindle our readers’ sympathies.

  The sun was high and hot in the rue de la Monnaie and the gossips were all gabbling away at their doorsteps, as gaily as if a cloud of blood had not settled over the city for the past ten months, as Maurice came home in the cabriolet he’d promised to bring back.

  He left his horse’s reins in the hands of a scrubber in front of the church of Saint-Eustache and ran upstairs to his place, his heart filled with joy.

  Love is an invigorating feeling: it can revive hearts dead to sensation; it peoples deserts; it causes the phantom of the beloved to rise before your very eyes; it causes the voice singing in the lover’s soul to reveal all of Creation illuminated by hope and happiness; and since, while being an expansive feeling, it
’s still a self-centered one, it blinds the one who loves to everything that is not the beloved.

  Maurice did not see those other women; Maurice did not hear their comments; he saw only Geneviève preparing a departure that would bring them lasting happiness; he heard only Geneviève distractedly humming her favorite song, and that song was buzzing so deliciously in his ears he would have sworn he heard the different modulations of her voice mingled with the sound of a lock clicking shut.

  Outside the door, Maurice paused. The door was half open. Normally it was always shut, so this circumstance surprised Maurice. He looked around to see if he could see Geneviève in the hall; Geneviève was not in the hall. He went inside, crossed the anteroom, the kitchen, the salon; he visited the bedroom. Anteroom, kitchen, salon, bedroom were unoccupied. He called. No one answered.

  The officieux had gone out, as we know. Maurice imagined that in his absence Geneviève had needed some rope, say, to tie up the chests, or some provisions for the coach trip, that she had gone down to buy these things. Such a course seemed absolutely reckless to him, but although anxiety was beginning to get the upper hand, he still did not suspect anything.

  And so he waited, pacing from one end of the room to the other, leaning out of the window from time to time to be hit in the face by gusts of air whooshing in at him, laden with rain.

  Maurice eventually thought he could hear footsteps on the stairs; he listened; it wasn’t Geneviève’s tread, but that didn’t stop him from rushing to the landing and leaning over the balustrade, where he recognized the officieux coming up the stairs with the typical insouciance of servants.

  “Agesilaus!” he cried. The officieux looked up.

  “Ah! It’s you, citizen!”

  “Yes, it’s me; but where is the citizeness?”

  “The citizeness?” Agesilaus asked in bewilderment as he continued to climb.

  “Who else! Did you see her downstairs?”

  “No.”

  “Then go down again. Ask the concierge and speak to the neighbors.”

  “Right away.”