The Knight of Maison-Rouge

by Alexandre Dumas

  “Oh, my God!” cried the young man, overcome at finding trouble and suffering even here. “What’s ailing her?”

  “You know, dear boy,” said Dixmer, “no one knows much about women’s troubles, especially not the husband.”

  Geneviève was recumbent on a sort of chaise longue. Near her stood Morand, getting her to sniff salts.

  “Well?” asked Dixmer.

  “The same,” answered Morand.

  “Héloïse! Héloïse!” murmured the young woman through white lips and clenched teeth.

  “Héloïse!” Maurice repeated, stunned.

  “Oh, God, yes!” Dixmer said vehemently. “Geneviève had the misfortune to go out yesterday and see that awful cart passing with some poor girl called Héloïse in it; they were taking her to the guillotine. From that moment, she has had five or six attacks of nerves and just repeats that name.”

  “What struck her especially was that she recognized the girl as the flower girl who sold her the carnations you know about.”

  “I certainly do know, since they nearly got my throat cut.”

  “Yes, we heard about that, dear Maurice, and please believe me we were horrified; but Morand was at the session and he saw you get off scot free.”

  “Shush,” cried Maurice. “She’s talking again, I think.”

  “Oh! Words here and there, unintelligible,” said Dixmer.

  “Maurice,” murmured Geneviève, “they’re going to kill Maurice. Go to him, Knight, go to him!”

  A profound silence followed these words.

  “Maison-Rouge,” murmured Geneviève. “Maison-Rouge!”

  Maurice felt a lightning flash of suspicion, but it was just a flash. In any case, he was too upset by Geneviève’s suffering to comment on what she said.

  “Did you call a doctor?” he asked.

  “Oh! It’s nothing,” said Dixmer. “She’s a bit delirious, that’s all.”

  He squeezed his wife’s arm so hard that Geneviève came to and, giving a small shriek, opened eyes that until then she had held tightly shut.

  “Ah, here you all are,” she said, “and Maurice with you. Oh! I’m so happy to see you, my friend; if you only knew how I …”

  She recovered herself in time: “We’ve really been through a lot these last two days!”

  “Yes,” said Maurice, “we’re all here; so you can stop worrying, stop scaring yourself with such terrors. There is one name in particular, you know, that you must get used to not saying anymore, given that it no longer has the slightest whiff of sanctity.”

  “What name is that?” Geneviève shot out.

  “The name of the Knight of Maison-Rouge.”

  “I named the Knight of Maison-Rouge, did I?” asked Geneviève, horrified.

  “Funnily enough,” said Dixmer with a forced laugh. “But you understand, Maurice, there’s nothing funny in that, really, since they’re saying publicly that he was the accomplice of the Tison girl and that it was he who directed the escape attempt that, happily, came to grief yesterday.”

  “I’m not saying there’s anything funny in it,” replied Maurice. “I’m just saying he’d better keep himself hidden.”

  “Who?” asked Dixmer.

  “The Knight of Maison-Rouge! Who do you think! The Commune is looking for him and its bloodhounds have pretty good noses.”

  “Let’s hope they get him,” said Morand, “before he comes up with some other scheme that he pulls off better than this last one.”

  “In any case,” said Maurice, “it won’t involve helping the Queen.”

  “Why not?” asked Morand.

  “Because the Queen is now beyond help—even his.”

  “Where is she, then?” asked Dixmer.

  “In the Conciergerie,” said Maurice. “They took her there last night.”

  Dixmer, Morand, and Geneviève all gave a cry that Maurice took for an exclamation of surprise.

  “So you see,” he continued, “that’s it for the plans of the Queen’s chevalier! The Conciergerie is a bit more secure than the Temple.”

  Morand and Dixmer exchanged a look that Maurice missed.

  “Oh, my God!” he cried. “Madame Dixmer’s gone very pale again.”

  “Geneviève,” Dixmer said to his wife, “you must get into bed, my child, you aren’t well.”

  Maurice picked up that he was being dismissed; he kissed Geneviève’s hand and left, accompanied by Morand as far as the old rue Saint-Jacques. There Morand left him to say a few words to a servant who was holding a horse all saddled. Maurice was so preoccupied he didn’t even ask Morand, to whom he had not addressed a word since they’d left the house together, who the man was and what the horse was doing there.

  He took the rue des Fossés-Saint-Victor and reached the embankment.

  “It’s strange,” he said to himself as he walked along. “Is it my mind that’s growing dim? Or are things getting weightier? Everything looks bigger to me, as though I’m seeing it all through a microscope.”

  To get back a bit of serenity, Maurice held his face up to the night breeze and leaned against the parapet of the bridge.

  29

  THE PATROL

  Maurice was silently completing this reflection, leaning on the parapet of the bridge and watching the water flow past with that melancholy attention whose symptoms can be found in any Parisian born and bred, when he heard a small troop coming his way, in step like a patrol.

  He turned round; it was a company of the National Guard, arriving from the far side of the river. Maurice thought he could make out Lorin in the darkness. It was Lorin, in fact, and as soon as he saw Maurice he ran to him with open arms.

  “It’s you!” cried Lorin. “At last! Heaven knows, you’re not easy to find.

  “But since I’ve found my faithful friend

  My rotten luck will surely end.

  “That’s pure Racine,1 not Lorin, so I hope you won’t complain this time.”

  “What are you doing here, then, on patrol?” Maurice asked anxiously, now that everything made him jumpy.

  “I’m heading a little expedition, my friend—in the interests of rebuilding our shattered reputation.”

  He turned to his company: “Shoulder arms! Present arms! Arms up!” he bellowed. “Right now, children, the night isn’t dark enough. Chat among yourselves for a bit, we’ll do likewise.”

  Turning back to Maurice, he said: “I learned two major items of news today at the section.”

  “What?”

  “The first is that we’ve begun to be suspect, you and I.”

  “I know that. Next?”

  “Ah! You know that!”

  “Yes.”

  “The second is that the whole carnation plot was directed by the Knight of Maison-Rouge.”

  “I know that too.”

  “But what you don’t know is that the carnation plot and the underground tunnel plot are one and the same.”

  “I know that too.”

  “Well, then, let’s move on to a third bit of news. This you don’t know—of that I’m sure. We are going to take the Knight of Maison-Rouge tonight.”

  “Take the Knight of Maison-Rouge?”

  “Yes.”

  “So you’ve become a gendarme now?”

  “No. But I am a patriot. A patriot dedicates himself to the nation. Now, the nation is abominably ravaged by this Knight of Maison-Rouge, who keeps heaping plot on plot. So the nation orders me, me, a patriot, to rid it of the said Knight of Maison-Rouge, who is embarrassing it horribly, and so I obey the nation.”

  “Say what you like,” said Maurice, “it’s still strange you’re taking on such a commission.”

  “I’m not taking it on, it’s been foisted on me. But anyway, I have to say, I’d have done anything to get the job. We need a masterstroke to rehabilitate ourselves, given that our rehabilitation means not only the safety of our existence but also the right to stick six inches of steel into the guts of the foul Simon at the first opportunity.”
/>
  “But how do they know it was the Knight of Maison-Rouge who headed the underground plot?”

  “It’s still not entirely sure, but they’re assuming it was him.”

  “Aha! You’re proceeding by induction?”

  “We are proceeding by certainty.”

  “How do you figure that? Eh? After all …”

  “Listen well.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Scarcely had I heard the shout go up: ‘Major conspiracy uncovered by Simon’—that turd Simon! He’s everywhere, the lousy mongrel!—than I decided to judge the truth for myself. There was talk about an underground tunnel.”

  “Does it exist?”

  “Oh, it exists! I’ve seen it.

  “Seen, seen with my own eyes, which is called seeing.

  “Hey! Why aren’t you booing?”

  “Because that’s Molière,2 and because, I must confess, I find the circumstances a little too serious to joke.”

  “Well, but what does one joke about if not about what’s serious?”

  “You say you saw it.…”

  “The underground tunnel … I repeat, I have seen the underground tunnel, I have been through it, and it ran from citizeness Plumeau’s cellar to a house in the rue de la Corderie, the house at number 12 or 14, I can’t quite remember which.”

  “Really! You went through it?”

  “The whole way, and a very nicely cut passageway it is too, I can tell you. It was divided by three iron grilles, which we had to remove one by one, but if the buggers had succeeded those grilles would have given them all the time they needed—all they had to do was sacrifice a few of their men to whisk Madame Widow Capet away to a secure place. Luckily things didn’t work out that way—and the foul Simon was also onto that.”

  “But surely the first thing they should have done is arrest the inhabitants of the house in the rue de la Corderie.”

  “And that’s exactly what they would have done if they hadn’t found the house completely devoid of occupants.”

  “But surely the house belongs to someone?”

  “Yes, to a new owner, but no one knew who it was. It was known that the house had changed hands two or three weeks ago, that’s all. The neighbors heard a bit of noise, of course, but they just thought it was repairs being carried out, as the house was old. As for the former owner, he’d left town. That’s where I came in:

  “ ‘Heck!’ says I to Santerre, pulling him aside, ‘you’re all in a bit of a tight spot!’

  “ ‘True enough,’ he says, ‘we are.’

  “ ‘The house was sold, wasn’t it?’

  “ ‘Yes.’

  “ ‘Two weeks ago?’

  “ ‘Two or three weeks.’

  “ ‘Sold in the presence of a notary?’

  “ ‘Yes.’

  “ ‘Well then, we have to go through all the notaries in Paris to find out which one sold the house and get ahold of the deed. The name and address of the buyer will be on it.’

  “ ‘Marvelous! That’s what I call good thinking,’ says Santerre. ‘And coming from a man they’re accusing of being a bad patriot. Lorin, Lorin, old mate! I will rehabilitate you or the devil take me.’

  “In a word,” Lorin went on, “no sooner said than done. The notary was sought, the deed was found, and on the deed the name and address of the guilty party. So Santerre kept his word and appointed me to arrest him.”

  “And this man, it was the Knight of Maison-Rouge?”

  “No, only his accomplice—that is, most likely.”

  “Well then, how come you said you were going to arrest the Knight of Maison-Rouge?”

  “We’re going to arrest both of them together.”

  “To start with, do you know the Knight of Maison-Rouge?”

  “Very well.”

  “You have his description?”

  “Of course I do! Santerre gave it to me. Five foot two or three inches tall, blond hair, blue eyes, straight nose, chestnut beard. Anyway, I’ve seen him.”

  “When?”

  “This very day.”

  “You saw him?”

  “You did too.”

  Maurice started.

  “That young runt with the blond hair that freed us this morning—you know, the one who commanded the troop of muscadins, who fought so hard.”

  “So that really was him? I’d hoped it wasn’t true.…”

  “The man himself. They followed him and lost him somewhere near the home of the owner of the rue de la Corderie, so they presume they share a house.”

  “That seems likely.”

  “It’s certain.”

  “But Lorin,” said Maurice, “aren’t you lacking gratitude a little if you arrest tonight the man who saved us this morning?”

  “For crying out loud!” said Lorin. “Do you really think he saved us in order to save us?”

  “Why not?”

  “Of course he didn’t. They were hiding out at that spot to carry off poor Héloïse Tison when she passed. The thugs from Marseilles got in their way, so they fell upon the thugs. We were saved as an aftereffect. Now, since everything is in the intention and the intention wasn’t in it, I don’t have to reproach myself in the least with being ungrateful. Besides, you see, Maurice, the crucial thing is necessity, and there is a dire necessity for us to rehabilitate ourselves by pulling off a real coup. I vouched for you.”

  “To whom?”

  “To Santerre. He knows you’re in command of the raid.”

  “How so?”

  “ ‘Are you sure of arresting the culprits?’ he asked.

  “ ‘Yes,’ says I, ‘as long as Maurice is in on it.’

  “ ‘But are you sure of Maurice? He’s been getting a little lukewarm for some time now.’

  “ ‘Those who say that are wrong. Maurice is no more lukewarm than I am.’

  “ ‘And you’ll answer for him?’

  “ ‘As I would for myself.’

  “So I went to your place but didn’t find you in; I then came this way, first because it’s the way I always come, and then because it’s the way you usually go. Finally I run into you, here you are: forward, march!

  Victory, singing,

  Opens the gate for us.…”

  “My dear Lorin, it’s driving me to despair, but I just can’t work up any enthusiasm for this raid. Say you didn’t see me.”

  “No, I can’t—the men all saw you.”

  “Well then, say you saw me but I didn’t want to join the party.”

  “I can’t say that either.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because this time you won’t just be lukewarm, you’ll be suspect.… And you know what they do with anyone suspect, don’t you? They take you to the place de la Révolution and invite you to salute the statue of liberty; only instead of lifting your hat, you lift your head.”

  “Well then, Lorin, whatever will be, will be. But I suppose, when it comes down to it, that what I’m about to tell you will sound strange to you.”

  Lorin opened his eyes wide and gazed at Maurice.

  “Well, the truth is, I am disgusted with life.…”

  Lorin burst out laughing.

  “Right!” he said. “We’ve had a little tiff with our true love and it’s given us melancholy notions. Get off the grass, beautiful Amadis.3 Be a man again and after that we’ll work on the citizen. I, on the other hand, am never a better patriot than when I’ve had a row with Artemisia. Speaking of which, Her Divinity the Goddess of Reason sends you her warmest regards.”

  “Please thank her on my behalf. Adieu, Lorin.”

  “What do you mean, adieu?”

  “Yes, I’m going.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Home, for heaven’s sake!”

  “Maurice, you’re going to your doom.”

  “I couldn’t care less.”

  “Maurice, think, friend, think.”

  “I have.”

  “I didn’t tell you everything.…”
/>   “Everything—what?”

  “Everything Santerre said to me.”

  “What did he say to you?”

  “When I asked for you to be head of the expedition he said: ‘Watch out!’

  “ ‘What for?’ I said.

  “ ‘For Maurice,’ he said.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes. ‘Maurice,’ he went on, ‘often visits that neighborhood.’ ”

  “What neighborhood?”

  “Maison-Rouge’s neighborhood.”

  “What!” cried Maurice. “This is where he hides out?”

  “They assume he does, at least, since this is where his presumed accomplice lives, the man who bought the house in the rue de la Corderie.”

  “Faubourg Victor?” Maurice asked.

  “Yes, faubourg Victor.”

  “And what street in the faubourg?”

  “The old rue Saint-Jacques.”

  “Oh, my God!” murmured Maurice, stunned as though struck by lightning, shading his eyes with his hand. After an instant, and as though in that instant he had summoned all his courage, he said:

  “What’s his job?”

  “Master tanner.”

  “And his name?”

  “Dixmer.”

  “You’re right, Lorin,” said Maurice, using all his willpower to suppress any sign of emotion. “I’ll go with you.”

  “You’re doing the right thing. Are you armed?”

  “I have my sword, as always.”

  “Take these two pistols as well.”

  “What about you?”

  “I have my rifle. Shoulder arms! Carry arms! Forward, march!”

  The patrol started marching again, accompanied by Maurice, who stuck close to Lorin behind a man dressed in grey, who was directing the operation. This was the man from the police.

  From time to time a shadow would slip out of a street corner or a doorway and come to exchange a few words with the man in grey: they were police surveillance.

  The party reached the familiar alleyway. The grey man did not hesitate a single instant. He was well informed. He took the alley and only stopped when he came to the garden gate through which Maurice had been led, all trussed up, that first time.

  “This is it,” he said.