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Title: Le chevalier de Maison-Rouge

Author: Alexandre Dumas
        Auguste Maquet

Release date: August 6, 2023 [eBook #71356]
                Most recently updated: December 2, 2024

Language: English

Original publication: Boston: Little, Brown, & co

Credits: Aaron Adrignola, Graeme Mackreth and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LE CHEVALIER DE MAISON-ROUGE ***




 THE MARIE ANTOINETTE ROMANCES.

 LE CHEVALIER DE MAISON-ROUGE.

[Illustration]

[Illustration: "OH, HOW LONG IT IS SINCE I HAVE SEEN ANY FLOWERS!"

_Drawn and etched by E. Abot._

 Chevalier de Maison-Rouge.
]




 LE

 CHEVALIER DE MAISON-ROUGE.


 BY

 ALEXANDRE DUMAS.


 BOSTON:
 LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY.

 1897.




 _Copyright, 1890, 1894_,
 By Little, Brown, and Company.


 University Press:
 John Wilson and Son, Cambridge, U.S.A.




INTRODUCTORY NOTE.


The "Chevalier de Maison-Rouge," though it deals with events subsequent
to those covered by the earlier stories of the Marie Antoinette cycle,
was written at an earlier date. In it we are introduced to a new set of
personages, and see no more of the characters whose fortunes furnish
the fictitious as distinguished from the historical interest of the
earlier stories.

The months which elapsed between the execution of the King and the
appearance in the Place de la Révolution of the ill-fated Marie
Antoinette were thickly strewn with tragedy, particularly after the
final conflict between the Gironde and the Mountain, and the decisive
victory of the latter, resulting in the undisputed supremacy of the
band of men in whom we now see the personification of the Reign of
Terror.

Those portions of the narrative which describe the life of the queen at
the Temple, and subsequently in the Conciergerie, are founded strictly
upon fact. Of the treatment accorded to the little Dauphin by Simon,
who is given much prominence in the story, it need only be said that it
falls far short of the truth as it is to be found in numberless memoirs
and documents. There is nothing in all history more touching and
heart-rending than the fate of this innocent child, who was literally
done to death by sheer brutality in less than two years; nor is there
any one of the excesses committed by the extreme revolutionists which
has done more to cause posterity to fail to realize the vast benefits
which mankind owes to the Revolution, in the face of the unnamable
horrors which were perpetrated in its name.

The noble answer of Marie Antoinette to the unnatural charges brought
against her by Hébert (not Simon) was actually made at her trial.

There is no direct historical authority for the various attempts herein
detailed to effect the escape of the Queen, although rumors of such
were circulating unceasingly. The titular hero of the book is not an
historical personage, nor are Maurice Lindey and Lorin; but the latter
are faithful representatives of a by no means small class of sincere
and devoted republicans who turned aside with shrinking horror from
the atrocities of the Terror.

The mutual heroism of Maurice and Lorin in the final catastrophe
reminds us of the similar conduct of Gaston in the "Regent's Daughter"
when he fails to reach Nantes with the reprieve until the head of one
of his comrades had fallen. Nor can one avoid a thought of Sydney
Carton laying down his life for Charles Darnay, in Charles Dickens's
"Tale of Two Cities," wherein the horrors of the Terror are so vividly
pictured.

One must go far to seek for a more touching and pathetic love-episode
than that of Maurice and Geneviève, whose sinning, if sinning it was,
was forced upon them by the cold and unscrupulous Dixmer in the pursuit
of his one unchangeable idea.

On the 16th of October, 1793, the daughter of the Cæsars lost her life
through the instrumentality of the machine which we saw Cagliostro
exhibit to her in a glass of water at the Château de Taverney more than
twenty years before. Then she was in the bloom of youth and beauty, a
young queen coming to reign over a people who had just begun to realize
their wrongs and their power. To-day she is a woman of thirty-eight,
prematurely aged, but bearing about her still the noble dignity of her
ancient race, and proving anew, as Charles I. had proved, and as her
own husband had proved, that the near approach of death brings forth
the noblest qualities in those of royal lineage.

We cannot better end this brief note than by quoting the characteristic
but powerful apostrophe of Carlyle in his essay upon the "Diamond
Necklace."

"Beautiful Highborn, thou wert so foully hurled low! For if thy being
came to thee out of old Hapsburg dynasties, came it not also (like my
own) out of Heaven? _Sunt lachrymæ rerum, et mentem mortalia tangunt._
Oh, is there a man's heart that thinks without pity of those long
months and years of slow-wasting ignominy: of thy birth, soft-cradled
in imperial Schönbrunn, the winds of Heaven not to visit thy face
too roughly, thy foot to light on softness, thy eye on splendor:
and then of thy death, or hundred deaths, to which the guillotine
and Fouquier-Tinville's judgment bar was but the merciful end? Look
_there_, O man born of woman! The bloom of that fair face is wasted,
the hair is gray with care: the brightness of those eyes is quenched,
their lids hang drooping, the face is stony pale, as of one living in
death. Mean weeds, which her own hand has mended, attire the Queen of
the World. The death-hurdle, where thou sittest pale, motionless, which
only curses environ, has to stop; a people, drunk with vengeance, will
drink it again in full draught, looking at thee there. Far as the eye
reaches, a multitudinous sea of maniac heads: the air deaf with their
triumph yell! The living-dead must shudder with yet one other pang: her
startled blood yet again suffuses with the hue of agony that pale face
which she hides with her hands. There is, then, no heart to say, God
pity thee? O think not of these: think of HIM whom thou worshippest,
the Crucified,--who also treading the wine-press _alone_, fronted
sorrow still deeper: and triumphed over it, and made it holy: and built
of it a Sanctuary of Sorrow for thee and all the wretched! Thy path of
thorns is nigh ended. One long last look at the Tuileries, where thy
step was once so light,--where thy children shall not dwell. The head
is on the block: the axe rushes--Dumb lies the World: that wild-yelling
World and all its madness is behind thee."




LIST OF CHARACTERS.

Period, 1793.


 Marie Antoinette,           }
 The Dauphin,                } prisoners at the Temple.
 Madame Royale,              }
 The Princess Elizabeth,     }
 Chevalier de Maison-Rouge,     }
 M. Dixmer,                     } engaged in an attempt to
 Geneviève, his wife,           }   rescue the Queen.
 Sophie Tison,                  }
 Lieutenant Maurice Lindey, a patriot, in love with Geneviève.
 Maximilien-Jean Lorin, his friend.
 Santerre, Commandant of the Parisian National Guard.
 Simon, a cobbler.
 President Harmand, of the Revolutionary Tribunal.
 Fouquier-Tinville, the public accuser.
 M. Giraud, the city architect.
 Chauveau Lagarde, counsel for the Queen.
 Jean Paul Marot,           }
 Robespierre,               }
 Danton,                    }
 Chénier,                   } Montagnards.
 Hébert,                    }
 Fabre d'Églantine,         }
 Collot d'Herbois,          }
 Robert Lindet,             }
 MM. Vergniaud, Féraud, Brissot, Louvet,    }Girondins.
   Pétion, Valazé, Lanjuinais, Barbaroux,   }
 MM. Roland, Servien, Clavières,             } of the French Ministry,
   Le Brun, and Monge,                       }   August, 1793.
 Generals Dumouriez, Miacrinski,       } officers commanding the
   Steingel, Neuilly, Valence,         }   French armies on the
   Dampierre, and Miranda,             }   frontiers.
 Henriot, Commandant-General of the National Guard.
 Citizen Devaux, of the National Guard.
 Citizens Tonlan, Lepître, Agricola,    } of the Municipal
   and Mercevault,                      }   Guard.
 Grammont, Adjutant-Major.
 Tison, employed at the Temple Prison.
 Madame Tison, his wife.
 Arthémise, ex-dancer at the opera.
 Abbé Girard.
 Dame Jacinthe, his servant.
 Turgy, an old waiter of Louis XVI., attending the royal family at the Temple.
 Muguet, _femme-de-chambre_ of Dixmer.
 Madame Plumeau, hostess of an alehouse near the Temple.
 Agesilaus, servant to Maurice Lindey.
 Aristide, concierge at Maurice's house.
 Gracchus, a turnkey at the Conciergerie.
 Richard, jailer at the Conciergerie.
 Madame Richard, his wife.
 Duchesse,               }
 Gilbert,                } Gendarmes at the Conciergerie.
 Sanson, the executioner.




CONTENTS.


  Chapter                                                  Page

  I. The Enrolled Volunteers                                1

  II. The Unknown                                          13

  III. The Rue des Fossés Saint Victor                     22

  IV. Manners of the Times                                 30

  V. What Sort of Man the Citizen Maurice Lindey was       40

  VI. The Temple                                           46

  VII. The Oath of the Gamester                            57

  VIII. Geneviève                                          68

  IX. The Supper                                           79

  X. Simon the Shoemaker                                   90

  XI. The Billet                                          100

  XII. Love                                               110

  XIII. The Thirty-First of May                           141

  XIV. Devotion                                           148

  XV. The Goddess Reason                                  157

  XVI. The Prodigal Child                                 163

  XVII. The Miners                                        171

  XVIII. Clouds                                           182

  XIX. The Request                                        191

  XX. The Flower-Girl                                     200

  XXI. The Crimson Carnation                              207

  XXII. Simon the Censor                                  215

  XXIII. Arthémise                                        222

  XXIV. The Mother and Daughter                           231

  XXV. The Conspiracy                                     240

  XXVI. The Little Dog Jet                                252

  XXVII. The Muscadin                                     263

  XXVIII. The Chevalier de Maison-Rouge                   273

  XXIX. The Patrol                                        282

  XXX. The Password                                       292

  XXXI. The Search                                        300

  XXXII. The Fire                                         309

  XXXIII. The Morrow                                      322

  XXXIV. The Conciergerie                                 326

  XXXV. La Salle des Pas-Perdus                           337

  XXXVI. The Citizen Théodore                             347

  XXXVII. The Citizen Gracchus                            355

  XXXVIII. The Royal Child                                361

  XXXIX. The Bouquet of Violets                           372

  XL. The Tavern of Noah's Well                           384

  XLI. The Registrar of the Minister of War               392

  XLII. The Two Billets                                   399

  XLIII. The Preparations of Dixmer                       405

  XLIV. The Preparations of the Chevalier                 412

  XLV. The Inquiry                                        420

  XLVI. The Sentence                                      429

  XLVII. The Priest and the Executioner                   437

  XLVIII. The Cart                                        445

  XLIX. The Scaffold                                      453

  L. The Visit to the Domicile                            461

  LI. Lorin                                               466

  LII. Sequel to the Preceding                            475

  LIII. The Duel                                          482

  LIV. The Salle des Morts                                490

  LV. Why Lorin went out                                  502

  LVI. Long Live Simon!                                   505




LE

CHEVALIER DE MAISON-ROUGE.




CHAPTER I.

THE ENROLLED VOLUNTEERS.


It was on the evening of the 10th of March, 1793, ten o'clock was
striking from Notre Dame, and each stroke sounding, emitted a sad and
monotonous vibration. Night had fallen on Paris, not boisterous and
stormy, but cold, damp, and foggy. Paris itself at that time was not
the Paris of our day, glittering at night with thousands of reflected
lights,--the Paris of busy promenades, of lively chat, with its riotous
suburbs, the scene of audacious quarrels, and daring crime,-- but a
fearful, timid, busy city, whose few and scattered inhabitants, even
in crossing from one street to another, ran concealing themselves in
the darkness of the alleys, and ensconcing themselves behind their
portes-cochères, like wild beasts tracked by the hunters to their lair.

As we have previously said, it was the evening of the 10th of March,
1793. A few remarks upon the critical situation of the country, which
had produced the changed aspect of the capital, before we commence
stating the events the recital of which form the subject of this
history.

France, by the death of Louis XVI., had become at variance with all
Europe. To the three enemies she had first combated,--that is to say,
Prussia, the Empire, and Piedmont,--were now joined England, Holland,
and Spain. Sweden and Denmark alone preserved their old neutrality,
occupied as they were besides in beholding Catharine II. devastating
Poland.

The state of affairs was truly frightful. France, more respected as a
physical power, but less esteemed as a moral one, since the massacres
of September and the execution of the 21st of January, was literally
blockaded, like a simple town, by the whole of Europe. England was
on our coasts, Spain upon the Pyrenees, Piedmont and Austria on the
Alps, Holland and Prussia to the north of the Pays-Bas, and with one
accord from the Upper Rhine to the Scheldt two hundred and fifty
thousand combatants marched against the Republic. Our generals were
repulsed in every direction. Miacrinski had been obliged to abandon
Aix-la-Chapelle, and draw back upon Liege; Steingel and Neuilly were
driven back upon Limbourg; while Miranda, who besieged Maestricht, fell
back upon Tongres. Valence and Dampierre, reduced to beat a retreat,
did so with a loss of half their number. More than ten thousand
deserters had already abandoned the army, and cleverly scattered
themselves in the interior. At last the Convention, having no hope
except in Dumouriez, despatched courier after courier, commanding him
to quit the borders of the Biesboos (where he was preparing to embark
for Holland), and return to take the command of the army of the Meuse.

Sensitive at heart, like an animate body, France felt at Paris--that is
to say, at its core--each and every blow levelled at it by invasion,
revolt, or treason, even from quarters the most distant. Each victory
was a riot of joy; every defeat an insurrection of terror. It is
therefore easy to comprehend what tumult was produced by the news of
these successive losses which we had just experienced.

On the preceding evening, the 9th of March, they had had at the
Convention a sitting more stormy than usual; all the officers had
received orders to join their regiments at the same time, and Danton,
that audacious proposer of improbable things (but which nevertheless
were accomplished),--Danton mounting the tribune, cried out, "Soldiers
are wanting, say you? Offer Paris an opportunity of saving France.
Demand from her thirty thousand men, send them to Dumouriez; and
not only is France saved, but Belgium is secured, and Holland is
conquered." This proposition had been received with shouts of
enthusiasm, registers had been opened in all the sections, calling
on them to assemble in the evening. Places of public amusement were
closed to avoid all distraction, and the black flag was hoisted at the
Hôtel de Ville, in token of distress. Before midnight, five and thirty
thousand names were inscribed on the registers; only this evening, as
it had before occurred in September, in every section, while inscribing
their names, the enrolled Volunteers had demanded that before their
departure the traitors might be punished.

The traitors were in fact the "contre-revolutionists,"--the hidden
conspirators who from within menaced the Revolution, thus menaced from
without. But as may be easily understood, the word "traitor" extended
to all those to whom the extreme parties who at this period tore
France wished to apply it. The traitors were the weaker party; as the
Girondins were the weakest, the Montagnards decided that the Girondins
must be the traitors.

On the next day, which was the 10th of March, all the Montagnard
deputies were present at the sitting. The Jacobins, armed, filled
the tribunes, after having turned out the women; the mayor presented
himself with the Council of the Commune, confirming the report of
the Commissioners of the Convention respecting the devotedness of
the citizens, but repeating the wish, unanimously expressed the
preceding evening, for a Tribunal Extraordinary appointed to judge
the traitors. The report of the Committee was instantly demanded with
loud vociferations. The Committee met immediately, and in five minutes
afterward Robert Lindet declared that a Tribunal would be formed,
composed of nine judges (independent of all forms, and acquiring proof
by every means), divided into two permanent sections, and prosecuting,
by order of the Convention or directly, all those who were found guilty
in any way of attempting to mislead the people.

This was a sweeping clause, and the Girondins, understanding it as
their death-warrant, rose _en masse_. Death, cried they, rather than
submit to the establishment of this Venetian inquisition.

The Montagnards, in reply to this apostrophe, demanded to put the
matter to the vote in loud tones. "Yes," exclaimed Féraud, "let us
vote to make known to the world the men who are willing to assassinate
innocence under the mask of the law." They voted at length; and against
all expectation the majority decided--(1) that they would have juries;
(2) that these juries should be of equal numbers in the departments;
(3) that they should be nominated by the Convention. At the moment
when these three propositions were approved, loud cries were heard;
but the Convention, accustomed to receive occasional visits from the
populace, inquired their wishes, and were informed in reply that it
was merely a deputation of enrolled Volunteers, who, having dined at
the Halle-au-Blé, demanded to be permitted to display their military
tactics before the Convention.

The doors were opened immediately, and six hundred men, armed with
swords, pistols, and pikes, apparently half-intoxicated, filed off amid
shouts of applause, and loudly demanded the death of the traitors.
"Yes," replied Collot d' Herbois, addressing them, "yes, my friends, we
will save you--you and liberty--notwithstanding their intrigues." These
words were followed by an angry glance toward the Girondins, which
plainly intimated they were not yet beyond reach of danger. In short,
the sitting of the Convention terminated, the Montagnards scattered
themselves among other clubs, running first to the Cordeliers and then
to the Jacobins, proposing to place the traitors beyond the reach of
the law by cutting their throats that very night.

The wife of Louvet resided in the Rue Saint Honoré, near the Jacobins.
She, hearing these vociferations, descended, entered the club, and
heard this proposition; then quickly retraced her steps, and warned
her husband of the impending danger. Louvet, hastily arming himself,
ran from door to door to alarm his friends, but found them all absent;
then fortunately ascertaining from one of the servants they had gone
to Pétion's house, he followed them there. He found them quietly
deliberating over a decree which ought to be presented on the morrow,
and which by a chance majority they hoped to pass. He related what had
occurred, communicated his fears, informed them of the plot devised
against them by the Cordeliers and Jacobins, and concluded by urging
them on their side to pursue some active and energetic measure.

Then Pétion rose, calm and self-possessed as usual, walked to the
window, opened it, looked at the sky, and then extended his hand, which
he drew in covered with moisture. "It rains," said he; "there will be
nothing to-night."

Through this half-opened window the last vibration of the clock was
heard striking ten.

Such were the occurrences of the 10th of March and the evening
preceding it,--occurrences which, in this gloomy obscurity and
menacing silence, rendered the abodes destined to shelter the living
like sepulchres peopled by the dead. In fact, long patrols of the
National Guard, preceded by men marching with fixed bayonets, troops
of citizens, armed at hazard, pushing against each other, gendarmes
closely examining each doorway, and strictly scrutinizing every
narrow alley,--these were the sole inhabitants who ventured to expose
themselves in the streets. Every one instinctively understood that some
unusual and terrible plot was in progress.

The cold and drizzling rain, which had tended so much to reassure
Pétion, had considerably augmented the ill-humor and trouble of these
inspectors, whose every meeting resembled preparation for combat, and
who, after recognizing each other with looks of defiance, exchanged the
word of command slowly and with a very bad grace. One would have said
on seeing them separate and return to their several posts, that they
mutually feared an attack from behind.

On the same evening, when Paris was a prey to one of these panics
(so often renewed that they ought, in some measure, to have become
habitual),--the evening on which the massacre of the lukewarm
revolutionists was secretly debated, who after having voted (with
reservation for the most part) the death of the king, recoiled
to-day before the death of the queen, a prisoner in the Temple, with
her children and her sister-in-law,--a woman, enveloped in a mantle
of lilac printed cotton with black spots, her head almost buried in
her hood, glided along the houses in the Rue Saint Honoré, seeking
concealment under a door-porch, or in the angle of a wall, every time
a patrol appeared, remaining motionless as a statue and holding her
breath till he had passed, and once more pursuing her anxious course
with increased rapidity, till some danger of a similar nature again
compelled her to seek refuge in silence and immobility.

She had already (thanks to the precautions she had taken) travelled
over with impunity part of the Rue Saint Honoré, when at the corner of
the Rue de Grenelle she suddenly encountered, not a body of patrol,
but a small troop of our brave enrolled Volunteers, who, having dined
at the Halle-au-Blé, found their patriotism considerably increased by
the numerous toasts they had drunk to their future victories. The poor
woman uttered a cry, and made a futile attempt to escape by the Rue du
Coq.

"Ah, ah, Citizen!" cried the chief of the Volunteers (for already, with
the need of command natural to man, these worthy patriots had elected
their chief), "Ah, where are you going?"

The fugitive made no reply, but continued her rapid movement.

"What sport!" said the chief; "it is a man disguised, an aristocrat who
thinks to save himself."

The sound of two or three guns escaping from hands rather too unsteady
to be depended upon, announced to the poor woman that her haste was a
fatal mistake.

"No, no," cried she, stopping short, and retracing her steps; "no,
Citizen; you are mistaken. I am not a man."

"Then advance at command," said the chief, "and reply to my questions.
Where are you hastening to, charming belle of the night?"

"But, Citizen, I am not going anywhere. I am returning."

"Oh! returning, are you?"

"Yes."

"It is rather a late return for a respectable woman, Citizeness?"

"I am returning from visiting a sick relative."

"Poor little kitten!" said the chief, making a motion with his hand,
before which the horrified woman quickly recoiled, "where is your
passport?"

"My passport! What is that, Citizen? What do you mean?"

"Have you not read the decree of the Commune?"

"No."

"You have heard it proclaimed, then?"

"Alas, no! What, then, said this decree, in the name of God?"

"In the first place, we no longer say 'God'; we only speak of the
'Supreme Being' now."

"Pardon my error. It is an old custom."

"Bad habit--the habit of the aristocracy."

"I will endeavor to correct myself, Citizen; but you said--"

"I said that the decree of the Commune prohibited any one to go out,
after ten at night, without a civic pass. Now, have you this civic
pass?"

"Alas! no."

"You have forgotten it at your relative's?"

"I was ignorant of the necessity of taking it with me on going out."

"Then come with us to the first post; there you can explain all
prettily to the captain; and if he feels perfectly satisfied with your
explanation, he will depute two men to conduct you in safety to your
abode, else you will be detained for further information. File left!
forward! quick march!"

From the cry of terror which escaped the poor prisoner, the chief of
the enrolled Volunteers understood how much the unfortunate woman
dreaded this interview.

"Oh, oh!" said he, "I am quite certain we hold distinguished game.
Forward, forward--to the route, my little _ci-devant_."

And the chief seizing the arm of the captive, placed it within his own,
and dragged her, notwithstanding her cries and tears, toward the post
of the Palais Egalité.

They were already at the top of the barrier of Sergents, when suddenly
a tall young man, closely wrapped in a mantle, turned the corner of
the Rue des Petits-Champs at the very moment when the prisoner was
endeavoring, by renewing her supplications, to regain her liberty. But
without listening the chief dragged her brutally forward. The woman
uttered a cry of grief mingled with terror. The young man saw the
struggle, heard the cry, and bounding from the opposite side of the
street, found himself facing the little troop.

"What is all this? What are you doing to this woman?" demanded he of
the person who appeared to be the chief.

"Before you question me, you had better attend to your own business."

"Who is this woman; and what do you want with her?" repeated the young
man, in a still more imperative tone than at first.

"But who are you, that you interrogate us?"

The young man opened his cloak, when an epaulet was visible, glistening
on his military costume.

"I am an officer," said he, "as you can see."

"Officer! In what?"

"In the Civic Guard."

"Well, what of that?" replied one of the troop. "What do we know here
of the officers of the Civic Guard?"

"What is that he says?" asked another man, in a drawling and ironical
tone peculiar to a man of the people, or rather of the Parisian
populace, when beginning to be angry.

"He says," replied the young man, "that if the epaulet cannot command
respect for the officer, the sword shall command respect for the
epaulet."

At the same time, making a retrograde movement, the unknown defender of
the young woman had disengaged his arm from the folds of his mantle,
and drawn from beneath it, sparkling by the glimmer of a lamp, a
large infantry sabre. Then with a rapid movement which displayed his
familiarity with similar scenes of violence, he seized the chief of the
Volunteers by the collar of his jacket, and placing the point of the
sabre to his throat, "Now," said he, "let us speak like friends."

"But, Citizen," said the chief, endeavoring to free himself.

"I warn you, that at the slightest movement made, either by you or any
of your men, I pass my sabre through your body."

During this time two men belonging to the troop retained their hold of
the woman.

"You have asked who I am," continued the young man, "which you had
no right to do, since you do not command a regular patrol. However,
I will inform you. My name is Maurice Lindey; I commanded a body of
artillery-men on the 10th of August, am now lieutenant in the National
Guards, and secretary to the section of Brothers and Friends. Is that
sufficient?"

"Well, Citizen Lieutenant," replied the chief, still menaced with the
blade, the point of which he felt pressing more and more, "this is
quite another thing. If you are really what you say,--that is, a good
patriot--"

"There, I knew we should soon understand each other," said the officer.
"Now, in your turn, answer me: why did this woman call out, and what
are you doing with her?"

"We are taking her to the guard-house."

"And why are you taking her there?"

"Because she has no civic pass, and the last decree of the Commune
ordered the arrest of any and every individual appearing in the streets
of Paris without one, after ten o'clock at night. Do you forget the
country is in danger, and that the black flag floats over the Hôtel de
Ville?"

"The black flag floats over the Hôtel de Ville, and the country is in
danger, because two hundred thousand slaves march against France,"
replied the officer, "and not because a woman runs through the streets
of Paris after ten o'clock at night. But never mind, citizens. There is
a decree of the Commune, it is true, and you only did your duty; and
if you had answered me at once, our explanation might have been a much
shorter and probably a less stormy one. It is well to be a patriot,
but equally so to be polite; and the first officer whom the citizens
ought to respect is he, it seems to me, whom they themselves appointed.
In the mean time, take the woman with you, if you please. You are at
liberty to depart."

"Oh! Citizen," cried the woman, who had listened to the whole of
this debate with the most intense anxiety,--"Oh! Citizen," she cried,
seizing the arm of Maurice, "do not abandon me to the mercy of these
rude and half-drunken men."

"Well, then," said Maurice, "take my arm, and I will conduct you with
them as far as the Poste."

"To the Poste!" exclaimed the terrified woman, "and why to the Poste,
when I have injured no one?"

"You are taken to the Poste," replied Maurice, "not because you have
done any one wrong, or because you are considered capable of so doing,
but on account of the decree issued by the Commune, forbidding any one
to go out without a pass, and you have none."

"But, Monsieur, I was ignorant of the law."

"Citizen, you will find at the Poste brave and honorable men, who will
fully appreciate your reasons, and from whom you have nothing to fear."

"Monsieur," said the young woman, pressing Maurice's arm, "it is no
longer insult that I fear, it is death; if they conduct me to the
Poste, I am lost."




CHAPTER II.

THE UNKNOWN.


There was in this voice an accent of so much terror, mingled with
superiority, that Maurice was startled. Like a stroke of electricity,
this vibrating voice had touched his heart. He turned toward the
enrolled Volunteers, who were talking among themselves. Humiliated
at having been held in check by a single individual, they were now
consulting together with the visible intention of regaining their lost
ground. They were eight against one; three were armed with guns, the
remainder with pistols and pikes. Maurice wore only his sabre. The
contest could not be an equal one. Even the woman comprehended this, as
she held down her head and uttered a deep sigh.

As to Maurice, with his brows knit, his lip disdainfully curled, and
his sabre drawn from its scabbard, he stood irresolute, fluctuating
between the sentiments of a man and a citizen,--the one urging him to
protect the woman, the other counselling him to give her up. All at
once, at the corner of the Rue des Bons-Enfans, he saw the reflection
of several muskets, and heard also the measured tread of a patrol, who,
perceiving a crowd, halted within a few paces of the group, and through
the corporal demanded, "Who goes there?"

"A friend," said Maurice. "A friend! Advance, Lorin!"

He to whom this order was addressed, placed himself at the head of his
eight men, and quickly approached.

"Is it you, Maurice?" said the corporal. "Ah, libertine! what are you
doing in the streets at this hour?"

"You see, I come from the section of Brothers and Friends."

"Yes; to visit that of sisters and friends. We know all about that.

 "Ah, listen, ma belle,
 When the dusk midnight hour
 The church-bell shall toll,
 I will haste to thy bower;
 To thy side I will steal,
 Spite of bolts and of bars,
 And my love will reveal
 'Neath the light of the stars.

Is it not so, eh?"

"No, friend, you are mistaken. I was on my way home when I discovered
this citizen struggling in the hands of these citizen Volunteers, and
ran up to inquire why they wished to detain her."

"It is just like you," said Lorin.

 "For all the world knows that the fair sex so dear
 Has ever a friend in the French cavalier."

Then turning toward the Volunteers, "Why did you stop this woman?"
inquired the poetical corporal.

"I have already told the lieutenant," replied the chief of the little
troop, "because she had no pass."

"Bah! bah!" said Lorin, "a great crime, certainly."

"Are you then ignorant of the decree of the Commune?" demanded the
chief of the Volunteers.

"Yes; but there is another clause which annuls that."

"Which?"

"Listen:--

 "On Pindus and Parnassus, it is decreed by Love,
     That Beauty's witching face,
     That Youth and fairy Grace,
 Without a pass, by day or night, may through the city rove.

What do you say to this decree, Citizen? it is gallant, it seems to me."

"Yes; but it does not appear to me peremptory. In the first place it
has not appeared in the 'Moniteur;' then we are neither upon Pindus nor
Parnassus; it is not yet day; and lastly, the citizeness is perhaps
neither graceful, young, nor fair."

"I wager the contrary," said Lorin. "Prove that I am in the right,
Citizeness; remove your hood that all may judge if you come under the
conditions of the decree."

"Monsieur," said the young woman, pressing closer to Maurice, "having
saved me from your enemies, protect me now from your friends, I beseech
you."

"You see," said the chief, "how she hides herself. In my opinion she is
a spy of the aristocrats,--some street-walker."

"Oh, Monsieur!" said the young woman, stepping before Maurice, and
discovering a face radiant with youth, rank, and beauty, visible by the
light of the lamp, "do I look like what they have termed me?"

Maurice was dazzled. He had never even dreamed of beauty equal to that
he had caught sight of for a moment, and only for a moment, since the
unknown had again concealed her face in the hood as rapidly as she had
unveiled it. "Lorin," said Maurice, in a whisper, "claim the prisoner,
that you may conduct her to your post; you have a right to do so as
chief of patrol."

"Very good," said the young corporal, "I understand with half a word."

Then, addressing himself to the unknown, "Let us go, ma belle,"
continued he; "since you will not afford us the proof that you are
within the conditions of the decree, you must follow us."

"Why follow you?" said the chief of the enrolled Volunteers.

"Certainly. We shall conduct the citizeness to the post of the Hôtel de
Ville, where we are on guard, and there she will be examined."

"Not so, not so," said the chief of the first troop; "she belongs to
us, and we will keep her."

"Citizens, citizens," said Lorin, "you will make me angry!"

"Angry, or not angry, _morbleu_, it is equally the same to us. We are
true soldiers of the Republic, and while you patrol the streets, we go
to shed our blood on the frontier."

"Take care you do not shed it by the way, citizens, which is very
likely to occur, if you are not rather more polite than you are at
present."

"Politeness is a virtue appertaining to the aristocracy, and we belong
to the lower orders," replied the chief.

"Do not speak of these things before Madame," said Lorin, "perhaps she
is an Englishwoman. Do not be angry at the supposition, my beautiful
bird of the night," added he, gallantly, turning toward the unknown.
"Doubtless you are conversant with the poets, and one of them tells us
'that England is a swan's nest situated in the midst of a large pond.'"

"Ah! you betray yourself," said the chief of the enrolled; "you avow
yourself a creature of Pitt, in the pay of England. A--"

"Silence," said Lorin; "you do not understand poetry; therefore I must
speak to you in prose. We are National Guards, affable and patient
fellows enough, but still children of Paris,--that is to say, if we are
provoked we strike rather hard."

"Madame," said Maurice, "from what you have now witnessed you can
easily imagine what will soon follow. In five minutes ten or twelve
men will be cutting one another's throats for you. Is the cause your
defenders have embraced worthy of the blood they are about to shed?"

"Monsieur," replied the unknown, clasping her hands, "I can only assure
you that if you permit me to be arrested, the result to myself will be
dreadful, but to others fatal; and that rather than you should abandon
me, I would beseech you to pierce me through the heart with the weapon
you hold in your hand, and cast my corpse into the Seine."

"Madame," replied Maurice, "I will take all the responsibility upon
myself;" and letting drop the hand of the lovely _incognita_ which he
held in his own,--

"Citizens," said he, addressing himself to the National Guard, "as an
officer, as a patriot, and a Frenchman, I command you to protect this
woman. And, Lorin, if any of these _canaille_ say one word, put them to
the bayonet."

"Carry arms!" cried Lorin.

"God of mercy!" cried the unknown, enveloping her head still closer in
her hood, and supporting herself against a post, "O God! protect him!"

The Volunteers directly placed themselves on the defensive, and one
among them fired his pistol, the ball passing through the hat of
Maurice.

"Charge bayonets!" cried Lorin.

Then, in the darkness of night, a scene of struggling and confusion
ensued, during which one or two shots were heard, followed by cries,
imprecations, and blasphemies; but no one appeared, because, as we have
said, a massacre was secretly debated, and it was believed that it had
commenced. Two or three windows only were opened for an instant, but
were immediately closed. Less in number, and worse armed, the enrolled
Volunteers were in an instant defeated. Two were badly wounded and four
others pinned against the wall, each with a bayonet at his breast.

"There," said Lorin, "I hope now you will remain as quiet as lambs. As
for you, Citizen Maurice, I order you to conduct this woman to the post
of the Hôtel de Ville. You understand you are answerable for her."

"Yes," said Maurice. Then, in a low tone, "And the password?" added he.

"The devil!" said Lorin, rubbing his ear, "the password; it is--"

"Do not fear I shall make a bad use of it."

"Faith," said Lorin; "make what use you like of it, that is your
concern."

"Tell me then," said Maurice.

"I will tell you all in good time, but let us first dispose of these
tipsy fellows. Then, before we part, I shall not be sorry to give you a
few words of advice."

"Well, I will wait."

Lorin then turned to his National Guards, who still kept the enrolled
Volunteers in subjection.

"Now," said he, to the latter, "have you had sufficient?"

"Yes, dog of a Girondin," replied the chief.

"You deceive yourself, my friend," said Lorin, coolly; "we are better
sans-culottes than yourselves, seeing that we belong to the club of
Thermopyles, of whose patriotism no one, I hope, entertains a doubt.
Let these citizens go," continued Lorin, "they resist no longer."

"It is not the less true that if this woman is an object of
suspicion--"

"If she was a suspicious character she would have made her escape
during this skirmish, and not, as you see she has done, waited till it
had terminated."

"Hum!" said one of the Volunteers, "What the Citizen Thermopyle
observes is quite true."

"Besides, we shall know, since my friend is going to conduct her to the
Poste, while we go and drink to the health of the nation."

"Are we going to drink?" said the chief.

"Certainly, I am very thirsty, and I know a pretty little cabaret at
the corner of the Rue Thomas du Louvre."

"Why did you not say so at once, Citizen? We are sorry to have doubted
your patriotism; and to prove it, let us, in the name of the nation and
the law, embrace each other as friends."

"Let us embrace," said Lorin.

And the enrolled Volunteers and the National Guards embraced with warm
enthusiasm. At this period the French people were as anxious to embrace
as to behead one another.

"Let us now go," cried the two united troops, "to the corner of the Rue
Thomas du Louvre."

"And we," said one of the wounded, in a plaintive voice, "do you intend
to abandon us here?"

"Ah, well! yes," said Lorin, "abandon the heroes who have fallen
bravely fighting for their country against patriots--it is true
by mistake, but still true for all that; we will send you some
wheelbarrows. Meanwhile you can sing the Marseillaise, it will divert
you."

Then approaching Maurice, who was waiting for him, with the unknown, at
the corner of the Rue du Coq, while the National Guards and enrolled
Volunteers arm-in-arm retraced their steps toward the square of the
Palais-Egalité,--

"Maurice," said he, "I promised you some counsel, and it is this.
Be persuaded to accompany us, rather than compromise yourself by
protecting this young woman, who, it is true, is very charming, and on
that account not the less to be suspected; for charming women who run
about the streets of Paris at midnight--"

"Sir," said the young woman, "judge me not from appearances, I implore
you."

"In the first place, you say _sir_, and that is a great fault. Do you
understand, Citizeness, what I say?"

"Of course I do, Citizen; but allow your friend to accomplish his kind
action."

"In what way?"

"By conducting me home, and protecting me on my road."

"Maurice, Maurice," said Lorin, "consider well what you are about; you
will compromise yourself terribly."

"I know it well," said the young man; "but what would you have me do?
If I leave the poor woman, she will be stopped at every step by the
patrols."

"Oh, yes, yes! while with you, sir,--while with you, Citizen, I meant
to say, I shall be safe."

"You hear," said Lorin, "safe! She then runs great danger?"

"My dear Lorin," said Maurice, "let us be just. She must be either a
good compatriot or an aristocrat. If she is an aristocrat, we have
erred in protecting her; if she is a good patriot, it is our duty to
preserve her."

"Your pardon, friend; I am sorry for Aristotle, but your logic is at
fault. See what he says:--

 "Iris my reason steals away,
 And yet she tells me to be wise;
 Oh, lady! I can only say,
 Then turn away those glorious eyes."

"Lorin," said Maurice, "a truce to Dorat, to Parny, and to
Gentil-Bernard, I pray you. Speak seriously; will you, or will you not,
give me the password?"

"That is to say, Maurice, you place me in this dilemma,--I must either
sacrifice my duty to my friend, or my friend to my duty; but I fear,
Maurice, my duty will fall the sacrifice."

"Decide, then, for one or the other, my friend; but in the name of
Heaven, decide quickly."

"You will not abuse it?"

"I promise you."

"That is not sufficient; swear!"

"Upon what?"

"Swear upon the altar of your country."

Lorin pulled off his hat, presenting to Maurice the side with the
cockade, and Maurice, finding the affair very simple, took, without
smiling, the oath required upon this improvised altar.

"Now, then," said Lorin, "this is the password--France and Lutèce;
perhaps you would say, France and Lucrèce; but let that pass, it is
Roman all the same."

"Fair Citizeness," said Maurice, "I am now at your service. Thanks,
Lorin."

"_Bon voyage_," cried Lorin, replacing on his head "the altar of his
country," and faithful to his Anacreontic taste, departed singing:--

   "Eleonora, Eleonora!
 Now I've taught you how to love,
   Tell your passionate adorer
 Does the lesson weary prove?"




CHAPTER III.

THE RUE DES FOSSES SAINT VICTOR.


Maurice finding himself alone with the young woman felt for the
moment deeply embarrassed. The fear of being duped, attracted by her
marvellous beauty, troubled his conscience as a pure and exalted
Republican, and caused him to hesitate when about to offer her the
support of his arm.

"Where are you going, Citizeness?" said he.

"Alas, sir, a long way from here," replied she.

"But how far?"

"By the side of the Jardin des Plantes."

"It is some distance; let us proceed on our way."

"Ah, sir!" said the unknown; "I plainly perceive I am a burden to you;
but indeed it is no ordinary danger that I incur. Were it not so,
believe me, I should not abuse your generosity."

"But, Madame," said Maurice, who during this _tête-à-tête_ had totally
forgotten the language imposed by the Republican vocabulary, and
returned to the language of a gentleman, "how is it, in all conscience,
that at this hour you are found in the streets of Paris, where, with
the exception of ourselves, you do not see a solitary individual?"

"I have told you, sir; I have been paying a visit to the Faubourg du
Roule. Leaving home at mid-day, and knowing nothing of what had taken
place, I returned in equal ignorance, all my time having been spent in
deep retirement."

"Yes," murmured Maurice, "in some retired house, the resort of the
aristocrats. Confess, Citizeness, that, while outwardly demanding my
protection, you laugh in your sleeve at my egregious folly."

"Why should I act thus?"

"You are aware that a Republican is your guide. Well, this Republican
betrays his cause, that is all."

"But, Citizen," quickly rejoined the unknown, "I, as well as you, love
the Republic; you labor under a mistake concerning me."

"Then, Citizeness, if you are a good patriot, you can have no cause for
concealment. Where do you come from?"

"Monsieur, excuse me."

There was in this "monsieur" so much sweetness and modesty of
expression, that Maurice believed it to be founded on some sentiment
concealed.

"Surely," said he, "this woman is returning from some assignation."

At this moment, without knowing why, he felt deeply oppressed at this
thought, and for a short time he remained silent.

When these two nocturnal promenaders had reached the Rue de la
Verrerie, after having encountered three or four patrols, who, thanks
to the password, allowed them free passage, the last watchman appeared
somewhat suspicious. Maurice found it necessary to give his name and
residence.

"That is all that is required from you," said the officer; "but the
citizeness, who is she?"

"The sister of my wife."

The officer permitted them to pass.

"You are then married, sir?" murmured the unknown.

"No, Madame; why do you think so?"

"Then," said she, laughing, "you had better have said I was your wife."

"Madame," said Maurice, "the name of wife is rather too sacred to be
lightly bestowed. I have not the honor of your acquaintance."

The unknown in her turn felt an oppression of the heart, and remained
silent and confused. At this moment they crossed the Bridge Marie. The
young woman quickened her pace as they approached the end of their
journey. They crossed the Bridge de la Tournelle.

"We are now, I believe, in your quarter," said Maurice, planting his
foot on the Quai Saint Bernard.

"Yes, Citizen," replied the young woman; "but it is precisely here I
most require your kind assistance."

"Really, Madame," said Maurice, "you forbid me to be indiscreet, yet do
all in your power to excite my curiosity. This is not generous. Grant
me your confidence. I have merited it, I think. Will you not do me the
honor to tell me to whom I speak?"

"You speak, sir," said the unknown, smiling, "to a woman whom you have
saved from the greatest danger she has ever encountered; to one who
owes you a debt of everlasting gratitude."

"I do not require so much, Madame; be less grateful, and pending the
second we shall yet be together, tell me your name."

"Impossible!"

"You would have told it nevertheless to the first sectionary, if you
had been taken to the station."

"No, never!" exclaimed the unknown.

"But in that case you would have gone to prison."

"I had considered all that."

"And prison at this moment--"

"Means the scaffold; I know all that."

"And you would have preferred the scaffold?"

"To treason,--to discover my name would be treason."

"I said truly, you compel me to act a singular part for a Republican!"

"You act the part of a truly generous man. You find a poor woman
subjected to insult; you do not contemn her because she might be 'one
of the people,' but that she may be exempted from fresh annoyances, to
save her from shipwreck, you reconduct her to the miserable quarter she
inhabits."

"As far as appearances go, you state the matter correctly, and I might
have credited you, had I never either seen you or heard you speak; but
your beauty and mode of expression stamp you as a woman of distinction,
and it is just this distinction, in opposition to your costume and this
miserable quarter, which proves to me that your absence from home at
this unseasonable hour conceals some mystery. You are silent. We will
speak no more. Are we far from your house, Madame?"

At this moment they entered the Rue des Fossés Saint Victor.

"You see that small dark building," said the unknown to Maurice,
pointing toward a house situated beyond the walls of the Jardin des
Plantes. "When we reach there you must quit me."

"Very well, Madame, issue your orders; I am here only to obey."

"You are angry."

"I angry?--not the least in the world; besides, what does it matter to
you?"

"It matters much, since I have yet a favor to ask of you."

"What is that?"

"A kind and frank adieu,--the farewell of a friend."

"The farewell of a friend! Oh, Madame, you do me too great an honor. A
singular friend, not to know the name of his friend, who even conceals
from him where she resides, no doubt from the fear of being too much
troubled with his company."

The young woman hung down her head, but did not reply to this sarcasm.

"As to the rest, Madame," continued Maurice, "if I have discovered a
secret, I did so involuntarily, and without any effort on my part to do
so."

"I have now reached my destination, sir," said the unknown.

They were opposite the old Rue Saint Jacques, lined with tall
dark-looking houses, intersected by obscure narrow alleys, leading to
streets occupied by manufactories and tanyards, as within two steps ran
the little river De Bièvre.

"Here!" said Maurice, "is it here that you live?"

"Yes."

"Impossible!"

"It is so, nevertheless. And now, adieu! my brave chevalier, my
generous protector, adieu!"

"Adieu! Madame," said Maurice, with slight irony of tone, "but first
again assure me you run no further risk of danger."

"None whatever."

"In that case I will leave you."

Maurice then bowed coldly and retired a few paces. The unknown remained
standing for an instant in the same place.

"I do not like to take my leave of you thus," said she. "Come, Monsieur
Maurice, your hand."

Maurice approached, and held out his hand, and then felt the young
woman slip a ring on his finger.

"Oh, Citizen! what have you done? Do you not perceive that you have
lost one of your rings?"

"Sir, you wrong me much."

"The crime of ingratitude is wanting in me; is it not so, Madame?"

"Come, I beseech you, sir--my friend, do not leave me thus. What do you
wish to know? What do you ask?"

"Payment--is it not so?" said the young man, bitterly.

"No," said the unknown, with a bewitching expression; "but forgive me
the secrecy I am obliged to preserve toward you."

Maurice, seeing in the obscurity those beautiful eyes wet with
tears, feeling the pressure of that soft hand reposing between his
own, hearing the accents of that persuasive voice, which had almost
descended to the depths of prayer, felt his anger all at once yield to
admiration.

"What do I ask?" said he. "To see you again."

"Impossible! utterly impossible."

"If only for once--one hour, a minute, a second."

"I tell you it is impossible."

"Do you tell me seriously," said Maurice, "that I shall never see you
again!"

"Never," said the unknown, in a desponding tone.

"Madame," said Maurice, "you certainly jest with me." Then, raising his
noble head, he shook his hanging curls like a man wishing to escape
from some power which, in spite of himself, still bound him. The
unknown regarded him with an undefinable expression. It was evident she
had not altogether escaped the sentiment she had inspired.

"Listen," said she, after a moment's silence, interrupted only by a
sigh, which Maurice had in vain endeavored to suppress. "Swear to me,
upon your honor, to shut your eyes the moment I desire you to do so,
and to keep them closed while you count sixty. Mind, upon your honor."

"If I swear, what will happen to me?"

"It will happen that I will prove my gratitude to you in a manner that
I faithfully promise you I will never again to any other person, should
he even do more for me than you have done, which would be no easy
matter."

"But, at least, am I not to know--"

"No; trust to me. You will see--"

"In truth, Madame, I know not whether you are angel or demon."

"Will you swear it?"

"Yes; I swear to do as you desire me."

"Whatever occurs, you will not open your eyes--whatever happens. You
understand? even if you should feel yourself struck with a poniard."

"You bewilder me. My word of honor required with so much urgency?"

"Swear, then, Monsieur. It appears to me that you run no great risk in
so doing."

"Well, I swear," said Maurice, "whatever may happen," closing his eyes.

He hesitated.

"Let me see you only once more--only once more," said he. "I entreat
you."

The young woman let fall her hood, with a smile not quite free from
coquetry, when, by the light of the moon, which at this moment shed
its lustre between two clouds, he again beheld, for the second time,
the raven hair hanging in masses of shining curls, the beautifully
arched and pencilled eyebrows overshadowing the almond-shaped eyes, so
soft and languishing, an exquisitely formed nose, and lips fresh and
brilliant as coral.

"Oh, you are beautiful, lovely, divine!" said Maurice.

"Shut your eyes," said the unknown.

Maurice obeyed.

The young woman took both his hands within her own, and placed him in
the desired position.

Suddenly he felt a warm perfume pervade his face, and lips slightly
touch his mouth, leaving between his lips the disputed ring.

All passed rapid as thought. Maurice experienced a sensation almost
amounting to pain, so deep was it and unexpected, penetrating to his
very inmost soul.

He made a brusque movement, and extended his arms before him.

"Your oath!" said a voice, already in the distance.

Maurice clasped his hands over his eyes the more strenuously to resist
the strong inclination he felt to perjure himself. He counted no more;
he thought no more, but remained tottering, his nerves totally unstrung.

In about an instant he heard a noise like that of a door closing a
few paces distant from him; then again everything was silent. Then he
removed his hand, and opened his eyes, looking round about him like a
man just awakened from a deep sleep, and might, perhaps, have fancied
all that had occurred a passing dream, had he not held between his lips
the identical ring, proving that the adventure, however incredible, was
an incontestable reality.




CHAPTER IV.

MANNERS OF THE TIMES.


When Maurice came to himself, he looked around, but saw only the
gloomy, dirty alleys extending to his right and left. He essayed to
find out exactly where he was, that he might recognize it again; but
his mind was disturbed, the night was dark, and the moon, which for a
moment had appeared to light up the lovely face of the fair unknown,
had again retired behind the clouds. The young man, after a moment of
cruel incertitude, retraced his steps toward his own house, situated in
the Rue de Roule.

Arriving at the Rue Sainte Avoie, Maurice was much surprised at the
number of patrols in motion in that quarter of the Temple.

"What is the matter now, Sergeant?" inquired he, of the chief of
patrol, who, all on the alert, had just been thoroughly searching the
Rue des Fontaines.

"What is it?" said the sergeant. "It is this, _mon officier_. It was
intended this night to carry off the woman Capet, and the whole nest
besides."

"How was that?"

"A band of Royalists had, I do not know how, procured the password, and
introduced themselves into the Temple in the costume of chasseurs of
the National Guard. Fortunately, he who represented the corporal, when
speaking to the officer on guard, addressed him as 'Monsieur.' He sold
himself,--the aristocrat!"

"The devil!" said Maurice; "and have they not arrested the
conspirators?"

"No. The Royalists reached the street, and dispersed."

"And is there any hope of capturing any of these fellows?"

"There is only one among the number of sufficient importance to
arrest,--that is the chief, a very slight man, who had been introduced
among the men on guard by one of the municipals of the service. We gave
the villain chase, but he found a door behind, and fled through the
Madelonnettes."

Under any other circumstances, Maurice would have remained for the
rest of the night with the patriots who guarded the safety of the
Republic; but since one short hour, love of country was no longer his
sole engrossing thought. He continued his way, and the tidings he had
just learned were soon banished from his mind by the recent stirring
events in which he had himself taken so active a part. Besides, these
pretended attempts at rescue had become very frequent, and the patriots
themselves were aware that under certain circumstances politicians made
use of them to advance their own ends; therefore, this news caused our
young Republican no great disquietude.

On returning home, Maurice found his "official" (at this epoch they
had no longer servants),--Maurice, say we, found his official waiting,
but who, while waiting, had fallen asleep, and while sleeping snored
uneasily. He awoke him, and with all due regard for his fellow-man,
made him pull off his boots, then dismissed him, that he might not
interrupt his cogitations, and jumping into bed, it being very late,
and he also having youth on his side, slept soundly, notwithstanding
the preoccupation of his thoughts.

The next day he discovered a letter on his _table-de-nuit_. This letter
was written in a clear, elegant hand, but unknown to him. He looked
at the seal. Engraved on it was the single English word, "Nothing."
The letter merely contained these words, "Thank you. Everlasting
gratitude in exchange for everlasting forgetfulness." Maurice summoned
his domestic (the true patriot never rang, the bell denoted servility;
indeed, many officials only entered the service of their masters on
this express condition).

The official of Maurice had received, nearly thirty years before, at
the baptismal font, the name of John; but in '92 he was, by private
authority, rebaptized (John savoring of Aristocracy and Deism), and now
called himself "Scævola."

"Scævola," demanded Maurice, "do you know where this letter came from?"

"No, Citizen."

"Who brought it to you?"

"The concierge."

"And who brought it to him?"

"A messenger, no doubt, since it has no post-mark."

"Go down, and request the concierge to walk up."

The concierge complied, because it was Maurice who made the request,
and he was much beloved by all the officials with whom he was concerned
in any way; but at the same time the concierge declared that had it
been any other tenant, he should have asked him to walk down.

The concierge was called Aristide.

Maurice interrogated him. It was a stranger who had brought the letter,
about eight in the morning. The young man multiplied his questions, and
varied them in every possible shape, but could elicit nothing further.
Maurice requested his acceptance of six francs, also desiring, if this
stranger again presented himself, that he would follow him, without
appearing to do so, and inform him (Maurice) where he went.

We hasten to say, that, much to the satisfaction of Aristide, who felt
himself rather insulted by this proposition, the man returned no more.

Maurice remained alone, crushing the letter with vexation; he drew the
ring from his finger, and placed it with the crumpled letter upon the
_table-de-nuit_, then turned toward the wall, with the foolish idea of
sleeping afresh; but at the end of an hour Maurice, relinquishing his
attempted coolness, kissed the ring and re-read the letter. The ring
was a splendid sapphire; the letter, as we have said, was a charming
little billet, displaying its aristocracy in every line.

As Maurice re-read and examined it, the door opened. Maurice hastily
replaced the ring on his finger, and concealed the note under his
pillow. Was this the modesty of newly awakened love; or was it the
shame of a patriot, who would not wish it to be known that he was in
relation with people imprudent enough to write such a billet, of which
the perfume alone was sufficient to compromise both the hand that
penned it and the hand that received it?

He who entered was a young man attired as a patriot, but a patriot
of surpassing elegance. His jacket was composed of fine cloth, his
breeches of cashmere, and his stockings of fine striped silk. As to
his bonnet, it might have shamed from the elegance of its form and
splendid purple color even those of the Trojan Paris himself. Added
to all this, he carried in his belt a pair of pistols of the royal
manufacture of Versailles, and a short sabre like those of the pupils
of Champ-de-Mars.

"Ah! thou sleepest, Brutus," said the new-comer, "and the country is in
danger. _Fi, donc!_"

"No, Lorin," said Maurice, laughing, "I do not sleep, I dream."

"Yes, I understand, of Eucharis."

"Well, as for me, I cannot understand."

"Bah!"

"Of whom do you speak? Who is this Eucharis?"

"Why the woman--"

"What woman?"

"The woman of the Rue Saint Honoré,--the woman of the patrol, the
unknown, the woman for whom you and I risked our heads last night."

"Oh, yes," said Maurice, who knew perfectly well what his friend would
say, and only feigned ignorance, "the unknown."

"Well, who was she?"

"I know nothing about her."

"Was she pretty?"

"Pshaw!" said Maurice, pouting his lips disdainfully.

"A poor woman forgotten in some love adventure.

 "Yes; weak creatures that we are,
 'Tis Love that ever tortures man."

"Possibly," said Maurice, to whom such an idea was at this moment
peculiarly repugnant, and who would have much preferred finding the
unknown to be even a conspirator rather than a light woman.

"And where does she live?"

"I know nothing concerning her."

"Come, now; you know nothing, that's impossible!"

"Why so?"

"You escorted her back."

"She escaped from me at the Bridge Marie--"

"Escaped from you!" cried Lorin, with a roar of laughter; "a woman
escape from you!

 "Say, can the trembling dove elude
 The vulture,--tyrant of the air;
 The fawn, on whom the tiger rude
 Springs from his solitary lair."

"Lorin," said Maurice, "I wish you would accustom yourself to speak
like other people. You annoy me horribly with your atrocious poetry."

"To speak like other people, indeed! Now, it appears to me I speak
better than most people. I speak as the Citizen Demoustier, both in
prose and poetry. As for my poetry, _mon cher_, I know a certain Emilie
who does not consider it so bad. But to return to yours."

"My poetry!"

"No; your Emilie."

"Have I an Emilie?"

"Ah, ah! your gazelle may have turned tigress, and shown her teeth in a
manner that may not have pleased you, although in love."

"I in love?" said Maurice, shaking his head.

"Yes, you in love.

 "Deadly are the bolts of Jove,
 But deadlier far the shafts of love."

"Lorin," said Maurice, arming himself with a pipe-key which lay upon
the table; "I swear that if you will spout verses I will whistle."

"Then let us talk politics; besides, that brought me here. Have you
heard the news?"

"I know that Widow Capet wished to escape."

"Oh, that is nothing!"

"What more is there, then?"

"The famous Chevalier de Maison-Rouge is in Paris!"

"Is that true?" said Maurice, raising himself to a sitting posture.
"When did he come?"

"Yesterday evening."

"But how?"

"Disguised as a chasseur of the National Guard. A woman who is thought
to be an aristocrat, disguised as a woman of the people, took him
the clothes to the barrier gate; an instant afterward they came in
arm-in-arm. It was not till after they had passed that the suspicion of
the sentinel was excited. He had seen the woman pass with a bundle and
repass accompanied by a soldier, when it suddenly struck him something
was wrong, and he ran after them. They had disappeared in a hôtel of
the Rue Saint Honoré, where the door was opened as if by magic. The
hôtel had a second point of egress, leading on to the Champs Elysées.
_Bon soir_ to the Chevalier de Maison-Rouge and his companion; they had
both vanished. Our rulers will demolish the hôtel and guillotine the
proprietor, but that will not deter the chevalier from renewing the
attempt which has hitherto failed; it is four months since his first
failure, and yesterday was his second."

"Is he not arrested?" demanded Maurice.

"Ah! well. Yes, _mon cher_, as well attempt to stop Proteus, arrest
Proteus; you know the trouble Aristæus had to accomplish it,--

 "'Pastor Aristæus, fugiens Peneïa Tempe.'"

"Take care," said Maurice, carrying the key to his mouth.

"Take care yourself, for this time you will not whistle at me, but at
Virgil."

"That is very true, and as long as you do not translate him I have
nothing to say. Now, to return to the Chevalier de Maison-Rouge."

"We agree that he is a brave man."

"The fact is, that to undertake such things he must possess immense
courage."

"Or intense adoration."

"Do you believe, then, in the love of the chevalier for the queen?"

"I do not believe it. I only mention what report says. Besides, she
has turned the brains of so many others, that this would not be at all
surprising. She once fascinated Barnave, they say."

"Never mind; the chevalier must have had confederates even in the
Temple."

"Very possibly,--

 "Love breaks through bars,
 And laughs at bolts."

"Lorin!"

"Ah! it is true."

"Then you think like the rest?"

"Why not?"

"Because according to your account the queen must have had already two
hundred lovers."

"Two, three, four hundred. She is quite handsome enough for that. I do
not say that she loves them; but in short, they love her. All the world
beholds the sun, but the sun does not see all the world."

"You say, then, that the Chevalier de Maison-Rouge--"

"I say they are on his track at this moment, and if he escapes this
time the bloodhounds of the Republic, he will be a cunning fox."

"And what does the Commune in all this affair?"

"The Commune is about to issue a decree, by which every house (like
an open register) must display on the front the name of every
inhabitant, both male and female. This is realizing the dream of the
ancients,--why should there not be a window in every breast, that all
the world may see what passes there?"

"An excellent idea that," said Maurice.

"To place windows in men's breasts?"

"No; but to place a list of names on every door."

Maurice felt, in fact, that this might be the means of assisting him to
discover the unknown, or at least afford him some clew whereby he might
be able to trace her.

"Is it not so?" said Lorin. "I have already betted this measure
will secure us a batch of five hundred aristocrats. By the bye, we
have received this morning, at our club, a deputation of enrolled
Volunteers; they arrived conducted by our adversaries of last night,
whom I had not abandoned till dead drunk,--they came, I tell you, with
garlands of flowers and immortal crowns."

"Indeed," replied Maurice, laughing; "and how many were there?"

"They were thirty, and were shaved, wearing bouquets in their
button-holes.

"'Citizens of the Club of Thermopyles,' said the orator, 'as true
patriots, we wish the union of Frenchmen not to be interrupted by any
misunderstanding; we therefore come to fraternize with you anew.'"

"Well, what then?"

"Then we again fraternized, and in this reiteration, as Diafoirus
expresses himself, we raised an altar to the country, with the table of
the secretary and two carafes in which the nosegays were deposited. As
you were the hero of the feat, you were three times summoned to appear,
that you might be crowned; but as you did not reply, seeing you were
not present, and it was necessary to crown something, they crowned the
bust of Washington. This was the order of the ceremony."

As Lorin concluded this statement, which at this epoch had nothing of
burlesque, a noise was heard proceeding from the street; and drums,
first heard in the distance, now approached nearer and nearer. This, at
that period, was the common way of issuing general orders.

"What is all that?" said Maurice.

"The proclamation of the decree of the Commune," said Lorin.

"I will run to the station," said Maurice, leaping from his bed, and
calling his servant to assist him.

"I will return home and go to bed," said Lorin. "I had not two hours'
sleep last night, thanks to those outrageous Volunteers. If they only
fight a little, let me sleep; but if they fight much, come and fetch
me."

"But why are you so smart to-day?" said Maurice, eyeing him all over as
he rose to withdraw.

"Because on my way here I am obliged to pass the 'Rue Béthisy,' and in
the Rue Béthisy, on the third flat, is a window which always opens when
I pass."

"Then you do not fear being taken for a fop?"

"I a fop! I am, on the contrary, known for a French sans-culotte. But
one must make some sacrifice to the softer sex. The worship of the
country does not exclude that of love; indeed, one commands the other:--

 "Our Republicans profess
   We should follow ancient lore;
 Beauty we prize none the less,
   That we love our freedom more.

Dare to whistle to that, and I denounce you as an aristocrat. Adieu,
_mon ami_."

Lorin held out his hand to Maurice, which the young secretary cordially
shook, and went out thinking of a sonnet to Chloris.




CHAPTER V.

WHAT SORT OF MAN THE CITIZEN MAURICE LINDEY WAS.


While Maurice Lindey, having dressed quickly, proceeds to the section
of the Rue Lepelletier, of which, as we already know, he was secretary,
we will endeavor to lay before the public the antecedents of this young
man, introduced upon the scene by one of those impulses so familiar to
powerful and generous natures.

The young man had spoken the plain truth the preceding evening, when
in reply he had said his name was Maurice Lindey, resident in the Rue
du Roule. He might have added he was a child of that half aristocracy
accorded to the gentlemen of the robe. His ancestors, for two hundred
years, had distinguished themselves by that invariable parliamentary
opposition which had rendered so illustrious the names of Molé and
Maupeou. His father, honest Lindey, who had passed his life grumbling
against despotism, when on the fourteenth of July, '89, the Bastille
had fallen by the hands of the people, died from sudden fright and the
shock of seeing despotism replaced by a liberty militant, leaving his
only son independent in fortune and republican in principle.

The Revolution which had closely followed this great event found
Maurice in all the vigor and maturity of manhood befitting a champion
about to enter the lists; his republican education improved by his
assiduous attendance of the clubs, and by his reading all the pamphlets
of that period. God alone knows how many Maurice had read. Deep and
rational contempt for the hierarchy, philosophical consideration of the
elements which form the social body, absolute denial of all nobility
which is not personal, impartial appreciation of the past, ardor for
new ideas, a sympathy with the people which was blended with a belief
in aristocratic organizations,--such were the morals, not of the hero
we should have chosen, but of him whom the journal from which we draw
our facts has given us as the hero of our narrative.

As to his personal appearance he was in height five feet eight inches,
from twenty-five to twenty-six years of age, and muscular as Hercules.
His beauty was of the cast characteristic of the Frank,--that is to
say, fair complexion, blue eyes, curling chestnut hair, rosy cheeks,
and ivory teeth.

After the portrait of the man comes the position of the citizen.
Maurice, not rich, but still independent, bore a name much respected,
and above all popular. Maurice, known by his liberal education and
principles still more liberal than his education,--Maurice placed
himself, so to speak, at the head of a party composed of all the young
citizen-patriots. It was well that with the sans-culottes he passed for
rather lukewarm, and with the sectionaries as rather foppish. But the
sans-culottes no longer remembered his lukewarmness when they saw him
snap in twain the knotted cudgels, and the sectionaries pardoned his
elegance when he one day scientifically planted a blow between two eyes
that had been for some time watching him in an offensive manner.

And now for the physical, moral, and civic combined. Maurice had
assisted at the taking of the Bastille; he had been on the expedition
to Versailles, had fought like a lion on the 10th of August; and in
this memorable journey, it is only justice to observe, he had killed
as many patriots as Swiss,--not being more willing to tolerate an
assassin in a blouse than an enemy to the Republic in a red coat. It
was he who in order to exhort the defenders of the chȃteau to surrender
themselves, and to prevent the shedding of blood, threw himself
before the mouth of a cannon which a Parisian artillery-man was about
to discharge; it was he who by a window first entered the Louvre,
regardless of the firing of five hundred Swiss and as many gentlemen
in ambush; and when he perceived the signal of surrender, his avenging
sword had already cut through more than ten uniforms. Then, seeing his
friends leisurely massacring some prisoners, who having thrown down
their arms and clasping their hands supplicated for life, he furiously
attacked these friends, which gained for him a reputation worthy of
the good days of Rome and of Greece. War declared, Maurice enrolled
himself, and departed for the frontier in the rank of lieutenant, with
the first 1500 volunteers the city sent against the invaders, which
volunteers were each day to be followed by 1500 others.

At the first battle in which he assisted--that is to say at
Jemappes--he was struck by a ball, which after having divided the
muscles of his shoulder lodged against the bone. The representative
of the people knew Maurice, and sent him back to Paris for surgical
treatment.

For a whole month, consumed by fever, he tossed upon his bed of
suffering; but in January was able to resume his command, if not by
name, at least in fact, of the club of Thermopyles,--that is to say
of one hundred young men of the Parisian citizens, armed to oppose
any attempt in favor of the tyrant Capet. And yet more, Maurice, with
contracted brows, dilated eyes, and pale face, his heart filled with a
strange mixture of moral hatred and physical pity, assisted, sword in
hand, at the execution of the king, and perhaps he alone of all that
throng remained silent when the head of the son of Saint Louis fell
on the scaffold; and then Maurice only raised on high his redoubtable
sabre, while his friends, loudly shouting _Vive la liberté_, omitted to
notice that on this occasion at least one voice did not unite itself
with their own.

This was the individual who on the morning of the 14th of March bent
his steps toward the Rue Lepelletier, and of whose stormy career our
history will furnish further details.

Toward 10 o'clock, Maurice reached the section of which he was the
secretary. The commotion was great. The question in agitation was, to
vote an address to the Convention in order to repress the conspiracies
of the Girondins. They impatiently awaited the arrival of Maurice.

The only subject talked about was the return of the Chevalier de
Maison-Rouge, the audacity with which this arch-conspirator had for the
second time entered Paris, where he well knew a price was now fixed on
his head.

To this circumstance was attributed the attempt made the preceding
evening on the Temple, and each one expressed his hatred and
indignation against the traitors and aristocrats.

Contrary to the general expectation, Maurice appeared preoccupied and
silent, wrote down the proclamation, finished his employment in three
hours, demanded if the sitting had terminated, and receiving an answer
in the affirmative, took his hat, and proceeded toward the Rue Saint
Honoré.

Arrived there, Paris appeared quite different to him. He revisited
the corner of the Rue du Coq, where during the night he had first
seen the lovely unknown struggling in the hands of soldiers. Thence
he proceeded to the Pont Marie, the same road he had travelled by her
side, stopping where the different patrols had stopped them, repeating
in the same places (as if they had preserved an echo of their words)
the sentences exchanged between them; only it was now one o'clock
in the afternoon, and the sun, shining brilliantly upon this walk,
reminded him at every step of the occurrences of the past night.

Maurice crossed the bridges, and entered directly the Rue Victor, as it
was then called.

"Poor woman," murmured Maurice, "she did not reflect yesterday that the
duration of the night was only twelve hours, and that her secret would
not in all probability last longer than the night. By the light of the
sun, I will endeavor to find the door through which she vanished, and
who knows but I may perhaps even see her at a window?"

He then entered the old Rue Saint Jacques, and placed himself in the
same spot as the unknown had placed him on the preceding evening. For
an instant he closed his eyes, perhaps foolishly expecting the kiss he
had then received would again impress his lips. But he felt nothing but
the remembrance; 'tis true that burned yet.

Maurice opened his eyes and saw two little streets, one to the right,
the other to the left. They were muddy, dirty, and badly paved,
furnished with barriers, cut by little bridges thrown over a kennel.
There might be seen the beams of arches, nooks, corners, and twenty
doors propped up, fast falling into decay. Here was hard labor in all
its misery, here was misery in all its hideousness. Here and there was
a garden enclosed by a fence, others by palisades of poles, some by
walls; skins were hanging in the out-houses, diffusing around that
disgusting odor always arising from a tanyard.

Maurice's search lasted for nearly two hours, during which he found
nothing, and divined nothing, and ten times he had retraced his steps
to consider where he was. But all his efforts were in vain, his search
was a fruitless one, as all trace of the young woman seemed to have
been effaced by the fog and rain of the previous night.

"Truly," said Maurice, "I must be in a dream. This filthy place could
not for an instant have afforded refuge for my beautiful fairy of last
night."

There was, in this wild Republican, more real poetry than in his friend
of the Anacreontic quatrains, since he clung to this idea, fearful to
sully, even in thought, the spotless purity of the unknown. But all
hope had now forsaken him.

"Adieu," said he; "mysterious beauty, you have treated me like a child
and a fool. Would she have led me here if she really lived in this
wretched locality? No; she would only pass as a swan over the infected
marsh, and like a bird in the air leave no trace behind."




CHAPTER VI.

THE TEMPLE.


The same day and the same hour, when Maurice, disappointed and unhappy,
repassed the Bridge de la Tournelle, several municipals, accompanied by
Santerre, Commandant of the Parisian National Guard, made a visit of
inquiry to the Temple, which had been transformed into a prison, since
the 13th of August, 1792.

The visit was made especially to a portion of the third story,
consisting of an antechamber and three rooms. One of these chambers was
occupied by two females, a young girl, and a child of nine years old,
all dressed in mourning. The elder of the females was about seven or
eight and thirty. She was seated at a table reading.

The second, whose age appeared twenty-eight or twenty-nine, was engaged
on a piece of tapestry.

The young girl, who was about fourteen, was seated near the child, who,
ill and in bed, closed his eyes as if asleep, although that was utterly
impossible, owing to the noise made by the municipals. While some moved
the beds, others examined their clothes and linen; the rest, when
their search was concluded, remained rudely staring at the unfortunate
prisoners, who never even raised their eyes,--the one from her book,
the other from her embroidery, and the third from her brother.

The eldest of these women was tall, handsome, and very pale. She
appeared to concentrate all her attention on her book, although in all
probability her eyes read, but not her mind. One of the municipals
approached her, brutally snatched away her book, and flung it into the
middle of the room. The prisoner stretched her hand across the table,
took up another book, and continued to read.

The Montagnard made a furious gesture, as if he would take away the
second, as he had the first; but at this attempt, which startled the
prisoner at her embroidery near the window, the young girl sprang
forward, and encircling the reader's head with her arms, weeping,
exclaimed, "My poor mother! my poor mother!" and then embraced her. As
she did so the prisoner placed her mouth to her ear, and whispered:
"Marie, there is a letter concealed in the stove; remove it."

"Come! come!" said the municipal, brutally dragging the young girl
toward him, and separating her from her mother, "shall you soon have
finished embracing?"

"Sir," said the girl, "has the Convention decreed that children shall
not embrace their mothers?"

"No; but it has decreed that traitors, aristocrats, and _ci-devants_
shall be punished. That is why I am here to interrogate you. Answer,
Antoinette."

She who was thus grossly accosted did not even deign to look at her
examiner, but turned her head aside, while a flush passed over her
face, pale with grief and furrowed with tears.

"It is impossible," said he, "that you are ignorant of the attempt last
night. Whence came it?"

The prisoners still maintained silence.

"Answer, Antoinette," said Santerre, approaching her, without remarking
the almost frenzied horror which had seized the young woman at sight of
this man, who, on the morning of the 21st of January, conducted Louis
XVI. from the Temple to the scaffold. "Reply. They were conspiring
last night against the Republic, and seeking your escape from the
captivity in which you are kept till you receive that punishment of
your crimes which the will of the people may inflict upon you. Tell me,
do you know who are the conspirators?"

Marie started at the harsh tone of that voice, which she endeavored to
fly from by removing her chair to the greatest distance possible, but
replied no more to this question than to the former ones, paid no more
deference to Santerre than she had done to the municipal.

"You are then determined not to reply?" said Santerre, stamping his
foot furiously.

The prisoner took up a third volume from the table, Santerre turned
himself away. The brutal power of this man who commanded 80,000 men,
who had only need of a gesture to drown the voice of the dying Louis
XVI., was defeated by the dignity of a poor prisoner, whose head he
could cause to fall, but whose will he could not bend.

"And you, Elizabeth," said he, addressing the other lady, who at that
instant ceased from her embroidery to join her hands in prayer, not to
these men, but to God, "will you reply?"

"I do not know what you ask," said she; "therefore I cannot reply."

"_Morbleu!_ Citizen Capet," said Santerre, impatiently, "I think what
I say is sufficiently clear too. I again tell you, that yesterday an
attempt was made for your escape; and you certainly must know the
culprits."

"Having no communication with those outside, Monsieur, we cannot
possibly tell what people do, either for or against us."

"Very well," said the municipal; "we will now hear what your nephew
will say."

And he approached the bed of the young dauphin. At this menace, Marie
Antoinette suddenly rose.

"Monsieur," said she, "my son is ill, and now asleep--do not wake him."

"Reply then."

"I know nothing."

The municipal walked straight to the bed of the little prisoner, who,
as we have said, feigned sleep.

"Come, wake up, Capet," said he, shaking him roughly.

The child opened his eyes and smiled.

The municipals then surrounded his bed.

The queen, agitated with fear and grief, made a sign to her daughter,
who, profiting by this moment, glided from the apartment into the room
adjoining, opened the mouth of the stove, drew out a letter and burned
it; then, reentering the room, reassured her mother with a glance.

"What do you want with me?" asked the sick child.

"To inquire if you heard nothing during the night?"

"No; I was asleep."

"You are very fond of sleep, it seems."

"Yes; for when I sleep I dream."

"And what do you dream?"

"That I again see my father, whom you killed."

"Then you heard nothing!" said Santerre, quickly.

"Nothing."

"These wolf's cubs are, in truth, well-agreed with the she-wolf," said
the municipal, furious with rage. "There has been, notwithstanding, a
plot."

The queen smiled.

"She defies us, the Austrian!" cried the municipal. "Well, since it is
thus, let us execute in all its rigor the decree of the Commune. Get
up, Capet."

"What would you do?" said the queen, forgetting herself. "Do you not
see my son is ill, and suffering from fever? Do you wish to kill him?"

"Your son," said the municipal, "is the cause of constant alarm to the
Council of the Temple; he is the point at which all the conspirators
aim, and flatter themselves they shall carry you all off together.
Well, let them come. Tison--call Tison."

Tison was a species of journeyman, charged with all the heavy household
work in the prison. He appeared. He was a man of forty years old,
much sunburnt, of a rude and ferocious aspect, with matted black hair
overhanging his eyebrows.

"Tison," said Santerre, "who came yesterday to bring the prisoners'
food?"

Tison gave the name.

"And their linen, who brought it to them?"

"My daughter."

"Then your daughter is a laundress?"

"Certainly."

"And you gave her the washing of the prisoners?"

"Why not? She might as well gain that as another; it is no longer the
tyrant's money, but belongs to the nation, who pays for them."

"You were told to examine the linen with the greatest attention."

"Well, do I ever fail in my duty? In proof of which, they had yesterday
a handkerchief tied in two knots. I took it to the Council, who ordered
my wife to undo the knots, iron, and return it to Madame Capet, without
saying anything about it."

At this remark of two knots being tied in the pocket-handkerchief, the
queen trembled, the pupils of her eyes dilated, and she and Madame
Elizabeth exchanged hasty glances.

"Tison," said Santerre, "your daughter is a person of whose patriotism
no one can entertain a doubt; but when she leaves the Temple to-day she
returns there no more."

"Ah, _mon Dieu_!" said Tison, terrified, "what are you saying to me?
Shall I not see my daughter except when I go out?"

"You shall go out no more," said Santerre.

Tison looked wildly around, without allowing his eye to remain fixed
on any particular object, and suddenly exclaimed, "I am not to go
out; that is it, is it? Well, then, I will go out altogether. Give me
my dismissal. I am neither traitor nor aristocrat, that I should be
detained in prison. I tell you I will go out."

"Citizen," said Santerre, "obey the orders of the Commune, and be
silent; or I tell you it may be all the worse for you. Remain here and
watch all that passes. There is an eye on you. I warn you."

During this time the queen, who thought herself for a moment forgotten,
recovered by degrees, and replaced her son in his bed.

"Desire your wife to come up," said the municipal to Tison.

He obeyed without a word. The threats of Santerre had rendered him as
meek as a lamb.

Tison's wife came up.

"Come here, Citizeness," said Santerre; "we are going into the
antechamber; during that time, search all the prisoners."

"Listen, wife," said Tison; "they are not going to permit our daughter
to come to the Temple any more."

"What! they will not permit our daughter to come here! Then we shall
see her no more?"

Tison mournfully shook his head.

"What do you say to this?"

"I say we shall make a report to the Council of the Temple, and the
Council will decide it. In the mean time--"

"In the mean time I will see my daughter again."

"Silence," said Santerre, "you were brought here for the purpose of
searching the prisoners; search them, then, and afterward we shall
see--"

"But--now--"

"Oh, oh!" said Santerre, knitting his brows, "you are contaminated, it
appears to me."

"Do as the Citizen General tells you, wife," Tison said; "afterward, we
shall see."

And Tison regarded Santerre with a humble smile.

"Very well," said the woman; "go, then, I am ready to search."

The men went out.

"My dear Madame Tison," said the queen, "you know--"

"I only know, Citizeness Capet," said the horrible woman, gnashing her
teeth, "that you are the cause of all the misery of the people; and
also that I have reason to suspect you, and you know it."

Four men waited at the door, to assist Tison's wife, if the queen
offered any resistance.

The search commenced on the queen.

There was found on her person a handkerchief tied in three knots, which
unfortunately appeared a reply to the one spoken of by Tison; a pencil,
a scapulary, and some sealing-wax.

"Ah! I knew it," said Tison's wife; "I have often told the municipals
she wrote, the Austrian! The other day I found a lump of sealing-wax in
the socket of the candlestick."

"Ah, Madame," said the queen, in a supplicating tone, "only show the
scapulary, I entreat you."

"Yes," said the woman, "I feel pity for you, who have felt so much pity
for me to take my daughter from me."

Madame Elizabeth and Madame Royale had nothing found upon them.

The woman Tison recalled the municipals, who entered, Santerre at their
head. She showed them the articles found upon the queen, which, as they
passed from hand to hand, afforded subject for an infinite variety of
conjectures; but the handkerchief tied in three knots excited, above
all, the imagination of these persecutors of the royal race.

"Now," said Santerre, "we are going to read the decree of the
Convention to you."

"What decree?" demanded the queen.

"The decree which orders you to be separated from your son."

"Is it, then, true that this decree exists?"

"Yes; the Convention has too much regard for the health of a child
confided to its guardianship, to leave him in the care of a mother so
depraved."

The eyes of the queen flashed lightning.

"But make some accusation at least, tigers that you are."

"That is not at all difficult," said a municipal; and he pronounced one
of those infamous accusations brought by Suetonius against Agrippina.

"Oh!" cried the queen, standing, pale with indignation, "I appeal from
it to the heart of every mother."

"That is all very fine," said a municipal; "but we have already been
here two hours, and cannot lose the whole day. Get up, Capet, and
follow us."

"Never, never!" cried the queen, rushing between the municipals and
the young Louis, and preparing to defend the approach to his bed, as a
tigress the entrance to her den. "Never will I permit you to carry away
my child!"

"Oh, Messieurs," said Madame Elizabeth, clasping her hands in the most
touching attitude of prayer, "Messieurs, in the name of Heaven, have
pity on us two mothers."

"Then speak," said Santerre; "state the names, avow the project of your
accomplices; explain what they wished to intimate by the knots made in
the pocket-handkerchief brought with your linen by Tison's daughter,
and the meaning of those tied in the handkerchief found in your pocket,
and on these conditions I will leave you your child."

A look from Madame Elizabeth seemed to implore the queen to submit to
this dreadful sacrifice.

But quietly brushing from her eye a tear which sparkled like a diamond,
"Adieu, my son!" cried she; "never forget your father who is in heaven,
or your mother who will soon join him there, and never omit to repeat
morning and evening the prayer I have taught you. Adieu! my son."

She gave him a last kiss; then rising calm and inflexible, "I know
nothing, Messieurs," said she, "do as you please."

But the queen must have required more fortitude than is contained in
the heart of a woman, and above all of a mother. She fell back fainting
upon a chair, while they carried away the child, who with fast flowing
tears held out his arms, but uttered not a single word or cry.

The door closed behind the municipals who carried away the royal child,
and the three women remained alone. There was for a moment the deep
silence of despair, interrupted only by occasional sobs.

The queen first broke silence.

"My daughter," said she, "that letter?"

"I burned it, as you desired me, mother."

"Without reading it?"

"Without reading it."

"Adieu, then, to the last ray of hope, divine hope!" murmured Madame
Elizabeth.

"You are right, my sister, you are right; it is almost beyond
endurance." Then turning toward her daughter, "But you at least saw the
hand-writing, Marie?"

"Yes, mother, for a moment."

The queen rose, went to the door to make sure she was not observed;
then drawing a pin from her hair, approached the wall, and from a chink
drew out a small paper folded like a letter, and showing it to Madame
Royale, "collect your thoughts before you reply, my child," said she;
"was the writing the same as this?"

"Yes, yes, mother!" cried the princess; "I recognize it!"

"God be praised, then!" cried the queen, falling with fervor on her
knees. "If he could write since this morning, he is safe. Thanks, O
God! thanks! So noble a friend deserves thy miraculous preservation."

"Of whom do you speak, mother?" demanded Madame Royale. "Who is this
friend? Tell me his name, that I may commend him to God in my prayers."

"You are right, my child; never forget it. This name, for it is the
name of a gentleman replete with honor and courage, one not devoted
to us through ambition, for he has only revealed himself since our
misfortunes. He has never seen the queen of France, or rather the queen
of France has never seen him, and he devotes his life to her defence.
Perhaps he will be recompensed as all virtue is now recompensed, by a
dreadful death. But--if he dies.--Oh! I shall still think of him in
heaven. He is called--"

The queen looked uneasily around, then lowering her voice, "He is
called the Chevalier de Maison-Rouge. Pray for him."




CHAPTER VII.

THE OATH OF THE GAMESTER.


The attempted abduction however doubtful might be the fact, since if
it had any reality it had failed in its very commencement, had excited
the anger of some, and the interest of others. What afforded strong
probability to the existence of such a project was the fact that the
Committee for General Security learned that three weeks, or a month
before, a number of emigrants had entered France from different parts
of the frontier. It was evident that these people who thus risked
their lives did not do so without design, and this design was in all
probability to co-operate in carrying off the royal family.

Already, upon the proposition of the Conventionalist Usselin, the
terrible decree had been promulgated, which condemned to death all
emigrants convicted of having returned to France; all Frenchmen
convicted of having intended to emigrate; every individual convicted of
having assisted in their flight, or in their return, either a female or
male emigrant; and lastly, all citizens convicted of having afforded
shelter to an emigrant. With this dreadful law commenced the "Reign of
Terror." All that was wanting was the law for suspected persons. The
Chevalier de Maison-Rouge was an enemy far too active and audacious
for his return to Paris, and his appearance in the Temple, not to call
forth the gravest measures. More severe inspections than had previously
taken place were made in a number of suspected houses; but with the
exception of some female emigrants who allowed themselves to be taken,
and some old men who did not care enough for their few remaining days
to dispute with the executioner, their researches produced no other
result.

The sections, as may be imagined, were after this event much occupied
for several days, and consequently the secretary of the section
Lepelletier, one of the most influential in Paris, had little time to
think of his unknown fair one. At first, as he had resolved on quitting
the old Rue Saint Jacques, he had tried to forget her, but, as his
friend Lorin had observed to him,--

 "Alas! endeavoring to forget
 But makes us recollect the more."

Maurice, however, neither said nor confessed anything. He buried in
his heart all the details of that adventure which he had been able to
conceal from the scrutiny of his friend. But Lorin, who knew Maurice to
be of a joyous and hilarious nature, and now saw him constantly sad and
thoughtful, seeking solitude, doubted not, to use his own expression,
that the rogue Cupid had passed that way. It is remarkable, that,
during its eighteen centuries of monarchy, France had had few years so
mythological as the year of our Lord 1793.

In the mean time the chevalier was not taken, and he was no more spoken
of. The widowed queen, cruelly robbed of her child, contented herself
by weeping, in company with her sister and daughter. The young dauphin
was consigned to the care of "Simon the Shoemaker," and entered upon
that course of martyrdom which, in the short space of two years, was to
reunite him with his father and mother. There was a moment's calm. The
Montagnard volcano rested before devouring the Girondins.

Maurice felt the weight of this calm, as the heaviness of the
atmosphere is felt in stormy weather, and not knowing how to dispose
of his leisure, abandoned himself entirely to the ardor of a sentiment
which if not actually love itself bordered closely upon it. He re-read
his letter, again kissed his beautiful sapphire ring, and resolved
(notwithstanding his oath) to make one more attempt, promising himself
this should indeed be the last. The young man had first thought he
would go to the section of the Jardin des Plantes, and there make
inquiry from the secretary, his colleague. But the first idea (and we
may add, which he still retained) that the beautiful unknown was mixed
up in some political plot, still restrained him, as the thought that
any indiscretion on his part might be the means of sending this lovely
woman to the Place de la Révolution, and her head to the block, caused
his blood to curdle and freeze in his veins. He therefore determined on
seeking this adventure alone, and without any further information.

His plan, besides, was very simple. The catalogue of names inscribed
on each door would certainly afford him some clew, and then by
interrogating the porters he might be able to solve the mystery. In
his capacity of secretary of the Rue Lepelletier, he possessed full
and entire right to make all inquiries. Besides, Maurice, ignorant of
the name of the unknown, was able to judge of it by analogy. It was
impossible so lovely a creature should not possess a name in harmony
with her form, some name appertaining to sylph, fairy, or angel, since
her arrival on earth must have been hailed as that of a superior and
supernatural being. This name would then most infallibly guide him.

Maurice then dressed himself in a coat of dark brown cloth, adorned his
head with the _bonnet-rouge_ worn on great occasions, and set out on
his voyage of discovery alone. He had in his hand one of those knotted
cudgels called a _constitution_, which wielded by his vigorous hand
was powerful as the club of Hercules, and in his pocket he placed his
commission as secretary of the section Lepelletier. These were at once
his physical security and his moral guarantee.

He prepared himself to review afresh the Rue Saint Victor, the old Rue
Saint Jacques, reading by the light of the declining day all those
names (inscribed by hands more or less practised) upon the panels of
every door.

Maurice had reached the hundredth house, and consequently read the
hundredth list, and nothing had yet occurred to induce him to imagine
that he was in the least degree upon the trail of the unknown, as he
had fully made up his mind that no name could be hers which did not
belong to the class he had imagined, when a good-natured shoemaker,
noticing the anxiety and impatience depicted on the young man's
countenance, came out with his strap of leather and his punch, and
looking at Maurice over his spectacles,--

"Do you wish any information respecting the tenants of this house,
Citizen?" said he; "if so, I shall be happy to give it to you."

"Thanks, Citizen," stammered Maurice; "I am looking for the name of a
friend."

"Tell me the name, Citizen; I know everybody in this quarter. Where
does this friend live?"

"He lived, I think, in the old Rue Saint Jacques; but I fear he has
removed."

"But how is he named? I must know that."

Maurice taken thus unawares hesitated for a moment, then pronounced the
first name that presented itself to his memory.

"René," said he.

"And what trade?"

Maurice was surrounded by tanneries.

"A journeyman-tanner," said he.

"In that case," said a burgess, who stopped and regarded Maurice with
a certain good-nature, not totally exempt from distrust, "you should
address yourself to his master."

"That is true," said the door-keeper; "you are quite right, the masters
know the names of their workmen; here is Citizen Dixmer, who is manager
of a tannery, and has more than fifty workmen in his yard, he can
perhaps tell you." Maurice turned round and saw a burgess of commanding
figure and mild countenance, the richness of whose attire denoted
opulence.

"Only as the citizen porter observes, it is necessary I should know the
family name."

"The one I said,--René."

"René is his baptismal name; it is the family name I require. All my
workmen sign their family name."

"Upon my word," said Maurice, growing impatient under this species of
interrogation, "the family name? I do not know it."

"What," said the burgess, with a smile, in which Maurice thought he
discerned more irony than he wished to appear,--"what, not know the
surname of your friend!"

"No."

"In that case, it is not probable you will find him," and the burgess,
gravely bowing to Maurice, walked a short distance and entered a house
in the old Rue Saint Jacques.

"The fact is, that if you do not know his surname," said the porter--

"Well, I do not know it," said Maurice, who would not have been sorry
to find some occasion to vent his ill-temper, and was at the moment
much inclined to seek a quarrel. "What have you to say to that?"

"Nothing, Citizen, nothing at all; only since you do not know the
name of your friend, it is as Citizen Dixmer said more than probable
you will not find him," and the citizen porter went into his lodge,
shrugging his shoulders. Maurice felt a great inclination to thrash
this porter, but he was an old man, and his infirmities saved him.
Had the porter been twenty years younger, Maurice would have given
a scandalous illustration of the principle,--equal in law, unequal
in physical force. Besides, the day was drawing to a close, and he
had only a few moments of daylight left. He availed himself of it by
returning to the first street, then to the second, examined every door,
searched in every nook, looked under every palisade, climbed each wall,
threw a glance into the interior of every gateway, looked through the
keyholes, knocked at some deserted warehouses without receiving any
reply, till at length nearly two hours had elapsed in this useless
investigation.

Nine o'clock struck; no more noise was heard, no movement seen in this
deserted quarter, whose life seemed to have retired with the light of
day. Maurice in despair made a retrograde movement, when all at once,
at the winding of a narrow alley, he discerned a light. He immediately
ventured into the dark passage, without remarking that at that very
moment a curious head, which for the last quarter of an hour (from the
midst of a clump of trees, rising above the wall) had followed all his
movements, then disappeared suddenly behind this wall. A short time
after this head had disappeared, three men came out from a small door
in this same wall, went into the alley where Maurice had preceded
them, while a fourth, for greater security, locked the door of entrance
into the alley. At the end of the alley, Maurice discovered a court;
it was on the opposite side of this court that the light was burning.
He knocked at the door of a poor, solitary house, but at the first
sound the light was extinguished. He redoubled his efforts, but no one
answered his call; he saw they were determined to make no reply, so
comprehending that it was only a useless waste of time, he crossed the
court and re-entered the alley. At this moment the door of the house
turned softly on its hinges, three men came out, and then the sound of
a whistle was heard.

Maurice turned round, and saw three shadows within a short distance.
He saw in the darkness also (his eyes having become accustomed to this
obscurity) the reflection of three glittering blades. He knew that he
was hemmed in. He would have brandished his club, but the alley was
so narrow that it touched the wall on either side. At the same moment
he was stunned by a violent blow on the head. This was an unforeseen
assault made upon him by the four men who entered through the door in
the wall. Seven men at the same time threw themselves upon Maurice, and
notwithstanding a desperate resistance, overpowered him, and succeeded
in binding his hands and bandaging his eyes.

Maurice had not even uttered a cry, or called for aid. Strength and
true courage are self-reliant, and are ashamed of extraneous aid.
Besides, Maurice had often heard that no one would enter this deserted
quarter. Maurice was thus, as we have said, thrown down and bound, but
had not uttered a single complaint. He had reflected as to what would
follow,--that as they had bandaged his eyes they did not intend to kill
him directly. At Maurice's age respite becomes hope. He recovered his
presence of mind, and listened patiently.

"Who are you?" demanded a voice, still breathless from the late
struggle.

"I am a man they are murdering," replied Maurice.

"What is more, you are a dead man if you speak loud, or call for
assistance, or even utter the least cry."

"If I had wished to cry, I need not have waited till now."

"Are you ready to answer my questions?"

"Let me hear them first; I shall then see whether I ought to reply."

"Who sent you here?"

"No one."

"You came then of your own accord?"

"Yes."

"You lie!"

Maurice made a desperate effort to disengage his hands, but it was in
vain.

"I never lie," said he.

"In either case, whether you came of your own accord or were sent, you
are a spy."

"And you are cowards!"

"We cowards!"

"You are seven or eight against one man bound, and you insult that man.
Cowards! cowards! cowards!"

This violence on the part of Maurice, instead of enraging his
adversaries, appeared to produce a contrary effect. It was even a proof
that the young man was not what they had laid to his charge; a true spy
would have trembled, and begged for mercy.

"There is nothing insulting in that," said a voice, milder yet firmer
than any that had previously been heard; "in the times we live in, one
may be a spy without being a dishonest man, only it is at the risk of
one's life."

"If that is your opinion, you are welcome to question me, I will answer
you faithfully."

"What are you doing in this quarter?"

"Looking for a woman."

This excuse was received with a murmur of incredulity; the murmur
increased and became a storm.

"You lie!" replied the same voice. "There is no woman in the matter,
and we know what we mean by 'woman;' there is no woman to pursue in
this quarter. Avow your project, or die."

"Come," said Maurice, "you will not kill me for pleasure, unless you
are downright ruffians."

Maurice made a second effort, more violent and unexpected than the
first, to disengage his hands from the cord which bound them, when
suddenly a cold sensation, sharp and painful, shot through his breast.

Despite himself, Maurice fell back a step.

"Ah! you felt that," said one of the men. "Well, there are eight inches
like the inch with which you have just become acquainted."

"Complete your work, then," said Maurice, resignedly; "it will at least
soon be over."

"Come now, who are you?" asked the voice which was at once mild and
commanding.

"Do you wish to know my name?"

"Yes, your name."

"Maurice Lindey."

"What!" exclaimed a voice, "Maurice Lindey, the revolu--the patriot?
Maurice Lindey, secretary of the Lepelletier section?"

These words were pronounced with so much heat that Maurice saw clearly
that they were decisive. To reply was in a manner to fix irrevocably
his fate.

Maurice was incapable of cowardice. He drew himself up like a Spartan,
and said in a firm voice,--

"Yes, Maurice Lindey; yes, Maurice Lindey, the secretary of the section
Lepelletier; yes, Maurice Lindey, the patriot, the revolutionist, the
Jacobin; Maurice Lindey, in short, whose brightest day on earth will be
that on which he will die for liberty."

A death-like silence followed this reply.

Maurice presented his breast, expecting every moment that the blade,
whose point he had already felt, would be plunged into his heart.

"Is your statement really true?" asked a voice which betrayed some
emotion; "come, young man, do not lie."

"Search my pocket," said Maurice, "and you will find my commission.
Look at my shirt-bosom, and if my blood has not effaced them, you will
there see embroidered my initials, _M_ and _L_."

Maurice at once felt himself lifted by strong arms which bore him a
short distance. He heard first one door open, then another; but the
second was narrower than the first, for his bearers could scarcely pass
through with him.

The murmurs and whispers continued.

"I am lost," thought Maurice. "They are going to tie a stone round my
neck and throw me into some hole of the Bièvre."

But in another moment he felt that the men ascended some steps, where
the air was warmer, and where they placed him on a seat. He heard a
double door shut and the steps withdraw. He believed that he was left
alone. He listened as intently as a man can whose life depends upon a
word, and he believed that he heard that same voice whose tones had
already struck him as mixing mildness with command, say to the others,--

"Let us deliberate."




CHAPTER VIII.

GENEVIÈVE.


A quarter of an hour elapsed, which seemed a century to Maurice.
Nothing more natural; young, handsome, vigorous, supported in his
strength by a hundred devoted friends, in combination with whom he
sometimes dreamed of the accomplishment of great achievements, he found
himself all at once without the least preparation in peril of losing
his life in an ignominious den of assassins.

He understood that they had shut him up in some chamber; but was he
watched?

Again he struggled to break his bonds. His muscles of steel swelled and
contracted; the cord cut into his flesh, but did not break.

The most terrible thing was that his hands were fastened behind his
back so that he could not remove the bandage from his eyes. If he could
only see, he might escape.

As he had made these attempts to free himself without opposition,
without anything stirring around him, he concluded that he was alone.
The ground under his feet was soft and soundless, might be gravel or
perhaps clay. An acrid and pungent smell announced the presence of
vegetable matter. Maurice fancied he was in a greenhouse, or some place
very like it. He took a step or two, hit the wall, turned, and groping
with his hands, felt some garden-tools. He uttered an exclamation of
joy.

With unparalleled exertion he examined these tools, one after the
other. His flight now became a question of time. If chance, or
Providence, granted him five minutes, and if among these tools he found
a sharp instrument, he was saved.

He found a spade. From the way in which Maurice was bound, it required
a great struggle to raise the spade a sufficient height for his
purpose. He at length succeeded, and upon the blade of the spade which
he supported against the wall with his back, he at last cut, or rather
wore away, the cord which confined his wrists. The operation was
tedious, the iron cut slowly. The perspiration streamed from his face;
he heard a noise as of some one approaching; with a tremendous effort
the cord, half-severed, broke. He could not help giving a cry of joy;
now at least he was sure to die in defending himself.

Maurice tore the bandage from his eyes.

He had not been mistaken; he found himself not in a greenhouse, but
in a kind of pavilion used as a receptacle for the more delicate
plants unable to outlive the winter in the open air. In a corner the
gardening implements were stowed away, one of which had been the means
of rendering him so important a service. Facing him was a window; he
rushed toward it; it was grated, and a man armed with a carbine placed
sentinel before it.

On the other side of the garden, about thirty paces distant, rose a
small turret, fellow to the one where Maurice remained prisoner. The
blind was down, but through the blind a light was visible.

He approached the door and listened; another sentinel paced to and fro
before this door. These were the footsteps he had heard.

But from the end of the corridor a confusion of voices resounded. The
deliberation had evidently degenerated into disputation. Maurice could
not hear distinctly what was said; some words, however, reached him,
and amid these words--as if for them only the distance was short--he
distinguished plainly, Spy! Poniard! Death!

Maurice redoubled his attention; a door opened, and he heard more
distinctly.

"Yes," said one voice, "he is assuredly a spy; he has discovered
something, and is certainly sent to take us and our secret unawares. In
freeing him we run the risk of his denouncing us."

"But his word," said a voice.

"His word--he will give it only to betray us. Is he a gentleman that we
should trust his word?"

Maurice ground his teeth at the idea which some folks still retained,
that only a gentleman could keep his oath.

"But he does not know us; how can he denounce us?"

"No; he certainly does not know us nor our occupation, but he knows the
address, and will return; next time he will be well accompanied."

This argument appeared conclusive.

"Then," said the voice which several times already had struck Maurice
as belonging to the chief, "it is decided."

"Yes, a hundred times yes; I do not comprehend you with your
magnanimity. My good sir, if the Committee for the Public Safety caught
us, you would see if they acted toward us with so much ceremony."

"You persist, then, in your decision, gentlemen?"

"Without doubt, and you are not, we hope, going to oppose it."

"I have only one voice, gentlemen; it has been in favor of his
liberation: you possess six, and they all vote for his death. Let it,
then, be death."

Maurice felt the blood freeze in his veins.

"Of course he will howl," said a voice; "have you removed Madame
Dixmer?"

"Madame Dixmer!" murmured Maurice; "I begin now to comprehend. I am in
the house of the master-tanner who spoke to me in the old Rue Saint
Jacques, and who went away laughing because I was unable to tell him
the name of my friend. But how can it be to his interest to assassinate
me?"

Looking round, Maurice perceived an iron stake with a handle of
ash-tree wood.

"In any case," said he, "before they assassinate me, I will kill more
than one of them."

And he sprang to secure this harmless instrument, which, in his hand,
was to become a formidable weapon. He then retired behind the door,
and so placed himself that he could see without being seen. His heart
beat so tumultuously that in the deep silence its palpitations might be
heard. Suddenly Maurice shuddered from head to foot. A voice had said,--

"If you act according to my advice, you will break a pane, and through
the bars kill him with a shot from a carbine."

"Oh, no, no!--not an explosion," said another voice, "that might betray
us. Besides, Dixmer, there is your wife."

"I have just looked at her through the blind; she suspects nothing--she
is reading."

"Dixmer, you shall decide for us. Do you advocate a shot from the
carbine, or a stroke from the poniard?"

"Avoid firearms as much as possible--the poniard."

"Then let it be the poniard. Come!"

"Come!" repeated five or six voices, together.

Maurice was a child of the Revolution, with a heart of flint, and in
mind, like many others at that epoch, an atheist. But at the word
"Come!" pronounced behind the door, which alone separated him from
death, he remembered the sign of the cross, which his mother had taught
him when an infant he said his prayers at her knee.

Steps approached, stopped; then the key turned in the lock, and the
door slowly opened.

During this fleeting moment, Maurice had said to himself,--

"If I do not strike at once, I am a dead man. If I throw myself upon
the assassins, I take them unawares--gain first the garden, then the
street, and am saved!"

Immediately, with the spring of a lion, and uttering a fierce cry which
savored more of menace than terror, he threw down the first two men,
who believing him bound and blindfolded were quite unprepared for such
an assault, scattered the others, took a tremendous leap over them,
thanks to his iron muscles, saw at the end of the corridor a door
leading into the garden wide open, rushed toward it, cleared at a bound
six steps, found himself in the garden, and guessing his whereabouts as
nearly as possible, rushed toward the gate. It was secured by a lock
and a couple of bolts. Maurice drew back the bolts, tried to open the
lock; but it had no key.

In the mean time his pursuers, who had reached the steps, perceived him.

"There he is!" cried they; "fire upon him, Dixmer, fire! Kill him--kill
him!"

Maurice uttered a groan; he was enclosed in the garden; he measured
the walls with his eye--they were ten feet in height.

All this passed in a moment. The assassins rushed forward in pursuit.

Maurice was about thirty paces in advance; he looked about him with
the air of a condemned man who seeks the shadow of a chance to save
himself. He perceived the turret, the blind, and behind the blind the
light.

He made but one bound,--a bound of six feet,--seized the blind, tore it
down, passed through the window, smashing it, and alighted in a chamber
where a lady sat reading.

The lady rose terrified, calling for help.

"Stand aside, Geneviève; stand aside!" cried the voice of Dixmer,
"stand aside that I may kill him!"

And Maurice saw the carbine levelled at him.

But scarcely had the woman looked at him than she uttered a frightful
cry, and instead of standing aside, as desired by her husband, rushed
between him and the barrel of the gun.

This movement concentrated all Maurice's attention on the generous
woman, whose first impulse was to protect him from danger and death.

In his turn he uttered a cry of astonishment.

It was the unknown whom he had so eagerly sought.

"You!" he exclaimed, "you--"

"Silence!" cried she.

Then, turning toward the assassins, who, variously armed, approached
the window,--

"Ah! you will not kill him!" cried she.

"He is a spy," said Dixmer, whose usually placid countenance had
assumed an expression of stern resolution,--"he is a spy, and therefore
must die."

"A spy--he!" said Geneviève; "he a spy! Come here, Dixmer; I need only
say one word to prove that you are strangely deceived."

Dixmer and Geneviève approached the window, and in a low voice she
uttered a few words.

The master-tanner raised his head quickly.

"He!" said he.

"He himself," said Geneviève.

"You are certain, quite certain?"

This time the young woman did not reply, but smiling held out her hand
to Maurice.

The features of Dixmer now assumed a singular expression of coolness
and gentleness. He rested the butt-end of his musket on the ground.

"This is quite another thing," said he.

Then making a sign to his companions to follow, he stepped aside with
them, and after saying a few words, they disappeared.

"Conceal that ring," murmured Geneviève; "it is known by every one
here."

Maurice quickly drew the ring from his finger, and slipped it into his
waistcoat-pocket.

A moment afterward the door of the pavilion opened, and Dixmer,
unarmed, advanced toward Maurice.

"Pardon me, Citizen," said he, "that I did not know sooner the
obligation I am under to you. My wife, while retaining a grateful
remembrance of the service you rendered her on the 10th of March, had
forgotten your name. We were therefore completely in ignorance with
whom we were concerned; otherwise, believe me, we should not for a
moment have entertained suspicion either of your honor or intentions. I
therefore again ask your pardon."

Maurice was bewildered; with the greatest difficulty he preserved his
equilibrium; he felt his head turn round, and was near falling. He
supported himself against the mantel-piece.

"Why on earth did you wish to kill me?" he asked.

"This is the secret, Citizen," said Dixmer; "I confide it to your
keeping. I am, as you already know, a tanner, and principal in this
concern. The greater part of the acids I employ in the preparation
of my skins are prohibited goods. Now the smugglers have received
intelligence of an information laid before the counsel-general. I
feared you were an informer. My smugglers were more alarmed than myself
at your _bonnet-rouge_ and formidable appearance, and I do not conceal
from you that your death was resolved upon."

"_Pardieu!_ and well I know it," said Maurice; "you tell me no news. I
heard your consultation, and have seen your carbine."

"I have already apologized," said Dixmer, in a tone of marked kindness.
"You must understand that, thanks to the unsettled state of the times,
myself and partner, Monsieur Morand, are likely to realize an immense
fortune. We have the furnishing of the military bags, and finish from
fifteen hundred to two thousand each day. Owing to this blessed state
of things in which we live, the municipality are much occupied, and
have not time strictly to examine our accounts, so that it must be
confessed we fish a little in troubled waters; the more so because,
as I have already told you, the preparatory materials we procure by
smuggling allow us to gain two hundred per cent."

"The devil!" said Maurice, "that appears to me an honest living enough,
and I can now understand your dread lest a denunciation on my part
should put an end to it; but now you know me, you fear me no longer. Is
it not so?"

"Now," said Dixmer, "I do not even ask your word of honor." Then,
placing his hand on his shoulder and smiling, "As it is only between
friends," said he, "may I inquire what brought you here, young man? But
of course, if you wish to keep it secret, you are perfectly at liberty
to do so."

"I have already told you, I believe," murmured Maurice.

"Yes, a woman," said the burgess; "I know there was something about a
woman."

"_Mon Dieu!_ excuse me, Citizen, I am aware some sort of explanation
is due to you. Well, then, I sought a female, who the other evening,
disguised, told me she resided in this quarter. I neither know her
name, position, or place of abode. I only know I am madly in love with
her, that she is short--"

Geneviève was tall.

"That she is fair, and of a lively temperament."

Geneviève was a brunette, with large pensive eyes.

"A grisette, in short," continued Maurice; "so to please her, I assumed
the popular dress."

"That explains all," said Dixmer, with a faith which a sly wink did not
belie.

Geneviève colored, and feeling herself blush, turned away.

"Poor Citizen Lindey," said Dixmer, laughing; "what a miserable evening
we have caused you to pass! and you are about the last I would wish to
injure, so excellent a patriot, a brother; but, in short, I believed
some confounded spy had usurped your name."

"Let us say no more on the subject," said Maurice, who knew it was time
for him to withdraw; "put me on my road, and let us forget--"

"Put you on your road!" exclaimed Dixmer; "let you leave us! no indeed,
not yet. I give--or rather my partner and myself give--a supper
to-night to those brave fellows who wished so much to slaughter you a
little while ago. I reckon upon your supping with them, that you may
see they are not such devils as they appear to be."

"But," said Maurice, overjoyed at the thought of being for a few hours
near Geneviève, "I do not know really if I ought to accept--"

"If you ought to accept!" said Dixmer; "I know you ought; these are
good and stanch patriots like yourself. Besides, I shall not consider
that you have forgiven me unless we break bread together."

Geneviève uttered not a word. Maurice was in torment.

"The fact is," stammered Maurice, "I fear I may be a constraint upon
you, Citizen--this dress--my ungentlemanly appearance--"

Geneviève looked timidly toward him.

"We invite you in all kindness," said she.

"I accept your invitation, Citizen," said he, bowing.

"I will go and secure our companions," said Dixmer; "in the mean time,
warm yourself, my dear sir."

He went out. Maurice and Geneviève remained alone.

"Ah, Monsieur!" said the young woman, in an accent to which she in vain
tried to convey a tone of reproach, "you have failed in your word; you
have been exceedingly indiscreet."

"Madame," cried Maurice, "have I in any way compromised you? Ah! in
that case, pardon me; I will retire, and never--"

"Goodness!" said she, rising, "you are wounded in the breast; your
shirt is stained with blood."

Indeed, upon the fine, white shirt of Maurice--a shirt forming a
strange contrast to his coarser clothes--a large red spot of blood had
spread itself, and had dried there.

"Do not be under any alarm, Madame," said the young man, "one of the
smugglers pricked me with his poniard."

Geneviève turned pale, and taking his hand,--

"Forgive me," said she, "the wrong that has been done you; you saved my
life, and I have nearly caused your death."

"Am I not sufficiently recompensed in finding you? You cannot for a
moment imagine it was for another that I sought."

"Come with me," said Geneviève, interrupting him; "I will find you some
clean linen. Our guests must not see you thus; it would be too great a
reproach to them."

"I am a great trouble to you, Madame, I fear," said Maurice, sighing.

"Not at all; I only do my duty; and," she added, "I do it with much
pleasure."

Geneviève then conducted Maurice to a large dressing-room, arranged
with an air of elegance he had not expected to find in the house
of a master-tanner. It is true this master-tanner appeared to be a
millionnaire. She then opened the wardrobes.

"Help yourself," said she; "you are at home." She withdrew.

When Maurice came out, he found Dixmer had returned.

"Come! come!" said he, "to table; we only wait for you."




CHAPTER IX.

THE SUPPER.


When Maurice entered with Dixmer and Geneviève into the dining-room,
situated in the part of the house where they had first conducted him,
the supper was ready but the room vacant. He saw all the guests enter
successively. They were six in number, men of agreeable exterior, for
the most part young and fashionably dressed; two or three even wore the
blouse and red bonnet.

Dixmer introduced Maurice, naming his titles and qualifications. Then,
turning toward Maurice,--

"You see," said he, "Citizen Lindey, all those who assist me in
my trade. Thanks to the times in which we live, thanks to the
revolutionary principles which have effaced all distinction, we all
live upon the same footing of sacred equality. Every day we assemble
twice at the same table, and I am happy you have been induced to
partake of our family repast. Come! to table--citizens, to table."

"And--Monsieur Morand," said Geneviève, timidly, "do we not wait for
him?"

"Ah, true!" said Dixmer. "This citizen of whom I have already spoken,
Citizen Lindey, is my partner. He conducts, if I may so express myself,
the moral part of the establishment. He attends to the writing, keeps
the cash, superintends the factories, pays and receives the money,
and, in short, works harder than any of us. The result is that he is
sometimes rather late. I will go and tell him we are waiting."

At this moment the door opened, and the Citizen Morand entered.

He was a short man, dark, with bushy eyebrows, and wore green
spectacles--like a man whose eyes are fatigued from excess of
work--concealing his black eyes, but not effectually obstructing their
scintillating gleams. At the first words he uttered, Maurice recognized
that mild, yet commanding voice engaged in his behalf when endeavoring
to save him from becoming a victim to that terrible discussion. He was
habited in a brown coat, with large buttons, a white waistcoat; and his
fine cambric shirt-frill was often during dinner smoothed by a hand
which Maurice, no doubt from its being that of a tradesman, admired
much for its beauty and delicacy of appearance.

They all took their seats. Morand was placed on Geneviève's right
hand, Maurice on her left. Dixmer sat opposite his wife. The rest of
the guests seated themselves promiscuously round an oblong table.
The supper was excellent. Dixmer had a capital appetite, and did the
honors of the table with much politeness. The workmen, or those who
pretended to be such, under this example became excellent companions.
The Citizen Morand spoke little, and ate still less; drank scarcely
anything, and rarely smiled. Maurice, perhaps from the reminiscences
his voice awakened, felt for him immediately a lively sympathy, only he
was in doubt as to his age; and this rather annoyed him, as sometimes
he imagined him to be a man of forty or forty-five years, and sometimes
to be quite young.

Dixmer, on placing himself at table, felt obliged to offer some
explanation to his guests for the admission of a stranger into
their little circle. He acquitted himself like an artless man, one
unaccustomed to deceit; but the guests, as it seemed, were not hard to
manage on this point; for, notwithstanding the awkwardness displayed
by the manufacturer of hides in the introduction of the young man, they
all appeared perfectly satisfied.

Maurice regarded him with astonishment.

"Upon my honor," said he to himself, "I shall really soon think that
I myself am deceived. Is that the same man who, with flaming eyes and
threatening voice, pursued me, gun in hand, and absolutely wished to
kill me three quarters of an hour since? Then I should have taken him
for either a hero or an assassin. Goodness! how the love of hides does
transform a man."

While making these observations Maurice experienced a strange feeling
of joy and grief, and felt unable to analyze his own emotions. He
at length found himself near his beautiful unknown, whom he had so
ardently sought. As he had dreamed, she bore a charming name; he was
intoxicated with the happiness of finding himself at her side; he drank
in her every word; and at each sound of her voice the most secret
chords of his heart vibrated; but he was deeply wounded by all he saw.

Geneviève was exactly what he had pictured her; the dream of a stormy
night, reality had not destroyed. Here was an elegant woman, of sad
demeanor but refined mind, affording another instance of what had so
frequently occurred during the latter years preceding this present
celebrated year '93. Here was a young woman of distinction compelled,
from the ruin into which the nobility was ever falling, deeper and
deeper, to ally herself to a commoner engaged in commerce. Dixmer
appeared a trusty man. He was incontestably rich, and his manners to
Geneviève were those of a man making every endeavor to render a woman
happy. But could kindness, riches, or excellent intentions compensate
her for what she had sacrificed, or remove the immense distance
existing between husband and wife, between a refined, distinguished,
charming girl, and a vulgar-looking tradesman? With what could
Geneviève fill up this abyss? Alas! Maurice now guessed too well. With
love! And he therefore returned to that opinion of the young woman
he had formed on the evening of their first meeting,--that she was
returning from some love affair.

The idea of Geneviève loving any one was torture to Maurice. He
sighed, and deeply regretted having exposed himself to the temptation
of imbibing a still larger dose of that poison termed love. At other
moments, while listening to that ductile voice, so soft and harmonious,
examining that pure and open countenance which evinced no fear that he
should read every secret of her soul, he arrived at the conclusion that
it was utterly impossible that this matchless creature could descend to
deceit; and then he found a bitter pleasure in remembering that this
lovely woman belonged solely to this good citizen, with his honest
smile and vulgar pleasantries, and would never be to him more than a
passing acquaintance.

They conversed of course on politics. How could it be otherwise at an
epoch when politics were mixed up with everything. Political subjects
were even painted on the plates, political designs covered the walls,
and politics were daily proclaimed in the streets. All at once, one of
the guests who had hitherto preserved silence inquired concerning the
prisoners of the Temple.

Maurice started, in spite of himself, at the ring of that voice. He
recognized the voice of the man who, a strenuous advocate for extreme
measures, had first struck him with his dagger, and then advocated
his death. Nevertheless, this man, an honest tanner, and head of the
manufactory, at least so Dixmer represented him, soon incited the
good humor of Maurice by the expression of ideas the most patriotic,
and principles the most revolutionary. The young man, under certain
circumstances, was not inimical to these extreme measures, so much in
fashion at this period, of which Danton was the apostle and hero. In
this man's place, from the effect of whose voice and weapon he felt
himself still smarting, he would not have attempted to assassinate
the man he believed to be a spy, but would rather have locked him in
the garden, and there, equally armed, sword to sword, have fought
him without mercy, without pity. This is what Maurice would have
done; but he comprehended soon that this was too much to expect of a
journeyman-tanner.

This man of extreme measures, who appeared to possess in his political
ideas the same violent system as in his private conduct, then spoke of
the Temple, and expressed surprise that the prisoners were confided to
the guardianship of a permanent council liable to be corrupted, and to
municipals whose fidelity had already been more than once tempted.

"Yes," said the Citizen Morand; "but it must be remembered that on
every occasion, up to the present time, the municipals have fully
justified the confidence reposed in them by the nation, and history
will record that the Citizen Robespierre alone has merited the title of
'Incorruptible.'"

"Without doubt, without doubt," replied the interlocutor; "but because
a thing has not yet happened, it would be absurd to suppose it never
can happen. As for the National Guard," continued the foreman of the
manufactory, "well, the companies of the different sections are placed,
each in their turn, on duty at the Temple, and that indifferently.
Will you not admit that there might be, in a company of twenty or
five-and-twenty men, a band of seven or eight determined characters,
who some fine night might slaughter the sentinels and carry off the
prisoners?"

"Bah!" said Maurice; "you see, Citizen, this would be a foolish
expedient. In fact the thing was tried three weeks or a month ago, and
did not succeed."

"Yes," replied Morand; "because one of those aristocrats who composed
the patrol had the imprudence in speaking to let fall the word
'Monsieur,' I do not know to whom."

"And then," said Maurice, who wished to prove that the police of the
Republic did their duty, "because the entrance of the Chevalier de
Maison-Rouge into Paris was already known--"

"Bah!" cried Dixmer.

"They knew that Maison-Rouge had entered Paris?" coldly demanded
Morand; "and did they know by what means he entered?"

"Perfectly."

"Indeed!" said Morand, leaning forward to look at Maurice, "I should
be curious to know that, as up to the present moment no one can speak
positively. But you, Citizen, you, secretary of one of the principal
sections in Paris, ought to be better informed."

"Doubtless; therefore, what I am about to tell you is the true
statement of facts."

All the guests and even Geneviève appeared prepared to pay the greatest
attention to this recital.

"Well," said Maurice, "the Chevalier de Maison-Rouge came from Vendée,
it appears; he had traversed all France with his usual good fortune.
Arrived during the day at the Barrière du Roule, he waited till nine
o'clock at night. At that hour a woman, disguised as a woman of the
people, went out through the barrier, carrying to the chevalier a
costume of chasseur of the National Guard. Ten minutes afterward she
re-entered with him; but the sentinel, who had seen her go out alone,
felt rather suspicious when he saw her return with a companion. He gave
the alarm to the post; the post turned out, when the two culprits,
knowing they were pursued, flung themselves into a hôtel where a second
door opened into the Champs Elysées.

"It seems that a patrol devoted to the tyrants waited for the chevalier
at the corner of the Rue Bar-du-Bec. You are acquainted with the rest."

"Ah, ah!" said Morand; "this is very strange."

"But positively true," said Maurice.

"Yes, it has an air of truth; but the female, do you know what became
of her?"

"No; she has disappeared, and they are quite ignorant who she is, or
what she is."

The partner of Citizen Dixmer, and Citizen Dixmer himself, appeared to
breathe more freely.

Geneviève had listened to the whole of this recital, pale, silent, and
immovable.

"But," said Morand, with his usual coolness, "who can say that the
Chevalier de Maison-Rouge made one of the patrol who gave the alarm at
the Temple?"

"A municipal, one of my friends, that day on duty at the Temple. He
recognized him."

"He knew him from description?"

"He had seen him before."

"And what sort of man, personally, is this Chevalier de Maison-Rouge?"

"A man of five or six and twenty, short, fair, and of a pleasing
countenance, with magnificent eyes and superb teeth."

There was a profound silence.

"Well," said Morand, "if your friend the municipal recognized this
pretended Chevalier de Maison-Rouge, why did he not arrest him?"

"In the first place, not knowing of his arrival at Paris, he feared
being the dupe of a resemblance; and then my friend, being rather
lukewarm, acted as the lukewarm generally act,--gave him the benefit of
his doubt, and let him alone."

"You would not have acted thus, Citizen?" said Dixmer, laughing
boisterously.

"No," said Maurice; "I confess it, I would rather find myself deceived
than allow so dangerous a man as the Chevalier de Maison-Rouge to
escape."

"And what would you have done, then, Monsieur?" timidly inquired
Geneviève.

"What would I have done, Citizeness?" said Maurice. "Oh, by Jove! I
would have made short work of it. I would have had every door in the
Temple shut. I would have walked straight up to the patrol, have placed
my hand on his collar, and said to him, 'Chevalier de Maison-Rouge,
I arrest you as a traitor to the nation;' and my hand once upon his
collar, I would not soon release him, I can tell you."

"And what would have happened then?" asked Geneviève.

"It would have happened that he and his accomplices would have been
arrested, and that very hour would have been guillotined; that is all."

Geneviève shuddered, and darted on her neighbor a look of affright.
But the Citizen Morand did not appear to notice this glance, and
phlegmatically emptied his glass.

"The Citizen Lindey is right," said he; "there was nothing else to do;
but, unfortunately, it was not done."

"And," demanded Geneviève, "do you know what has become of the
Chevalier de Maison-Rouge?"

"Bah!" said Dixmer, "in all probability he did not wish to remain
longer, and finding his attempt abortive, quitted Paris immediately."

"And perhaps even France," added Morand.

"Not at all, not at all," said Maurice.

"What! has he had the imprudence to remain in Paris?" asked Geneviève.

"He has not stirred."

A movement of general astonishment followed this assertion which
Maurice had stated with so much confidence.

"This is only a supposition, Citizen, on your part," said
Morand,--"merely a supposition, that is all."

"No; I affirm it as a positive fact."

"Ah!" said Geneviève; "I acknowledge, for my part, I cannot believe it
is as you say; it would be such an unpardonable imprudence."

"You are a woman, Citizen; and can comprehend, then, what would
outweigh, with a man of such a character as the Chevalier de
Maison-Rouge, all considerations of personal security?"

"And what can outweigh the dread of losing one's life in a manner so
dreadful?"

"Ah, Citizeness!" answered Maurice, "love."

"Love!" repeated Geneviève.

"Certainly. Do you not know, then, that the Chevalier de Maison-Rouge
is enamored of Marie Antoinette?"

Two or three incredulous laughs were faintly heard. Dixmer looked at
Maurice as if he sought to penetrate the very depths of his soul.
Geneviève felt the tears suffuse her eyes, and a shuddering she could
not conceal from Maurice ran through her frame. The Citizen Morand
spilled some wine from his glass, which he was then in the act of
putting to his lips. His paleness would have alarmed Maurice, had not
all the young man's attention been at the time centred on Geneviève.

"You are moved, Citizeness," murmured Maurice.

"Did you not say I should understand this because I was a woman? Well,
we women feel for such devotion even if opposed to our principles."

"And that of the Chevalier de Maison-Rouge is the height of devotion,
as it is said he has never even spoken to the queen."

"Ah! there now, Citizen Lindey," said the man of extreme measures; "it
seems to me, permit me to observe, that you are very indulgent to the
Chevalier--"

"Monsieur," said Maurice, perhaps intentionally making use of a word
which had ceased to be in vogue, "I love all brave and courageous
natures, which does not prevent my fighting them when I meet them in
the ranks of my enemies. I do not despair of one day encountering the
Chevalier de Maison-Rouge."

"And--" said Geneviève.

"If I meet him--well, I shall fight him."

The supper was finished. Geneviève set the example of retiring, by
herself rising from table. At this moment the clock struck.

"Midnight!" said Morand, coolly.

"Midnight," exclaimed Maurice,--"midnight already?"

"That exclamation affords me much pleasure," said Dixmer; "it proves
you are not wearied, and induces me to hope we may see you again. It is
the door of a true patriot which opens to receive you; and, I trust,
ere long, you will find it that of a sincere friend."

Maurice bowed, and turning toward Geneviève,--

"Will the Citizeness also permit me to repeat my visit?" demanded he.

"I do more than permit, I request you to do so. Adieu, Citizen," and
Geneviève retired.

Maurice took leave of all the guests, particularly saluting Morand,
with whom he was much pleased; pressed Dixmer's hand, and went away
bewildered, but on the whole more joyful than sad, from the various and
unexpected events of the evening.

"Unfortunate encounter, unfortunate encounter!" said the young woman,
after Maurice's departure, and then burst into tears in the presence of
her husband, who had conducted her to her room.

"Bah!" said Dixmer, "the Citizen Lindey, a known patriot, secretary
to a section, admired, worshipped, and highly popular, is, on the
contrary, a great acquisition to a poor tanner who has contraband
merchandise on his premises."

"Do you think so, _mon ami_?" asked Geneviève, timidly.

"I think it is a warrant of patriotism, a seal of absolution, placed
upon our house; and I think, after this evening, that the Chevalier de
Maison-Rouge himself would be safe at our house."

And Dixmer kissed his wife with an affection more paternal than
conjugal, and left her in the little pavilion set apart for her special
benefit, passing himself into another part of the building, which he
inhabited with the guests we have seen assembled round his table.




CHAPTER X.

SIMON THE SHOEMAKER.


The month of May had commenced. A bright clear day expanded the lungs
tired of inhaling the icy fogs of winter, and the rays of the sun, warm
and exhilarating, shone upon the black walls of the Temple. At the
wicket of the interior, which separated the tower from the gardens, the
soldiers of the post were smoking and laughing. But, notwithstanding
the beauty of the day, and the offer made to the prisoners to descend
and walk in the garden, the three females refused to do so; as, since
the execution of her husband, the queen had obstinately secluded
herself in her chamber, not wishing to pass the door of the apartment
lately occupied by the king on the second story. When by any chance she
took the air, since the fatal occurrence of the 21st of January, she
did so on the platform of the tower, where even the battlements were
inclosed with shutters.

The National Guards on duty, who knew the three females had received
permission to go out, waited in vain all day, expecting them to turn
the authority to some account. Toward five o'clock a man descended, and
approached the sergeant in command of the post.

"Ah! ah! is that you, Father Tison?" said the sergeant, who appeared to
be a right merry fellow.

"Yes, it is I, Citizen; I bring you, on the part of the municipal
Maurice Lindey, your friend, who is now upstairs, this permission,
granted by the Council of the Temple to my daughter, to pay a visit to
her mother this evening."

"And you are going out just as your daughter is coming in? Unnatural
father!" said the sergeant.

"I am going much against my inclination, Citizen Sergeant. I also
hoped to see my poor child, whom I have not seen for two months, and
to embrace her this evening. I am going out now. This service, this
damned service, compels me to go out. It is necessary I should go to
the Commune to make my report. A fiacre is waiting for me at the door,
with two gendarmes, and it is exactly the time when my poor Sophie will
arrive."

"Unhappy parent!" said the sergeant.

"And, Citizen Sergeant, when my child comes to see her poor mother, who
is dying to see her, you will allow her to pass?"

"The order is correct," replied the sergeant, whom the reader has no
doubt recognized as our friend Lorin; "so I have nothing to say against
it; when your daughter comes, she may pass."

"Thanks, brave Thermopyle! thanks," said Tison; and he went out to make
his report to the Commune, murmuring, "My poor wife, how happy she will
be!"

"Do you know, Sergeant," said one of the National Guard, seeing
Tison depart, and overhearing the last words,--"do you know there is
something in these things that makes my blood run cold?"

"What things, Citizen Devaux?" demanded Lorin.

"Why," replied the compassionate National Guard, "to see this man,
with his surly face and heart of stone, this pitiless guardian of the
queen, go out with his eyes full of tears, partly of joy, partly of
grief, thinking that his wife will see his daughter, and he shall not.
It does not do to reflect upon it too much, Sergeant; it is really
grievous."

"Doubtless that is why he does not reflect upon it himself, this man
who goes out with tears in his eyes, as you term it."

"Upon what should he reflect?"

"That it is three months since this woman he so brutally uses has
seen her child. He does not think of her grief, only of his own; that
is all. It is true this woman was queen," continued the sergeant, in
an ironical tone rather difficult of comprehension; "and one is not
obliged to feel the same respect for a queen as for the wife of a
journeyman."

"Notwithstanding, all this is very sad," said Devaux.

"Sad, but necessary," said Lorin. "The best way then, is, as you say,
not to think of it," and he began to sing--

 "Where the branches met
   On a rocky stone
 There I found Nicette,
   Seated all alone."

Lorin was in the midst of his pastoral ditty, when suddenly a loud
noise was heard from the left side of the post, composed of oaths,
menaces, and tears.

"What is that?" demanded Devaux.

"It sounded like the voice of a child," said Lorin, listening.

"In fact," said the National Guard, "it is a poor little one they are
beating. Truly they ought only to send here those who have no children."

"Will you sing?" said a hoarse and drunken voice.

And the voice sung in example--

 "Madame Veto promised
 That all our heads should fall--"

"No," said the child, "I will not sing."

"Will you sing?"

And the voice recommenced--

 "Madame Veto promised--"

"No! no!" said the child. "No, no, no!"

"Ah! little beggar," said the hoarse voice; and the noise of a lash
whirring through the air was distinctly heard. The infant screamed with
agony.

"Ah! _sacre bleu!_" said Lorin; "it is that rascally Simon beating the
little Capet."

Several of the National Guards shrugged their shoulders. Two or three
tried to smile. Devaux rose and went out.

"I said truly," murmured he, "that parents should never enter here."

All at once a low door opened, and the royal child, chased by the whip
of his guardian made a flying leap into the court, when something hard
struck his leg, and fell on the ground behind him.

He stumbled, and fell upon his knee.

"Bring me my last, little monster, or else--"

The child rose and shook his head, in token of refusal.

"Ah! this is it, is it?" cried the same voice. "Wait, you shall see,"
and the shoemaker Simon rushed from his hut as a wild beast from its
den.

"Hallo! hallo!" cried Lorin, frowning. "Where are you going so fast,
Master Simon?"

"To chastise this little wolf's cub," said the shoemaker.

"To chastise him, for what?"

"For what?"

"Yes."

"Because the little beggar will neither sing like a good patriot, nor
work like a good citizen."

"Well, what have you to do with that?" demanded Lorin. "Did the nation
confide Capet to you that you might teach him to sing?"

"And what business have you to interfere, I should like to know,
Citizen Sergeant?" said Simon, astonished.

"I interfere, as it becomes every man of feeling to do. It is unworthy
of a man to see a child beaten, and to suffer him to be beaten."

"Bah! the son of a tyrant."

"He is a child; and the child has not participated in the crimes of the
father. The child is not culpable, and, consequently, ought not to be
punished."

"And I tell you he was placed with me to do what I choose with him. I
choose that he shall sing 'Madame Veto,' and sing it he shall."

"Contemptible wretch!" said Lorin. "'Madame Veto' is mother to this
child. Would you yourself like your child to be made to sing that you
were one of the canaille?"

"Me!" cried Simon. "Vile aristocrat of a sergeant!"

"No names," said Lorin. "I am not Capet; and they shall not make me
sing by force."

"I will have you arrested, vile _ci-devant_!"

"You!" said Lorin; "you have me arrested! you had better try to arrest
a Thermopyle."

"Good, good; he laughs best who laughs last. And now, Capet, pick up my
last, and come and finish your shoe, or by thunder!--"

"And I," said Lorin, turning deadly pale, and advancing a step forward,
his hands clinched, and his teeth set,-- "I tell you he shall not pick
up your last, he shall not make shoes; do you hear, idiot? Oh, yes! you
have your big sword there, but I am no more afraid of it than I am of
yourself. Just you dare to draw it."

"Ah! _massacre_," roared Simon, turning pale with rage.

At this moment two women entered the court. One of them held a paper in
her hand. She addressed herself to the sentinel.

"Sergeant," cried the sentinel, "it is Tison's daughter, who asks to
see her mother."

"Let her pass, since the Council of the Temple permit it," said Lorin,
who did not wish to leave for a moment, for fear Simon should avail
himself of his absence and again beat the child.

The sentinel allowed the two women to pass; but hardly had they
ascended four steps on the dark staircase, when they encountered
Maurice Lindey, who was descending into the court. It was almost dark,
so that he was unable to distinguish their features. Maurice stopped
them.

"Who are you, citizens?" said he; "and what do you want?"

"I am Sophie Tison," said one of the women; "I obtained permission to
visit my mother, and have come to see her."

"Yes," said Maurice; "but this permission was for yourself only,
Citizeness."

"I brought my friend, that there might be two of us in the midst of the
soldiers, at least."

"Very good; but your friend cannot go up."

"As you please, Citizen," said Sophie Tison, pressing the hand of her
friend, who, close against the wall, seemed paralyzed with surprise and
terror.

"Citizen sentinels," said Maurice, raising his voice and addressing the
sentinels who were stationed on every landing, "allow the Citizen Tison
to pass, but do not permit her friend to pass; she will remain on the
staircase. See that she is treated with all due respect."

"Yes, Citizen," replied the sentinels.

"Go up, then," said Maurice.

The two women then passed on; and Maurice, leaping over the remaining
five or six steps, advanced rapidly into the court.

"What is all this?" said he to the National Guard; "and what is the
cause of this noise? The cries of a child were heard as far as the
prisoners' antechamber."

"It is this," said Simon, who, accustomed to the manners of the
municipals, believed, on perceiving Maurice, that he came as an ally;
"this traitor, this spy, this _ci-devant_, this aristocrat, prevents me
from belaboring Capet," and he shook his fist at Lorin.

"Yes, by Heaven, I did prevent it," said Lorin, drawing his sword; "and
if you again call me _ci-devant_, aristocrat, or traitor, I will run my
sword through your body."

"A threat!" cried Simon; "guard! guard!"

"I am the guard," said Lorin; "so you had better not call; for if I
come to you, I will exterminate you."

"Come here, Citizen Municipal, come here," said Simon, now seriously
alarmed at Lorin's threats.

"The sergeant is quite right," said the municipal, to whom he had
appealed for assistance; "you are a disgrace to the nation, coward, to
beat a child."

"And why did he beat him? Do you know the reason, Maurice? Because the
child would not sing 'Madame Veto;' because the child would not insult
his mother."

"The miserable wretch!" said Maurice.

"And you also?" said Simon. "Am I surrounded by traitors?"

"You villain!" cried the municipal, seizing Simon by the throat, and
tearing the last from his hand; "try to prove that Maurice Lindey is a
traitor," and he applied the leather strap vigorously to the shoulders
of the shoemaker.

"Thanks, sir," said the child, who regarded this scene with the
coolness of a Stoic; "but he will revenge himself upon me."

"Come, Capet, come, my child," said Lorin; "if he beats you again, call
for help; I will chastise him, the hangman. And now, little Capet,
return to your tower."

"Why do you call me Capet, even you who protect me? You know very well
that Capet is not my name."

"Not your name!" said Lorin; "what is your name, then?"

"I am called Louis Charles de Bourbon. Capet is the name of one of my
ancestors. I know the history of France; my father taught me."

"And you want to teach a child to mend old shoes, to whom a king has
taught the history of France?" cried Lorin; "it beats everything."

"You need not be concerned," said Maurice to the child; "I will make my
report."

"And I mine," said Simon; "and among other things I shall say that
instead of allowing one woman to enter the tower, you permitted two to
pass."

At this moment the two women went out from the keep. Maurice ran after
them.

"Well, Citizeness," said he, addressing the one by his side, "have you
seen your mother?"

Sophie Tison placed herself immediately between the municipal and her
companion.

"Yes, Citizen, thank you," said she.

Maurice had wished to see the young girl's friend, or at least to hear
her voice, but she was enveloped in her mantle, and seemed determined
not to utter a single word. He also thought that she trembled. This
appearance of fear excited his suspicion. He reascended the stairs
quickly, and through the glass partition saw the queen endeavoring to
hide something in her pocket which looked like a billet.

"Ah! ah!" said he, "I have been duped."

He called his colleague.

"Citizen Agricola," said he, "enter Marie Antoinette's room, and do not
lose sight of her."

"Heyday!" said the municipal, "is it because--"

"Enter, I tell you, and do not lose sight of her for an instant, a
moment, a second."

The municipal entered the queen's apartment.

"Call the woman Tison," said he to one of the National Guard.

Five minutes afterward Tison's wife arrived in high spirits.

"I have seen my daughter," said she.

"Where was that?" demanded Maurice.

"Here, of course, in this antechamber."

"Well; and did not your daughter ask to see the Austrian?"

"No."

"Did she not enter her room?"

"No."

"And during the time you were conversing with your daughter, did no one
come out of the prisoners' chamber?"

"How should I know? I was fully occupied with my daughter, whom I had
not seen for three months."

"Recollect yourself."

"Ah, yes; I think I remember."

"What?"

"The young girl came out."

"Marie Thérèse?"

"Yes."

"Did she speak to your daughter?"

"No."

"Your daughter gave nothing to her?"

"No."

"Did she pick up nothing from the ground?"

"My daughter?"

"No, the daughter of Marie Antoinette."

"She picked up her pocket-handkerchief."

"Oh, woman! what were you thinking of?" cried Maurice.

And he rushed toward a bell-cord, which he pulled violently. It was an
alarm-bell.




CHAPTER XI.

THE BILLET.


The other two municipal guards came up hastily. A detachment of
the post accompanied them. The doors were shut, and two sentinels
intercepted the egress from each chamber.

"What do you want, sir?" said the queen to Maurice when he entered. "I
was about to retire, when, five minutes since, the citizen municipal
suddenly forced his entrance into my chamber, without informing me what
he desired."

"Madame," said Maurice, bowing, "it is not my colleague who desires
anything from you, it is myself."

"You, sir?" demanded Marie Antoinette, looking at Maurice, whose
courteous behavior had caused her to regard him with some favor; "and
what do you desire?"

"I request that you will be kind enough to show me the letter you were
concealing when I entered just now."

Madame Royale and Madame Elizabeth trembled. The queen turned very pale.

"You are mistaken, sir; I concealed nothing."

"You lie, Austrian!" cried Agricola.

Maurice quickly placed his hand on the arm of his colleague.

"One moment, my dear colleague," said he; "leave me to speak to the
citizeness, I am a little bit of a lawyer."

"Go on then; but do not stand on ceremony with her, _morbleu_!"

"You have concealed a letter, Citizen," said Maurice, austerely; "now
it is necessary we should see this letter."

"But what letter?"

"The letter that Tison's daughter brought you, and which the
citizeness, your daughter" (Maurice alluded to the young princess),
"picked up with her pocket-handkerchief."

The three females looked at each other with terror.

"But, Monsieur, this is worse than tyranny," said the queen; "we are
women! women!"

"Do not mistake," said Maurice, with firmness; "we are neither
judges nor executioners, we are overseers,--that is to say, your
fellow-citizens,--commissioned to guard you. We have our order; to
violate it is treason. Citizeness, I pray you to give me the letter you
have concealed."

"Gentlemen," said the queen, with much hauteur, "since you are
overseers, search, and deprive us of our rest to-night as usual."

"God forbid we should lay our hands upon women! I am now going to
inform the Commune, and shall await its orders. But you cannot retire
to bed; you may sleep upon these easy-chairs, if you please, and we
shall guard you. If necessary, they will search you."

"What is the matter?" said Tison's wife, appearing at the door quite
bewildered.

"It is this, Citizeness," said Maurice, "that by lending yourself to
treasonable practices, you have debarred yourself from seeing your
daughter any more."

"From seeing my daughter? What do you tell me then, Citizen," demanded
Tison's wife, who could not yet comprehend why she was not to see her
daughter.

"I tell you, that your daughter did not come here to see you, but to
bring a letter to the Citizen Capet; and therefore she shall return
here no more."

"But if she does not come here, I shall not be able to see her, as we
are forbidden to go out."

"This time you have no one to blame but yourself,--it is your own
fault," said Maurice.

"Oh!" screamed the poor woman, "my fault! why do you say it is my
fault? Nothing has happened, I assure you. If I thought anything could
have happened, woe to you, Antoinette; you should pay dearly for it,"
and the exasperated woman shook her fist at the queen.

"Threaten no one," said Maurice; "but rather gain by kindness what we
demand, for you are a woman, and the Citizeness Marie Antoinette, who
is herself a mother, will take pity on you. To-morrow your daughter
will be arrested,--to-morrow imprisoned; then, if they discover
anything, and you know that when they choose they always can do so, she
is lost, and also her companion."

The woman Tison, who had listened to Maurice with increasing terror,
turned wildly toward the queen.

"You hear, Antoinette? My daughter! It is you who will ruin my child!"

The queen in her turn appeared bewildered, not by the fury which
sparkled in the eyes of her female jailer, but by her evident despair.
"Come with me, Madame Tison," said she, "I have something to say to
you."

"Holloa! No cajolery; we are not in your way here," said Maurice's
colleague. "Before the municipality--everything open and above board."

"Never mind, Citizen Agricola," whispered Maurice, "provided we
discover the truth, it does not matter in what fashion we do so."

"You are right, Citizen Maurice; but--"

"Let us pass behind the glazed partition, Citizen Agricola; and if you
agree with me, we will turn our backs, and I am certain the individual
for whom we evince this consideration will not make us repent it."

The queen heard these words, intended for her to hear, and cast upon
the young man a look of grateful acknowledgment. Maurice carelessly
turned his head, and walked to the other side of the glazed partition.
Agricola followed him.

"You see this queen," said he to Agricola: "as a queen she is very
culpable, as a woman she is high-minded and dignified. It is well to
destroy crowns; princes are purified by misfortune."

"By thunder! you speak well, Citizen Maurice; I like to hear you talk,
and your friend Lorin. Is that poetry you recited?"

Maurice smiled.

During this conversation, the scene which Maurice had anticipated was
passing on the other side.

The woman Tison approached the queen.

"Madame," said the queen, "your despair grieves me. I do not wish
to deprive you of your daughter,--that would be too cruel; but pray
consider, perhaps by doing what these men require, your child will be
lost none the less."

"Do what they tell you!" cried the woman,--"do what they tell you!"

"But first, at least, hear what is the matter."

"What is the matter?" demanded the woman, with almost savage curiosity.

"Your daughter brought a friend with her."

"Yes, a work-woman like herself. She did not like to come alone,
because of the soldiers."

"This friend committed a letter to your daughter; your daughter let it
fall. Marie, who was passing, picked it up. It is, doubtless, a paper
of no consequence, but still one upon which evil-minded people might
put a bad construction. Did not the municipal just tell you, when they
wish that they can always do so?"

"Well, go on."

"That is all; you wish me to give up this paper,--do you wish me to
sacrifice a friend, without perhaps benefiting your daughter?"

"Do what they tell you!" shrieked the woman,--"do what they tell you!"

"But if this paper implicates your daughter," said the queen; "do try
to understand."

"My daughter is, like myself, a good patriot," cried the hag. "Thank
God, the Tisons are well known. Do what they tell you!"

"Good Heavens!" said the queen; "how can I make you understand?"

"My child, I want them to return me my child," cried Tison's wife,
stamping her feet. "Give me the paper, Antoinette, give me the paper!"

"There it is, Madame," and the queen tendered a paper to the wretched
creature, which she seized, and held joyfully above her head, crying,--

"Come here, come here, citizen municipals. I have the paper; take it,
and give me back my child."

"You sacrifice our friends, sister," said Elizabeth.

"No, sister," replied the queen, mournfully; "I only sacrifice
ourselves. The paper implicates no one."

At the cries of the woman Tison, Maurice and his colleague came toward
her, when she immediately held out the paper to them. They opened it
and read,--

 "At L'Orient [the east] a friend still watches."

Maurice had no sooner cast his eyes on this paper than he started. The
hand-writing seemed to him not unknown.

"My God!" cried he, "can it be that of Geneviève? But no, it is
impossible; I am mad. It resembles hers, certainly; but what can
Geneviève have to do with the queen?"

He turned round, and observed that Marie Antoinette was watching him
attentively. As for the woman Tison, as she awaited her fate, she
devoured Maurice with her eyes.

"You have done a good action," said he, to Tison's wife; "and you,
Citizeness, a great one," addressing the queen.

"Then, sir," replied Marie Antoinette, "follow my example. Burn the
paper, and you will perform a charitable one."

"You are joking, Austrian," said Agricola. "Burn a paper that may
perhaps enable us to discover a whole covey of aristocrats? Good faith!
no; we are not quite such fools as that."

"Ah, yes! do burn it; it might compromise my daughter," implored the
woman Tison.

"I believe you; your daughter and some others," said Agricola, taking
the paper from the hands of Maurice, which the latter, had he been
alone, would most certainly have destroyed.

Ten minutes afterward, the paper was deposited on the bureau of the
members of the Commune. It was instantly opened and commented upon in
various ways.

"'At L'Orient--a friend watches.' What the devil can that mean?" said
one.

"Why," replied a geographer, "at Lorient, that is clear enough. Lorient
is a little town of Brittany, situated between Vannes and Quimper.
Egad! we ought to burn the town, if it be true that it shelters
aristocrats who are watching still over the Austrian."

"It is all the more dangerous," said another, "because Lorient being a
sea-port, they might establish communication with England."

"I propose," said a third, "that we send a committee to Lorient, and
that a thorough search of the place be instituted."

This proposition made the minority smile, but was approved by the
majority; they accordingly resolved that a committee be sent to Lorient
to watch the aristocrats.

Maurice had been informed of the consultation.

"I think it may perhaps mean the East," said he; "but I am quite sure
it is not in Brittany."

The next day the queen, who, as we have previously said, would no more
enter the garden, to avoid passing the door of the apartment where her
husband had been imprisoned, requested permission to ascend the tower
to take the air, with her daughter and Madame Elizabeth. Her wish
was instantly acceded to; but Maurice followed her, and mounting the
stairs, ensconced himself behind a little turret where, concealed, he
awaited the result of the letter of the preceding evening. The queen at
first walked without manifesting any concern, with Madame Elizabeth and
her daughter, then stopped, while the two princesses continued their
promenade, and turning toward the "East," observed intently a house at
the windows of which several persons were visible, one of whom held a
white handkerchief.

Maurice, on his part, drew a telescope from his pocket, and while he
adjusted it, the queen made a quick movement, as if to request those
at the window to retire; but Maurice had already remarked the head of
a man, with fair hair and pale complexion, whose salutation was so
respectful as almost to border on humility. Behind this young man, for
he appeared to be five, or six, and twenty years of age, stood a woman
partially concealed from his view. Maurice directed his glass toward
her, and thinking that he recognized Geneviève, inadvertently made a
motion which brought him under the notice of the party. Immediately
the female, who also held a telescope in her hand, drew back, dragging
the young man away with her. Was it really Geneviève? Had she also
recognized Maurice? Had this couple only retired at the signal given
them by the queen? Maurice waited a moment to see if the young man
and woman would reappear; but seeing the window remain unoccupied, he
recommended the strictest vigilance to his colleague, Agricola, quickly
descended the staircase, and went and concealed himself at the corner
of the Rue Portefoin, to see if they came out of the house. It was in
vain; no one appeared. He could not resist the suspicion which had
entered his mind from the moment the companion of Tison's daughter had
persisted in maintaining so obstinate a silence. Maurice directed his
course toward the old Rue Saint Jacques, where he arrived, bewildered
by the strangest suspicions, doubts, and fears. When he entered,
Geneviève, attired in a white morning-dress, was seated under an arbor
of jasmine, where she was accustomed to breakfast. She, as usual,
accorded Maurice a friendly greeting, and invited him to take a cup
of chocolate with her. Dixmer on his part, who had in the mean time
arrived, expressed the greatest joy at meeting Maurice at this unwonted
hour; but before he permitted Maurice to take the cup of chocolate
he had accepted, always enthusiastically attached to his trade, he
insisted that his friend the secretary to the section Lepelletier
should come with him and see the manufactory.

On their way to the workshops Dixmer, taking Maurice's arm and hurrying
him along, observed,--

"My dear Maurice, I have important news for you."

"Political?" asked Maurice, always occupied with one idea.

"Ah! dear Citizen," said Dixmer, smiling, "do you think we trouble
ourselves about politics? No, no; relating to our business, thank
Heaven! My honored friend, Morand, who, as you know, is a celebrated
chemist, has discovered the secret of staining morocco red in an
unequalled manner,--that is to say, the color remains unalterable,--by
a process never discovered till now. It is this color I want to show
you. Besides, you will see Morand at work; he is quite an artist."

Maurice did not exactly comprehend how making a red dye constituted an
artist; but nevertheless accompanied Dixmer across the tanyards, and in
a separate sort of office saw the Citizen Morand at work. He had on his
blue spectacles, was in his working-dress, and seemed entirely absorbed
in the intensely interesting process of changing a sheep-skin from
dirty white to purple. He had tucked up his sleeves, and his hands and
arms were red to the elbow. As Dixmer remarked, he had devoted himself
heart and soul to cochineal.

So entirely was he preoccupied that he merely moved his head to Maurice.

"Well, Citizen Morand," said Dixmer, "what say we?"

"We shall gain a hundred thousand francs yearly by this process alone;
but I have not slept for eight days, and these acids have affected my
sight."

Maurice left Dixmer with Morand and joined Geneviève as he said to
himself, "It must be confessed the trade of municipal is degrading to
the hero! About eight days in the Temple one might fancy one's self an
aristocrat and denounce one's self. Honest Dixmer! Plodding Morand!
Gentle Geneviève! And I, idiot that I was, to have suspected them for a
moment!"

Geneviève awaited Maurice with a sweet smile calculated most
effectually to dispel every vestige of suspicion. She was as usual
sweet, amiable, and charming.

The hours passed in Geneviève's society were those only in which
Maurice could be said really to exist. At all other times he was
infected with that fever which might be termed the fever of '93,
by which Paris was separated into two hostile camps, and existence
rendered a perpetual combat. Toward noon, however, he had to part with
Geneviève, and return to the Tower of the Temple.

At the end of Rue Sainte Avoie he met Lorin, who was bringing down his
guard from duty. He left the ranks and came to meet Maurice, who still
wore upon his countenance the impress of the happiness he had enjoyed
in the society of the lovely Geneviève.

"Ah!" said Lorin, cordially shaking his friend by the hand,--

 "In vain you seek your anguish
 Within your heart to hide,
 I know for whom you languish,
 For whom so long you've sighed;
 Within your heart, within your eyes,
 Love reigns, and triumphs in his prize."

Maurice put his hand in his pocket in search of his key. This was
the method he adopted to put a stop to his friend's poetical vein.
But Lorin saw the movement, and ran away, laughing. "Apropos," said
he retracing his steps, "you have three days more at the Temple; I
recommend poor little Capet to your care."




CHAPTER XII.

LOVE.


In fact Maurice for some time had experienced a strange medley of
happiness and misery. It is always thus at the commencement of the
tender passion. His daily occupation at the section Lepelletier, his
evening visits to the old Rue Saint Jacques, and some occasional visits
to the club of the Thermopyles, filled up his days.

He did not deceive himself. He well knew that to see Geneviève daily
was to imbibe large draughts of a hopeless love.

Geneviève was a woman of retired manners and pleasing appearance,
who would frankly tender her hand to a friend, and would innocently
approach his face with her lips, with the confidence of a sister, and
the ignorance of a vestal before whom the words of love appear as
blasphemy.

Thus in the purest dreams that the first style of Raphael has traced
upon the canvas is a Madonna with smiling lips, chaste eyes, and
heavenly expression. This creation of the divine pupil of Perugino may
help us to portray the likeness of Geneviève.

In the midst of flowers she imbibed their freshness and perfume;
isolated from the occupation of her husband, and from her husband
himself, she appeared to Maurice each time he saw her like a living
enigma, of which he could not divine the meaning, and dared not ask it.

One evening when, as usual, he had remained alone with her, they were
both seated at the same window by which he had entered, a few nights
since, with so little ceremony; the perfume of the lilacs in full bloom
floated upon the soft breeze that had succeeded the radiant sunset.
After a long silence, Maurice, having during this silence followed the
intelligent and holy eye of Geneviève as she watched the appearance of
the stars in the azure vault of heaven, ventured to inquire concerning
the great disparity between herself and husband. She so young, and he
already past the middle age; she so refined in manner, while everything
around announced him a man of inferior birth and education; she so
sublime in her thoughts and aspirations, while her husband had not an
idea beyond his manufactory.

"Here, at the abode of a master-tanner, are harp, piano, and drawings,
which you acknowledge to be your own. How is it that here I meet with
aristocracy which though I detest it in others, I adore in you?"

Geneviève fixed upon Maurice a look full of candor.

"Thanks," said she, "for this inquiry; it proves to me that you are a
man of delicacy, and that you have not sought information concerning me
from any one else."

"Never, Madame," said Maurice. "I have a devoted friend who would die
for me; I have a hundred comrades ready to follow wherever I may lead
them,--but among all these hearts, when a woman is concerned, and above
all, such a woman as Geneviève, I know but one I would trust, and that
one is my own."

"Thanks, Maurice," said the young woman, "I will myself tell you, then,
all you desire to know."

"Your maiden name first," said Maurice. "I only know your married one
at present."

Geneviève detected the selfishness of love in this question, and smiled.

"Geneviève du Treilly," said she.

Maurice repeated, "Geneviève du Treilly!"

"My family," continued Geneviève, "was ruined after the American war,
in which both my father and elder brother had taken part."

"Gentlemen both?" said Maurice.

"No, no," said Geneviève, blushing.

"And yet you said your maiden name was Geneviève du Treilly."

"Frankly, Monsieur Maurice, my family was rich, but had no claim to
nobility."

"You do not trust me," said the young man, smiling.

"Oh, yes! I do," replied Geneviève. "In America my father was connected
with the father of Monsieur Morand. Monsieur Dixmer was managing man
to Monsieur Morand. We were ruined, and Monsieur Morand, knowing that
Monsieur Dixmer was a man of independent fortune, presented him to my
father, who in his turn presented him to me. I saw that my father had
beforehand resolved on my marriage. I understood it was the wish of my
family. I did not love Monsieur Dixmer, neither had I ever loved any
one, but I accepted him.

"I have now been Dixmer's wife for three years, and I am bound to
say that he has proved to me so good and excellent a husband, that
notwithstanding the difference of taste and the disparity of age you
have remarked, I have never even for a moment experienced the slightest
feeling of regret."

"But," said Maurice, "when you married Monsieur Dixmer he was not at
the head of this manufactory."

"No, we lived at Blois. After the 10th of August Monsieur Dixmer
purchased this house and the adjoining workshops; and that I might not
be annoyed by the workmen, and to spare me the sight of many things
repulsive to a person of my habits,--which are, as you observed,
Maurice, a little aristocratic,--he gave me this pavilion, where I
live alone, retired, gratifying my various fancies and desires, and
happy when a friend like yourself, Maurice, comes either to distract or
partake in my reveries."

And Geneviève tendered her hand to Maurice, which he ardently kissed.
Geneviève blushed slightly.

"Now, my friend," said the young woman, drawing away her hand, "you
know how I became the wife of Monsieur Dixmer."

"Yes," said Maurice, regarding Geneviève with great attention; "but you
have not told me how Monsieur Morand came to be associated with your
husband."

"Oh, that is very simple," said Geneviève. "Monsieur Dixmer had, as
I have told you, some fortune, but still not sufficient to engage
alone in a large concern like this. The son of Monsieur Morand, his
protector, as I have already mentioned,--this friend of my father, you
will remember,--provided half the funds, and as he possesses a good
knowledge of chemistry, he devotes himself to various improvements with
the energy you have remarked, and, thanks to which, the business of
Monsieur Dixmer, who has charge of all the practical part, has extended
immensely."

"Monsieur Morand is also a great friend of yours, is he not, Madame?"
said Maurice.

"Monsieur Morand is a noble-hearted being, one of the worthiest men in
existence," gravely replied Geneviève.

"If he has given you no other proofs," said Maurice, a little piqued at
the importance accorded by Geneviève to the young man, the partner of
her husband, "than dividing the expenses of this establishment with
Monsieur Dixmer, and inventing a new dye for morocco, allow me to say
that you rather over-rate his merits."

"He has given me many other proofs, sir," said Geneviève.

"He is young, is he not?" said Maurice. "His green spectacles render it
difficult to tell his age."

"He is thirty-five."

"You have known him then a long time?"

"From infancy."

Maurice bit his lips; he had always suspected Morand loved Geneviève.

"Oh!" said Maurice, "that explains his familiarity with you."

"It seems to me, sir," said Geneviève, smiling, "that this familiarity,
which is hardly even that of a friend, does not need any explanation."

"Oh, pardon me, Madame, you know all affectionate natures are jealous,
and my friendship was jealous of that you appear to feel for Monsieur
Morand."

He ceased talking. Geneviève also remained silent. Nothing further was
said that day respecting Morand, and Maurice quitted Geneviève more
than ever in love, for he was jealous.

However blinded the young man might be by his passion, whatever
turmoil might be in his heart, there were in the recital of Geneviève
many gaps, much hesitation, and many concealments, to which at the
moment he had paid no attention, but which now returned to his memory
and strangely tortured him. The feeling that there was some mystery
about the family could not be dispelled even by the liberty allowed
him by Dixmer of conversing with Geneviève as often and as long as
he pleased, nor by the solitary interview they had together every
evening. Moreover, Maurice had now become a constant and expected guest
at the house, where he not only enjoyed unrestrained intercourse with
Geneviève, who seemed guarded by her angelic purity from any advances
on the part of the young man, but he now escorted her in all the
excursions made from time to time in the quarter in which she lived.
In the midst of this established intimacy one thing surprised him.
The more he sought (perhaps the better to watch his sentiments for
Geneviève) the friendship of Morand, by whose genius, notwithstanding
his prejudice, he felt himself captivated, and whose pleasing manners
won him more and more every day, the greater the inclination evinced
by this whimsical man to avoid him. Of this he complained bitterly to
Geneviève; for he did not doubt that Morand had discerned in him a
rival, and that his conduct proceeded from jealousy.

"The Citizen Morand hates me," said he one day to Geneviève.

"You?" said Geneviève, with a look of astonishment. "You?--Monsieur
Morand hates you?"

"Yes; I am sure of it."

"And why should he hate you?"

"Do you wish me to tell you?" cried Maurice.

"Certainly," replied Geneviève.

"Well, then, because I--"

Maurice stopped; he was going to say, "because I love you."

"I cannot tell you why," replied Maurice, coloring. The fierce
Republican near Geneviève was as timid and as confused as a young girl.

Geneviève smiled.

"Say," replied she, "there is no sympathy between you, and I may
perhaps believe you. You are of a sanguine temperament, have a
brilliant intellect; and you are a man of birth and education, while
Morand is a merchant grafted on a chemist. He is timid and retiring. It
is this timidity that deters him from taking the first step toward your
acquaintance."

"And who asks him to make the first advance toward me? I have made
fifty to him, and he has never responded. No," continued Maurice,
shaking his head; "that cannot be the reason."

"What is it, then?" said Geneviève.

Maurice chose to remain silent.

The day after this conversation with Geneviève, he visited her at
two o'clock in the afternoon, and found her ready dressed to go out.
"Welcome," said she, "you will act as my chevalier."

"Where are we going, then?" demanded Maurice.

"I am going to Auteuil. The weather is delightful. I mean to walk part
of the way. Our carriage will convey us to the barrier, where it will
wait for us. We will then walk to Auteuil, and when I have finished my
business there, we will return."

"Oh!" said Maurice, "what a delightful day you offer me!"

The two young people went on their journey. Beyond Passy the carriage
put them down, and they continued their journey on foot.

On arriving at Auteuil, Geneviève stopped.

"Wait for me," said she, "at the entrance to the park; when I have
finished I will rejoin you."

"Where are you going then?" demanded Maurice.

"To a friend's house."

"Where I cannot accompany you?"

Geneviève smilingly shook her head.

"Impossible!" said she.

Maurice bit his lips.

"Very well," said he; "I will wait."

"Ah! what?" said Geneviève.

"Nothing," replied Maurice. "Shall you be long?"

"If I had thought it would inconvenience you, Maurice, if I had known
you were engaged," said Geneviève, "I would not have requested you to
do me the slight favor to accompany me to-day. I might have asked--"

"Monsieur Morand," interrupted Maurice, sharply.

"No; you are aware Monsieur Morand is at the manufactory at
Rambouillet, and does not return till this evening."

"Oh, it is to that circumstance that I owe the honor?"

"Maurice," said Geneviève, softly, "I cannot keep the person I came to
see waiting; but if this puts you to the least inconvenience return to
Paris, only send back the carriage for me."

"No, no, Madame," replied Maurice, quickly, "I am at your service."
He bowed to Geneviève, who, sighing softly, proceeded on her way, and
entered Auteuil.

Maurice went to the appointed place, and commenced walking backward
and forward with long impatient strides, cutting off with his cane
like Tarquin all the heads of the weeds, flowers, and thistles, which
he found upon the road; and like all persons whose thoughts are
preoccupied, he continued without pausing to trace and retrace his
footsteps.

And what occupied his thoughts? The desire to know whether Geneviève
loved him or not. Her manner to him was that of a friend or sister,
but he felt this was no longer sufficient. He loved her with an entire
love. She had become his sole thought by day, his constantly renewed
dream by night. At one time, he only asked to see her again; nothing
could satisfy him now but her love.

Geneviève was absent for an hour, which to him had appeared an age; he
then saw her approaching him with a smile upon her lips. Maurice, on
the contrary, went to meet her with a frowning brow.

Geneviève, smiling, took his arm.

"Here I am," said she; "pardon me, _mon ami_, for having made you wait."

Maurice only replied by a bow; and they then entered a shady lane,
which, by a winding path, conducted them into the high-road.

It was one of those delicious evenings in spring when every plant sends
its fragrance on high, when every bird, either seated on the branches,
or skipping from spray to spray, warbles its songs of praise to God;
one of those evenings that seem destined to live forever in our memory.
Maurice was silent, Geneviève pensive. She fondled with one hand the
flowers of a bouquet which she held in the other that rested on the arm
of Maurice.

"What is the matter with you?" said he, all at once, to Geneviève; "and
what makes you so sad to-day?"

Geneviève might have answered, My happiness. She regarded him tenderly.

"But you," said she, "are you not more than usually sad to-day?"

"I," said Maurice, "have reason to be sad,--I am unhappy; but you--"

"You unhappy?"

"Doubtless; do you not perceive sometimes from my tremulous tones how
much I suffer? Does it not often happen, when I am talking with you or
your husband, I am compelled suddenly to seek the air, because I feel
as if my heart would burst?"

"But," demanded Geneviève, embarrassed, "to what do you attribute this
suffering?"

"If I were an affected lady," said Maurice, attempting a laugh, "I
should say it was a nervous attack."

"And at this moment do you suffer?"

"Much," said Maurice.

"Let us return, then."

"What, already, Madame?"

"Certainly."

"True," said the young man, "I forgot Monsieur Morand would return from
Rambouillet this evening; and it is fast approaching." Geneviève looked
at him reproachfully.

"Oh, again!" said she.

"Why then did you, the other day, favor me with so high a eulogium of
Monsieur Morand? It is your own fault."

"How long is it since, to people we esteem," demanded Geneviève, "we
may not express our real opinion of an estimable man?"

"It must be a very lively esteem to cause you to accelerate your pace,
as you at this moment are doing, for fear of being too late by a few
minutes."

"You are to-day absolutely unjust, Maurice. Have I not passed part of
the day with you?"

"You are right; and I am indeed too exacting," replied Maurice, giving
way to his impetuosity. "Let us return to meet Monsieur Morand."

Geneviève felt her displeasure pass from her mind to her heart.

"Yes," said she; "let us return to Monsieur Morand. He at least is a
friend who never causes me the slightest pain."

"They are, indeed, valuable friends," said Maurice, choking with
jealousy, "and I, for my part, should like a few such."

They were now upon the high-road; the horizon crimsoned as the
departing rays of the setting sun glistened upon the gilt moldings of
the dome of the Hôtel des Invalides. A star which on a previous evening
had attracted the attention of Geneviève, sparkled in the azure of
heaven. Geneviève released Maurice's arm with melancholy resignation.

"Why have you made me suffer?" said she.

"Ah!" said Maurice, "I am not so clever as some people, and do not know
how to make myself loved."

"Maurice!" said Geneviève.

"Oh, Madame, if he is always good, always composed, it is because he
does not suffer."

Geneviève again placed her white hand on the powerful arm of Maurice.

"I pray you," said she, in an altered tone, "to speak no more; to speak
no more!"

"And why?"

"Because your voice makes me ill."

"You are displeased with everything about me, even my voice?"

"Be silent, I conjure you."

"I will obey you, Madame," and the impetuous young man passed his hand
over his face, damp with perspiration.

Geneviève saw that he really suffered. People of Maurice's temperament
have griefs of their own, little known or understood by the generality
of mankind.

"You are my friend, Maurice, a precious friend," said Geneviève,
looking at him kindly; "do not deprive me of your valuable friendship."

"Oh, you would not long regret it," said Maurice.

"You are mistaken," said Geneviève, "I should regret it very long, and
forever."

"Geneviève! Geneviève!" cried Maurice, "have pity upon me."

Geneviève shuddered. It was the first time Maurice had uttered her name
in these passionate accents.

"And now," continued Maurice, "since you have divined me, let me tell
you all, Geneviève, for though you should kill me with a look, I have
been silent too long; I will speak, Geneviève."

"Sir," said the young woman, "I have supplicated you in the name of our
friendship to remain silent; I still pray you to do so, for my sake, if
not for your own. Not another word; in the name of Heaven! not another
word!"

"Friendship, friendship! if it be a friendship like this you profess
for me, that you feel for Monsieur Morand, I wish for no more of your
friendship,--I, Geneviève, require more than others."

"Enough," said Madame Dixmer, with the gesture of a queen,--"enough,
Monsieur Lindey; here is our carriage, please to conduct me to my
husband's house."

Maurice trembled with fever and emotion, when Geneviève, to rejoin the
carriage, which indeed was only a few paces distant, placed her hand on
his arm.

They both entered the carriage; Geneviève took the front seat, and
Maurice the one opposite. They traversed Paris without either one or
the other having uttered a word. Only, all the way, Geneviève had held
her handkerchief before her eyes. When they entered the building,
Dixmer was occupied in his counting-house, Morand had just returned
from Rambouillet, and was changing his dress. Geneviève held out her
hand to Maurice, as she entered her chamber.

"Adieu! Maurice, you have wished it."

Maurice said nothing, but walked directly to the mantel-piece, where
hung a portrait of Geneviève. He ardently kissed it, pressed it to
his heart, replaced it, and went out. Maurice reached home without
knowing how he arrived there; he had passed through Paris without
seeing anything, without hearing anything; all that had happened to
him appeared like a dream; he was unable to account for his actions,
his words, or the sentiments which had induced them. There are moments
when the most serene spirits succumb under the violence of their own
emotions.

It was, as we have said, rather a race than a return, on the part
of Maurice. He undressed himself without the assistance of his
_valet-de-chambre_, nor did he reply to his cook, who displayed his
supper duly prepared for him, but taking the day's letters from the
table, he read them all, one after the other, without comprehending a
single word. The mists of jealousy, that intoxication of reason, were
not yet dissipated. At ten o'clock Maurice mechanically sought his
bed, as, indeed, he had done everything else since his parting with
Geneviève.

If Maurice in his cooler moments had been told of this extraordinary
behavior in another, he would not have been able to comprehend it, but
would have considered him mad to have pursued this desperate conduct,
totally unauthorized either by too much reserve or too much "abandon"
on the part of Geneviève. He now only felt that a terrible blow had
been dealt to all his hopes, of which he had never even to himself
rendered an account, and upon which, vague as they were, reposed all
his visions of happiness,--dreams which like an intangible vapor
floated shapelessly toward the horizon, and there disappeared. Thus
it happened, as it nearly always does in such cases, that Maurice,
stunned by this blow, dropped asleep directly he found himself in bed,
where he remained free from all sentiment till the morrow. He was
awakened by the noise of the official opening the door, who came as
usual to unclose the windows which looked upon a large garden, and to
bring some flowers.

At that time, in the year '93, much attention was paid to the culture
of forced flowers, and Maurice dearly loved all flowers; but now
without even bestowing a glance upon them, he half raised his heavy
head, and supporting it on his hand, endeavored to recall the events
of the preceding evening. Maurice asked himself, without being able
to account for it, the cause of this mad folly. The sole cause was
jealousy of Morand; but the moment was certainly ill-chosen to give
vent to his jealousy of a man when this man was at Rambouillet, and
while enjoying a _tête-à-tête_ with the woman one loves, surrounded by
the most enchanting scenery, on one of the lovely days of spring.

It was not suspicion of the inmates at the house at Auteuil, where
Geneviève had remained an hour; no, the incessant torment of his life
was the idea that Morand loved Geneviève, and yet--singular phantasy of
the brain, strange combination of caprice--not a gesture, a look, not
even a word from Dixmer's partner had afforded the slightest grounds
for this belief.

The voice of the _valet-de-chambre_ aroused him from this revery.

"Citizen," said he, showing him the open letters on the table, "have
you selected those you wish to keep, or shall they all be burned?"

"Burn what?" said Maurice.

"The letters the Citizen read last night, before he retired to bed."

Maurice could not remember having read one.

"Burn all," said he.

"Here are to-day's letters, Citizen," said the official.

He presented a packet of letters to Maurice, and threw the others in
the fire. Maurice took the letters, felt the impression of a seal, and
fancied that he recognized the perfume of a friend, and looking over
his correspondence he found a sealed envelope and hand-writing that
made him tremble. This man, who bravely faced danger, trembled before
the odor of a letter. The official approached him to inquire what was
the matter, but Maurice signified a wish to be alone.

He turned and returned this letter; he felt a presentiment it contained
misery for him, and started and trembled before unknown misfortune.

Having collected all his courage he at length opened it, and read as
follows:--

 Citizen Maurice,--It has become necessary that we should burst these
 bonds--bonds which, on your side, affect to exceed the bounds of
 friendship. You are a man of honor, Citizen, and now that a night
 has passed since the occurrences of yesterday evening, you ought to
 comprehend that your presence at our house is no longer desirable. I
 leave it to you to excuse yourself in any way you think best to my
 husband. On the arrival this day of any letter from you to Monsieur
 Dixmer I shall be convinced that I have to regret the loss of a
 friend who has unfortunately been most imprudent, and whom all social
 propriety will deter me from meeting for the future. Adieu forever.

 Geneviève.

 P.S. The bearer awaits your reply.

Maurice called; the _valet-de-chambre_ reappeared.

"Who brought this letter?"

"A messenger."

"Is he waiting?"

"Yes."

Maurice did not sigh, did not for a moment hesitate, but, partly
dressing, seated himself before his writing-desk, and taking the first
sheet of paper that came to hand (he found it had on it the impression
of a head with the name of the section), he wrote,--

 "Citizen Dixmer,--I respected you, and I still do so; but I cannot
 visit you any longer."

Maurice considered what reason he could assign for not visiting Dixmer,
and one idea alone presented itself to his mind, that which at this
epoch would have occurred to any one. He thus continued,--

 "Certain rumors are afloat relative to your lukewarmness in public
 affairs. I have no wish to accuse you, and no mission to defend you.
 Receive my respects, and feel assured your secrets will remain forever
 buried in my heart."

Maurice did not even revise this letter, written, as we have said,
under the impression of the first idea that presented itself. He did
not doubt the effect it would produce. Dixmer, an excellent patriot, as
Maurice imagined from his conversation at least, would be much grieved
at receiving it, his wife and Monsieur Morand would no doubt influence
him not to reply, and forgetfulness would gradually spread itself
like a dark veil over the happy past, transforming it into a dark and
melancholy future. Maurice signed and sealed his letter, gave it to the
official, and the messenger departed.

Then a heart-felt sigh escaped the Republican; he took his hat and
gloves and proceeded to the section.

He hoped, poor Brutus, to recover his stoicism by occupying himself
with public affairs.

Public affairs were indeed terrible; the 31st of May was preparing. The
"Terreur," which, like a torrent, precipitated itself from the height
of the Montagne, endeavored to carry away the dike opposed to it by the
Girondins, those audacious "Modéréts" who had dared to demand vengeance
for the massacres of September, and to wrestle for an instant to save
the life of the king.

While Maurice was working with an energy that drove the fever from
his heart to his head, the messenger had re-entered the old Rue Saint
Jacques, filling the dwelling there with terror and astonishment.

The letter, after passing through Geneviève's hands, was given by her
to Dixmer.

Dixmer opened and read it, without at first understanding it; he then
communicated the contents to the Citizen Morand, who, becoming as pale
as death, supported his head upon his hand.

In the situation in which Dixmer, Morand, and their companions found
themselves (a situation totally unknown to Maurice, but which our
readers have penetrated) this letter was like a thunderbolt.

"Is this an upright, honest man?" asked Dixmer, in great distress.

"Yes," replied Morand, without the least hesitation.

"Never mind," said the advocate for extreme measures, "you see we were
very wrong not to kill him."

"My friend," said Morand, "we struggle against violence, we brand it
with the name of crime. We have acted rightly, whatever may be the
result, in not assassinating this man. I repeat, I believe Maurice to
possess a noble, generous spirit."

"Yes; but if so noble and generous a spirit belongs to this warm
Republican, perhaps he may regard it in the light of a crime, if he has
made any discovery, not to immolate his own honor, as they say, 'on the
altar of his country.'"

"But," said Morand, "do you think he knows anything?"

"Do you not understand? He speaks of secrets buried in his heart.

"These secrets are evidently those confided to him by me relative to
our contraband transactions. He knows no others."

"But," said Morand, "this interview at Auteuil? does he suspect
anything? You know he accompanied your wife?"

"It was I who told Geneviève to take Maurice with her as a protector."

"Listen," said Morand, "we shall soon see if these surmises be true.
The turn of our battalion to guard the Temple happens on the 2d
of June,--that is to say in eight days. You are captain, Dixmer,
and I lieutenant; if our battalion or even our company receives a
counter-order, like that received the other day by the battalion of
Buttes-des-Moulins, which Santerre has replaced by that of Gravilliers,
all is discovered, and we have only to flee from Paris, or die
fighting. But if all follows in the usual course of things--"

"We are lost all the same," replied Dixmer.

"How so?"

"_Pardieu!_ does not all revolve upon the co-operation of this young
municipal? Was it not he who, without knowing it, was to open the road
for us to the queen?"

"That is true!" said Morand, confounded.

"You see, then," said Dixmer, knitting his brows, "that at any price we
must renew our intimacy with this young man."

"But if he refuse, if he fear to compromise himself?"

"Listen!" said Dixmer, "I will question Geneviève; she saw him last,
perhaps she may know something more."

"Dixmer," said Morand, "it is with pain I see you mixing Geneviève with
all our plots; not that I fear any indiscretion on her part. O great
God! the drama we are acting is a dreadful one, and I at once blush and
tremble to place the head of a woman at stake."

"The head of a woman," said Dixmer, "weighs as heavily as that of a
man, where stratagem, candor, and beauty can do as much and sometimes
even more than force, strength, power, or courage. Geneviève shares
in our convictions and our sympathies. Geneviève shall also share our
fate."

"Well, my friend," said Morand, "I have said all I ought to say.
Geneviève is in every way worthy of the mission you have given her,
or rather, that she has taken upon herself. It is saints who become
martyrs."

And he held out his delicate and effeminate hand to Dixmer, who roughly
pressed it between his own. Then Dixmer, recommending Morand and his
companions to watch with increased vigilance, quitted them, and entered
Geneviève's apartments.

She was seated before a table, bending over a piece of embroidery. She
turned round at the noise of the opening door, and recognized Dixmer.

"Ah! is it you, _mon ami_?" said she.

"Yes," said Dixmer, with a placid, smiling countenance. "I have
received a letter from our friend Maurice, which I cannot understand in
the least. Read it, and tell me what you think of it."

Geneviève took the letter with a hand of which (with all her
self-command) she could not disguise the tremor, and read. Dixmer
followed her eyes as they ran over every line.

"Well?" said he, when she had finished.

"Well! I think that Monsieur Maurice Lindey is an honest man, and from
him we have nothing to fear," replied Geneviève, with the greatest
calmness.

"You think he is ignorant who the persons are you visited at Auteuil?"

"I am certain that he is."

"Why then this sudden determination? Did he appear yesterday less
friendly or more excited than usual?"

"No," said Geneviève; "I believe he was just the same."

"Consider well what you tell me, Geneviève, for you must understand
your reply will greatly influence our future projects."

"Wait, then," said she, with an emotion that overthrew all her attempt
at calmness. "Wait--"

"Well!" said Dixmer, all the muscles of his face slightly contracting;
"collect your thoughts, Geneviève."

"Yes!" said the young woman, "yes, I remember, yesterday he was not
particularly civil. Monsieur Maurice," continued she, "is a little
tyrannical in his friendship, and," hesitatingly added, "sometimes we
have quarrelled for whole weeks."

"This is then merely a quarrel?" demanded Dixmer.

"Most probably."

"Geneviève, understand this: in our position it is not probability that
will suffice, it is certitude we require."

"Ah, well, dear, I am certain."

"This letter, then, can be only a pretext for not visiting us again?"

"_Mon ami_, how can you wish that I should speak to you about such
things?"

"Speak, Geneviève, speak; of any other woman I would not ask it."

"It is a pretext," said Geneviève, looking down.

"Ah!" said Dixmer. Then after a moment's silence, placing upon his
wife's chair the hand with which he had been striving to compress the
beatings of his heart,--

"Will you do me a service?" said he.

"What service?" said Geneviève, turning around surprised.

"To prevent even the shadow of danger. Maurice is, perhaps, deeper in
our secrets than we imagine. That which you believe a pretext may,
perhaps, be a reality. Write him a line."

"I!" said Geneviève, starting.

"Yes, you. Tell him that you have opened the letter and desire an
explanation. He will then call, you can interrogate him, and will
easily discover what is the matter."

"Oh, no!" cried Geneviève, "I cannot do as you wish me; I will not do
it."

"Dear Geneviève, when interests so powerful as those that rest upon
us are at stake, will you recoil before any paltry consideration of
self-love?"

"I have told you my opinion of Maurice, Monsieur," said Geneviève, "he
is honest and brave, but capricious; and I do not choose to submit to
any authority but that of my husband."

This answer, returned with so much calmness, and at the same time
firmness, convinced Dixmer that to insist further at this moment would
be worse than useless. He did not add another word, but looked at
Geneviève without seeming to do so, wiped the perspiration from his
forehead, and went out.

Morand was awaiting his return with great anxiety. Dixmer repeated word
for word all that had been said.

"Well!" said Morand, "we will wait, and think no more about it; rather
than I would cast a shadow of care on your wife, rather than wound her
self-love, I would renounce--"

Dixmer placed his hand upon his shoulder.

"You are mad, sir," said he, looking at him steadily, "or else you do
not know what you are saying."

"What! Dixmer, do you think--"

"I think, Chevalier, that you have no more self-command than I
have, to give utterance to sentiments on the impulse of the moment.
Neither you, I, nor Geneviève belong to ourselves, Morand. We are the
chosen defenders of a certain cause, and this cause depends upon its
supporters."

Morand trembled, and preserved a gloomy and thoughtful silence. They
took several turns round the garden without exchanging a word. Then
Dixmer left Morand.

"I have some orders to give," said he, in a calm voice. "I must leave
you, Monsieur Morand."

Morand held out his hand to Dixmer, and looked after him as he turned
away.

"Poor Dixmer," said he, "I fear much that in all this you risk the
most."

Dixmer returned to the manufactory, and having issued several orders,
looked over the day-book, and distributed bread and fuel to the poor of
the section, went home, and changed his working dress for his walking
costume immediately on his arrival there.

An hour afterward Maurice Lindey, while deeply engaged in his readings
and allocutions, was interrupted by the voice of his official,
whispering in his ear,--

"Citizen Lindey, some one who, so he pretends at least, has something
of importance to say to you, is waiting at your house."

Maurice, on entering, was much surprised at meeting the master-tanner,
who had there comfortably installed himself, and was turning over the
newspapers. All the way along he had questioned the domestic, who, of
course, not knowing Dixmer, could afford him no clew to his identity.

On perceiving Dixmer, Maurice stopped at the threshold of the door, and
blushed in spite of himself.

Dixmer smilingly arose, and held out his hand.

"What ails you? and what have you written to me?" he inquired of the
young man. "Indeed, my dear Maurice, I feel it sensibly. You designate
me as 'lukewarm and a false patriot.' Now as you dare not repeat these
accusations to my face, acknowledge you wish to seek a quarrel with me."

"I will avow anything you please, my dear Dixmer, for your conduct to
me has always been that of a worthy man; but I have nevertheless made a
resolution, and that resolution is irrevocable."

"But how is that?" said Dixmer, "when according to your own confession
you have nothing to reproach us with, and yet, notwithstanding, you
leave us?"

"My dear Dixmer, believe me, acting as I now am, and depriving myself
of such a friend, I must be actuated by powerful motives."

"Yes; but under any circumstances," said Dixmer, affecting to smile,
"these reasons are not those you have written. What you have written to
me is merely a subterfuge."

Maurice reflected an instant.

"Listen, Dixmer," said he; "we live in an epoch when a doubt conveyed
in a letter can and must annoy you; this I can well understand. It
would then be acting like a dishonorable man to allow you to remain in
this state of inquietude. Yes, Dixmer, the reasons I gave you were not
the true ones."

This avowal, which should have cleared the face of the merchant, only
seemed the more to cloud it.

"But at least tell me the true motive," said Dixmer.

"I cannot tell you," said Maurice; "and yet I am certain if you knew
it, you would afford me your approval."

Dixmer still continued to press him.

"Then you really wish to know it," said Maurice.

"Yes," replied Dixmer.

"Well, then," replied Maurice, who felt a sensation of relief as
he approached the truth; "this is the truth. You have a young and
beautiful wife, who is as virtuous as she is beautiful; yet Madame
Dixmer's well-known character cannot prevent my frequent visits to your
house from being misinterpreted."

Dixmer turned rather pale.

"Indeed!" said he. "Then, my dear Maurice, the husband should thank you
for the wrong you do the friend?"

"Understand," said Maurice, "I have not the folly to suppose my
presence can be dangerous to your repose, or that of your wife; but it
might, perhaps, afford subject for calumny, and you are aware the more
absurd the scandal, the easier it gains belief."

"Absurd!" said Dixmer, shrugging his shoulders.

"Absurd, as much as you please," said Maurice, "but separate, we shall
not the less be good friends, for we shall have nothing to reproach
ourselves with; while, on the contrary, if near--"

"Well! What then?"

"There would be food for scandal."

"Do you think, Maurice, that I should believe--"

"Oh, let us say no more," said the young man.

"But why did you write this instead of telling it to me, Maurice?"

"Just to avoid the scene of this moment."

"And are you vexed, Maurice, that I respected you sufficiently to
demand an explanation?"

"No; on the contrary, I swear I am glad to have seen you once again
before our final separation."

"Our final separation, Citizen! you whom we esteem so much!" taking
Maurice's hand and pressing it between his own.

Maurice started.

"Morand," continued Dixmer, who failed not to notice this start,
"Morand said to me again and again this morning, 'Do all in your power
to bring back Maurice.'"

"Monsieur," said the young man, frowning and drawing away his hand, "I
did not believe I stood very high in the estimation of Monsieur Morand."

"Do you doubt it?" said Dixmer.

"I!" replied Maurice, "I neither believe nor doubt it, and have no
motive to inquire on the subject. When I went to your house it was to
visit yourself and your wife, and not on account of Monsieur Morand."

"You do not know him, Maurice," said Dixmer; "Morand possesses a noble
soul."

"I grant it," said Maurice, smiling bitterly.

"Let us, however, return to the object of my visit," continued Dixmer.

Maurice bowed, like a man who hears all, but has nothing more to say.

"You say, then, that these reports have already circulated?"

"Yes, Citizen."

"Well, then, let us speak frankly. Why should you pay any attention
to the silly prattling of idle neighbors? Have you not your own clear
conscience, Maurice; and Geneviève, has she not her sense of honor?"

"I am younger than you," said Maurice, who began to be astonished at
this pertinacity, "and perhaps view things with more susceptibility.
This is why I declare that on the reputation of such a woman as
Geneviève a shadow even should not be permitted to be cast. Permit me,
therefore, my dear Dixmer, to adhere to my former resolution."

"And now," said Dixmer, "since we are in order for confession, tell me
one thing more."

"What!" said Maurice, coloring, "what more do you wish me to avow?"

"That it is neither politics, nor the report of your assiduity at my
house, that induces you to leave us."

"What is it, then?"

"The secret you have discovered."

"What secret?" demanded Maurice, with so _naïve_ an expression of
curiosity, as completely to reassure the tanner.

"The secret of the smuggling affair, which you discovered the same
evening when our acquaintance commenced in so strange a manner. You
have never forgiven me this fraud, and accuse me of being a bad
Republican because I employ English products in my manufactory."

"My dear Dixmer, I solemnly declare to you that when I visited at your
house, I had totally forgotten I was in the house of a smuggler."

"Truly?"

"Truly."

"You really, then, had no other reason for abandoning the house than
that you have stated?"

"Upon my honor."

"Well," said Dixmer, rising and taking the young man's hand, "I hope
you will re-consider this resolution which has been productive of pain
to us all, and will again return to us as usual."

Maurice bowed, but made no reply, which was of course equivalent to a
refusal. Dixmer left, annoyed at not having been able to re-establish
an intimacy with this man whom certain circumstances had rendered not
only useful to him but almost indispensable. Maurice was agitated by
a variety of emotions of a contrary nature. Dixmer entreated him to
return. Geneviève would pardon him. Why then should he despond? Lorin
in his place would have selected a crowd of aphorisms from his favorite
authors. But then he had Geneviève's letter, that formal dismissal,
which he had carried with him to the section and placed near his heart;
also the little word received from her the day after he had rescued her
from the cowards who insulted her; and lastly, the obstinate jealousy
entertained by the young man against the detestable Morand, the first
cause of his rupture with Geneviève.

Maurice remained inflexible in his resolution. But it must be
acknowledged the privation of his daily visits to the old Rue Saint
Jacques formed a sad blank in his existence; and when the hour arrived
at which he had been accustomed to pay his daily visit to the quarter
Saint Victor, he fell into a profound fit of melancholy, and began,
from that moment, to experience every aspect of hope and regret.

Each morning on awakening he expected to receive a letter from Dixmer,
and acknowledged to himself that he who had so firmly resisted all
personal persuasion, would now at last yield to a letter; each day
he sallied out in hopes of meeting Geneviève, and, beforehand, had
arranged a thousand means of accosting her; each evening he returned
home in hopes of there finding that messenger who had one morning
unwittingly brought him the grief which had now become his constant
companion.

Often, in his hours of despair, his strong nature rebelled at the idea
of enduring so much torture, without retaliating upon the primary cause
of all his suffering and all his misery, Morand. Then he formed a
project to go and seek some quarrel with Morand; but Dixmer's partner
was so inoffensive and gentlemanly that to insult or provoke him would
be a cowardly proceeding on the part of a Colossus like Maurice.

It was fortunate that Lorin came to distract the attention of Maurice
from troubles which he obstinately concealed from his friend, though he
did not deny to him their existence. Lorin had used every argument of
theory and practice to secure to its country that heart overwhelmed in
grief by another love. But although the political situation was grave,
and although in another state of mind it might have dragged Maurice
into the centre of the whirlpool, it could not restore to the young
Republican that first activity which had distinguished him as a hero on
the 14th of July and the 10th of August.

In fact, two systems, for the last ten months in view of each other,
which thus far had only made some light attacks on each other, and
had engaged in a few skirmishes as a prelude, now prepared to meet
body to body, and it was evident that the struggle once begun would
end fatally for one or the other. These two systems, born in the
bosom of the Revolution itself, were those of Moderation, represented
by the Girondins,--that is to say, by Brissot, Pétion, Vergniaud,
Valazé, Lanjuinais, Barbaroux, etc.,--and the Terror, or the Mountain,
represented by Danton, Robespierre, Chénier, Fabre, Marat, Collot
d'Herbois, Hébert, etc.

After the 10th of August, as after every action, the power appeared
to pass into the hands of the Moderates. A ministry had been formed
from the wreck of the former ministry, and of a new coalition. Roland,
Servien, and Clavières, former ministers, had been recalled; Danton,
Monge, and Le Brun had been nominated afresh. With one exception only,
all these ministers belonged to the Moderate party. Of course when we
say "Moderate" we speak relatively.

But the 10th of August had had its echo from afar, and the coalition
hastened to march, not to the assistance of Louis XVI. personally, but
of the royalist principle tottering at its basis. Then were heard the
menacing words of Brunswick, and as a terrible realization, Longwy
and Verdun had fallen into the power of the enemy. Then the Terrorist
reaction had taken place; then Danton had dreams of the days of
September, and had realized the bloody dream which displayed to the
enemy all France as a scene of wholesale assassination, and ready to
struggle for her precarious existence with all the energy of despair.
September had saved France, but in saving her had rendered her lawless.
France saved, and the Energetic party having become powerless, the
Moderates regained some strength, and wished to recriminate those
dreadful days. The words "murderer" and "assassin" had been uttered; a
new name had even been added to the national vocabulary,--it was that
of "Septembriseur."

Danton had bravely accepted it. Like Clovis he had for a moment
inclined his head under the baptism of blood, only to raise it still
more lofty and menacing. Another opportunity to renew the Terror
presented itself; it was the process of the king. Violence and
moderation entered, not altogether to wrestle against persons but
principles. The trial of relative strength was made on the royal
prisoner. Moderation was overcome, and the head of Louis XVI. fell upon
the scaffold.

As the 10th of August, so the 21st of January had restored to the
coalition all its energy. It was still the same man who opposed them,
but not the same fortune. Dumouriez, arrested in his progress by the
disorder of all the administrations, which prevented the succor of
men or money from reaching him, declared against the Jacobins, whom
he accused of causing this disorganization, adopted the party of the
Girondins, and ruined them in declaring himself their friend.

Then the Vendée arose; the departments threatened; misfortune producing
treason, and treason misfortune. The Jacobins accused the Moderates,
and wished to strike their death-blow on the 10th of March,--that is
to say, on the eventful evening when our story commenced. But too much
precipitation on the part of their adversaries saved them, and perhaps
also the rain which caused Pétion (that profound anatomist of the
Parisian mind) to remark,--

"It rains! there will be nothing to-night."

But since the 10th of March everything threatened ruin to the
Girondins. Marat was accused and acquitted. Robespierre and Danton were
reconciled, at least as a lion and tiger are reconciled before killing
the bull they both intend to devour; Henriot, the Septembriseur,
nominated Commandant-General to the National Guard; everything presaged
that awful day which would carry away by storm the last obstacle the
Revolution opposed to the Terror.

Such were the great events in which under any other circumstances
Maurice would have taken that active part for which his powerful
nature and exalted patriotism so fully qualified him. But happily, or
unhappily, for Maurice, neither the exhortations of Lorin, nor the
terrible demonstrations on the streets, had been able to divert his
mind from the one idea that possessed it; and when the 31st of May
arrived, the fierce assailant of the Bastille and the Tuileries was
laid upon his bed, devoured by that fever which destroys the strongest,
and which nevertheless a word can dissipate, a look can heal.




CHAPTER XIII.

THE THIRTY-FIRST OF MAY.


During the morning of the 31st of May, when the tocsin and beat of drum
had been sounding since the break of day, the battalion of the Faubourg
Saint Victor entered the Temple.

When all the usual formalities had been gone through, and the posts
distributed, the municipals on service arrived, bringing with them four
pieces of cannon in addition to those already forming the battery at
the gate of the Temple.

At the same time Santerre arrived, with his epaulets of yellow wool,
and a coat on which his patriotism was displayed by large spots of
grease. He reviewed the battalion, which was in a proper state, but on
counting the municipals, found only three.

"Why are there only three municipals?" inquired he; "and who is the bad
citizen who fails us?"

"The absent citizen, General, is not lukewarm," replied our old
acquaintance, Agricola; "for it is the secretary of the section
Lepelletier, the chief of the brave Thermopyles, the Citizen Maurice
Lindey."

"Well, well," said Santerre, "I know as well as yourself the patriotism
of the Citizen Maurice Lindey; but that will not deter me, if he is
not here in five minutes, from inscribing his name in the list of the
absent."

And Santerre passed on to other details.

A few paces from the general, at the moment he pronounced these words,
a captain of chasseurs and a soldier had stationed themselves, one
leaning against his gun, the other seated on a cannon.

"Did you hear?" said the captain to the soldier, in a low tone.
"Maurice has not yet arrived."

"Yes; but rest assured he will arrive, unless there should be a riot."

"In case he should not come," said the captain, "I will place you
sentinel on the staircase; and as she will probably ascend to the
tower, you will be able to speak a word to her."

At this moment a man, evidently a municipal from his tricolored scarf,
entered; but this man being a stranger to the captain and the chasseur,
they both regarded him attentively.

"Citizen General," said the new-comer, addressing Santerre; "I request
you to accept me in place of Citizen Maurice Lindey, who is ill. Here
is the medical certificate; in eight days it will be my turn to mount
guard. I now exchange with him; in eight days he will do duty for me,
as to-day I will for him."

"Provided the Capets and Capettes live eight days longer," said one of
the municipals.

Santerre replied by a slight smile to this pleasantry, and turning
toward Maurice's proxy,--

"Very good," said he; "sign the register, in lieu of Maurice Lindey,
and state in the column of observations the reason for this exchange."

The captain and chasseur exchanged looks of delight, mingled with
astonishment.

"In eight days," said they.

"Captain Dixmer," cried Santerre, "take your position in the garden
with your company."

"Come, Morand," said the captain to the chasseur his companion.

The drum sounded, and the company led by the master-tanner filed off in
the direction prescribed. They piled arms, and the company divided into
groups, which, according to their inclination, walked to and fro.

Their place of promenade was the same garden where, in the time of
Louis XVI., the royal family came sometimes to take the air. This
garden was naked, barren, and desolate, completely despoiled of trees,
flowers, or verdure of any kind.

At about five-and-twenty paces, or perhaps rather nearer that portion
of the wall built on the Rue Portefoin, was a species of cottage, which
the foresight of the municipality had established for the convenience
of the National Guard stationed at the Temple, who in days of riot,
when they were not permitted to go out of the grounds, found it an
accommodation to take their meals in this little cottage. The direction
of this little alehouse had been a matter of contention, till at length
concession was made in favor of an excellent patriot, the wife of a
suburban killed on the 10th of August, who bore the name of Plumeau.

This little cabin, built of planks and mud, rose in the middle of a
flower-bed, of which the bounds may still be recognized by a hedge
of dwarf box-trees. It was composed of a single chamber, twelve feet
square, under which extended a cave, the descent to which was by steps
rudely cut in the earth itself. Here the Widow Plumeau stowed away her
wine and provisions. This department was alternately managed by herself
and daughter, a girl of twelve or fifteen years of age.

Hardly established at their bivouac, the National Guards separated,
as we have said, some to saunter in the garden, while others chatted
with the hostess. Some amused themselves by criticising the designs
traced upon the walls, which were all meant to be of a patriotic
character,--such as the king pendent with this inscription, "Monsieur
Veto taking an air-bath;" or the king guillotined with this, "Monsieur
Veto spitting in the sack;" while others were giving gastronomical
orders to Madame Plumeau, according to the suggestions of their
different appetites. Among the latter were the captain and the chasseur
whom we have previously remarked.

"Ah, Captain Dixmer!" said the _cantinière_, "I have some famous Saumur
wine."

"But, Citizeness Plumeau, in my opinion, at least, the Saumur wine
is nothing without Brie cheese," replied the captain, who, before he
stated this opinion, had carefully looked round, and detected the
absence of his favorite viand.

"Ah! Captain, it is true; but the last morsel has been consumed."

"Well," said the captain, "no Brie cheese, no Saumur wine for me; and
remark, Citizeness Plumeau, my order would have been of some amount, as
I had intended to treat all my company."

"But, Captain, I ask you to wait only five minutes, and I will run and
procure some at the house of the citizen concierge who competes with
me, and who always has it. I shall pay very dear, and you, I am sure,
are too good a patriot not to compensate me."

"Yes, yes," replied Dixmer; "and in the mean time we will go down into
the vault, and select our own wines."

"Make yourself at home, Captain, pray do."

And the Widow Plumeau ran with all her might toward the lodge of the
concierge, while the captain and chasseur, provided with a light,
raised the trap-door, and descended into the cave.

"Good," said Morand, after an instant's inspection, "the cave extends
in the direction of Rue Portefoin. It is nine or ten feet in depth, and
there is no brickwork."

"What is the nature of the soil?" inquired Dixmer.

"Chalk; it is all made earth. These gardens have been turned over many
times. There is nowhere any rock."

"Be quick," cried Dixmer, "I hear the clogs of our _vivandière_; take
two bottles of wine and let us go up."

They both appeared at the trap-door as Madame Plumeau entered, carrying
the cheese so strenuously insisted upon by Dixmer, while several
chasseurs followed her, attracted by the favorable appearance of the
said cheese.

Dixmer did the honors; he offered twenty bottles of wine to his
company, while the Citizen Morand recounted the devotion of Curtius,
the disinterestedness of Fabricius, and the patriotism of Brutus and
Cassius,--histories almost as much appreciated as the Brie cheese and
the Anjou wine offered by Dixmer, which is not saying a little.

Eleven o'clock struck. At half-past, the sentinels were relieved.

"Does not the Austrian generally take her walk from twelve to one?"
asked Dixmer of Tison, who passed the cabin.

"From twelve to one, exactly," and he began to sing.

His song was received with a shout of laughter from the National Guard.
Dixmer immediately summoned those men in his company whose duty it
was to mount guard from half-past eleven o'clock till half-past one,
told them to hasten their breakfast, and made Morand take arms, in
order to place him, as had been agreed, on the highest story of the
tower, in the same turret behind which Maurice was hidden the day he
had intercepted the signs intended for the queen from the window on Rue
Portefoin. If any one had noticed Morand at the moment he received this
order, simple and expected as it was, he would have seen him grow pale
beneath the masses of his long black hair.

Suddenly a dull noise shook the courts of the Temple, and sounds were
heard in the distance like the roaring of a hurricane.

"What is that?" asked Dixmer of Tison.

"Oh!" replied the jailer, "it is nothing; some little uproar these
rascally Brissotins are making before they go to the guillotine."

The noise became more and more threatening, the roar of artillery was
heard, and a crowd of people rushed past, near the Temple, shouting,--

"Long live the Sections!" "Long live Henriot!" "Down with the
Brissotins!" "Down with the Rolandists!" "Down with Madame Veto!"

"Good!" said Tison, clapping his hands, "I will go and open the door
for Madame Veto, that without any disturbance she may enjoy the love
the people evince for her."

He approached the wicket of the turret-keep.

"Holloa, Tison!" cried a formidable voice.

"Yes, General," replied he, stopping short.

"No egress to-day," said Santerre; "the prisoners are not to quit their
chambers."

The order was peremptory.

"Good!" said Tison, "so much the less trouble."

Dixmer and Morand exchanged looks of disappointment; then waiting till
the hour for duty had struck (though nothing could now be attempted),
they both went to walk between the cabin and the wall running toward
Rue Portefoin. Morand began to measure the distance, taking geometrical
steps,--that is to say of three feet.

"What is the distance?" inquired Dixmer.

"Sixty to sixty-one feet," replied Morand.

"How many days will be required?"

Morand considered, then traced on the ground with a stick some
geometrical signs, which he immediately effaced.

"Seven days at least," said he.

"Maurice will be on guard in eight days," murmured Dixmer. "It is,
then, absolutely imperative that within eight days we should be
reconciled to Maurice."

The half-hour struck; Morand, sighing, resumed his musket, and
conducted by the corporal, went to relieve the sentinel who was
patrolling the platform before the tower.




CHAPTER XIV.

DEVOTION.


The day following these events,--that is to say the 1st of June,--at
ten o'clock in the morning, Geneviève was seated in her accustomed
place near the window. She asked herself why, for the last three weeks,
the days for her rose so sad; why they passed so slowly; and lastly,
why instead of waiting for the evening with impatience, she now dreaded
its return.

Her nights above all were wretched,--those nights that used to be so
happy; those nights passed in dreaming of the past and of the future.

At this moment her eyes fell upon a case of magnificent striped and
crimson carnations, which since the winter she had removed from the
little greenhouse where Maurice had been imprisoned, to bloom in her
own apartment.

Maurice had taught her to cultivate them in the mahogany bed in which
they were inclosed; she had watered and trimmed them herself so long as
Maurice had been there, for when he came in the evening she delighted
to show him the progress, thanks to their united care, that the flowers
had made during the night.

But since the cessation of Maurice's visits the poor carnations had
been quite neglected, and for want of requisite care and attention the
opening buds had withered, turned yellow, and fallen down outside the
balustrade.

Geneviève comprehended, from this sight alone, the reason of her own
melancholy. She said to herself, "It is with flowers as with certain
friendships which we nourish and cultivate with ardor till they bloom
in the heart, and then, in a moment, a suspicion, a caprice, an
unkindness strikes at the root of this friendship, and the heart that
it had revived again contracts, languishes, and dies." The young woman
experienced a sensation of anguish. She examined her inmost thoughts;
the sentiments she had endeavored to combat, and which she had hoped to
conquer, she feared now more than ever would only die with her; then
she felt a moment's despair, for she knew the struggle would become
more and more impossible. She meekly bowed her head, imprinted a kiss
upon the withered flowers, and wept.

Her husband entered at this moment. He, on his side, was too much
preoccupied with his own thoughts to notice the trying ordeal through
which his young wife was passing, nor did he pay the least attention to
the tell-tale redness of her eyelids.

It is true Geneviève rose quickly to meet him, and in so doing turned
her face from the window, standing in the dim light.

"Well?" said she.

"Well, nothing new; impossible to approach her, impossible to convey
any message to her, impossible even to see her."

"What!" cried Geneviève, "with all the noise there has been in Paris?"

"It is this very uproar which has made the guard redouble their
vigilance, from the fear that some might avail themselves of the
general excitement to make an attempt on the Temple; and the very
moment when her Majesty was about to walk upon the platform, an order
was given by Santerre that neither the queen, Madame Royale, nor Madame
Elizabeth should go out to-day."

"The poor chevalier! he must be sadly disappointed."

"He was in despair when he saw the chance had thus escaped us, and
turned so pale that I had to drag him away lest he should betray
himself."

"But," asked Geneviève, timidly, "was there not then at the Temple any
municipal of your acquaintance?"

"There ought to have been one, but he did not come."

"Who?"

"The Citizen Maurice Lindey," said Dixmer, in a tone he endeavored to
render indifferent.

"And why did he not come?" said Geneviève, in her turn making a similar
effort at self-command.

"He was ill."

"He--ill?"

"Yes, and seriously so. Patriot as you know him to be, he was obliged
to cede his turn to another."

"This is most unfortunate."

"But, goodness, Geneviève!" replied Dixmer, "if he had been there, as
matters now stand, it might have been just the same. Unfriendly as we
are at present, he might perhaps have even avoided speaking to me."

"I think," replied Geneviève, "you exaggerate the unpleasantness of our
situation. Monsieur Maurice may have taken a whim not to come here; may
have some futile reasons to see us no more,--but is not on that account
our enemy. Coolness does not exclude politeness, and I am convinced on
seeing you come to him, he would meet you half-way."

"Geneviève," replied Dixmer, "what we require from Maurice needs
something more than politeness,--a firm and attached friendship. This
feeling is destroyed; we have nothing further to hope from him."

And Dixmer heaved a deep sigh, while his usually placid face bore a
troubled expression.

"But," said Geneviève, hesitatingly, "if you think that Monsieur
Maurice is so necessary to your projects--"

"It amounts to this," replied Dixmer, "that I despair of being able to
succeed without him."

"Well, then, why do you not try some new method to regain the Citizen
Lindey?"

It seemed to her that in speaking of the young man by his surname, her
voice sounded less tender than when she called him by his Christian
name.

"No," replied Dixmer, shaking his head; "I have done all that I could.
Any new proceeding would appear singular, and necessarily arouse his
suspicions; and then, look you, Geneviève, I see further than you into
this affair. Maurice feels deeply wounded."

"Wounded!" exclaimed Geneviève, greatly moved. "What would you say?
Speak."

"You know as well as I do, Geneviève, that in our rupture with the
Citizen Lindey there is more than caprice."

"To what then do you attribute this rupture?"

"To pride, perhaps," said Dixmer, quickly.

"To pride!"

"Yes; he did us honor, in his opinion at least, this good burgess
of Paris, this demi-aristocrat of the gown,--concealing his
susceptibilities under his patriotism; he conferred honor upon us,
this Republican so powerful in his section, in his club, in his
municipality, by according his friendship to a manufacturer of hides.
Perhaps we have made too few advances; perhaps we have forgotten
ourselves."

"If we had even been guilty in this respect, I think your last step
would have redeemed all that," replied Geneviève.

"Yes; supposing the offence came from me; but if, on the contrary, it
proceeded from you?"

"From me! Do you imagine that I have in any way offended Monsieur
Maurice?" said Geneviève, astonished.

"Who knows, with a person like him! Did you not yourself at first
accuse him of caprice? I therefore return to my first opinion,
Geneviève; you did very wrong not to write to him."

"I!" cried Geneviève; "do you think so?"

"Not only do I think so now, but have done so ever since this rupture
of the last three weeks."

"And--" asked Geneviève, timidly.

"I look upon this step as indispensable."

"No, no! Dixmer; do not exact this of me."

"You know, Geneviève, I make no exactions of you; I only entreat you.
Well, listen; I beseech you to write the Citizen Maurice."

"But--" said Geneviève.

"Hearken!" said Dixmer, interrupting her; "there is between you and
Maurice either some serious cause of quarrel,--for, so far as I am
concerned, he has had no reason to complain of my conduct toward
him,--or some childish disagreement."

Geneviève made no reply.

"If this is merely a silly broil, it is folly to render it lasting; and
if you have serious motives for quarrelling, situated as we are, you
ought not even to value your dignity or self-respect. We must not place
in the balance the quarrels of young people against objects of the
highest interest. Make one effort; subdue your own feelings, and write
one word only to Maurice Lindey, and he will return."

Geneviève reflected a moment.

"But," said she, "could we not find some means less compromising to
renew friendly intercourse between Monsieur Maurice and yourself?"

"Compromising, do you call it? It appears to me, on the contrary, to be
the most natural way possible."

"No; not for me, _mon ami_."

"You are very obstinate, Geneviève."

"Allow me to tell you it is the first time, at least, that you have
discovered it."

Dixmer, who for some time had been crushing his handkerchief between
his hands, now wiped the perspiration from his brow.

"Yes," said he; "and it is this that increases my astonishment."

"Good Heaven!" said Geneviève, "is it possible, Dixmer, that you do not
divine the cause of my resistance, and that you wish to force me to
speak?"

And overcome with contending emotions, her head sunk upon her breast,
and her arms fell listlessly by her sides. Dixmer appeared to make a
strenuous effort to command himself, took Geneviève's hand, compelled
her to raise her head, looked into her eyes, and began to laugh; but in
a manner so forced and unnatural, that had Geneviève been less agitated
at the moment, it must have been evident even to her.

"I see how it is," said he; "you are in the right, and I was blind.
With all your wit and distinction, my dear Geneviève, you have fallen
into a vulgar notion,--you have been fearful that Maurice might fall in
love with you."

Geneviève felt as if an icy chill had penetrated to her heart. This
irony on the part of her husband, relative to Maurice's affection for
her,--that love of which, from the knowledge she possessed of the
character of the young man, she could estimate all the violence, and
in which, though only acknowledged with deep remorse, she participated
in the depths of her heart,--this irony petrified her. She felt it was
utterly impossible to reply.

"I have guessed rightly, have I not?" said Dixmer. "Well, reassure
yourself, Geneviève; I know Maurice to be a fierce Republican, whose
heart contains no other love than love of country."

"Sir!" exclaimed Geneviève, "are you certain of what you say?"

"Eh, without doubt," replied Dixmer. "If Maurice loved you, instead of
quarrelling with me he would redouble his attentions and civilities to
one whom it was his interest to deceive. If Maurice loved you, he would
not so easily renounce his title of 'friend of the family,' generally
used to cover these intrigues."

"Do not, I beseech you," cried Geneviève, "make a jest of these things."

"I do not jest, Madame; I only tell you Maurice does not love you, that
is all."

"And I--I," said Geneviève, "tell you that you are mistaken."

"In that case," replied Dixmer, "Maurice, who has had sufficient
strength to tear himself away rather than make a cuckold of his host,
is an honest man; and as such men are rare, Geneviève, one cannot
do too much to reclaim them when lost. Geneviève, you will write to
Maurice, will you not?"

"Oh, my God!" cried the young woman, letting her head fall on her
hands, for he to whom she looked for support in a moment of danger had
precipitated instead of restraining her fall.

Dixmer regarded her for a moment, then forcing a smile,--

"Come, darling," said he, "no woman's self-esteem. If Maurice wishes to
recommence a declaration, laugh at the second as you did at the first.
I know you, Geneviève, you are a worthy and noble woman. I can depend
on you."

"Oh!" exclaimed the young woman, sinking on her knees, "how can one
place confidence in others when one cannot place confidence in himself?"

Dixmer turned pale, as if all his blood had rushed back to his heart.

"Geneviève," said he, "I have done very wrong to cause you so much
anguish of mind. I ought to have explained myself at once. Geneviève,
we live in an epoch of self-sacrifice. I have devoted myself to the
queen, our benefactress,--not only my arm, not only my head, but my
happiness. Others will give her their lives; I do more than give her
my life,--I risk my honor; and if that perishes, only one more tear
will fall into the ocean of miseries which is preparing to swallow up
France. But my honor runs no risk under the guardianship of such a
woman as my Geneviève."

For the first time Dixmer had entirely revealed himself. Geneviève
raised her head, and fixed her beautiful eyes, full of admiration, upon
him; then slowly rose, and presented her forehead to him to kiss.

"You wish it?" said she.

Dixmer made a sign in the affirmative.

"Dictate, then," and she took up a pen.

"No; it is sufficient to use, not to abuse this worthy young man," said
Dixmer; "and since he will be reconciled himself to us on receipt of
a letter from Geneviève, this letter should be from Geneviève, and not
from Monsieur Dixmer."

And Dixmer a second time kissed his wife's forehead, thanked her, and
went out.

Then Geneviève tremblingly wrote,--

 Citizen Maurice,--You know how much my husband respects you. Have
 three weeks of separation, which to us have appeared an age, made you
 forget? Come, we await you; your return will be a real fête.

 Geneviève.




CHAPTER XV.

THE GODDESS REASON.


As Maurice had informed General Santerre the preceding evening, he was
seriously ill.

While he kept his chamber, Lorin in his daily visits had made use
of every argument to induce him to enter into some active pursuit
calculated to divert his mind from its trouble; but Maurice continued
obstinate. There are some maladies we do not desire to heal. On the 1st
of June, Lorin came about one o'clock.

"Is there anything particular going on to-day," asked Maurice, "that
you are so superb?"

Indeed, Lorin was splendidly attired. He wore the _bonnet-rouge_,
the _carmagnole_, and the tricolored girdle ornamented with two
instruments, then called the "cruets of the Abbé Maury," but which
before and since have been plumply and plainly termed pistols.

"In the first place," said Lorin, "it is generally the breaking up of
the ice of the Gironde which is in train, but by beat of drum. At this
moment, for example, they are heating the bullets red on the Place du
Carrousel; then, in particular, there is a grand solemnity to which I
invite you the day after to-morrow."

"But what is there to-day? You came for me, you say?"

"Yes; to-day we have the rehearsal."

"What rehearsal?"

"Why, the rehearsal of this great solemnity."

"My dear fellow," said Maurice, "you know that it is now eight days
since I last went out; consequently I am ignorant of everything, and
therefore the more require to be fully informed."

"What! Have I not told you?"

"You have told me nothing."

"First, you already know, we had suppressed God for some time past, and
have replaced him with the 'Supreme Being.'"

"Yes; I know all that."

"Well, it seems they have found out something; that the 'Supreme Being'
was a Moderate, a Rolandist, and, in short, a Girondin."

"No jesting on sacred subjects, Lorin; you know I do not like it."

"What would you have, my boy? we must keep up with the age. I too like
the ancient God well enough; first, because I was accustomed to him. As
for the 'Supreme Being,' it appears he really has faults, and since he
has been above yonder, everything has been playing at cross-purposes;
at all events, our legislators have decreed his downfall."

Maurice shrugged his shoulders.

"Shrug your shoulders as much as you please," said Lorin; "but now we
are going to worship the 'Goddess Reason.'"

"And are you engaged in all these masquerades?"

"Ah! _mon ami_, if you knew the Goddess Reason as I know her, you would
be one of her warmest partisans. Listen; I wish you to know her, and
will present you to her."

"A truce to all this folly. I am out of spirits, you well know."

"The very thing, then; she will enliven you; she is a nice girl. Ah!
but you know the austere goddess whom the Parisians wish to crown with
laurels, and drive about in a gilded paper-car! It is--guess."

"How can I guess?"

"It is Arthémise."

"Arthémise!" said Maurice, taxing his memory in vain to recollect the
name.

"Yes; a tall brunette, with whom I formed an acquaintance last year at
the Opera-ball; by the same token, you came to sup with us, and made
her tipsy."

"Ah! yes," said Maurice, "I remember now. It is she, is it?"

"She has the best chance. I presented her to the concourse. All the
Thermopyles have promised me their votes. In three days the general
election will take place. To-day we enjoy the preparatory dinner,
to-day we spill the wine of Champagne; perhaps after to-morrow we may
spill blood! But let them spill what they like, Arthémise shall be
goddess, or may the devil carry me away! Come, come, we will help her
on with her tunic."

"Thanks; but I have always entertained a repugnance for things of this
sort."

"To robe goddesses? _Peste!_ old fellow, you are difficult to please.
Let me see; if that does not suit you, I will put her tunic on, and you
shall take it off."

"Lorin, I am ill, and not only out of spirits, but the gayety of others
makes me miserable."

"Ah, that is it! You frighten me, Maurice; you no longer either laugh
or fight. You surely are not engaged in any plot?"

"I? Would to God--"

"You mean, Would to the Goddess Reason!"

"Leave me, Lorin; I cannot, and will not, go out. I am in bed, and here
let me rest in peace."

Lorin scratched his ear.

"Well," said he, "I see how it is."

"What do you see?"

"That you wait for the Goddess Reason."

"By Jove," cried Maurice, "witty friends are great bores. Go, or I
shall load both you and your goddess with curses."

"Charge! charge!"

Maurice raised his hand to curse him, when he was interrupted by his
official, who at this moment entered, bearing in his hand a letter for
his brother citizen.

"Citizen Agesilaus," said Lorin, "you enter at an unfortunate moment.
Your master was just going to be eloquent."

Maurice let fall his hand, which he listlessly extended for the letter;
but the instant he touched it he started, and eagerly examining both
the seal and hand-writing, grew very pale in the anticipation of bad
tidings, and broke the seal hastily.

"Oh, our interest is awakened at last," said Lorin, "it seems to me."

Maurice heard him not; his whole soul was merged in the four lines of
Geneviève. He read and re-read them three or four times over; and then
raising his head, gazed at Lorin like a man quite stupefied.

"The deuce!" said Lorin; "the intelligence must be wonderful indeed,
which that letter contains."

Maurice read the letter for the fifth time; a hue of vermilion suffused
his face, his eyes brightened, and a deep sigh relieved his breast;
then forgetting at once his illness and attendant weakness, he leaped
from his bed.

"My clothes!" cried he to the astonished official,--"my clothes, my
dear Agesilaus. Oh, my poor Lorin--my good Lorin, I expected this
every day, but in truth I did not hope for it. Here, my white trousers
and frilled shirt; please dress my hair and shave me immediately."

The official hastened to execute Maurice's orders, and dressed and
shaved him in a trice.

"Oh, I shall again behold her! I shall again behold her!" cried the
young man, "Lorin, I never till this moment knew what happiness meant!"

"My poor Maurice," said Lorin, "I think you require the visit I
recommended to you."

"Oh, my dear friend, pardon me; for truly reason has forsaken me."

"Then I offer you mine," said Lorin, laughing at his own execrable pun.

The most surprising thing was that Maurice laughed also. His present
happiness had made him so cheerful.

This was not all. "Wait," said he, cutting some orange blossom from a
tree in full bloom; "present this from me to the worthy Widow Mausole."

"_A la bonne heure!_" said Lorin; "in consideration of your gallantry,
I pardon you. Then it appears to me you are absolutely in love, and I
always feel profound respect for the unfortunate."

"Yes, I am in love," said Maurice, and his heart dilated with joy. "I
am in love; and now, since she loves me, I may declare it; for since
she has recalled me, must she not love me, Lorin?"

"Doubtless," complacently replied the adorer of the Goddess Reason;
"but take care, Maurice, for the fashion in which you take this makes
me fear for you."

 "Often love is but a freak
   Of the tyrant men call Cupid.
 'Tis he bewitches when you speak
   With any woman, howe'er stupid.
 Come, then, with me,--love only Reason;
 And so escape Dan Cupid's treason."

"Bravo, bravo!" cried Maurice, clapping his hands; then taking to his
heels, he descended the steps four at a time, and directed his steps
toward the well-known old Rue Saint Jacques.

"I believe he applauded me, Agesilaus, didn't he?" asked Lorin.

"He certainly did, Citizen; and no wonder, for those were very pretty
verses that you repeated."

"He is worse than I thought him," said Lorin, in his turn descending
the staircase in rather a calmer mood. Arthémise was not Geneviève.

Hardly had Lorin and his orange blossom arrived at the Rue Saint
Honoré, when a crowd of young citizens, to whom he had been accustomed
to administer either kicks or half-pence, according to his humor,
respectfully followed him,--mistaking him, no doubt, for one of those
virtuous individuals to whom Saint Just had proposed that people should
offer a white robe and a bunch of orange blossoms.

As the cortège every moment increased in numbers,--for even at this
epoch a virtuous man was a rare sight to behold,--there were several
thousand young citizens present when the bouquet was offered to
Arthémise, a homage which made several other "Reasons" who had joined
the ranks very ill with sick headache next day. It was on the same
evening that the famous distich was circulated through Paris,--

 "Long life to Goddess Reason--
 The pure, clear dawn of day."

And as it has come down to us without any knowledge of the author,--a
fact which has powerfully exercised the sagacity of revolutionary
archæologists,--we have almost the audacity to affirm that it was
composed for the fair Arthémise by our friend, Hyacinthe Lorin.




CHAPTER XVI.

THE PRODIGAL CHILD.


Maurice could not have been quicker, had he even possessed wings.
The streets were crowded, but Maurice only remarked the crowd as it
retarded his course. It was said everywhere that the Convention was
besieged; that the majesty of the people was offended through its
representatives, whom they prevented from coming out; and of this
there seemed some probability, as the ring of the tocsin was heard,
and the thunder of the cannon sounding an alarm. But what at this
moment, to Maurice, mattered either the tocsin or the cannon? What
cared he whether the deputies were or were not able to come out, when
the prohibition did not extend to him? So he quickened his pace, that
was all. While running, he pictured to himself Geneviève waiting at the
little window overlooking the garden, in order to see him; and that
she would perceive him far off; and then her smile, more than ever
charming, would welcome him back again.

Dixmer also was no doubt informed of this happy return, and would
tender him his coarse, large hand, so frank and loyal in its greeting.
He loved Dixmer; now even his love almost extended to Morand with his
black locks and his green spectacles, behind which he fancied he could
see the glitter of his brilliant but saturnine eyes.

He loved the whole world, for he was happy, and would willingly have
showered flowers on the heads of all mankind that they might be as
happy as himself.

But for once he was deceived. Poor Maurice! he deceived himself, as a
man generally does when he reckons according to his wishes.

Instead of the sweet smile awaiting Maurice, which was to receive him
when he would be seen from afar, Geneviève had determined on meeting
Maurice with the most distant politeness,--a feeble rampart with which
to oppose the torrent that threatened to invade her heart. She had
retired to her chamber on the first floor, and did not intend coming
down till sent for.

Alas! she also deceived herself.

Dixmer alone was not deceived; he watched for Maurice through a wired
lattice, and smiled ironically.

Morand was gravely occupied in dyeing black some tails which are placed
on white cat-skin to imitate ermine.

Maurice pushed open the little door of the alley, to enter
unceremoniously through the garden; as of old, the door opening rang a
little bell which indicated the arrival of Maurice.

Geneviève, who had stationed herself behind the closed window, started,
and let fall the curtain she had drawn on one side.

The first sensation experienced by Maurice on entering his friend's
house was disappointment. Not only was Geneviève absent from the window
on the ground-floor, but on entering the little salon where he had
uttered his last adieu, he found her not, and was compelled to announce
himself, as if an absence of three weeks' duration had transformed him
into a stranger. His heart was oppressed.

It was Dixmer whom Maurice first saw. He came forward, and embraced him
with exclamations of joy.

Geneviève then came down. She had tried in vain to restore some color
to her pallid cheek; but before she had proceeded twenty steps the
blood receded to her heart.

Maurice saw Geneviève appear in the shadow of the door; he advanced
toward her smiling, intending to kiss her hand, and then only perceived
how sadly she was changed. She on her part noticed with anxiety the
attenuated frame of Maurice, and his fevered look of wild excitement.

"You are here then, sir," said she, in a voice whose emotion she could
not subdue.

She had determined to address him with perfect indifference.

"Good-day, Citizen Maurice; why have your visits been so rare of late?"

This fickleness appeared more strange still to Maurice, and now what a
shadow was cast upon all!

Dixmer cut short this examination, and put an end to all reciprocal
reproaches by ordering dinner to be served; it was nearly two o'clock.
They passed into the _salle-à-manger_, where Maurice saw a cover was
placed for him. Then the Citizen Morand arrived, dressed in the same
chestnut-colored coat and in the same waistcoat--he always wore his
green spectacles--and white frilled shirt, and had the same long
thick black hair. Maurice felt so well-disposed toward him that he
wondered now when he had Morand before him that he should have ever
felt the least concern about his rivalry at a distance. In short, what
probability was there that Geneviève loved this little chemist? He was
in love, and in consequence a fool to allow such folly to enter into
his head.

Besides, the moment would have been badly chosen for jealousy. Maurice
carried within his waistcoat pocket Geneviève's last letter, and his
heart, bounding with joy, beat beneath it.

Geneviève had recovered her serenity. There is this peculiarity in the
organization of women, that the present is able to efface all hues of
the past, and distances all fears for the future.

Geneviève felt happy, having resumed her self-command: that is to say,
she became calm and dignified, though still kind,--another shade which
Maurice had not the requisite skill to comprehend. Lorin would have
found the explanation in "Parny," in "Bertin," or the "Gentil Bernard."

The conversation turned upon the Goddess Reason. The fall of the
Girondins, and the new mode of worship by which the kingdom of heaven
had fallen to the lot of the distaff were the prevailing topics of
the day. Dixmer pretended he should not have been sorry to see this
unparalleled honor offered to Geneviève. Maurice felt inclined to
laugh. Geneviève, however, concurred in the opinion of her husband,
while Maurice regarded them both with astonishment, wondering that
patriotism could so far mislead a sensible man like Dixmer and a woman
of so poetical and refined a nature as Geneviève.

Morand developed the theory of female politicians. He cited Théroigne
de Méricourt, the heroine of the 10th of August, and Madame Roland, the
"Soul" of the Girondins. Then, _en passant_, he launched out against
the "Tricoteuses." These words made Maurice smile. It was, however, a
cruel joke against these female patriots that they were latterly termed
"the female leeches of the guillotine."

"Ah! Citizen Morand," said Dixmer, "we respect patriotism even when it
is mistaken."

"As for me," said Maurice, "as far as I know of patriotism, I
always find the women sufficiently good patriots, when not too high
aristocrats."

"You are quite right," said Morand; "and as for myself, I frankly
confess I consider a woman very contemptible when she affects the
demeanor of a man, and a man a coward, unworthy of the name, when he
insults a woman, even were she his bitterest enemy."

Morand was gradually drawing Maurice on to delicate ground. Maurice
on his side replied by an affirmative sign. The lists being opened,
Dixmer, like the sounding herald, added,--

"One moment, one moment, Citizen Morand; you except, I hope, those
women who are known enemies of the nation?"

A silence of some moments succeeded this "parry and thrust" to the
response of Morand and the sign of Maurice. Maurice first interrupted
the silence.

"Let us except no one," said he, sadly; "those females who have been
enemies to the nation are now, it appears to me, sufficiently punished."

"You allude to the prisoners of the Temple,--to the Austrian, the
sister and daughter of Capet?" cried Dixmer, with a rapidity which
deprived his words of all expression.

Morand changed color while awaiting the reply of the young Republican,
seeming to sink his nails into his breast in the intensity of his
interest.

"Just so," said Maurice, "it is of them I am speaking."

"Who?" said Morand, in stifled tones. "Is what they say, true?"

"What do they say?" demanded the young man.

"That the prisoners are cruelly maltreated, sometimes even by those
whose duty it is to protect them."

"There are individuals," said Maurice, "who do not deserve the name of
men. There are some cowards who, totally deficient in real courage,
retain a desire to torture the vanquished in order to persuade
themselves that they are the conquerors."

"You are not one of those men, Maurice, I am quite certain," said
Geneviève.

"Madame," replied Maurice, "I who now speak to you mounted guard near
the scaffold on which perished the late king. My drawn sabre in my
hand, I was prepared to slay any one who attempted to rescue him.
Notwithstanding, on his approach I removed my hat, and turning toward
my men said,--

"'Citizens, I here warn you that I shall run my sword through the body
of the first man that insults the king.'

"And I defy any one to assert that a single shout was heard to proceed
from my company. From my hand first emanated those ten thousand
placards affixed to the walls of Paris after the king's return from
Varennes,--

 "'Whoever acknowledges the king shall be flogged. Whoever insults the
 king shall be hanged.'"

"Well," continued Maurice, without noticing the deep impression his
words had produced on his listeners,--"well, I have proved to you that
I am a frank, good patriot, that I hate all kings and their partisans.
Yet I declare, notwithstanding my opinion, which is nothing short of a
firm conviction, that, notwithstanding the certainty I feel that the
Austrian is in a great measure the cause of the miseries that desolate
France, never, never shall any man,--let him be who he may, even
Santerre himself,--insult the ex-queen in my presence."

"Citizen," said Dixmer, shaking his head as if he disapproved of so
much hardihood, "are you aware you ought to be very sure of us before
you make such declarations in our presence?"

"I make them before you, and would do so before all the world, Dixmer;
and I will add, she may perhaps perish on the same scaffold as her
husband, but I am not one to fear a woman; on the contrary, I have a
kindly regard for all those who are weaker than myself."

"And the queen, Monsieur Maurice?" demanded Geneviève, timidly; "has
she sometimes evinced her sense of this delicacy, to which she is so
little accustomed?"

"The prisoner has thanked me several times for my consideration for
her, Madame."

"Then she must expect your turn to guard with pleasure?"

"I believe she does, Madame," replied Maurice.

"Then," said Morand, tremulous as a woman, "since you have confessed
what no one nowadays confesses,--that you have a generous heart,--you
will not surely persecute the children either?"

"I!" said Maurice; "ask the infamous Simon the weight of the arm of the
municipal before whom he had the audacity to beat the little Capet."

This answer produced a spontaneous movement at Dixmer's table. All the
guests rose respectfully; Maurice alone remained seated, and had not
the slightest idea that he had elicited this mark of admiration.

"Why, what on earth is the matter?" said he, astonished.

"I thought some one called from the manufactory," said Dixmer.

"No," said Geneviève; "at first I thought so too; but we are mistaken."
And all resumed their seats.

"Ah! it is you then, Citizen Maurice," said Morand, in a tremulous
voice, "who are the municipal so much talked about, and who so nobly
defended a child."

"Talked about?" said Maurice, with the utmost _naïveté_.

"Yours is a noble heart," said Morand, rising from the table. That he
might give way to his feelings, he retired to the manufactory, as if
some pressing business there awaited him.

"Yes, Citizen," replied Dixmer; "they do speak about it, and it should
be said that all those possessed of brave, generous hearts applaud
without knowing you."

"And let him remain unknown," said Geneviève. "The glory he would
acquire would be replete with danger."

Thus in this singular conversation, without knowing it, each had
contributed his word of heroism, devotion, and sensibility. There had
been love and admiration which could not be expressed in words.




CHAPTER XVII.

THE MINERS.


At the moment they left the table, Dixmer was told that his notary
awaited him in his study. He excused himself to Maurice; besides, he
was accustomed to leave him thus, and proceeded to attend his man of
business.

He was negotiating for the purchase of a small house, Rue de la
Corderie, facing the garden of the Temple. It was rather, as to the
rest, a lot than a house that Dixmer was purchasing, for the present
building was in a state of dilapidation; but it was his intention to
rebuild it.

The bargain had not been delayed with the proprietor; that same morning
the notary had seen him and agreed to pay 19,500 francs. He therefore
brought the agreement for signature, and came to receive the requisite
money for the purchase, as the proprietor would that day clear out the
building that the workmen might commence operations on the morrow.

The contract signed, Dixmer and Morand accompanied the notary to
the Rue de la Corderie, to view this new acquisition; for they had
purchased without seeing it.

It was a house situated near where No. 20 now stands,--three stories
in height, and surmounted by a curved roof. The lower part at one time
had been let to a wine-merchant, and contained some most excellent
cellarage.

The proprietor, above all things, vaunted his cellars; they were the
best part of the house. Dixmer and Morand appeared to attach very
little interest to these cellars, yet both, as if from mere politeness,
descended with the proprietor into what he called his vaults.

An exception to the general rule, he had not exaggerated. The cellars
were magnificent; one of them extended under the Rue de la Corderie,
and from this cellar they could hear the carriages roll over their
heads.

Dixmer and Morand did not appear to appreciate this advantage. They
even spoke of filling them up, observing that however convenient they
might be to a wine-merchant, they became perfectly useless to honest
burgesses, who intended to occupy the whole of the house.

After the cellars they visited the first, second, and third story; from
the third they completely over-looked the garden of the Temple. It was,
as usual, invaded by the National Guard, who enjoyed this privilege,
since the queen never walked there now.

Dixmer and Morand recognized their friend, the Widow Plumeau, with
her usual activity, doing the honors of her tavern; but doubtless
their anxiety to be in their turn remembered by her was not very
great, as they kept themselves concealed behind the proprietor, while
he expatiated on the advantages of this view, at once so varied and
agreeable.

The purchaser then wished to see the attics.

The proprietor, doubtless, was unprepared for this demand, since he
had not got the key; but soothed by the bundle of bills shown him, he
descended to search for it.

"I was not deceived," said Morand, "and this house will answer our
purpose exactly."

"And what do you say to the vaults?"

"That it is an interposition of Providence, which will spare us two
days' labor at least."

"Do you think that it is in the direction of the cantine?"

"It inclines a little to the left; but that is of no consequence."

"But," said Dixmer, "how will you be able to follow your subterranean
line with the certainty of its terminating where you wish?"

"Rest assured," said Morand; "that is my affair."

"If we were every day to give a signal from here that we are watching?"

"But from the platform the queen could not see it; for the attics alone
are as high as the platform, and I am doubtful even about them."

"Never mind," said Dixmer, "either Maury or Toulan may see it from some
opening, and they will inform the queen."

And Dixmer tied several knots in a white calico curtain, passing it
backward and forward before the window as if shaken by the wind.

Then both, as if impatient to visit the attic, awaited the proprietor's
return on the staircase, having first closed the door, not wishing to
afford the worthy man a sight of his waving curtain.

The garrets, as Morand had foreseen, did not reach the height of the
summit of the tower. This was at once an advantage and disadvantage,--a
disadvantage, because they could not communicate by signs with the
queen; and an advantage, because the very impracticability alone
disarmed all suspicion. The highest houses were naturally the objects
of the strictest surveillance.

"It is necessary, either by means of Toulan, Maury, or Tison's
daughter, to find some way to tell her to keep upon the watch,"
murmured Dixmer.

"I have thought of that," said Morand.

They descended; the notary waited in the salon with the contract signed.

"It is all right," said Dixmer; "the house suits me; so hand over to
the proprietor the sum of 19,500 francs in payment, and let him give a
receipt."

The proprietor did so, first scrupulously counting the money.

"You understand, Citizen," said Dixmer, "the principal clause, that
the house must be vacated this evening; that, in short, I must put the
workmen in to-morrow."

"Well, Citizen, I agree to do so. You can take the keys this evening at
eight o'clock; all will be free."

"Pardon me," said Dixmer, "but did you not tell me, Citizen Notary,
there was a way out leading into the Rue Portefoin?"

"Yes, Citizen," said the proprietor; "but I had it closed; for having
only one official, the poor devil had too much fatigue, being obliged
to watch both doors. But it is so built up that at any time it can be
re-opened in two hours at least. Would you wish to convince yourselves,
citizens?"

"Thanks, it is not necessary," said Dixmer, "I attach no importance to
this way out; it is useless to me."

They then both left, having for the third time reminded the landlord of
his promise that the apartments should be empty at eight o'clock that
evening.

At nine o'clock they both returned, followed by five or six men at a
distance, of whom, in the confusion then reigning in Paris, no one took
any notice. They both entered first. The landlord had kept his word;
the house was totally empty.

They closed the shutters with the greatest care, and with the aid of
a tinder-box, lighted some wax candles which Morand had taken in his
pocket.

Then one after another the six men entered. These were the ordinary
guests of the master-tanner, the same contrabandists who one evening
wished to kill Maurice, but had now become his friends.

They closed the doors, and descended into the vault.

This vault, so contemptuously treated during the day, had become at
night the most important part of the house.

Having first stopped up every crevice through which a curious eye might
penetrate to the interior, Morand placed a cask upright, and began to
trace with a crayon geometrical lines upon a piece of paper.

While he was thus engaged, his companions, conducted by Dixmer, left
the house, following the Rue de la Corderie, and at the corner of the
Rue de Beauce stopped before a covered carriage. In this carriage
was a man who silently distributed to each one the instrument of a
pioneer,--to one a spade, to another a mattock, to this one a lever,
to that a pick-axe; each man concealed his tool under his overcoat,
or mantle. The miners retraced the road to the small house, and the
carriage disappeared.

Morand had finished his calculation.

He went straight to an angle of the cave.

"There," said he, "dig!"

And the work of deliverance immediately commenced.

       *       *       *       *       *

The situation of the unhappy prisoners in the Temple became daily more
serious and hourly more wretched. For an instant the queen, Madame
Elizabeth, and Madame Royale had indulged some hope. The municipals
Toulan and Lepître, touched with compassion for the august prisoners,
had evinced some interest in them. At first little habituated to the
marks of sympathy, the poor women were suspicious; but suspicion ceases
to exist where there is hope. Besides, what now could happen to the
queen, separated from her son by a prison, from her husband by death?
To follow him to the scaffold,--this idea had possessed her for some
time, and she had now become accustomed to it.

The first time Toulan and Lepître returned on guard, the queen
particularly requested, if they really felt any interest in her
misfortunes, they would describe to her the last moments of the king.
This was putting their sympathy to a sad test. Lepître had assisted at
the execution; he obeyed the order of the queen.

The queen demanded the journals containing the report of the execution.
Lepître promised to bring them when next on guard; it would be his turn
again in three weeks. In the king's time they had at the Temple four
municipals; the king dead, they had only three,-- one to watch during
the day, two during the night. Toulan and Lepître invented a stratagem,
that they might always keep watch together at night.

The hours of guard were drawn by lot; they wrote on one ballot "day,"
on two others "night." Each drew his ballot from a hat, and chance
decided the night-watch.

Every time that Toulan and Lepître were on guard they wrote "day" on
three ballots, and presented the hat to the municipal they wished to
oust, and he, thrusting his hand into the improvised urn, necessarily
drew forth a ballot on which was inscribed "day." They then destroyed
the other two, murmuring against the hazard which always decreed them
the most wearisome watch of the two,--that is to say, the night.

When the queen was sure of her guards she corresponded with the
Chevalier de Maison-Rouge. Then an escape was attempted, but the
attempt was detected. The queen and Madame Elizabeth were to flee
disguised as municipal officers, with cards that would be provided for
them. As to the two children,--that is to say, Madame Royale and the
young dauphin,--they had remarked that the man who came to light the
lamps of the Temple was always accompanied by two children, of the same
age apparently as the Princess Royale and the dauphin. It was therefore
arranged that Turgy, of whom we have previously spoken, should dress
himself as the lamp-lighter, and carry away the prince and princess.

We will mention in a few words who Turgy was.

Turgy was an old waiter of the king's, introduced at the Temple with
part of the family from the Tuileries, for the king had at first been
permitted a well-appointed table. The first month this consideration
cost the nation thirty or forty thousand francs.

It may easily be understood this prodigality could not last. The
Commune decreed otherwise. They dismissed the chefs, the cooks, and
scullions; one single man-servant only was retained,--that man was
Turgy.

He was naturally the medium of communication between the prisoners and
their partisans, for Turgy was permitted to go out, and consequently
was enabled to forward their letters, and introduce the replies. These
billets were generally twisted round the stoppers of the _carafes_
containing the milk of almonds brought to the queen and Madame
Elizabeth. They were written with lemon-juice, and perfectly illegible
till held near the fire.

All was prepared for the escape, when one day Tison lighted his pipe
with the paper-stopper of a _carafe_. As the paper burned, the writing
became visible. He instantly extinguished the half-burned paper, and
carried the remaining fragment to the Council of the Temple, when,
being held near the fire, they could only read a few disjointed
words, the other part being burned to ashes. But they recognized the
hand-writing of the queen. Tison, being questioned, mentioned some
slight marks of attention and sympathy he fancied he had observed on
the part of Lepître and Toulan toward the prisoners. The two guards
were immediately denounced to the municipality, and allowed no more to
enter the Temple.

Turgy remained.

But suspicion was now excited to the highest degree. He was never left
a single moment alone with the princesses. All communication with the
exterior was now utterly impossible.

Madame Elizabeth had nevertheless one day given Turgy a little gold
knife to clean, with which she used to cut fruit. Turgy suspected
something, and when wiping the knife drew off the handle, and in the
handle found a letter.

This letter contained an alphabet of signs.

He returned the knife to Madame Elizabeth; but a municipal then present
prevented him, and in his turn securing the knife, took the blade and
handle apart; but fortunately the letter was no longer there. The
municipal nevertheless confiscated the knife.

It was at that time that the indefatigable Chevalier de Maison-Rouge
meditated this second attempt, which they intended to carry into
execution by means of the house which Dixmer had purchased.

The prisoners, however, had by degrees lost all hope. That day the
queen, terrified by the noise in the streets which reached her ears,
and learning from these cries that they were debating the trial of
the Girondins, the last supporters of moderation, felt dreadfully
depressed. The Girondins dead, the royal family lost their only defence
in the Convention.

At seven o'clock the supper was served. The municipals examined every
plate as usual, unfolded each napkin successively, searched the bread,
the one with a fork, the other with his fingers, and concluded by
breaking into pieces the macaroons and walnuts, for fear any letter
should reach the prisoners. These precautions being concluded, the
royal family were invited to their meal in these simple words: --

"Widow Capet, you may eat."

The queen shook her head, signifying she was not hungry. But at this
moment Madame Royale advanced, as if to embrace her mother, and
whispered,--

"Seat yourself at table, Madame. I fancied Turgy made a sign."

The queen, tremblingly, raised her head. Turgy was opposite to her. The
napkin laid over his left arm, and with his right hand he touched his
eye.

She immediately rose, without any further objection, and resumed her
usual place at table.

The two municipals assisted at the meal, being strictly prohibited from
leaving the princesses alone for an instant with Turgy.

The feet of the queen and Madame Elizabeth met, and pressed each other
under the table.

As the queen was seated opposite Turgy, not one of his gestures escaped
her notice; besides, they were all so natural that they neither could
nor did inspire the municipals with any suspicion whatever.

At the removal of the supper the same precautions were used as before;
the smallest pieces of bread were taken up and examined. After which,
Turgy went out first, the two municipals following; the woman Tison
remained.

This woman had become ferocious since her separation from her
daughter, of whose fate she was totally ignorant. Every time the queen
lavished a caress on Madame Royale, it threw her into an excess of
rage almost bordering on frenzy; so much so, that the queen, who so
well understood the griefs of a mother, often denied herself this
consolation--now, alas! the only one left her--of pressing her daughter
to her heart.

Tison came now to seek for his wife, who at first declared she would
not leave till Widow Capet was in bed.

Madame Elizabeth then wished the queen good-night, and entered her
chamber.

The queen and princess having also retired, Tison's wife took the
candle and went out.

The municipals had already thrown themselves upon their beds in the
corridor.

The moon, pale visitant of the unhappy princesses, shone through the
window of the roof, casting her rays across the foot of the queen's bed.

For an instant everything remained calm and silent in the chamber.

Then a door turned softly on its hinges, a shadow passed across the
rays of the moon, and approached the queen,--it was Madame Elizabeth.

"Did you notice?" said she, in a whisper.

"Yes," replied the queen.

"And you understood?"

"So well that I dare not believe it."

"Let us see; repeat the signs."

"First, then, he touched his eye to indicate he had some news for
us; then he passed his napkin from his left to his right, which
meant that they were occupied in our deliverance. Then he put his
hand to his face, to signify that the expected aid would reach us
from the interior, and not from a stranger; then when you asked
him not to forget the milk of almonds to-morrow, he made two knots
in his pocket-handkerchief. Thus it is again the Chevalier de
Maison-Rouge,--noble-hearted man that he is."

"It is he," said Madame Elizabeth.

"Are you asleep, my child?" demanded the queen.

"No, _ma mère_," replied Madame Royale.

"Then pray for you know whom."

Madame Elizabeth quietly regained her chamber, and for some minutes
during the silence of the night the soft, sweet voice of the youthful
princess might be heard addressing her prayer to God. It was at that
moment, at a signal from Morand, the first stroke of the pick-axe
sounded in the small house at Rue de la Corderie.




CHAPTER XVIII.

CLOUDS.


Aside from the intoxication of renewed visits, Maurice was certainly
much disappointed at the reception of Geneviève, and reckoned upon
solitary interviews to regain the road he had lost, or seemed to have
lost, in her affections.

But Geneviève had wisely arranged her plan, and did not intend to allow
him an opportunity for a _tête-à-tête_, being conscious of their danger
even from the happiness they afforded her.

Maurice trusted to the morrow. A kinswoman of Geneviève's, no doubt
previously invited, came to call upon her, and Geneviève had retained
her. This time there was nothing to be said; it could not be the fault
of Geneviève. When leaving, Maurice was requested to escort this
relation to Rue des Fossés Saint Victor, where she resided. Maurice
went away pouting, but Geneviève smiled, and he construed this smile
into a promise.

Alas! Maurice deceived himself. The next day, the 2d of June, that
terrible day that witnessed the downfall of the Girondins, Maurice
dismissed his friend Lorin, who absolutely wished to carry him off to
the Convention, and put everything aside that he might visit his fair
friend. The Goddess of Liberty had a powerful rival in Geneviève.

Maurice found Geneviève in her little salon, all grace and amiability,
but near her was a young _femme-de-chambre_ with the tricolored
cockade, engaged in marking pocket-handkerchiefs in the corner of the
window, who never left her place.

Maurice knitted his brows, and Geneviève, perceiving he was not in
the best temper possible, redoubled her assiduities; but since her
amiability was not carried so far as to dismiss the young official, he
impatiently left an hour earlier than usual.

All this might have perhaps happened by chance. Maurice took patience.
The political situation, besides, was so terrible that long as it was
since he had interested himself in public affairs, the report reached
even him. It required nothing less than the downfall of a party who had
reigned in France for ten months to withdraw his attention from his
all-engrossing passion for Geneviève.

The next day witnessed the same management on the part of Geneviève,
and Maurice, having foreseen this, had arranged his plan. So ten
minutes after his arrival, seeing that the young woman, having finished
marking a dozen pocket-handkerchiefs, commenced six dozen of table
napkins, Maurice, we say, drew out his watch, rose, bowed to Geneviève,
and went out without saying one word.

Still more, as he left, he did not even once look back.

Geneviève, who had risen to watch him across the garden, remained an
instant speechless, pale, and trembling, then dropped into her chair,
thunderstruck at the effect of her diplomacy.

At this moment Dixmer entered.

"Maurice gone?" said he, with astonishment.

"Yes," stammered Geneviève.

"But he had only just arrived."

"He was here a quarter of an hour, or nearly so."

"Then he will return?"

"I much doubt it."

"Leave us, Muguet [lily of the valley]," said Dixmer.

The _femme-de-chambre_ had assumed the name of the flower from hatred
to her baptismal name of Marie, which was unfortunately that of the
Austrian.

She rose at the command of her master, and quitted the room.

"Well, dear Geneviève," said Dixmer, "is peace restored between you and
Maurice?"

"On the contrary, I think we are cooler than ever."

"And this time, who is to blame?" said Dixmer.

"Maurice, without the slightest doubt."

"Permit me to judge."

"What!" said Geneviève, blushing, "you cannot guess--"

"Why he is angry? No."

"It seems to me, it is some whim about Muguet."

"Bah! truly; then you must send the girl away. I will not deprive
myself of a friend like Maurice for the sake of a _femme-de-chambre_."

"Oh!" said Geneviève, "he is not, I think, so angry as to require her
to be sent away; it will suffice to--"

"What?"

"To exile her from my chamber."

"And Maurice is right," said Dixmer; "it is you he comes to visit,
and not Muguet; it is therefore quite unnecessary that she should be
present."

"But, my dear Dixmer," replied she, regarding her husband with
astonishment.

"Geneviève," replied Dixmer, "I hoped to have found in you an ally
who would render more easy the task imposed upon me, and find, on the
contrary, that your fears redouble our dangers and difficulties. Four
days since I thought all was settled between us, and now everything
must be done over again. Have I not told you that I confide in you, in
your honor? Have I not told you that it is positively necessary that
Maurice should become our friend, more intimate than before, but less
suspicious than ever? Oh, _mon Dieu!_ these women are an everlasting
obstacle to our projects."

"But, is there no other way? I have told you before, that for all our
sakes it would be better if Monsieur Maurice returned here no more."

"Yes, for our sakes, perhaps; but for the sake of her who is far above
us, of her for whom we have promised to sacrifice our lives, fortune,
and happiness, it is necessary that this young man should return. Are
you aware they begin to suspect Turgy, and talk of placing another
servant near the queen?"

"Well, I will send away Muguet."

"Gracious Heaven! Geneviève," said Dixmer, with a movement of
impatience very unusual with him, "why do you speak to me thus;
why stifle the ardor of my ideas by your own; why strive to create
difficulties where too many already exist? Geneviève, act like an
honorable, devoted woman; act as you feel you ought to act. I tell you,
to-morrow I go out--to-morrow I take Morand's place as engineer. I
shall not dine with you, but he will; he has something to ask Maurice,
and will explain to you what it is. What he has to request you may
imagine, Geneviève, is a thing of vital import; it is not indeed the
goal to which we march, but the way leading to it. It is the last hope
of that devoted, noble-minded man, our protector, to whom we are bound
to dedicate our lives."

"And for whom I will freely give mine," cried Geneviève, with
enthusiasm.

"Well, this man, Geneviève, I cannot tell why, as you must have seen
is not loved by Maurice, by whom, above all things, it is necessary he
should be respected. In short, from the bad temper in which you have
put Maurice to-day, he may perhaps refuse Morand that which it is so
imperative we should obtain at any price. Do I now need to tell you,
Geneviève, to what dread end your petty delicacy and sentimentality are
leading Morand?"

"Oh, sir!" cried Geneviève, clasping her hands and turning pale, "let
us never mention that!"

"Then," said Dixmer, pressing his lips to his wife's forehead, "reflect
upon it, and form your resolution;" and he went out.

"O my God!" murmured Geneviève, with anguish, "with what violence do
they compel me to accept this love toward which my whole soul inclines!"

The next day, as we have already said, was Sunday.

It was customary in the family of Dixmer, as in all the bourgeoise
families at that period, that the dinner should be longer and more
ceremonious on that day than on any other. Since their intimacy,
Maurice, having received a general invitation, never omitted to dine
with them on that day. Although they did not dine till two o'clock,
Maurice used to come at noon.

From the manner of their parting, however, Geneviève almost despaired
of seeing him that Sunday.

In short, twelve o'clock struck, then half-past, then one.

It would be impossible to describe what passed in the heart of
Geneviève during this period of anxious expectation.

She was at first dressed with the greatest simplicity; then, seeing
that he delayed his coming, she, with a feeling of coquetry natural
to the heart of woman, had placed a flower at her side, a flower in
her hair, and still listened, her heart each moment beating faster
and faster. The dinner-hour had almost arrived, and Maurice had not
appeared.

At ten minutes to two, Geneviève heard the sound of a horse's feet,
that sound she knew so well.

"Oh!" cried she, "his pride could not wrestle against his love. He
loves me! he loves me!"

Maurice dismounted, and gave his horse to the gardener, desiring him to
remain where he was. Geneviève saw with anxiety that the gardener did
not lead the horse to the stables.

Maurice on this day looked superlatively handsome. A splendid black
coat, a white waistcoat, breeches of chamois leather designed for limbs
after the model of Apollo, a white cambric stock, and his waving hair,
displaying a fresh, beaming face, formed altogether a type of manly
beauty.

He entered. As we have already said, his presence swelled the heart of
Geneviève, who received him joyfully. "Ah!" said she, holding out her
hand, "you have come to dine with us, have you not?"

"On the contrary, Citizen," said Maurice, coldly, "I have come to ask
your permission to absent myself."

"To absent yourself?"

"Yes; the sectional affairs claim my attention. I feared you might
wait, and would accuse me of being wanting in politeness, therefore
came to make my excuses in person."

Geneviève again felt her heart sink within her.

"Ah, _mon Dieu_!" cried she, "and Dixmer, who does not dine at home,
counted upon finding you here on his return, and desired me to detain
you."

"Ah, then, Madame! I comprehend your importunity, it is a command of
your husband's; and I not to guess all this! I shall never cure myself
of conceit."

"Maurice!"

"It is for me, Madame, to draw my inference from your actions rather
than your words; it is for me therefore to comprehend that if Dixmer is
absent the greater the reason I should not remain. His absence would
surely add to your constraint."

"Why so?" timidly inquired Geneviève.

"Because you appear, since my return, sedulously to avoid me,
notwithstanding I returned for your sake, and yours only; and you well
know, _mon Dieu!_ that ever since my return I have invariably found
some one with you."

"Then," said Geneviève, "you are still angry, _mon ami_, although I
endeavor to act for the best."

"No, Geneviève; you would do much better to receive me as before, or
drive me away altogether."

"Maurice," said Geneviève, tenderly, "understand my situation, consider
my anguish, and do not enact the tyrant over me any longer."

And the young woman regarded him mournfully.

Maurice remained silent.

"What do you require then?" continued she.

"I require your love, Geneviève; since I now feel I cannot live without
that love."

"Maurice! have pity on me."

"Then, Madame, you leave me to die."

"To die?"

"Yes, to die, or to forget."

"You could then forget?" said Geneviève, the tears rushing from her
heart to her eyes.

"Ah, no, no!" said Maurice, falling on his knees before her; "no,
Geneviève, I may die, perhaps, but forget you, never, never!"

"And yet," replied Geneviève, with firmness, "that would be the best,
Maurice; for this love is criminal."

"Have you said this to Monsieur Morand?" said Maurice, recalled to
himself by her sudden frigidity of manner.

"Monsieur Morand is not a madman like yourself, and has never yet
compelled me to indicate to him how he should conduct himself in the
house of a friend."

"I wager," said Maurice, smiling ironically, "that if Dixmer dines out
Morand is not absent. Ah, Geneviève, by this means you can always deter
me from loving you; for while Morand is here, forever at your side, not
quitting you even for a single moment," continued he, contemptuously,
"I should not love you, or rather I should not confess that I loved
you."

"And I," cried Geneviève, driven to extremity by this eternal
suspicion, and seizing the young man's arm with a species of frenzy,
"I swear solemnly--now, Maurice, mark me well, and let it be once for
all--that Morand has never breathed to me a word of love, that he
neither loves me nor ever will love me. I swear this on my honor; I
swear this by the soul of my mother.

"Alas! alas!" said Maurice, "I wish I could believe you."

"Oh, believe me, poor foolish youth!" said she, with a smile which, to
any one else than one blind with jealousy, would have been a charming
confession of the state of her heart,--"believe me. Besides, if you
wish to know more, Morand loves a woman in whose presence all others
sink into insignificance, as the flowers of the field fade before the
stars of heaven."

"And who is this woman who is able to eclipse all other women,"
demanded Maurice, "when among the number we find Geneviève?"

"Do we not always," said Geneviève, smiling, "consider the one we love
as the _chef d'œuvre_ of the creation?"

"Then," said Maurice, "if you do not love me, Geneviève--"

The young woman waited with anxiety the end of the sentence.

"If you do not love me," continued Maurice, "will you at least swear
never to love another?"

"Ah! that, Maurice, I will swear with all my heart," cried the young
woman, delighted that he had thus compromised with her conscience.

Maurice seized the hands she was raising to Heaven, and covered them
with ardent kisses.

"And now," said he, "I will be kind, indulgent, and confiding. I will
even be generous. I wish to see you smile, and myself to be happy."

"And you will ask me nothing more?"

"I will endeavor."

"And now," said Geneviève, "I think it will be useless to hold the
horse any longer. The section will wait."

"Oh, Geneviève! the whole world might wait, if I could only stay with
you!"

Steps were heard in the court-yard.

"They come to tell us that dinner is ready," said Geneviève. They
silently pressed each other's hands.

It was Morand, who came to tell them they only awaited their presence
at table. He also was in full dress for the Sunday's dinner.




CHAPTER XIX.

THE REQUEST.


In the mean time Morand did not a little excite the curiosity of
Maurice. The most refined of fops could not discover a fault in the tie
of his cravat, the folds of his boots, or the texture of his linen;
but it must be allowed his hair and spectacles were always the same.
It then appeared to Maurice, so much was he reassured by the oath
of Geneviève, that he now for the first time viewed these locks and
spectacles in a proper light.

"The devil!" said Maurice to himself as he went to meet him,--"the
devil take me if I am now ever again jealous of this worthy Citizen
Morand. Put on every day, if you choose, your full-dress coat, or even
make yourself one of cloth of gold, since from this time I promise to
see nothing but your hair and spectacles, and above all, never again to
accuse you of loving Geneviève."

We can easily understand that the shake of the hand bestowed upon the
Citizen Morand at the conclusion of this soliloquy was more frank and
cordial than usual. Contrary to custom, the party was small, covers
being placed for only three on a narrow table.

Geneviève was seated nearly opposite Maurice, between himself and the
light, which reflected on her luxuriant black curls, tingeing them with
the blue hue of the raven's wing, and enhancing the brilliancy of her
eyes and complexion.

Beyond his pigeon-colored suit, Morand appeared to have dismissed
all recollection of the day from his mind,--that brilliant wit which
Maurice had sometimes heard burst fresh from the lips of this singular
man, which would no doubt have been accompanied by flashes from his
eyes, had they not been totally obscured by the green spectacles.

He uttered a thousand witticisms, but never himself smiled; indeed,
what added piquancy to his witticisms and a strange charm to his
sallies was his own imperturbable gravity. This merchant, who had made
numerous voyages and visited various countries, trading in every sort
of skin, from the skin of the panther to that of the rabbit; this
chemist, with arms dyed with his own chemical preparations,--was as
conversant with Egypt as Herodotus, Africa as Lavaillant, and the Opera
and the boudoir as any fop.

"But the devil take me, Monsieur Morand," said Maurice, "you are not
only a clever man, but a scholar also."

"Ah! I have both seen and read much," said Morand; "and then it is
necessary I should prepare myself in some degree for the life of
pleasure I intend to lead when I retire on my fortune. It is time,
Citizen Maurice, it is time."

"Bah!" said Maurice; "you talk like an old man. What age then are you?"

Morand turned round, startled by this question, natural as it certainly
was.

"I am thirty-eight," said he. "Ah! see what it is to be a scholar, as
you term it. It makes one old."

Geneviève began to laugh, and Maurice joined in; but Morand merely
smiled.

"You have, then, made several voyages?" demanded Maurice, pressing
Geneviève's foot between his own.

"Part of my youth," replied Morand, "was passed in a foreign land."

"And you have seen much?--pardon me, I ought to say, have observed
much; for a man like yourself cannot see without observing," replied
Maurice.

"_Ma foi!_ yes; seen much?" replied Morand, "I have seen almost
everything."

"Everything, Citizen," replied Maurice, laughing; "that is saying a
great deal. If you were to search--"

"Ah, yes! you are right; there are two things I have never seen. It is
true, in our days, these two things are becoming more and more rare."

"What are they, then?" demanded Maurice.

"The first," said Morand, gravely, "is a god."

"Ah!" said Maurice, "but in lieu of a god I shall be able to show you a
goddess, Citizen Morand."

"How so?" interrupted Geneviève.

"Yes; a goddess of quite modern creation,--the Goddess Reason. I have a
friend, of whom you have sometimes heard me speak,--my dear and brave
Lorin,--with a heart of gold, whose only fault is that of making verses
and vile puns."

"Well?"

"Well, he selected for Paris a Goddess Reason, in good condition, and
in whom they can discover nothing at all objectionable. It is the
Citizeness Arthémise, ex-dancer at the Opera, and at present dealer in
perfumes, Rue Martin. As soon as she is definitely received as goddess,
I will show her to you."

Morand bowed his head in token of thanks, and continued,--

"The other," said he gravely, "is a king."

"Ah! that is more difficult," said Geneviève; "there are no more of
them," she added, forcing a smile.

"You should have seen the last," said Maurice; "it would have been
prudent to do so."

"The result is," said Morand, "I have not the least idea of a crowned
head; it must be very sad?"

"Very sad, indeed," said Maurice; "I will answer for it,--I who see one
nearly every month."

"A crowned head?" demanded Geneviève.

"At least," said Maurice, "one that has borne the weight and miserable
burden of a crown."

"Ah, yes! the queen," said Morand; "truly, Monsieur Maurice, it must be
a melancholy sight--"

"Is she as proud and beautiful as they say?" demanded Geneviève.

"Have you never seen her then, Madame?" demanded Maurice, surprised in
his turn.

"I? never!" replied the young woman.

"Indeed!" said Maurice, "that is strange."

"And why strange?" said Geneviève. "We lived in the country till '91;
since '91 we have resided in the old Rue Saint Jacques, which much
resembles the country, only here they have neither light nor air, and
still less flowers. You are acquainted with my life, Citizen Maurice?
It has always been the same. How do you suppose I could have seen the
queen, when I have had no opportunity whatever of so doing?"

"And I do not think you will avail yourself of that which
unfortunately, perhaps, may present itself," said Maurice.

"What do you mean?" demanded Geneviève.

"The Citizen Maurice," replied Morand, "alludes to a thing no longer a
secret."

"To what?" demanded Geneviève.

"To the probable condemnation of Marie Antoinette, and to her death
upon the same scaffold where her husband died. The citizen said, in
short, that you would not avail yourself of the opportunity offered you
of seeing her the day when she will quit the Temple for the Place de la
Révolution."

"Oh, certainly not!" cried Geneviève, as Morand pronounced these words
with the utmost sang-froid.

"Then you can only lament," said the impassible chemist; "for the
Austrian is well guarded, and the Republic a fairy that renders
invisible whatever she pleases."

"I acknowledge, however," said Geneviève, "I have been very desirous to
see this poor woman."

"Let us see," said Maurice, anxious to gratify all the wishes of
Geneviève; "have you really such an inclination? Then only say the
word. I agree with the Citizen Morand that the Republic is a fairy; but
I, in quality of municipal, am somewhat of a wizard."

"Could you procure me a sight of the queen, you, Monsieur?" cried
Geneviève.

"Certainly, I can."

"And how?" demanded Morand, exchanging a rapid glance with Geneviève,
which escaped the notice of the young man.

"Nothing more simple," said Maurice. "There are certainly some
municipals of whom they are distrustful; but as for me, I have given
sufficient evidence of my devotion to the cause of liberty to render
me above all suspicion. Besides, admittance to the Temple depends
conjointly on the municipals and the chiefs of the post. Now, the chief
of the post is, just at this moment, my friend Lorin, who appears to
me to be called indubitably to replace General Santerre, seeing that
in three months he has risen from the rank of corporal to that of
adjutant-major. Well, come and see me at the Temple the day I shall be
on guard,--that is to say, next Thursday."

"Well," said Morand, "I hope now your wishes will be gratified. There
is the whole matter arranged."

"Oh! no, no," said Geneviève; "indeed, I would not have it thus."

"And wherefore not?" said Maurice, who only anticipated in this visit
to the Temple an opportunity of seeing Geneviève on a day when he had
expected to be deprived of this happiness.

"Because," answered Geneviève, "it might perhaps, dear Maurice, expose
you to some unpleasant dispute; and if anything were to happen to you
through gratifying a whim of mine, I should never, while I lived,
forgive myself."

"You have spoken wisely, Geneviève," said Morand. "Suspicion is at
present very rife; the best patriots even are now suspected. Renounce
this project, which, as you say, is after all a mere caprice of
curiosity."

"They will say that you are envious, Morand, and that not having
yourself seen either king or queen, you do not wish others to do so.
Come, to end all discussion, join the party."

"I! good faith! No."

"It is then no longer the Citizen Dixmer who wishes to visit the
Temple; it is I who entreat both her and you to come there, to divert
a poor prisoner. For the great door once closed upon me, I remain for
twenty-four hours as much a prisoner as the king would be, or a prince
of the blood." And pressing between his own feet the foot of Geneviève,
"Come then," said he, "I entreat you!"

"What do you say, Morand," said Geneviève, "will you come with me?"

"It will be losing a day," said Morand, "and will retard by just so
long the time when I expect to retire from business."

"Then I shall not go," said Geneviève.

"But why?" demanded Morand.

"Because I cannot depend upon my husband to escort me; and if you
will not accompany me--you, a respectable man, thirty-eight years of
age--I have not the hardihood to encounter alone all the chasseurs,
artillery-men, and grenadiers, requesting to speak to one of the
municipals only three or four years older than myself."

"Then," said Morand, "since you deem my presence indispensable,
Citizeness--"

"Come! come! learned Citizen, be as gallant as if you were simply an
ordinary man, and sacrifice half a day to the wife of your friend,"
said Maurice.

"Well, let it be so," said Morand.

"Now," said Maurice, "I only require one thing from you,--that is,
discretion. Visiting the Temple is considered a suspicious proceeding,
and should any accident occur in consequence, we should all be
guillotined. The Jacobins do not jest. _Peste!_ you see how they have
treated the Girondins."

"The devil!" said Morand, "this observation of the Citizen Maurice
requires consideration. This would be a sort of retiring from business
that would not suit me at all."

"Did you not hear," said Geneviève, smiling, "that the Citizen Maurice
said _all_?"

"Well, what of that? All?"

"All together."

"Yes, without doubt," said Morand, "company is very agreeable; but I
much prefer, fair sentimentalist, to live in your society than to die
in it."

"What the devil was I thinking of," said Maurice to himself, "when I
imagined this man loved Geneviève?"

"Then it is all settled," said Geneviève. "I address myself to
you, Morand, thoughtful, absent man that you are,--remember it is
on Thursday next; so do not on the Wednesday evening commence some
chemical experiment that will occupy your time and attention for the
next twenty-four hours, as very frequently happens."

"You may be perfectly easy on that point," said Morand. "Besides, you
can remind me."

Geneviève then rose from table, and Maurice followed her example.
Morand was about to leave also, and perhaps to follow them, when one
of the workmen brought the chemist a small vial containing some liquid
which instantly engrossed all his attention.

"Let us make haste," said Maurice, drawing away Geneviève.

"Oh, be assured," said she, "he will remain there for an hour at the
very least."

And the young woman allowed him to take her hand, which he tenderly
pressed between his own. She felt remorse for her treachery, and tried
to compensate for it by her kindness.

"Do you see," said she to Maurice, crossing the garden and showing him
the carnations, which had been removed into the air with the hope of
reviving them,--"do you see my flowers are all dead?"

"What killed them?" said Maurice; "your neglect? Poor carnations!"

"It was not my neglect, but your desertion, kind sir."

"They required, my little Geneviève, some water, that was all; besides,
my absence should have left you plenty of time."

"Ah!" said Geneviève, "if flowers were watered with tears, the poor
carnations, as you call them, would not have died."

Maurice threw his arms round Geneviève, and drawing her to him, before
she had time to prevent him, pressed his lips upon the half-smiling,
half-languishing eye, now fixed upon the drooping, dying flowers.

Geneviève felt so much self-reproach it made her lenient to others.

Dixmer returned home late, and on his return found Morand, Maurice, and
Geneviève talking botany in the garden.




CHAPTER XX.

THE FLOWER-GIRL.


At length the anticipated Thursday, the day of Maurice's guard,
arrived. It was now the month of June. The sky was of a deep and
cloudless blue, and against this sheet of blue rose the heavy white
mass of new houses. The coming of the dreadful dog-star was already
foreseen,--that dog represented by the ancients as thirsting with
an unquenchable thirst, and which, to borrow the phraseology of the
plebeian Parisians, licked the pavement very dry. Paris was clean as a
carpet, and perfumes filled the air, mounting from the trees, emanating
from the flowers, circulating and intoxicating with joy, as if to
render the inhabitants of the capital forgetful for a few moments of
that vapor of blood which rose without intermission from the pavement
of their streets.

It was Maurice's duty to enter the Temple at nine o'clock; his two
colleagues were Mercevault and Agricola. At eight o'clock he was in the
old Rue Saint Jacques, in grand costume as citizen municipal,--that
is to say, with a tricolored scarf tightly fastened round his lithe,
muscular frame. He as usual rode there on horseback, and on his route
won the sincere approbation, admiration, and eulogiums of the fair
patriots who saw him pass. Geneviève was already prepared; she wore a
simple muslin dress, a species of light taffeta mantle, and a small
bonnet ornamented with the tricolored cockade. Thus attired, she was of
dazzling beauty.

Morand, who, as we have seen, had been earnestly solicited to accompany
them, had, no doubt for fear of being mistaken for an aristocrat,
attired himself in his usual costume,--half-burgess, half-artisan.
He had just entered, and his countenance betrayed great fatigue; he
said he had been at work all night, in order to complete some urgent
business.

Dixmer had gone out immediately on the return of his friend Morand.

"Well," demanded Geneviève, "what have you decided on, Maurice; and how
are we to see the queen?"

"Listen," said Maurice, "I have arranged everything. I shall arrive at
the Temple with you, and then introduce you to my friend Lorin, who
commands the guard; I then take my post, and on the first opportunity
will come for you."

"But," demanded Morand, "where are we to see the prisoners, and how are
we to see them?"

"At either their breakfast or their dinner, if that will suit you,
through the glazed partition of the municipals."

"Perfectly," said Morand.

Maurice then saw Morand approach a cupboard at the farther end of the
_salle-à-manger_, and drink hastily a glass of pure wine, which rather
surprised him, as Morand was usually very abstemious, his strongest
beverage being water merely colored with wine.

Geneviève saw that Maurice regarded him with astonishment.

"Only imagine," said she, "he must be half-dead with fatigue; he has
taken nothing since yesterday morning."

"Did he not dine here?" asked Maurice.

"No; he was trying some experiments in the city."

Geneviève took a useless precaution with respect to Maurice, since
lover-like he was an egotist, and had merely bestowed upon the action
of Morand that superficial attention which an amorous man accords to
everything except the woman whom he loves.

To his glass of wine Morand added a crust of bread, which he hastily
swallowed.

"And now," said he, "dear Citizen Maurice, I am quite ready; when you
choose we will depart."

Maurice, who was stripping the decayed petals from one of the dead
carnations he had plucked in passing, now offered his arm to Geneviève,
saying,--

"Let us start."

On their way Maurice felt so happy that he could scarcely contain
himself; he would have uttered cries of joy had he not restrained
his emotion. What could he desire more? Not only had he acquired the
certainty that she did not love Morand, but also the hope that he
possessed her affection. The glorious sun shone upon the world, the
arm of Geneviève was reposing within his own, while the public criers,
shouting at the top of their voices the triumph of the Jacobins and the
defeat of Brissot and his party, announced that the country was saved.

There are truly moments in life when the heart of man seems too small
to contain the joy or grief concentrated there.

"Oh, what a lovely day!" exclaimed Morand.

Maurice turned round in surprise. This was the first burst of feeling
he had ever heard issue from the lips of this singularly reserved and
absent man.

"Oh, yes; it is indeed lovely," said Geneviève, pressing closer the arm
of Maurice; "would that it may continue till evening pure and cloudless
as it is now!"

Maurice applied these words to himself, and his happiness redoubled
each moment.

Morand at the same time regarded Geneviève through his green
spectacles with a peculiar, grateful expression. Perhaps he also
applied her wish to himself.

They thus crossed the Petit Pont, the Rue de la Juiverie, and the
Bridge Notre Dame; they then proceeded to the Place de l'Hôtel de
Ville, the Rue Barre-du-Bec, and the Rue Sainte Avoie. As they
progressed, Maurice's step became more and more elastic, while on the
contrary those of his male and female companions waxed slower and
slower.

They had reached the corner of the Rue des Vieilles-Audriettes, when
all at once a flower-girl impeded their passage, by offering them her
basket filled with flowers.

"Oh, what magnificent carnations!" cried Maurice.

"Oh, yes, very beautiful!" said Geneviève; "it seems the cultivator of
these had no preoccupation to distress him, for they are not withered
and dead."

This speech sank deep into the heart of the young man.

"Ah! my brave Municipal," said the flower-girl, "purchase a bouquet
for the pretty citizen. She is dressed in white; look at these superb
crimson carnations; white and purple look well together. She will place
the bouquet upon her heart, and as her heart is near to your blue coat,
you will have there the national colors."

The flower-girl was young and pretty; her compliment was well-turned
and well-chosen, for had it been made expressly for that occasion,
it could not have better applied to the circumstances. Besides, the
flowers were almost symbolical; they were similar to those now dead.

"I will purchase some," said Maurice, "since they are carnations; all
other flowers I detest."

"Ah, Maurice," said Geneviève, "it is useless, we have so many of them
in the garden."

But although her lips uttered the refusal, her eyes expressed a longing
desire to possess them.

Maurice selected the most beautiful of the bouquets. It was the one the
pretty flower-girl had presented to him.

It consisted of twenty deep red carnations, emitting an odor at once
sweet and pungent; in the centre, towering above the rest, rose a
magnificent carnation.

"Here," said Maurice to the seller, throwing on her basket a bill of
five francs, "that is for you."

"Thanks, my brave Municipal," said the flower-girl, "a thousand thanks."

And she went toward another couple, trusting the day commenced thus
auspiciously would so continue till its close. During this apparently
simple scene, which had only occupied a few seconds at most, Morand
seemed scarcely able to support himself, and wiped the perspiration
from his pallid brow, while Geneviève also turned pale and trembled.
She took the nosegay which Maurice presented to her, and clasping it in
her lovely hand, held it to her face, less to inhale the odor than to
conceal her emotion.

The remainder of the journey was pleasant, at least so far as
concerned Maurice. As for Geneviève, her gayety seemed affected, and
Morand evinced his enjoyment in a fashion peculiar to himself,--that
is to say, in smothered sighs or startling bursts of laughter, and
occasionally uttering some formidable witticisms which fell upon the
passers-by like sparks of fire.

At nine o'clock they reached the Temple.

Santerre called over the municipals.

"I am here," said Maurice, leaving Geneviève under the care of Morand.

"Welcome," said Santerre, holding out his hand to the young man.

Maurice took care not to refuse the hand thus offered to him. The
friendship of Santerre was certainly most valuable at this epoch.
At sight of this man who had commanded the famous rolling of drums,
Geneviève shuddered, and Morand turned pale.

"Who is this lovely citizeness?" demanded Santerre of Maurice, "and
what does she here?"

"She is the wife of the brave Citizen Dixmer; you have heard this
excellent patriot spoken of, Citizen General?"

"Yes, yes," replied Santerre; "the chief of a tannery, captain of
chasseurs of the legion Victor."

"The same."

"Good! good! My faith, she is pretty. And this ugly fellow who has
given her his arm?"

"That is the Citizen Morand, her husband's partner, and chasseur in
Dixmer's company."

Santerre approached Geneviève.

"Good-day, Citizeness," said he.

Geneviève made an effort.

"Good-day, Citizen General," replied she, smiling.

Santerre felt flattered by both title and smile.

"And what brings you here, fair patriot?" continued Santerre.

"The citizeness," replied Maurice, "has never seen Widow Capet, and
would like to see her."

"Yes," said Santerre, "before--" and he made an atrocious gesture.

"Precisely," replied Maurice, coldly.

"Very well," said Santerre, "only mind they are not seen entering the
keep: it would be a bad example; in other respects, do as you think
fit."

Santerre again shook hands with Maurice, made an inclination of his
head to Geneviève in a friendly and protecting manner, and went to
attend to his other duties.

After a great many evolutions of gendarmes and chasseurs, after some
manœuvring with cannon, the heavy reverberations of which, it was
considered, carried to the environs a salutary admonition, Maurice gave
Geneviève his arm, and followed closely by Morand, advanced toward the
post, at the door of which Lorin was vociferating loudly, commanding
the manœuvres of his battalion.

"Good!" cried he, "why there is Maurice; _peste!_ with a female too who
appears to me rather agreeable. Does the sly rascal wish to bring her
into competition with my Goddess Reason? If it were so, poor Arthémise!"

"Hallo! Citizen Adjutant," said the captain.

"Ah! that's right; attention!" said Lorin; "file to the left,
left--Good-day, Maurice; not so quickly--"

The drums rolled, the company dispersed to their respective places, and
when each was at his post, Lorin hastened to exchange compliments with
his friend. Maurice presented Lorin to Geneviève and Morand. Then an
explanation commenced as to the purport of their visit.

"Yes, I understand," said Lorin; "you wish your friends to enter the
keep; that is easily managed. I will go directly and station the
sentinels, then I will order them to admit you and your friends."

In ten minutes afterward Geneviève and Morand entered behind the three
municipals, and placed themselves behind the glazed partition.




CHAPTER XXI.

THE CRIMSON CARNATION.


The queen had just risen. Having been indisposed for two or three days,
she had remained in bed longer than usual; but having heard from her
sister that there had been a splendid sunrise, she made an effort to
quit her couch, and that she might be enabled to breathe the pure air
with her daughter, had requested permission to walk on the platform,
which had been granted her without the slightest difficulty.

She had also been induced to act thus from another cause. Once, and
it is true once only, from the height of the tower she had seen the
dauphin playing in the garden. But at the first signal of recognition
between the mother and child, Simon interfered, and compelled the boy
to retire immediately.

Nevertheless, she had seen him; that was a great source of happiness
to her. True, the poor little prisoner was very pale and much changed.
Then he was dressed as a child of the people, in a blouse and coarse
trousers. But his beautiful fair waving curls were still left him,
forming around him a glory which God no doubt intended the infant
martyr to retain in heaven.

If she could only see him once again, oh, what a cordial to the heart
of the unhappy mother!

There was yet another motive.

"My sister," Madame Elizabeth had said to her, "you know we found in
the corridor a straw standing upright in a corner of the wall. In the
language of our signs this desires us to be watchful, as a friend is
coming near us."

"That is true," replied the queen; who, regarding her sister and child
with pity, would not on their account permit herself to despair of
their ultimate safety.

The duties of the service accomplished, Maurice was then highest
in authority in the keep of the Temple, since chance had elected
him as guard during the day, and the other municipals, Agricola and
Mercevault, as guards during the night.

The municipals had left, after laying their _procès-verbal_ before the
Council of the Temple.

"Ah, Citizen Municipal," said the woman Tison, coming forward to salute
Maurice, "you bring company, then, to see our caged pigeons? It is only
I who am condemned no more to see my poor Sophie."

"They are friends of mine," said Maurice, "who have never yet seen the
Widow Capet."

"Ah! well, they will see admirably behind the partition."

"Assuredly," said Morand.

"Only," said Geneviève, "we shall seem to be actuated by that cruel
curiosity which induces some persons to mock the misery of unfortunate
prisoners from the outside of an iron grating."

"Ah! then why not take your friends to the tower walk, since the
woman Capet will take an airing there to-day with her sister and her
daughter; for they have left her a daughter, while I who am not guilty,
have been deprived of mine. Oh, these aristocrats! it will always
be the case; let us do what we will, favor is always shown to them,
Citizen Maurice."

"But they have taken from her her son," replied he.

"Ah! if I had a son," murmured the female jailer, "I should lament my
daughter less."

Geneviève during this time had exchanged looks with Morand several
times.

"_Mon ami_," said the young woman to Maurice, "the citizen is in
the right. If you could by any means place me in the way of Marie
Antoinette, it would be less repugnant to my feelings than gazing at
her here. It seems to me that this manner of viewing people is at once
humiliating both to them and to us."

"Kind Geneviève," said Maurice, "you possess true delicacy of mind."

"Egad! Citizen," said one of Maurice's colleagues who was at that
moment breakfasting in the antechamber on bread and sausages, "if you
were the prisoner, and Capet's wife felt curiosity to see you, she
would not be so very particular about the indulgence of her fancy,--the
jade!"

Geneviève, with a movement quicker than lightning, threw a rapid glance
toward Morand, to note the effect of these words upon him. In effect,
Morand quivered, a strange phosphorescent light gleamed from under his
eyelids, and his hands were clinched for an instant; but all this was
so momentary that it passed unperceived.

"What is the name of this municipal?" asked she of Maurice.

"It is the Citizen Mercevault," replied the young man; and then added,
as if to apologize for his coarseness, "a stone-cutter."

Mercevault heard it, and cast a sidelong glance at Maurice.

"Come! come!" said the woman Tison; "finish your sausage and your
half-bottle, that I may clear the table."

"It is not the fault of the Austrian if I finish them now," grumbled
the municipal; "for if she could have murdered me on the 10th of August
she would have done so; thus the day when she 'sneezes in the sack' I
shall be in the first rank, firm at my post."

Morand turned as pale as death.

"Come! Citizen Maurice," said Geneviève, "let us go where you promised
to take us; here it seems as if I were a prisoner. I feel suffocated."

Maurice conducted Geneviève and Morand out, when the sentinels,
previously instructed by Lorin, allowed them to pass without any
difficulty. They installed themselves in a little passage on the upper
story, so that the moment when the queen, Madame Royale, or Madame
Elizabeth ascended to the gallery, these august personages could not do
otherwise than pass before them.

As the promenade was fixed for ten o'clock, and they had only a few
minutes to wait, Maurice not only did not quit his friends, but
further, in order that the slightest suspicion might not be excited
by this rather illegal proceeding, having met Agricola, he took that
municipal with him.

It struck ten.

"Open!" cried a voice from the base of the tower, which Maurice knew to
be that of General Santerre.

Immediately the guard assumed arms and closed the iron gratings; the
sentinels also presented arms. There was then heard in all the court a
confused noise of iron, stones, and footsteps, which vividly impressed
both Morand and Geneviève, for Maurice observed them both turn pale.

"All these precautions to guard three poor women," murmured Geneviève.

"Yes," said Morand, endeavoring to smile; "if those who tempt them
to escape were now here, and in our place saw what we see, it would
disgust them with their trade."

"In fact," continued Geneviève, "I begin to think they will never
escape."

"I hope they never will," said Maurice, inclining over the staircase as
he spoke.

"Attention," cried he; "here are the prisoners."

"Name them to me," said Geneviève, "for I do not know any of them."

"The first two who are ascending are the sister and daughter of Capet.
The last one, preceded by a little dog, is Marie Antoinette."

Geneviève made a step forward. Morand, on the contrary, instead of
looking at them, pressed himself close against the wall, his lips more
livid and earthy than the stones of the keep.

Geneviève, with her white robe and bright pure eyes, appeared like an
angel awaiting the prisoners to cheer them on their dark and dreary
road, and to administer in passing a ray of comfort to their desolate
and blighted hearts.

Madame Elizabeth and Madame Royale pursued their way, having only
thrown a glance of astonishment at the strangers. No doubt the former
imagined they were those whom the signals announced, for turning round
quickly to Madame Royale, she pressed her hand, and while so doing,
dropped her handkerchief, as if to inform the queen.

"Pay attention, my sister," said she; "I have dropped my handkerchief."

And she passed on with the young princess.

The queen, with panting breath accompanied with a short dry cough
indicating ill-health, stooped to pick up the handkerchief which had
fallen at her feet, when her little dog, more agile than its mistress,
seized it, and ran forward with it to Madame Elizabeth. The queen
continued her ascent slowly, and after some steps found herself in her
turn before Geneviève, Morand, and the young municipal.

"Flowers!" cried she; "oh, how long it is since I have seen any
flowers! How deliciously they smell! You are happy to possess these
flowers, Madame."

Quick as the idea formed in her mind, prompted by these melancholy
words, Geneviève extended her hand to offer her bouquet to the queen.

Then Marie Antoinette raised her head, looked at her, and an almost
imperceptible blush passed over her colorless face.

But by a natural movement, from an habitual passive obedience to
regulation, Maurice put out his hand to arrest the arm of Geneviève.

The queen then remained hesitating, when, looking at Maurice, she
recognized him as the young municipal who had always spoken to her with
so much firmness, but at the same time tempered with equal respect.

"Is this forbidden, sir?" said she.

"No, no, Madame. Geneviève, you can offer your bouquet," said Maurice.

"Oh, thanks, thanks, sir," said the queen, with grateful
acknowledgments; and bowing with gracious affability to Geneviève, the
queen extended her emaciated hand, and selected at random a single
carnation from the mass of flowers.

"Take them all, Madame, take them all," timidly said Geneviève.

"No," said the queen, with a fascinating smile; "this bouquet may come
perhaps from one you love. I will not deprive you of it."

Geneviève blushed, and at this blush the queen smiled.

"Move on! Citizen Capet," said Agricola, "you must continue your route."

The queen bowed, and ascended the steps, but before she disappeared,
turned around and murmured,--

"How sweet these carnations smell! and what a beautiful young lady!"

"She has not seen me," murmured Morand, who, almost kneeling in the
shade of the corridor, had quite escaped the notice of the queen.

"But you had a good view of her, had you not, Morand? Had not you,
Geneviève?" said Maurice, doubly happy, first from the sight he had
procured his friends, and also that he had afforded ever so slight a
gratification to the unhappy prisoner.

"Oh, yes, yes!" said Geneviève; "I saw her very well, and were I to
live for a thousand years, I should never forget her."

"And what do you think of her?"

"She is charming."

"And you, Morand."

Morand clasped his hands, but made no reply.

"Tell me," said Maurice, laughing, in a whisper to Geneviève, "is it
the queen of whom Morand is enamoured?"

Geneviève started, but recovering herself instantly, replied
smilingly,--

"It really looks like it."

"You have not yet told me what you think of her, Morand," persisted
Maurice.

"I thought her very pale," replied he.

Maurice retook the arm of Geneviève, to descend toward the court. In
the dark staircase it seemed to him that Geneviève kissed his hand.

"Ha! what does that mean, Geneviève?"

"It means, Maurice, that I shall never forget that to gratify a whim of
mine you have risked your life."

"Oh!" said Maurice, "what exaggeration, Geneviève! Between you and me,
you well know that gratitude is not the sentiment I wish to inspire you
with."

Geneviève pressed his arm softly.

Morand followed with faltering steps.

When they reached the court, Lorin came and identified the two
visitors, showing them to the gate.

Before leaving the Temple, Geneviève made Maurice promise to dine the
next day in the old Rue Saint Jacques.




CHAPTER XXII.

SIMON THE CENSOR.


When Maurice returned to his post, in a state of transcendent
happiness, he found Tison's wife weeping.

"What have they done to you now, mother?" asked Maurice.

"All this makes me furious," replied the female jailer.

"Why?"

"Because there is nothing but injustice for poor people in this world."

"But how?"

"You are rich, you are a bourgeois, you come here only for a day, and
they permit pretty women to visit you here, who present bouquets to
the Austrian; while I who nestle everlastingly in this dove-cot am not
allowed to see my poor Sophie."

Maurice took her hand, and slipped into it a bill of ten francs.

"There, good woman, take that, and do not despair. Goodness! the
Austrian will not last forever."

"Ten francs," said the female jailer, "that is kind of you; but I would
rather have even a curl-paper from my poor girl's hair."

As she finished these words, Simon, who was then coming up, heard them,
and saw the female jailer put in her pocket the bill Maurice had given
her.

We will mention what sort of a temper Simon was in.

He came from the court where he had encountered Lorin. Now, a decided
antipathy existed between these two men.

This hatred was less induced by the violent scenes with which our
readers are already familiar than by difference of race, an everlasting
source of detestation, which, however mysterious it may at first
appear, is easily explained.

Simon was hideous, Lorin handsome; Simon was vulgar, Lorin the very
opposite; Simon was a Republican bully, Lorin one of those ardent
patriots who had sacrificed everything to the Revolution; and then, if
they had on a former occasion come to blows, Simon instinctively felt
that the fist of the fop, no less effectually than that of Maurice,
would have inflicted upon him a plebeian punishment.

Simon on perceiving Lorin, stopped short, and turned pale.

"It is still this battalion that mounts guard," growled he.

"Well," said a gendarme who overheard this apostrophe, "it is as good
as another, it seems to me."

Simon drew a pencil from his pocket, and pretended to note down
something on a piece of paper almost as black as his hands.

"Ah!" said Lorin, "you know how to write then, Simon, since you are
tutor to young Capet? Look, citizens, upon my honor he takes notes; he
is Simon the Censor."

A universal shout of laughter proceeded from the ranks of the young
National Guards, almost all men of education, at the ridiculous title
bestowed upon the wretched cobbler.

"Very well, very well," said he, grinding his teeth, and turning white
with rage; "they say you have permitted strangers to enter the keep,
and that without the consent of the Commune. Very well, I am going to
draw out the _procès-verbal_ by the municipal."

"He at least knows how to write," said Lorin; "it is Maurice, Maurice
with the Iron Hand; don't you know him?"

At this moment Morand and Geneviève went out.

On seeing this, Simon rushed into the keep, at the very moment, as we
have said, when Maurice, by way of consoling her, presented the woman
Tison with the bill of ten francs.

Maurice paid no attention to the presence of this miserable wretch,
whom by a natural instinct he always avoided if he by any chance
encountered him, regarding him in the light of a disgusting and
venomous reptile.

"Ah, well!" said Simon to Tison's wife, who was wiping her eyes with
her apron; "so you wish to bring yourself to the guillotine, Citizen?"

"I!" said the woman, "what put such a thought into your head?"

"Why, because you receive money from the municipal for allowing
aristocrats entrance to the Austrian."

"I!" said the woman Tison; "be silent, you are mad!"

"This shall be entered in the _procès-verbal_," said Simon,
emphatically.

"Come, now, they are friends of the Municipal Maurice, one of the best
patriots that ever existed."

"Conspirators, I tell you. Besides, the Commune shall be informed; it
will judge for itself."

"What! you mean to lodge information about me then, spy of the police!"

"Exactly so, if you do not lodge information yourself."

"Information about what? About what do you wish me to lodge
information?"

"About what has happened."

"But nothing has happened."

"Where were these aristocrats?"

"There, upon the staircase."

"When Capet's wife ascended the stairs?"

"Yes."

"And they spoke to her?"

"They exchanged two words."

"Two words! Besides, there is a perfume of the aristocrat here."

"It is the scent of carnations."

"Carnations! what carnations?"

"Why, the citizen had a bunch of them, which perfumed the whole place."

"What citizen?"

"The one who saw the queen pass."

"Oh, the thing is clear; you say _the queen_! Ma'am Tison; this
consorting with aristocrats will be your ruin! Ah, what is this I am
treading upon?" continued Simon, stooping down.

"Ah!" said the woman Tison, "it is a flower, a carnation; it must have
fallen from the hand of the Citizeness Dixmer, when Marie Antoinette
took one from her bouquet."

"The woman Capet took a flower from the Citizen Dixmer's bouquet?" said
Simon.

"Yes; and it was I who gave her the bouquet," said Maurice, in a loud
and menacing tone, who had been for some moments listening to this
colloquy, and whose patience was nearly exhausted.

"It is all very well, it is all very well; one sees what one sees, and
one knows what one says," growled Simon, who still held in his hand
the carnation crushed by his huge foot.

"And I also know one thing," replied Maurice, "which I am now going
to tell you; it is that you have nothing whatever to do in this keep,
and that your honorable post of hangman is down there with the little
Capet, whom I would, for your own sake, recommend you not to chastise
to-day, as I am here to defend him."

"Do you threaten me? Do you call me hangman?" cried Simon, crushing
the flower in his hand. "Ah! we shall see if it is permitted these
aristocrats--why, what is this?"

"What?" asked Maurice.

"That I feel in this carnation? Ah! ah!"

The eyes of Maurice were transfixed with astonishment as Simon drew
from the calyx of the flower a small paper, rolled with the most
exquisite care, which had been artistically introduced into the centre
of the clustering leaves.

"My God!" said Maurice, "what can this mean?"

"We shall know, we shall very soon know," said Simon, approaching the
window. "Ah! you and your friend Lorin told me I did not know how to
read. Well! you shall see."

Lorin had calumniated Simon; he could read all kinds of print, and
manuscript also when sufficiently large. But the writing in the little
billet was so minute that Simon was obliged to have recourse to his
spectacles. He consequently placed it on the window, while he proceeded
to take an inventory of the contents of his pockets; but while thus
engaged, the Citizen Agricola opened the door of the antechamber
exactly facing the little window, thereby causing a current of air
which blew away the little paper, light as a feather from a bird's
wing, so that when Simon, after a moment's exploration, had discovered
his spectacles, placed them on his nose, and turned himself round, his
labor was lost,--the paper had disappeared.

"There was a paper here," roared Simon, crimson with rage and
disappointment,--"there was a paper here. Look to yourself, Citizen
Municipal, for it must and shall be found."

And he descended precipitately, leaving Maurice in a state of
stupefaction.

Ten minutes afterward three members of the Commune entered the keep.
The queen was still upon the platform, and strict orders had been
issued that she should be kept in total ignorance of all that had just
occurred. The members of the Commune desired to be conducted to her
presence.

The first object which met their view was the crimson carnation, which
she still held in her hand. They regarded her with surprise, and
approaching her,--

"Give us this flower," said the president of the deputation. The queen,
who had not expected this intrusion, started and hesitated.

"Surrender your flower, Madame," said Maurice, in a sort of alarm, "I
entreat you."

The queen tendered them the carnation. The president took it and
retired, followed by his colleagues, into a neighboring apartment to
make an examination, and draw up the _procès-verbal_.

They opened the flower--it was empty.

Maurice breathed afresh.

"Wait a moment," said one of the members, "the heart of the carnation
has been removed. The calyx is empty, it is true, but in this calyx
most unquestionably a letter has been concealed."

"I am quite ready and willing," said Maurice, "to furnish all necessary
explanation; but first of all, I request to be arrested."

"We shall make a minute of your proposal, but shall not act upon it,"
said the president. "You are known as a stanch patriot, Citizen Lindey."

"And I will answer with my life for the friends I had the imprudence to
bring with me."

"Answer for no one," replied the procurator.

A tremendous hubbub was now heard in the court. It was Simon, who
having long and vainly sought for the little billet wafted away by the
wind, went to Santerre and informed him that an attempt had been made
to carry off the queen, with all the accessories which the powers of
his excited imagination could lend to such an event. Santerre was in
great haste; he investigated the Temple, and changed the guard, to the
great disgust of Lorin, who stoutly protested against this offence
offered to his battalion.

"Ah! vile cobbler," said he to Simon, menacing him with his sabre, "I
have you to thank for this pleasantry; but only wait a little, and I
will pay you back in your own coin."

"I think rather that the entire nation will pay you," said the
shoemaker, rubbing his hands.

"Citizen Maurice," said Santerre, "hold yourself at the disposal of the
Commune, who will examine you."

"I await your orders, Commandant; but I have already said that I desire
to be arrested, and I repeat my request."

"Wait, wait," murmured Simon, with a malicious smile; "since you are so
bent upon it, we shall try to settle that little matter for you," and
he went to find the woman Tison.




CHAPTER XXIII.

ARTHÉMISE.


They searched during the whole day in the court, in the garden and its
environs, for the little billet which had caused all this tumult, and
which they no longer doubted contained the whole plot.

They interrogated the queen, after having separated her from her
daughter and sister, but elicited nothing more from her than that she
had, on the staircase, encountered a young woman carrying a bouquet,
and had drawn a single flower from the centre.

Moreover, she would not have plucked this flower had she not first
obtained the consent of the Municipal Maurice.

She had nothing more to tell. This was the truth in all its force and
simplicity.

This was all reported to Maurice when his turn came to be questioned,
and he declared that the deposition of the queen was quite correct.

"But," said the president, "there was then a plot."

"Impossible," said Maurice; "I was dining at Madame Dixmer's, and
proposed that she should see the prisoners, hearing her remark she
had never done so; but neither the day nor the manner of so doing was
arranged."

"But the flowers were purchased," said the president; "the bouquet had
been made beforehand."

"Not at all; I myself purchased these flowers from a flower-girl, who
offered them to us at the corner of the Rue des Vieilles-Audriettes."

"But at least this flower-girl presented the bouquet to you?"

"No, Citizen; I selected it myself from ten or twelve others.
Certainly, I purchased the most beautiful."

"But was there a possibility of secreting this billet on your road to
the tower?"

"Impossible, Citizen. I never left Madame Dixmer's side for a moment,
and to perform the operation named on each flower,--for remark that
every flower, according to Simon's account, must have contained a like
billet,--would at least occupy half a day or more."

"But, in short, could not two prepared billets have been placed in the
flowers?"

"The prisoner in my presence took one at random, after having declined
the rest."

"Then, in your opinion, Citizen Lindey, there was not a plot at all?"

"Oh, there must have been a plot!" replied Maurice, "and I am the
first not only to believe but to affirm it; my friends, however, were
not concerned in it. Nevertheless, as the nation must necessarily be
alarmed, I offer security by surrendering myself prisoner."

"Not at all," said Santerre; "should we act thus with tried friends
like you? If you surrender yourself prisoner to answer for your
friends, I surrender myself prisoner to answer for you. The thing
is simple. There is no positive accusation. No one will know what
has passed. Let us henceforth act with redoubled vigilance,--you
especially,--and we shall succeed in probing this matter to the bottom,
and at the same time avoid publicity."

"Thanks, Commandant," said Maurice; "but I shall answer as you would
answer were you in my place. We must not stop here; we must discover
the flower-girl."

"The flower-girl is far away, but be perfectly easy on that point; she
shall be sought for. As for you, watch your friends, while I will guard
the prison correspondence."

No one had thought of Simon, but he had formed his own project.

He arrived toward the conclusion of the sitting, and learned the
decision of the Commune.

"Ah! then all that is needed is a formal accusation," said he, "to make
sure work. Wait five minutes and I will lay one before you."

"What is it?" said the president.

"It is," said Simon, "the courageous Citizeness Tison who accuses
of secret practices that partisan of the aristocracy, Maurice, and
denounces the intrigues of another equally false patriot, one of his
friends named Lorin."

"Take care, take care, Simon; your zeal for the nation perhaps misleads
you. Maurice and Lorin are tried patriots."

"That will be seen at the tribunal," replied Simon.

"Consider well, Simon; this will be a disgraceful proceeding in the
sight of all true patriots."

"Disgraceful or not, what is that to me? Do I dread disgrace? We shall
at least learn the whole truth about traitors."

"Then you persist in lodging an accusation in the name of the woman
Tison?"

"I will accuse them myself this very night to the Cordeliers, and you
too, Citizen President, if you do not at once command the arrest of
that traitor Maurice."

"Well, so be it," said the president, who, after the manner of those
wretched times, trembled before those who clamored the loudest; "he
shall be arrested."

While this decision was forming against him, Maurice had returned to
the Temple, where the following billet awaited him,--

 Our guard being violently broken up, I shall not be able, in all
 probability, to see you before to-morrow morning. Come then and
 breakfast with me; during that meal you shall give me a true and
 particular account of the plots and conspiracies discovered by Simon.

 A pink the culprit was,--
 So honest Simon does depose;
 But I shall information seek
 This morning from a lovely rose.

 And to-morrow, in my turn, I shall lay before you all Arthémise's
 answers to my questions.

 Yours faithfully,

 Lorin.

Maurice replied,--

 There is nothing new; so sleep in peace to-night, and breakfast
 without me to-morrow, as, on reviewing the incidents of the day, I
 find I shall not, in all probability, be able to leave till noon.

 I should like to be a zephyr to waft a kiss to the rose of which you
 speak.

 I give you leave to whistle at my prose as much as I do at your verse.

 Yours faithfully,

 Maurice.

 P.S. For the rest, I believe the conspiracy was only a false alarm,
 after all.

Lorin had indeed left at one o'clock with the whole of his battalion,
thanks to the brutal conduct of the shoemaker; he however consoled
himself with a quatrain, and went to visit Arthémise.

Arthémise was delighted to see Lorin. The weather, as we have said, was
magnificent; she therefore proposed a walk along the quay, to which
Lorin of course assented. They had walked some distance, discoursing
on politics, Lorin recounting his expulsion from the Temple and vainly
endeavoring to divine the cause, when, on reaching the vicinity of Rue
des Barres, they perceived a flower-girl, who, like themselves, was
walking up the right bank of the Seine.

"Ah, Citizen Lorin!" said Arthémise, "I hope you are going to present
me with a bouquet?"

"Two, if you wish it," said Lorin; and they both redoubled their speed
to overtake the flower-girl, who walked at a rapid pace.

On arriving at the Bridge Marie, the young girl stopped, and leaning
over the parapet, emptied the contents of her basket into the river.

The flowers separated, whirled round for an instant in the air, while
the bouquets, dragged down by their weight, fell more quickly, till at
last both flowers and bouquets floated upon the surface, following the
course of the water.

"Stop!" said Arthémise, regarding the flower-girl thus strangely
occupied; "it is said--but yes--but no--but if--ah! this is strange."

The flower-girl placed her finger on her lips, as if to entreat
Arthémise to be silent, and disappeared.

"Who is this, then?" said Lorin; "do you know this mortal, goddess?"

"No; I fancied at first--but certainly I am deceived."

"She, however, made a sign to you," persisted Lorin.

"But why is she a flower-girl this morning?" said Arthémise to herself.

"You acknowledge, then, that you know her, Arthémise?" asked Lorin.

"Yes," replied Arthémise; "she is a flower-girl I sometimes deal with."

"At all events," said Lorin, "she has a strange method of disposing of
her merchandise."

And both, after having looked for the last time at the flowers, which
had already reached the wooden bridge and received a fresh impetus from
the arm of the river passing under its arches, continued their route
toward the Rapée, where they anticipated dining _tête-à-tête_.

This incident was forgotten for the moment; but as it was at least
singular, and of rather a mysterious character, it vividly impressed
Lorin's poetic imagination.

In the mean time, the accusation brought by Tison's wife against
Maurice and Lorin caused a great tumult at the club of the Jacobins;
and Maurice was informed at the Temple by the Commune that his safety
was endangered by the public indignation. This was a recommendation
to the young municipal to conceal himself if he were guilty; but with
conscious rectitude Maurice remained at the Temple, where he was found
at his post when they came to arrest him, and at the same time to
interrogate him.

Remaining firm in his resolution not to endanger the safety of his
friends, in whom he felt the most implicit confidence, Maurice was
not the man to sacrifice himself by a ridiculous silence worthy of a
hero of romance, and therefore demanded that the flower-girl should be
arrested.

It was five o'clock in the evening when Lorin returned home, and heard,
at the same moment, of the arrest of Maurice, and also of the demand
made by him.

The flower-girl of the Bridge Marie instantly recurred to him like
a sudden revelation. This singular individual casting her flowers
into the Seine; the coincidence of place; the half admission of
Arthémise,--all these facts combined convinced him that this was the
solution of the mystery demanded by Maurice.

He bounded from his chamber, flew rather than ran down four flights
of stairs, and precipitated himself into the presence of the Goddess
Reason, who was engaged in embroidering golden stars on a robe of blue
gauze. It was her robe of divinity.

"A truce to the stars, sweetheart," said Lorin; "they have arrested
Maurice this morning, and, in all human probability, this evening I
shall share the same fate."

"Maurice arrested!"

"By Heaven, he is! In these times nothing is more common than the
occurrence of such troubles; but they excite little attention because
they come in troops, that is all. Almost all important matters
originate in trifles. Never neglect trifles. Who was that flower-girl
we met this morning, sweetheart?"

Arthémise started.

"What flower-girl?"

"The one who so recklessly cast her flowers into the Seine."

"Ah, my goodness!" said Arthémise; "is this circumstance, then, so
serious that you return to question me so urgently about it?"

"So serious, sweetheart, that I entreat you to answer my question
without loss of time."

"Dear Lorin, I cannot do so."

"Goddess, with you nothing is impossible."

"I am in honor bound to keep silence."

"And I am bound in honor to make you speak."

"But why do you insist upon it thus?"

"Why? Zounds! that Maurice may not have his throat cut!"

"Merciful Heavens! Maurice guillotined!" cried the young woman, much
alarmed.

"Without speaking of myself; for to tell you the truth my head feels by
no means secure upon my shoulders."

"Ah! No, no!" said Arthémise, "to speak would be the poor girl's utter
ruin."

At this moment Lorin's official rushed into the apartment.

"Ah! Citizen," cried he, "save yourself! save yourself!"

"And why?" demanded Lorin.

"Because the gendarmes have arrived; and while they were forcing an
entrance, I gained the next house by the roof, and hastened to prevent
your return."

Arthémise uttered a heart-rending cry, for she truly loved Lorin.

"Arthémise," said Lorin, "do you really place the life of a flower-girl
in comparison with that of Maurice and that of your lover? If so, I
declare to you that I no longer regard you as the Goddess Reason, but
shall proclaim you the Goddess Folly."

"Poor Héloïse!" exclaimed the ex-dancer of the Opera; "if I betray you,
it is not my fault."

"Well done, my darling!" said Lorin, presenting a paper to Arthémise,
"you have already favored me with her Christian name, oblige me now
with her surname and address."

"Oh, write it! never, never!" cried Arthémise; "I would rather tell
you."

"Tell me, then, and rest assured I shall not forget."

And Arthémise, in an agitated voice, gave the name and address of the
pretended flower-girl to Lorin.

"She is called Héloïse Tison, and lives, Rue des Nonandières, No. 24."

At this name, Lorin uttered an exclamation, and fled. He had not
reached the corner of the street when a letter was delivered to
Arthémise. It only contained three lines,--

 Not a word concerning me, dear friend; the revelation of my name would
 infallibly ruin me. Wait till to-morrow. I quit Paris to-night.

 Thine,

 Héloïse.

"Oh, my God!" cried the future goddess, "if I could only have divined
this I should have waited till to-morrow," and she rushed to the window
to recall Lorin, if there was yet time; but he had disappeared.




CHAPTER XXIV.

THE MOTHER AND DAUGHTER.


We have already said that in a few hours the news of this event had
circulated through Paris. In short, there were at this epoch various
indiscretions easy to comprehend on the part of a government of which
the political schemes were made and unmade in the street.

The rumor gradually gained ground, till it at length reached the old
Rue Saint Jacques, and two hours after the arrest of Maurice they heard
of his detention.

Thanks to the activity of Simon, the details of the plot were quickly
reported beyond the Temple; but as every one embellished the original
according to his fancy, the truth was somewhat altered by the time
it reached the master-tanner's. One said a poisoned flower had been
conveyed to the queen, by means of which the Austrian would stupefy
her guards, and thus be enabled to escape from the Temple; it was also
said that certain suspicions were entertained of the fidelity of the
battalion dismissed by Santerre on the preceding evening,--so that
already several victims were consigned to the hatred of the people.

But the inhabitants of the old Rue Saint Jacques were not, of course,
deceived as to the real nature of the event; and Morand on one side,
and Dixmer on the other, went out immediately, leaving Geneviève a
victim to the most violent despair.

If this misfortune had befallen Maurice, it was she who had been the
sole cause of it. It was her hand that had conducted the young man
blindfold to the entrance of the dungeon which now enclosed him, and
which, in all human probability, he would quit only for the scaffold.

But under any circumstances Maurice should not lose his head on account
of his devotion to her wishes. If Maurice were condemned, she would
accuse herself before the tribunal, and would confess all. She would
take all the responsibility upon herself, and at the expense of her
life would save Maurice. And Geneviève, instead of feeling any fear of
death, experienced, on the contrary, a melancholy happiness at the idea
of dying for Maurice.

She loved the young man, she loved him more than was right in a woman
who belonged not to herself; and to die would be for her the means of
giving back to God her soul, pure and unspotted as she had received it
from him.

On quitting the house, Dixmer and Morand separated, the former took
the road to the Rue de la Corderie, the latter hastened to the Rue des
Nonandières. Arriving at the end of the Bridge Marie, Morand perceived
that crowd of idlers and common people which in Paris during or after
the occurrence of anything remarkable collects at the place, as crows
assemble on the field of battle.

At this sight Morand stopped short, a universal tremor shook his frame,
and he leaned for support against the parapet.

At length, after a few seconds, he regained the almost miraculous power
which under trying circumstances he exercised over his feelings, and
mingling with the various groups, commenced his inquiries, and learned
that a short time before they had taken from the Rue des Nonandières,
No. 24, a young woman, most certainly guilty of the crime of which
she stood then accused, as they surprised her in the act of making
these packets. Morand inquired before what club the poor girl would be
interrogated, and found they had conducted her to the section Mère,
where he immediately followed her.

The club was thronged, but by making free use of his elbows and fists,
he succeeded in forcing an entrance. The first sight he encountered was
the tall and noble figure of Maurice, standing haughtily in the place
of the accused, and annihilating Simon by his looks.

"Yes, Citizens," cried Simon, who was concluding his accusation; "the
Citizen Tison accuses the Citizen Lindey and the Citizen Lorin. The
Citizen Lindey mentions a flower-girl, upon whom he endeavors to cast
all the blame; but, as I told you before, the flower-girl will not be
found, and that it is a vile plot formed by a body of aristocrats who
toss back the ball from one to the other, like cowards as they are.
You have seen, besides, that the Citizen Lorin had decamped when his
presence was required; and he will return no more than the flower-girl."

"Then you have lied, Simon," cried a furious voice; "he will return,
for he is here."

And Lorin strode into the hall.

"Room for me!" said he, pushing aside the spectators. "Room for me!"
And he placed himself near Maurice.

The entrance of Lorin, so natural, and without affectation, yet
combining all the freedom and strength inherent in the character of the
young man, produced an immense effect upon the Tribunes, who instantly
greeted him with cries of applause.

Maurice contented himself by smiling and holding out his hand to his
friend,--the friend concerning whom he had said to himself, "I shall
not long stand alone at the bench of the accused."

The spectators gazed with visible interest on these two handsome young
men whom the foul shoemaker of the Temple, like a demon envious of
their youth and beauty, had accused.

He soon perceived the unfavorable impression he had made, and
determined to strike the last blow.

"Citizens!" roared he; "I demand that the generous Citizen Tison should
be heard; let her speak, and bring forward her accusation."

"Citizens," said Lorin, "I demand that the flower-girl who has just
been arrested, and who no doubt will be brought before you, may be
first heard."

"No, no," said Simon; "it is just some false evidence,--some partisan
of the aristocrats. Besides, the woman Tison is most impatient to
forward the means of justice."

Meanwhile Lorin took the opportunity to whisper to Maurice.

"Yes," cried the Tribunes; "the deposition of the woman Tison; let her
testify!"

"Is the woman Tison in the hall?" demanded the president.

"Without doubt she is here," cried Simon. "Citizen Tison, answer for
yourself."

"I am here, President; but if I depose, will they give me back my
daughter?" said the female jailer.

"Your daughter has nothing at all to do with the affair with which we
are at present engaged," said the president. "Make your deposition
first, and then appeal to the Commune to restore your child."

"Do you hear?" said Simon; "the citizen president commands you to make
your deposition. Do so at once!"

"A moment," said the president, turning toward Maurice, astonished at
the calmness of a man generally so impetuous. "One moment. Citizen
Municipal, have you nothing to say first?"

"No, Citizen President,--except that before Simon attached the words
'traitor and coward' to a man like myself, it would have been better to
have waited till he was more correctly informed."

"You say that? you say that?" replied Simon, with the sneering accent
peculiar to the plebeian Parisian.

"I say, Simon," replied Maurice, with more of sorrow than anger, "that
you will be most cruelly punished immediately, when you see what is
about to happen."

"What is about to happen, I should like to know?" demanded Simon.

"Citizen President," said Maurice, without deigning to notice the
question of his hideous accuser, "I unite with my friend Lorin in
demanding that the young girl who has just been arrested may be heard
before this poor woman is compelled to speak, who, no doubt, has been
prompted to this deposition."

"Listen, Citizeness!" said Simon; "listen! They say down there that you
are a false witness?"

"I a false witness!" cried the woman Tison. "You shall see; you shall
see! Wait!"

"Citizen," said Maurice, "in pity desire this woman to remain silent."

"Ah! you are afraid," said Simon,--"you are afraid! Citizen President,
I require the deposition of the woman Tison."

"Yes! yes! the deposition!" cried the Tribunes.

"Silence!" cried the president; "the Commune returns."

At this moment the sound of a carriage was heard outside, amid the
noise of shouts and arms.

Simon turned uneasily toward the door.

"Quit the box," said the president to him; "you have nothing more to
tell." Simon descended.

At this moment some gendarmes entered, with a crowd of curious
idlers, which was soon driven back, and a woman was pushed toward the
judgment-hall.

"Is it she?" whispered Lorin to Maurice.

"It is," replied Maurice. "Miserable woman, she is lost!"

"The flower-girl! the flower-girl!" murmured the Tribunes, whose
curiosity was raised to the highest pitch. "Is this the flower-girl?"

"I demand, before everything else," roared Simon, "the deposition of
the woman Tison. You commanded her to testify, President, and she has
not yet done so."

The woman was recalled, and entered upon a dreadful and circumstantial
deposition. The flower-girl, it was true, was alone criminal; but
Maurice and Lorin were her accomplices.

This denunciation produced an incredible effect upon the public mind;
and now, indeed, Simon was in the ascendant.

"Gendarmes," said the president, "bring forward the flower-girl."

"Oh, this is frightful!" said Maurice, concealing his face in his hands.

The flower-girl was called, and placed before the Tribune, exactly
opposite to Tison's wife, whose testimony had convicted her of a
capital crime.

She raised her veil.

"Héloïse!" cried the woman Tison; "my child. You here!"

"Yes, mother," replied the young woman, gently.

"And why do you enter between two gendarmes?"

"Because I am accused, mother."

"You! Accused, and by whom?" cried the woman, in anguish.

"By you, mother."

A frightful silence, like the precursor of death, fell suddenly upon
the noisy assemblage, while the painful feeling excited by this
horrible scene oppressed every heart.

"Her daughter," was whispered, as if by voices in the distance,--"her
daughter! Unhappy woman!"

Maurice and Lorin regarded both the accuser and the accused with
sentiments of deep commiseration, mingled with respectful pity for
their unhappy fate.

Simon, anxious to witness the conclusion of this tragedy, in which
he hoped both Maurice and Lorin would remain actors, endeavored to
withdraw from the attention of the woman Tison, who gazed wildly around.

"What is your name, Citizeness?" said the president to the young girl,
himself affected at the scene.

"Héloïse Tison, Citizen."

"What is your age?"

"Nineteen years."

"Where do you reside?"

"Rue des Nonandières, No. 24."

"Did you sell the Citizen Lindey, whom you now see in the dock, a
bouquet of carnations this morning?"

The young girl turned round and looked at Maurice.

"Yes, Citizen, I did," said she.

The mother herself gazed at her daughter, her eyes dilated with terror.

"Are you aware that every carnation contained a billet addressed to the
widow Capet?"

"I know it," replied the accused.

A movement of horror and admiration spread itself through the hall.

"Why did you offer these carnations to the Citizen Maurice?"

"Because I perceived that he wore the scarf of a municipal, and I
imagined he was going to the Temple."

"Who are your accomplices?"

"I have none."

"What! have you then concocted this plot alone?"

"If it is a plot, I alone am concerned in it."

"But did the Citizen Maurice know--"

"That the flowers contained the billets?"

"Yes."

"The Citizen Maurice is a municipal; the Citizen Maurice could converse
with the queen at any hour of the day or the night. The Citizen
Maurice, if he had wished to say anything to the queen, had no occasion
to write; he could speak."

"And you do not know the Citizen Maurice Lindey?"

"I had sometimes seen him come to the Temple while I was there with my
poor mother, but I only know him by sight."

"Do you see, miserable wretch," said Lorin, shaking his fist at Simon,
who, dismayed at the turn of affairs, with his head lowered, was
attempting to sneak away unperceived,--"do you see what you have done?"

Every one regarded Simon with looks of deep indignation.

The president continued.

"Since you made up these bouquets, you of course are aware that each
flower contained a paper, and therefore must know also what was written
upon that paper?"

"Of course I do."

"Well, then, tell us what it was?"

"Citizen," said the young girl, with firmness, "I have told all I
either can, or will, tell."

"Then you refuse to answer this question?"

"Yes."

"Do you know to what you expose yourself?"

"Yes."

"You trust perhaps to your youth and beauty?"

"I trust in God."

"Citizen Maurice Lindey, Citizen Hyacinthe Lorin," said the president,
"you are free. The Commune recognizes your innocence, and admires your
loyal spirit. Gendarmes, conduct the Citizeness Héloïse to the prison
of the section."

At these words the woman Tison seemed to awake, and uttering a piercing
cry, attempted to rush forward once more to embrace her daughter, but
was withheld by the guards.

"I forgive you, mother," said the young girl, as they led her away.

The woman Tison uttered a savage roar, and fell down as if dead.

"Noble girl!" murmured Morand, filled at once with grief and
admiration.




CHAPTER XXV.

THE CONSPIRACY.


Immediately following the events we have just narrated, a last scene
came to fill up the complement of the drama which was unfolding its
sombre turns of fortune.

The woman Tison, struck as by a thunderbolt at what had occurred,
and totally abandoned by those who had escorted her,--for there is
something revolting even in an involuntary crime, and it certainly
amounts to a great crime when a mother condemns her own daughter to an
ignominious death, were it even from excess of zealous patriotism,--the
woman, we say, after remaining for some time in a state of
insensibility, at length raised her head, looked wildly around, and
finding herself deserted and alone, uttered a loud cry, and rushed
toward the door.

At this door a few idlers more curious than the rest still remained
congregated together, who dispersed when they beheld her, and pointing
with their fingers, said one to another,--

"Do you see that woman? It is she who denounced her daughter."

The wretched woman uttered a cry of despair, and rushed toward the
Temple. But when she was a third of the way through Rue Michel le
Comte, a man placed himself in front of her, impeding her progress, and
concealing his face in his mantle.

"Are you content," said he, "now you have killed your child?"

"Killed my child!" cried the poor mother,--"killed my child! no, no, it
is not possible!"

"It is so, notwithstanding, for your daughter has been arrested."

"And where have they taken her?"

"To the Conciergerie; from there she will be sent to the Revolutionary
Tribunal, and you know what becomes of those who are sent there."

"Stand aside," said the woman Tison, "and let me pass."

"Where are you going?"

"To the Conciergerie."

"What are you going there for?"

"To see her again."

"They will not allow you to enter."

"They will permit me to lie at the door, to live there, to sleep there.
I will remain there till she comes out, and then at least I shall see
her once more."

"Suppose some one promised to restore you your child?"

"What do you say?"

"I ask you, supposing a man were to promise to give you back your
child, would you do what that man required of you in return?"

"Anything for my child! anything for my Héloïse!" cried the woman,
wringing her hands in despair,--"Anything! anything! anything!"

"Listen," said the unknown. "It is God who now punishes you."

"And for what?"

"For the tortures you have inflicted so mercilessly on a poor mother as
unhappy as yourself."

"Of whom do you speak! What do you mean?"

"You have often driven the unhappy prisoner to the very verge of that
despair where you are yourself at this moment, by your revelations
and brutalities. God now punishes you for all this by conducting this
daughter, whom you love so much, to the scaffold."

"You said there was some man who could save her. Where is that man;
what does he want; what does he demand?"

"This man requires that you cease to persecute the queen; that you ask
her pardon for the outrages already committed against her; and that
if at any time you perceive that this woman, who is also a weeping,
despairing mother, by any unforeseen circumstance, or by some miracle
from Heaven, is upon the point of saving herself, instead of opposing
her flight, you do all in your power to aid and abet it."

"Listen, Citizen," said the woman Tison. "You are the man,--is it not
so?"

"Well."

"It is you who promise to save my child?"

The unknown remained silent.

"Will you engage to do it? Will you promise; will you swear it? Answer
me."

"All that a man can do to save a woman, I will do to save your
daughter."

"He cannot save her!" cried the woman, uttering piercing cries,--"he
cannot save her! When he promised me he lied."

"Do what you can for the queen, and I will do all in my power for your
daughter."

"What care I for the queen? She is a mother who has a daughter. But
if they come to cutting off heads, it will not be her daughter's they
will cut off, but her own. They may cut my throat so that they spare my
child. They may lead me to the guillotine, so that they do not harm a
hair of her head, and I will go there singing,--

 "Ah! ça ira, ça ira, ça ira,
 Les aristocrates à la lanterne...."

And she commenced singing in a frightful voice, then suddenly stopped
short, and burst into a fit of frenzied laughter.

The man in the mantle himself appeared alarmed at this burst of
madness, and retreated a step or two from her.

"Ah! you shall not escape me thus," said the woman Tison, in despair,
and retaining her hold of his mantle; "you shall not at one moment
come and say to a mother, 'Do this, and I will rescue your child,' and
afterward say, 'Perhaps.' Will you save her?"

"Yes."

"When?"

"The day she is conducted from the Conciergerie to the scaffold."

"But why wait--why not to-night? this evening--this moment, even?"

"Because I cannot do so."

"Ah! you know you cannot; you well know you cannot!" cried the woman
Tison; "but as for me, I can."

"What can you do?"

"I can persecute the prisoner, as you call her; I can watch the queen,
as you term her, aristocrat that you are! and I can enter the prison
any hour of the day or night. All this will I do. And as to her
escaping, we shall see. Yes, we shall very well see--since they will
not save my daughter--if that woman will escape. Head for head. Do
you like that? Madame Veto has been queen; that I know. Héloïse Tison
is only a poor girl; that I know. But under the guillotine we are all
equal."

"Well, be it so," said the man in the mantle. "But you perform your
part, and I will fulfil mine."

"Swear!"

"I swear it."

"By what do you swear?"

"Anything you choose."

"Have you a daughter?"

"No."

"Well, then," said the woman, in a disappointed tone, "by what then
will you swear?"

"Listen. I swear by God."

"Bah!" exclaimed the woman Tison, "you know very well they have
demolished the old one, and have not yet decided on the new."

"I swear by the tomb of my father."

"Swear not by a tomb, for that is prophetic of evil. Oh, my God! my
God! When I think that perhaps in three days I may swear by the tomb of
my child also! My daughter! My poor Héloïse!" cried the woman Tison,
frantically, till at the sound of her voice, raised to a shrill scream,
several windows were opened.

At sight of the opened windows, another man, who seemed to detach
himself from the wall, advanced toward the first.

"Nothing can be done with this woman," said the first; "she is mad."

"No; she is a mother," replied the other, and dragged his companion
away.

When she saw them leaving her, the woman Tison seemed to come back to
herself.

"Where are you going?" cried she. "Are you going to rescue Héloïse?
Wait for me then; I will go with you. Wait for me; do wait for me!"

And the poor wretch followed them, screaming, till at the corner of
the nearest street, she lost sight of them altogether; and not knowing
which way to turn, she remained for an instant undecided, looking on
every side, when seeing in the silence and darkness of the night only
a double symbol of death, she uttered a cry of horror and fell on the
pavement without sense or motion.

The clock struck ten.

During this time, and while the same hour was resounding from the
Temple clock, the queen as usual sat in her chamber, between her
daughter and her sister, near a smoky lamp. She was concealed from the
sight of the municipals by Madame Royale, who, pretending to embrace
her, was reading over again a small billet written on the smallest
piece of paper imaginable, and in characters so minute that her eyes,
already nearly blinded by her scalding tears, scarcely retained
strength to decipher it.

The billet contained the following lines,--

 "To-morrow, Tuesday, ask permission to walk in the garden; this will
 be accorded without objection, as an order has been issued to grant
 you this favor whenever you think proper to solicit it. After two or
 three turns, feign to feel fatigued, approach the cabin, and ask the
 Widow Plumeau to allow you to sit down. Then, in a moment, pretend to
 feel worse, and faint away. They will then close all the doors that
 they may be able to render you assistance, and you will remain with
 Madame Elizabeth and Madame Royale. Immediately the trap-door of the
 cellar will open. Precipitate yourself, your sister, and daughter
 through this aperture, and you are all three saved."

"_Mon Dieu!_" said Madame Royale, "does our evil destiny tire in the
pursuit?"

"If this billet should prove only a trap," said Madame Elizabeth.

"No, no," said the queen; "these characters have always indicated to me
the presence of a mysterious but equally brave and faithful friend."

"Is it the Chevalier?" demanded Madame Royale.

"He himself," replied the queen.

Madame Elizabeth clasped her hands.

"Let us each read the billet again very softly," replied the queen, "so
that if one of us forget any particular, another will remember."

They all three re-read the letter, and had just finished so doing,
when they heard the door of their chamber turn slowly on its hinges.
The two princesses turned round; the queen alone remained stationary,
except that by an almost imperceptible movement she raised her hand to
her hair and hid the billet in her head-dress. It was a municipal who
opened the door.

"What is your business, Monsieur?" demanded Madame Elizabeth and Madame
Royale, at the same moment.

"Hum!" said the municipal, "it appears to me that you retire very late
to-night?"

"Is there, then," said the queen, with her usual dignity, "a new decree
from the Commune, stating the hour at which I am to go to bed?"

"No, Citizen," said the municipal; "but if necessary they will make
one."

"In the mean time, Monsieur," said Marie Antoinette, "respect, I do not
say the chamber of a queen, but that of a woman."

"Truly," growled the municipal, "these aristocrats always speak as if
they were something--"

But in the mean time, subdued by that dignity, haughty in her
prosperity, but which three years of suffering had calmed down, he
withdrew.

An instant afterward the lamp was extinguished, and the three females
retired in darkness, as usual.

The next morning at nine o'clock, the queen, having re-read the letter
before she arose, in order that she might not misconstrue any of the
instructions contained there, tore it into almost invisible fragments.
She then hastily finished her toilet, awoke her sister, and entered the
chamber of the princess.

A minute afterward she came out, and called the municipals on guard.

"What do you want, Citizeness?" said one of them, appearing at the
door, while the other did not even discontinue his breakfast to answer
the royal appeal.

"Sir," said Marie Antoinette, "I have just left my daughter's chamber,
and find her very ill. Her limbs are pained and swollen for want of
exercise; and you know, sir, it is I who have doomed her to this
life of inaction. I received permission to walk in the garden, but
in descending I had necessarily to pass before the door of the room
occupied by my husband in his lifetime. When I made the attempt my
heart failed me, and I had not courage to do so, and have since
limited my walks to the platform. Now, however, I find this exercise
insufficient for my poor child. I therefore entreat you, Citizen
Municipal, to request of General Santerre, in my name, the renewal of
this privilege."

The queen had pronounced these words in a manner at once so mild, yet
dignified; had so strenuously avoided all allusions to anything that
could wound the feelings of the Republican,--that he who had entered
her presence with his head covered, as for the most part was the custom
of these men, gradually raised his red cap, and when she had finished,
said, bowing respectfully,--

"Rest assured, Madame, your request shall be laid before the citizen
general."

Then on retiring, as if to convince himself he had yielded to justice
rather than weakness. "It is just," said he, "after all; it is only
right."

"What is just?" demanded the other municipal.

"That this woman should be permitted to walk in the garden with her
child, who is an invalid."

"Bah!" said the other, "when she asks to be allowed to walk from the
Temple to the Place de la Révolution, that will be permitted her fast
enough."

The queen heard these words, and grew pale, but still drew from them
fresh courage for the great attempt she meditated.

The municipal finished his breakfast, and descended. The queen
requested permission to take hers in her daughter's room, which was
granted.

Madame Royale, to confirm the statement concerning her ill-health, did
not quit her bed; the queen and Madame Elizabeth remained near her.

At eleven o'clock Santerre arrived. His coming was, as usual, announced
by the drums beating the march, and by the entrance of a fresh
battalion and other municipals, who came in their turn to relieve those
on guard.

When Santerre had fully reviewed the battalion leaving, and the one
about to take its place, and had paraded his large heavy-limbed horse
round the court of the Temple, he stood still for a moment. This was
for the purpose of receiving any claims, denunciations, or requests.

The municipal, availing himself of this halt, approached him.

"Well, what do you want?" said Santerre, bruskly.

"Citizen," said the municipal, "I come to entreat on the part of the
queen--"

"Who is the queen?" interrupted Santerre.

"True!" said the municipal, astonished at his own mistake. "What have I
said--I must be mad! I came to speak on the part of Madame Veto--"

"All in good time," said Santerre. "Now I understand you, what have you
to say to me?"

"The young Veto is ill, it appears, from want of proper air and
exercise."

"Well, is it necessary again to bring this before the public? The
nation granted her permission to walk in the garden, and she refused
it. Good-morning."

"That is exactly it. She regrets this now, and requests you will permit
her to do so."

"There is no difficulty about that. You all hear," said Santerre, "that
Capet's wife will come down to walk in the garden. Now," addressing the
whole battalion, "take care she does not abuse this favor granted her
by the nation, by making her escape over the wall; for if that happens
I will cut off every one of your heads." A roar of laughter followed
this pleasantry of the citizen general. "Now that is settled," said
Santerre, "adieu. I am going to the Commune. It appears that they have
reunited Roland and Barbaroux, and the question under debate is to
deliver them a passport to another world."

It was this intelligence that had put the citizen general in such good
humor.

He then galloped away.

The battalion who were removing the guard followed him; then the
municipals also gave place to those who had received Santerre's
instructions respecting the queen.

One of the municipals went up to Marie Antoinette and informed her
that the general had granted her request.

"Oh!" thought she, looking through the window toward heaven, "does
thy wrath abate, Lord? and does thy terrible right hand grow weary of
pressing so heavily upon us?"

"Thanks, Monsieur," said she to the municipal, with that fascinating
smile which had proved the ruin of Barnave, and turned the heads of so
many of his fellowmen,--"thanks!"

Then turning round to her little dog, who leaped after her, walking on
his hind-legs, for he well understood from the looks of his mistress
that something unusual was about to take place,--

"Come, Jet," said she, "we are going for a walk."

The little animal began to yelp and jump, and after looking at the
municipal attentively, comprehending, no doubt, that from this man
originated the intelligence which had made his mistress so happy, ran
toward him, and wagging his long and silky tail, ventured even to
caress him.

This man, who perhaps might be insensible to the prayers of a queen,
could not resist the caresses of a little dog.

"If only on account of this little beast, you should go out more
frequently, Citizeness Capet. Humanity commands us to take care of
every creature."

"At what hour shall we go out, sir?" asked the queen. "Do you not think
the sun would do us good?"

"You may go out when you please," said the municipal; "there has been
no restriction on the subject. If you like to go out at mid-day, as
that is the time they change the sentinels, there will be less bustle
in the court."

"Then let it be at mid-day," said the queen, pressing her hand to her
side to still the beating of her heart.

And she looked at this man, who appeared to her less stern than his
associates, and who, perhaps, for kindly yielding to the wishes of the
prisoner might fall a sacrifice to the conspiracy which they meditated.

But at the moment when compassion was stealing over the heart of the
woman, the soul of the queen was aroused. She thought of the 10th of
August and of the corpses of her faithful friends strewed upon the
floors of the palace; she recalled to memory the 2d of September, and
the head of the Princess Lamballe carried on a pike before her windows;
she remembered the 21st of January when her husband died upon the
scaffold, the noise of drums drowning his feeble voice; finally, she
thought of her son, poor child! whose cries of distress had more than
once reached her ears when she had no power to render him help,--and
her heart became hardened.

"Alas!" cried she, "misfortune is like the blood of the ancient
Hydras,--it teems with crops of future evils!"




CHAPTER XXVI.

THE LITTLE DOG JET.


The municipal left to call his colleagues and to read the
_procès-verbal_ left by the former municipals.

The queen remained alone with her sister and child. They all three
looked at one another. Then Madame Royale threw her arms round the
queen, and warmly embraced her. Madame Elizabeth approached her sister,
and held out her hand.

"Let us offer up our prayers to God," said the queen, "but in such a
manner that no one can hear us."

There are fatal epochs when prayer, that natural hymn of praise which
God has implanted in every human heart, becomes suspicious in the eyes
of men, since prayer is an act of praise and acknowledgment for mercies
received. But in the ideas of her keepers hope and gratitude afforded
subject for inquietude; since the queen could hope only for flight, and
could thank God only for affording her the means of effecting it.

This mental prayer concluded, all three remained without uttering a
word.

Eleven o'clock struck, then twelve. At the moment when the last stroke
resounded from the bronze bell, the noise of arms was heard on the
spiral staircase ascending to the queen.

"They are relieving sentinels," said she; "they come for us."

She saw her sister and daughter turn very pale.

"Courage!" said she, trembling herself with emotion.

"It is noon," cried a voice from below. "Bring down the prisoners."

"We are here, gentlemen," replied the queen, who, with a sentiment
almost of regret, took a parting glance at the black walls and the
rude appurtenances which had been more or less the companions of her
captivity.

The first wicket opened, they gained the corridor, which, being dark,
enabled the three captives to conceal their emotions. Before them
frolicked little Jet; but when they arrived at the second,--that is
to say the door from which Marie Antoinette endeavored to turn her
eyes,--the faithful little animal first placed his nose to the ground,
then laid his head upon his paws, and gave utterance to a succession of
plaintive cries which terminated in a prolonged howl.

The queen passed on quickly, not having strength sufficient to recall
her dog, and supported herself against the wall.

After advancing a few steps, her limbs refused their office, and she
felt herself compelled to stop. Her sister and daughter approached her,
and for a few moments the three females remained motionless, forming
a melancholy group, the mother resting her face upon the head of her
daughter, when little Jet rejoined them.

"Well!" cried the voice, "is she coming down or not?"

"We are coming," said the municipal, who had remained standing,
respecting the queen's grief, so great in its simplicity.

"Come," said the queen, and again continued to descend.

When the prisoners had reached the bottom of the winding stair opposite
the last door, under which the sun shed his rays of bright gold, the
rolling of the drum was heard summoning the guard; then a profound
silence, the effect of curiosity, ensued, and the massive door opened,
revolving slowly upon its creaking hinges.

A woman was seated on the ground, or rather on the corner of the stone
contiguous to this door. It was the woman Tison, whom the queen had
not seen for four and twenty hours, and whose absence at supper the
preceding evening and at their morning's meal had excited her surprise.

The queen already saw the light, the trees, the garden, and beyond
the barrier which enclosed the garden her eyes eagerly sought the
little hut of the canteen, where her friends doubtless awaited her;
when, at the sound of footsteps, the woman Tison removed her hands,
and the queen beheld a pale and care-worn face beneath a mass of gray
dishevelled locks.

The change wrought in these few hours was so great that the queen stood
overwhelmed with astonishment.

Then, with the deliberation peculiar to those deficient in reason, the
woman Tison knelt down before the door, impeding the passage of Marie
Antoinette.

"What do you want, my good woman?" demanded the queen.

"He said it was necessary that you should pardon me."

"Who said so?" demanded the queen.

"The man in the mantle," replied the woman Tison.

The queen looked at Madame Elizabeth and her daughter, surprised at
this appeal.

"Go along, go!" said the municipal; "let the Widow Capet pass; she has
permission to walk in the garden."

"I know it," said the old woman; "that is why I came to wait for her
here, since they will not allow me to go up; and as I had to ask her
forgiveness, I was obliged to wait for her coming out, to see her."

"But why then are you not permitted to go up?" demanded the queen.

The woman began to laugh.

"Because they pretend that I am mad," said she.

The queen looked at her and saw indeed that the wild eyes of the
unhappy being reflected a strange light,--that vague light denoting
aberration of intellect.

"Good Heaven!" said she. "Poor woman! what has happened to you?"

"Happened! Do you not know?" said the woman; "but if--You know very
well, since it was on your account she was condemned."

"Who?"

"Héloïse."

"Your daughter?"

"Yes, she, my poor child!"

"Condemned! by whom; how; why?"

"Because she sold a bouquet."

"What bouquet?"

"A bouquet of carnations. She is not a flower-girl, though," continued
the old woman, as if endeavoring to collect her thoughts; "then how
could she sell the bouquet?"

The queen shuddered; an invisible link connected this scene with her
present situation. She understood that the time must not be lost in
useless conversation.

"My good woman," said she, "allow me to pass, I entreat you; you can
tell me all this by-and-by."

"No, now; you must pardon me, and I must assist you to escape, that he
may save my daughter."

The queen turned as pale as death.

"My God!" murmured she, raising her eyes to heaven, then turning toward
the municipal,--

"Sir," said she, "have the kindness to remove this woman; you see that
she is mad."

"Come, come, mother," said the municipal; "decamp!"

But the woman clung to the wall, still reiterating,--

"She must pardon me, that he may save my daughter."

"But who is he?"

"The man in the mantle."

"Sister," said Madame Elizabeth, "try to console her."

"Oh, willingly," said the queen; "I believe, indeed, that will be the
shortest way;" then turning toward the mad woman,--

"What do you desire, good woman?" said she.

"I wish you to pardon me all the suffering I have caused you by my
unjust behavior; all the accusations I have made against you; and trust
that when you see the man in the mantle, you will command him to save
my daughter; for he will do all that you desire."

"I do not know whom you mean by the man in the mantle," said the queen;
"but if all that is necessary to your peace of mind is to obtain my
pardon for the offences you imagine you have committed against me, I
freely forgive you, my poor woman, from the depths of my heart, and
trust only that any one I may have offended will as sincerely pardon
me."

"Oh!" cried the woman Tison, with an indescribable accent of joy, "he
will save my child, since you have forgiven me. Your hand, Madame! your
hand--"

The queen astonished, and at a loss to comprehend the meaning,
presented her hand to the woman, who seized it, and ardently pressed it
to her lips.

At this moment the hoarse voice of a hawker was heard in the Rue de
Temple.

"Here," cried he, "is the judgment and decree condemning Héloïse Tison
to the penalty of death for the crime of conspiracy!"

Scarcely had these words reached the ears of the woman Tison, than
rising from her knees, with an air of dogged resolution, she extended
her arms to impede the passage of the queen.

"O God!" cried the queen, who had not lost one word of the hawker's
terrible cry.

"Condemned to death!" cried the mother; "my child condemned!--my
Héloïse lost! He has not then saved her, and now he cannot save her!
Too late! too late!"

"Poor woman," said the queen, "believe me, I feel for you."

"You!" said she, looking at her fiercely with her blood-shot eyes. "You
pity me? Never! never!"

"You are mistaken. I pity you from my heart; but do pray allow me to
pass."

The woman burst into a hoarse laugh.

"Let you pass? No, no! I would have assisted you to escape, because
he promised if I did so and asked your forgiveness he would rescue my
daughter; but since she is condemned to death you shall not escape."

"Gentlemen!" cried the queen, "help! Do you not see that this woman is
mad?"

"No, I am not mad; I know well what I am saying!" cried the woman.
"It is the truth,--there was a conspiracy, and Simon discovered all.
It was my poor daughter who sold the bouquet. She confessed it before
the Revolutionary Tribunal--A bouquet of carnations--They had papers
concealed in them."

"Madame," exclaimed the queen, "in the name of Heaven!"

The voice of the crier was again heard, repeating,--

"This is the judgment and decree condemning the girl Héloïse Tison to
the punishment of death for the crime of conspiracy!"

"Do you hear it?" screamed the lunatic, around whom the National Guards
had now gathered; "do you hear? Condemned to death; it is you who have
killed my daughter--you, Austrian, you!"

"Gentlemen," said the queen, "for pity's sake, if you will not release
me from this poor mad creature, allow me at least to return to my
apartments. I cannot support the reproaches of this woman; unjust
though they are, they crush my heart," and she turned away, sighing
deeply.

"Yes, yes; weep, hypocrite!" cried the maddened wretch; "your bouquet
cost her dear--She might have known it. Thus it is with all those who
serve you. You bring misery, Austrian, everywhere! Your friends are
dead,--your husband and your defenders have all perished,--and now they
will sacrifice my unhappy child! When will your turn come, that no more
may die for you?" And the miserable creature accompanied these last
words with threatening gestures.

"Unhappy woman!" observed Madame Elizabeth, venturing to speak, "do you
forget that she whom you address is the queen?"

"The queen!" repeated the maniac, whose madness every moment increased,
"if she is the queen, let her defend my poor girl from the hangmen
who seek her life--Let her show mercy to my poor Héloïse!--Kings show
mercy--Render me back my child, and I will acknowledge you as queen.
Till then, you are only a woman, and a woman who brings misery upon
all, and kills all--"

"Oh, have pity, Madame!" cried Marie Antoinette; "you see my tears and
distress," and she again made an attempt to pass, no longer from any
hope of escape, but to free herself from this cruel attack.

"You shall not pass!" roared the old woman. "You want to escape, Madame
Veto--I know it all, the man in the mantle told me; you want to go
and rejoin the Prussians. But you shall not escape," continued she,
clasping the robe of the queen; "I will prevent you. _À la lanterne_,
Madame Veto! To arms, citizens! let us march--"

And with her arms wrestling, her grizzled locks dishevelled and hanging
over her haggard countenance, her eyes blood-shot, the unfortunate
creature fell to the ground, in her fall tearing the robe she still
held in her hand.

The queen, terrified, but freed at last from the maniac, was flying
to the side of the garden, when all at once a terrible cry resounded,
mingled with loud barking, and accompanied with a strange uproar,
arousing the National Guards from their stupor, who, attracted by the
uproar, immediately surrounded Marie Antoinette.

"To arms! to arms! Treason!" shouted a man, whom from his voice the
queen recognized as the shoemaker Simon.

Near this man, who, sword in hand, guarded the threshold of the cabin,
little Jet was barking furiously.

"To arms! every one to his post!" cried Simon; "we are betrayed. Compel
the Austrian to turn back. To arms! to arms!"

An officer ran up, when Simon spoke to him, pointing with enraged
gestures to the interior of the hut. The officer in his turn then cried
"To arms!"

"Jet! Jet!" called the queen, advancing some steps.

But the dog only continued to bark more furiously.

The National Guard ran to arms, and rushed toward the hut, while the
municipals took possession of the queen, her daughter, and sister, and
compelled them to re-enter the wicket, which they closed behind them.

"Prepare your arms!" cried the municipals to the sentinels. And the
sound of firearms being made ready for action was heard.

"It is there! it is there!" cried Simon, "under the trap. I saw it
move, I am certain of it. Besides, the Austrian's dog, a good little
animal who was not in the plot, barked at the conspirators, who are no
doubt still in the cellar. Hold! he barks again."

Indeed, Jet, instigated by Simon's cries and shouts, began to bark
again more strenuously than before.

The officer seized the ring of the trap, but seeing he was unable to
raise it, two of the gendarmes went to his assistance, but without the
slightest success.

"You perceive they hold the trap-door from below. Fire through the
trap-door, my friends, fire!" said Simon.

"Oh!" cried Madame Plumeau, "you will break my bottles."

"Fire!" repeated Simon, "fire!"

"Be silent, brawler!" said the officer, "bring some hatchets, and open
the planks. Now let a platoon make ready, and fire into the trap-door
the instant an opening is made." The groaning of planks and a sudden
jerk informed the National Guards that some movement was taking place
in the interior. Directly afterward they heard a motion under ground,
like an iron portcullis being closed.

"Courage!" cried the officer to the sappers, who worked indefatigably.

The hatchets severed the planks. Twenty guns were lowered in the
direction of the opening, which enlarged every moment.

But through the aperture no one could be seen.

The officer lighted a torch and threw it into the cave. It was empty.

They then raised the trap-door, which now offered no resistance.
"Follow me!" said the officer, bravely leaping down the steps.

"Forward! forward!" cried the National Guards, following the example of
their officer.

"Ah! Madame Plumeau," said Simon, "you lend your cellar to aristocrats!"

The wall was broken down; the humid soil had been trampled by numerous
feet; and a conduit of three feet wide and five feet high, like the
branch of a trench, plunged in the direction of Rue de la Corderie.
The officer ventured into this opening, resolved to follow these
aristocrats into the bowels of the earth; but when he had advanced
three or four steps he found all farther progress impeded by an iron
grating.

"Halt!" cried he, to those who were closely pressing behind him; "we
can proceed no farther until this portcullis is removed."

"Well," said the municipal, who having placed the prisoners in security
anxiously awaited the news,--"well, what have you discovered?"

"_Parbleu!_" said the officer, reappearing, "it was doubtless a
conspiracy; the aristocrats wanted to carry off the queen during her
walk, and she was probably in collusion with them."

"Plague take it!" cried the municipal, "send some one for the Citizen
Santerre, and inform the Commune!"

"Soldiers," said the officer, "remain in this cellar, and if any one
presents himself, kill him!"

And the officer, having given this order, ascended the winding stair to
make his report.

"Ah! ah!" said Simon, rubbing his hands, "ah! ah! will they still say
I am a fool? Brave Jet! Jet is a famous patriot; Jet has saved the
Republic. Come here, Jet, come!"

And the brute who had coaxed the poor little dog, the moment he
approached him, raised his foot and kicked him to a distance of several
feet.

"I like you, Jet," said he; "ah, you will cut your mistress's throat!
Come here, Jet, come!"

But this time instead of obeying him, Jet ran away howling, on the road
toward the keep.




CHAPTER XXVII.

THE MUSCADIN.


It was near two o'clock. Lorin was promenading up and down in Maurice's
room, while Agesilaus polished his master's boots in the antechamber,
only for the greater convenience of conversation the door remained
open, and during his walk Lorin often stopped and questioned the
official.

"And you say, Citizen Agesilaus, that your master left home this
morning?"

"Oh, upon my soul! yes."

"At the usual hour?"

"It might be ten minutes earlier, or ten minutes later, I cannot say
exactly."

"And you have not seen him since?"

"No, Citizen."

Lorin continued his walk, and after three or four turns again stopped
and renewed his questions.

"Had he his sword with him?" demanded he.

"When he goes to the section he invariably carries it."

"Are you sure he has gone to the section?"

"He told me so, at least."

"In that case I shall join him," said Lorin; "but in case I miss him,
tell him I have been here, and am coming back."

"Wait!" said Agesilaus.

"Why?"

"I hear his footstep on the staircase."

Almost at the same moment the door opened, and Maurice entered. Lorin
bestowed a hasty glance upon him, and perceived nothing extraordinary
in his appearance.

"So you are come at last," said he. "I have been waiting here these two
hours."

"So much the better," said Maurice, smiling; "that has afforded you
plenty of time to compose distichs and quatrains."

"Alas! _mon ami_," replied the improvisator, "I do not make them now."

"Why, is the world coming to an end?"

"My dear Maurice, I am very unhappy."

"You unhappy?"

"Yes, I am miserable. I am suffering from remorse."

"Remorse?"

"Oh, by Heaven! yes," said Lorin. "Between you and her I had to
choose!--between you and her I could not hesitate; but, you see,
Arthémise is in despair, for she was her friend."

"Poor girl!"

"And it was she who gave me her address--"

"You would have done much better to have allowed things to take their
natural course."

"Yes; and at this very moment you would have been condemned in her
stead. Powerfully argued, dear friend. And I came to ask your advice! I
thought you were wiser than that."

"Never mind, ask away."

"This poor girl: do you understand? I wish to attempt some means of
saving her. Even if I could only give or receive a blow in her defence,
I feel as if it would do me good."

"You are mad, Lorin," said Maurice, shrugging his shoulders.

"Perhaps if I made an appeal to the Revolutionary Tribunal?"

"It is too late, she is condemned."

"Truly," said Lorin, "it is dreadful to see this poor girl sacrificed
thus."

"The more so since it was my safety that has entailed her death. But
after all, Lorin, we have one consolation. She was a conspirator."

"Goodness!" said Lorin, "does not every one conspire nowadays? She has
done no more, poor girl, than every one else does."

"Grieve for her neither too much, nor too loudly, my friend," said
Maurice, "for we have to bear our share in this trouble. Believe me, we
are not so fully cleared from the accusation of being her accomplices,
that no stain remains behind. To-day, at the section, I was termed
'Girondin,' by the Captain of the Chasseurs of Saint Leu; and I, at the
same time, found it necessary to convince him by a stroke from my sword
that he was mistaken."

"Then that was the reason you returned so late?"

"Just so."

"But why did you not inform me?"

"Because in affairs of this nature you cannot restrain yourself, and
the thing had to be concluded immediately, that it might make no noise."

"And that scum called you 'Girondin,' Maurice,--you, a thoroughbred
Republican?"

"By Jove, he did! and this will convince you that another adventure of
this nature and we become unpopular; and you well know, Lorin, in these
times unpopular is a synonymous term for _suspected_."

"I know it well," said Lorin; "and that word appalls the bravest heart;
but never mind--It is repugnant to my feelings to allow this poor
Héloïse to be led to the guillotine without asking her forgiveness."

"What do you wish to do?"

"I wish you to remain here; you have nothing to reproach yourself
with, so far as she is concerned. With me, you see, the case is very
different. Since I can do nothing for her, I will meet her on her way.
I wish to go there, Maurice; do you comprehend me? Were she to give me
only a wave of her hand--"

"I will accompany you then," said Maurice.

"Impossible, my friend: you are a municipal, secretary to a section,
and you have just been tried, while I have only I been your defender.
They would think you guilty, therefore remain here. As for me, it is
quite another thing. I risk nothing, and therefore go."

"Go then," said he, "but be prudent."

Lorin smiled, shook Maurice's hand, and left.

Maurice opened his window, and waved a sad adieu; but before Lorin
had turned the corner of the street, Maurice could not help gazing
wistfully at him more than once, and each time, as if drawn by magnetic
influence and sympathy. Lorin turned round, looked at him, and smiled.

At last, when the latter had disappeared at the corner of the quay,
Maurice closed the window, threw himself into a fauteuil, and fell into
one of those dreamy moods which in people of strong mind and vigorous
constitution are often the presentiments of misfortune, as they
resemble the calm which is the precursor of the storm. He was softly
awakened from his revery, or rather state of stupor, by his official,
who, on returning from the execution of some commission, entered with
the sprightly air of a servant anxious to communicate his budget of
news. Seeing his master preoccupied, however, he dared not interrupt
him, and consoled himself by constantly passing and re-passing before
him, without any reasonable cause for so doing.

"What is it?" at length said Maurice; "speak, if you have anything to
tell me."

"Ah! Citizen, another desperate conspiracy."

Maurice merely shrugged his shoulders.

"A conspiracy enough to make the hair of one's head stand upright,"
continued Agesilaus.

"Indeed!" replied Maurice, like a man accustomed to hear daily of
thirty conspiracies at this epoch.

"Yes, Citizen," replied Agesilaus; "it drives me to frenzy, you see.
The very thought of it makes a good patriot's flesh creep."

"Let us hear this conspiracy," said Maurice.

"The Austrian has all but escaped."

"Nonsense!" said Maurice, beginning to listen with greater attention.

"It seems," continued Agesilaus, "that the Widow Capet was in
communication with the girl Tison, who is to be guillotined to-day. She
has not escaped that fate, unfortunate creature!"

"How had the queen communication with this girl?" demanded Maurice, who
felt the perspiration exuding at every pore.

"Through a carnation. Can you imagine, Citizen, how they could have
conveyed the plan to her in a carnation?"

"In a carnation? Who did this?"

"Monsieur le Chevalier de--wait then! His name is notorious, but as for
me, I forget all these names. A Chevalier de Chateau--what a fool I am!
It is not a Chateau--a Chevalier de Maison."

"De Maison-Rouge?"

"That is it."

"Impossible!"

"How impossible? when I told you they have found the trap-door, the
subterranean passage, and coaches."

"On the contrary, you have told me nothing of all this."

"Well, I am going to tell you, then."

"Go on, then. If it is a story, it is at least a good one."

"No, Citizen, it is not a story, very far from it; and in proof of
that, I had it from a citizen porter. The aristocrats had dug a mine,
and this mine commenced at Rue de la Corderie, and terminated in
the cellar of the little cabin belonging to Madame Plumeau, who has
narrowly escaped being arrested as an accomplice. You know her, do you
not?"

"Yes," replied Maurice; "go on!"

"Capet's wife was to escape by the subterranean passage. She already
had her foot on the first step, when Simon caught her by her robe--
But stay, they are beating to arms in the city, and the recall in
the sections. Do you not hear the drum? There! It is said that the
Prussians are at Dammartin, and have reconnoitred as far as the
frontiers."

In the midst of this maze of words, a medley of truth and falsehood,
probability and impossibility, Maurice seized the guiding thread.
All sprung from the carnation presented before his eyes to the
queen, and purchased by himself from the poor miserable flower-girl.
This carnation contained the plan of a plot which had just come to
light, the details of which, more or less true, had been reported
by Agesilaus. At this moment the noise of the drum came nearer, and
Maurice heard the crier proclaim in the street,--

"Tremendous conspiracy discovered at the Temple by the Citizen Simon!
Grand conspiracy in favor of the Widow Capet discovered at the Temple!"

"Yes, yes," said Maurice; "it is just as I thought. There is some truth
in all this. And Lorin, in the midst of this popular excitement, goes
to offer his hand to this girl and be cut to pieces."

Maurice snatched up his hat, buckled his sword-belt, and with two
bounds was in the street.

"Where can he be?" said Maurice to himself. "Probably on the road to
the Conciergerie," and he rushed toward the quay.

At the extreme end of the Quai de la Mégisserie some pikes and
bayonets, bristling in the midst of the crowd, attracted his attention,
and he fancied in the centre he could distinguish the uniform of a
National Guard, and in the group signs of hostile movements. He ran,
his heart oppressed with the dread of impending misfortune, toward the
assemblage on the banks of the river.

The National Guard pressed by the company of Marseillais was Lorin. He
was very pale, his lips compressed, his eyes menacing; his hand upon
the handle of his sword, measuring the place best calculated to strike
the blows he fully intended to inflict on his cowardly assailants.

Within two feet from Lorin stood Simon. He was laughing ferociously,
and pointing him out to the Marseillais and the populace, saying,--

"Look at him! look well at him! He is one of those that I drove from
the Temple yesterday for an aristocrat. He is one of those who favored
the correspondence with the carnations. This is an accomplice of the
girl Tison, who will pass here presently. Well, do you see?--he walks
quietly on the quay while his coadjutor goes to the guillotine; and
perhaps she was even more to him than an assistant. She might be his
mistress, and he is here to bid her farewell, or to try to save her!"

Lorin was not the man to endure more. He drew his sword. At the same
time the crowd opened before a man who charged headlong into the group,
whose broad shoulders had already knocked down two or three spectators
who were preparing to become actors in this scene.

"Be happy, Simon," said Maurice. "You regretted, no doubt, that I was
not with my friend to enable you to turn your new title of Denunciator
to full account. Denounce! Simon, denounce! I am here."

"Faith! yes," said Simon, with his hideous sneer; "and your arrival
is very apropos. This," continued he, "is the elegant Maurice Lindey,
who was accused at the same time as the girl Tison, but was acquitted
because he was rich."

"To the lamp-post with them! to the lamp-post!" cried the Marseillais.

"Yes, forsooth, you had better make the attempt!" said Maurice, and
advancing a step he pricked one of the foremost of the cut-throats in
the forehead, so that the blood from his wound nearly blinded him.

"Have at the murderer!" cried the latter.

The Marseillais lowered their pikes, raised their hatchets, and loaded
their guns, while the frightened crowd dispersed, leaving the two
friends to contend alone against this storm of blows. They regarded
each other with a last sad, yet sublime smile, while calmly awaiting
their destruction from the whirlwind of iron and flame which threatened
them, when all at once the door of the house against which they were
leaning opened, and a swarm of young people, attired in the habits of
those termed "Muscadins," or "Fops," each wearing a sword and brace of
pistols in his girdle, rushed upon the Marseillais, and were instantly
engaged in a terrific contest.

"Hurrah! hurrah!" cried Maurice and Lorin, simultaneously, animated by
this unexpected relief, without reflecting that to fight in the ranks
of the new-comers was to confirm Simon's accusation,--"Hurrah!"

But if they were forgetful of their own safety, another thought for
them. A short young man, about five-and-twenty years of age, with blue
eyes, who fought without any intermission, with infinite science and
valor, with a heavy sword which any one would have thought his delicate
and feminine hand incapable of wielding, perceiving that Maurice and
Lorin, instead of escaping by the door which he seemed to have left
open for that purpose, remained fighting by his side, turned to them
and said in a low voice,--

"Fly directly through this door; pay no attention to what we do here,
or you will uselessly compromise yourselves."

Then, seeing the two friends hesitate, he suddenly cried, addressing
himself to Maurice, "Away! no patriots among us, Citizen Lindey; we are
aristocrats here!"

At these words, united to the audacity which would induce a man
publicly to accuse himself of what at this period must lead to certain
death, the crowd uttered a loud shout.

But the fair young man and two or three of his friends, without
evincing any symptoms of alarm, pushed Maurice and Lorin into the
alley, and closed the door behind them. They then threw themselves into
the mêlée, which was now considerably augmented by the approach of the
fatal cart.

Maurice and Lorin, thus miraculously saved, regarded each other in
amazement. The outlet seemed to have been designed for the express
purpose of their escape. They entered a court, and at the end
discovered a small private door which opened into Rue Saint Germain
l'Auxerrois.

At this moment a detachment of gendarmes issued from Pont-au-Change,
who had soon swept the quay, although, from the cross-street where our
two friends had concealed themselves, they heard for an instant the
noise of an obstinate struggle. These gendarmes preceded the cart which
conducted the hapless Héloïse to the scaffold.

"Gallop!" cried a voice,--"gallop."

The cart proceeded at a quick pace, and Lorin saw the unfortunate girl
standing, a smile upon her lips, and calm reliance in her eye, but
was unable to exchange even a gesture with her, as she passed without
seeing him, in the midst of a perfect maelstrom of people, shouting,--

"To the guillotine with the aristocrat! to the guillotine!"

The noise decreased in the distance till it reached the Tuileries.
Then the little door through which Maurice and Lorin had escaped,
again opened, and three or four Muscadins, with their clothes torn and
stained with blood, passed through. It was probably all that remained
of the little troop. The fair young man went through the last.

"Alas!" said he, "this cause is then accursed!" and casting from him
his sword, notched and bloody, he rushed toward Rue des Lavandières.




CHAPTER XXVIII.

THE CHEVALIER DE MAISON-ROUGE.


Maurice hastened to return to the section to enter a complaint against
Simon. It is true that before quitting Maurice, Lorin had found a more
expeditious way; this was to collect some Thermopyles to lie in wait
for him, and on his first exit from the Temple to kill him in a pitched
battle. But Maurice strenuously opposed this plan.

"You are ruined," said he, "if you make use of these means. Crush
Simon, but do it legally. That ought to be an easy thing enough to the
lawyers."

Consequently, the next morning, Maurice laid a formal complaint before
the section, but was both astonished and annoyed when the president
turned a deaf ear, excusing himself by saying he could not interfere
between two good citizens, each incited by the love of country.

"Good," said Maurice. "I know now how to act to merit the reputation of
a good citizen. To assemble the people in order to assassinate a man
who displeases you: this you call being 'incited by love of country.'
Well, I agree to Lorin's opinion, which I was wrong to dispute.
After to-day, as you hear, I shall adopt patriotism, and shall first
experiment upon Simon."

"Citizen Maurice," replied the president, "you are, after all, perhaps
more to blame in this affair than Simon. He discovered a conspiracy,
which it was not his province to do. You saw nothing, although
the discovery formed part of your duty; and more, you have held
communication--accidentally or intentionally, we know not which--with
the enemies of the nation."

"I?" said Maurice. "Well, this is something new. And with whom, pray,
Citizen President?"

"With the Citizen Maison-Rouge."

"I?" said Maurice, stupefied. "I had communication with the Chevalier
de Maison-Rouge? I do not know him--I never--"

"You have been seen speaking to him."

"I?"

"Shaking his hand."

"I?"

"Yes."

"Where? When, Citizen President?" said Maurice, carried away by the
firm conviction of his own innocence. "You have lied!"

"Your zeal for your country carries you too far, Citizen Maurice;" said
the president, "and you will regret what you have said, when I tell you
I can prove that I have advanced nothing but the truth. Here are three
different reports accusing you."

"Now," said Maurice, "do you really think me simple enough to believe
in your 'Chevalier de Maison-Rouge'?"

"And why should you not believe it?"

"Because it is only the ghost of a conspirator, with whom you always
have a conspiracy ready to amuse your enemies."

"Read the denunciations."

"I will read nothing," said Maurice. "I protest I have never seen the
Chevalier,--never spoken to him. Let any one who doubts my word of
honor come and tell me so. I shall know how to answer him."

The president shrugged his shoulders. Maurice, who did not wish to
be in arrears with any one, did the same. An air of gloomy silence
pervaded the remainder of the sitting. After the meeting was concluded,
the president, a stanch patriot raised to the highest rank in the
district by the votes of his fellow-citizens, approached Maurice, and
said,--

"Come, Maurice, I want to speak to you."

Maurice followed the president, who conducted him into a little cabinet
adjoining that where the sittings were held. On arriving there, he
regarded Maurice for a moment in silence; then placing his hand on his
shoulder,--

"Maurice," said he, "I knew and esteemed your father; this makes me
esteem and love you. Believe me, you incur great danger from want of
faith,--the first falling off of a truly revolutionary spirit. Maurice,
my friend, they who lose their faith also lose their fidelity. You
do not believe in the enemies of the nation, therefore you pass near
without seeing them, and become an instrument in their plots without
being aware of it."

"What, the devil!" said Maurice, "I know, Citizen, I am a man of
feeling, and possess some share of patriotic zeal; but my zeal does
not render me a fanatic. There are twenty pretended conspiracies, to
which the public assign the same name. I demand once for all to face my
accuser."

"You will not believe in conspirators, Maurice," said the president;
"then tell me, do you believe in the red carnation for which Héloïse
Tison was yesterday guillotined?"

Maurice started.

"Do you believe in the subterranean passage drilled under the Temple
garden communicating through the cellar of Citizen Plumeau with a
certain house in the Rue de la Corderie?"

"No," said Maurice.

"Then do as Thomas the Apostle did,--go and see."

"I am not on guard at the Temple, and they would not allow me to enter."

"Any one may enter the Temple now."

"How is that?"

"Read this report, since you are so incredulous. I shall only proceed
by official information."

"Ah!" said Maurice, reading the report, "has it come to this?"

"Continue."

"Are they going to remove Marie Antoinette to the Conciergerie?"

"They are; and do you think that from a dream, or what you call an
imaginary idea or an idle story, the Committee of Public Safety would
have adopted so grave a measure?"

"This measure has been adopted; but will never be executed, like many
more I have seen sanctioned and all--"

"Read to the end," said the president, and he presented him with the
last paper.

"The receipt of Richard, the jailer of the Conciergerie!" cried Maurice.

"She has been there these two hours." This time Maurice remained deep
in thought.

"The Commune, as you know," continued the president, "acts with
profound judgment. It is digging a furrow long and straight in its
course; its measures are not puerile, and it has put in execution the
principle of Cromwell,--'Kings should be struck on the head.' Read this
secret note from the minister of police."

Maurice read,--

 "Seeing that we possess the certainty that the _ci-devant_ Chevalier
 de Maison-Rouge is in Paris; that he has been seen in several places;
 that he has left traces of his appearance in various plots, happily
 frustrated,--I request all chiefs of sections to redouble their
 vigilance--"

"Well?" asked the president.

"I must believe you, Citizen President," said Maurice, and he
continued,--

 "Description of the Chevalier de Maison-Rouge: In height, five feet
 three inches; fair hair, blue eyes, straight nose, chestnut-colored
 beard, dimpled chin, soft voice, and hands like a female's."

At this description a strange light burst upon Maurice; he thought
of the young man who commanded the troop of Muscadins, and who on
the preceding evening saved the lives of himself and Lorin, and so
valiantly drew his sword upon the Marseillais in their defence.

"The deuce!" muttered Maurice, "it must be he; in that case the
accusation that I have been seen speaking to him is not false. But I
cannot remember taking his hand."

"Maurice," asked the president, "what do you say to all this, now, my
friend?"

"That I believe what you have said," said Maurice, musing sadly, who
for some time past, without understanding what evil influence saddened
his life, had noticed everything darkening around him.

"Do not trifle thus with popularity," said the president. "In these
days, Maurice, popularity is life. As for unpopularity, it is to be
suspected of treason; and the Citizen Maurice Lindey ought not to brook
the suspicion of being a traitor."

Maurice had nothing to reply to sentiments so much in accordance with
his own. He thanked his old friend and left the section.

"Ah!" murmured he, "there is too much suspicion and battling. Now,"
drawing a deep breath,--"now for peace, innocence, and joy; now to
Geneviève," and Maurice took the road to the old Rue Saint Jacques.

When he reached the abode of the master-tanner, Dixmer and Morand
were supporting Geneviève, who was suffering from a violent attack of
hysterics. Thus, instead of being allowed to enter unceremoniously as
he was accustomed to do, a servant met him in the passage.

"Announce me, at all events," said he, "and if Dixmer cannot
conveniently receive me, I will retire."

The domestic entered the little pavilion, while Maurice remained in
the garden. It seemed to him that something strange was going on in
the house, and the workmen, instead of being occupied in their usual
employment, were pacing restlessly about the garden. At length Dixmer
himself appeared.

"Come in, dear Maurice," said he,--"come in; you are not one of those
against whom the door is closed."

"What is the matter?" inquired the young man.

"Geneviève is ill," said Dixmer; "indeed, more than ill,--she is
delirious."

"Gracious Heaven!" cried the young man, overcome at again encountering
trial and suffering; "what, then, is the matter with her?"

"You are aware, my friend," said Dixmer, "one never knows anything
concerning the illness of women, especially their husbands."

Geneviève was lying on a lounge; near her stood Morand, offering her
some salts, which she smelled occasionally.

"Well?" asked Dixmer.

"Always the same thing," replied Morand.

"Héloïse? Héloïse?" murmured the young woman, from between her closed
teeth and white lips.

"Sophie!" repeated Maurice, in much surprise.

"Oh, my God! yes," replied Dixmer, greatly affected; "Geneviève most
unfortunately saw the cart pass yesterday conveying the unhappy girl to
the scaffold. Since then she has had five or six attacks of hysterics,
and keeps on continually calling upon Sophie."

"But the most astonishing thing of all is, that in her she recognized
the girl who sold the carnations, which you already know about," said
Morand.

"Certainly, I know about them," said Maurice, "since in consequence of
them I very narrowly escaped having my head cut off."

"Ah! we have heard all that, dear Maurice, and, believe me, we have not
been slightly alarmed; but Morand was at the sitting, and saw you fully
acquitted and liberated."

"Silence!" said Maurice; "she again speaks."

"Oh, those empty, unintelligible words!" exclaimed Dixmer.

"Maurice," murmured Geneviève; "they are going to kill Maurice. Rescue
him, Chevalier,--rescue him!" A profound silence followed these words.

"Maison-Rouge," again murmured Geneviève; "Maison-Rouge!"

Maurice felt a slight suspicion, but he could make out nothing clearly,
and was too much affected by the suffering of Geneviève to attend much
to her words.

"Have you called in a physician?" demanded Maurice.

"Oh, it will prove nothing," said Dixmer; "a momentary delirium, that
is all," and he shook his wife so violently by the arm that she
revived, and uttering a shrill cry, opened her eyes, which till now had
remained closed.

"Ah, you are both here, and Maurice with you. Oh, I am so glad to
see you, dear friend; if you knew what I have--" she corrected
herself--"what we have suffered for the last two days."

"Yes, we are all here," said Maurice; "have no more terror on that
account. But there is one name above all others you must not accustom
yourself to pronounce, seeing that at this moment it does not bear a
very high repute."

"What name?" quickly demanded Geneviève.

"The Chevalier de Maison-Rouge."

"Have I named the Chevalier de Maison-Rouge?" inquired Geneviève,
bewildered.

"Without doubt you have," said Dixmer, with a forced laugh; "but
understand, Maurice, there is nothing surprising in that, since it is
said he was an accomplice with the girl Tison, and that it was he who
concocted the whole plan of escape so happily frustrated yesterday."

"I do not say there is anything surprising in it," said Maurice; "I
only say he should keep himself well concealed."

"Who?" demanded Dixmer.

"Zounds! The Chevalier de Maison-Rouge. The Commune seeks for him; and
their bloodhounds have a fine scent."

"Provided that, before they arrest him," said Morand, "he has not
accomplished some new enterprise that may succeed better than the last."

"At all events," said Maurice, "it will not be in favor of the queen."

"Why not?" demanded Morand.

"Because she is henceforth shielded from his bold attempts."

"Where is she then?" inquired Dixmer.

"At the Conciergerie," replied Maurice; "she was taken there this
evening."

Dixmer, Geneviève, and Morand uttered a cry which Maurice mistook for
one of surprise.

"Thus you see," continued he, "adieu to the Chevalier's plans for the
queen. The Conciergerie is more secure than the Temple."

Morand and Dixmer exchanged looks unperceived by Maurice.

"Ah!" exclaimed Maurice, "Madame Dixmer has turned faint again."

"Geneviève!" said Dixmer, "you must go to bed, my child; you suffer."

Maurice took the hint. He respectfully kissed Geneviève's hand, and
quitted the house. Morand left with him, and accompanied him as far as
the old Rue Saint Jacques, where he parted with him to exchange some
words with a man, a superior sort of domestic, who held a horse ready
saddled and bridled. Maurice was so much occupied with his own thoughts
that he did not even ask the man's name; indeed, he and Morand had not
exchanged a word since they quitted the house together.

Maurice took the road to Rue des Fossés Saint Victor, and gained the
quay.

"It is strange," said he, walking on. "Is my mind weakened, or are
these events assuming undue importance? Everything appears to me as
if viewed through a magnifying glass." And to recover his equanimity,
Maurice leaned over the parapet of the bridge and presented his face to
the breeze.




CHAPTER XXIX.

THE PATROL.


As he lost himself in these reflections, and leaning over the parapet
of the bridge, enjoyed a melancholy pleasure in gazing on the dark
still water, he heard the measured tread of a little troop, like that
of a patrol. Maurice turned round; it was a company of the National
Guard, arrived by the other extremity, and in the obscurity he fancied
he recognized Lorin. It was he, indeed. The instant he saw his friend
Maurice he ran toward him with open arms.

"Found at last," cried Lorin. "Faith, it is not without some trouble
that we have rejoined you.

 "'But since I find a friend so fond,
 My fate assumes an aspect new.'

This time you will not complain, I hope, for I have given you Racine
instead of Lorin."

"But what do you do here as patrol?" inquired Maurice, anxiously.

"I am the chief of the expedition, old fellow; the business is to
establish our blemished reputation upon its original footing." Then
turning toward his company, "Carry arms! Present arms! Shoulder arms!"

"There, my lads, it is not yet sufficiently dark, so you can talk over
your little affairs while we follow your example." Then turning to
Maurice, "I have heard great news at the section to-day," continued
Lorin.

"What!"

"First, that you and I are beginning to be suspected."

"I know it. What next?"

"Secondly, that the whole conspiracy of the carnations was conducted by
the Chevalier de Maison-Rouge."

"I know that also."

"But this you do not know,--that the conspiracy of the carnations and
that of the subterranean passage are one and the same."

"Again, I know it."

"Then let us pass on to the third piece of news. This I am certain you
cannot know. We go this night to capture the Chevalier de Maison-Rouge."

"To take the Chevalier de Maison-Rouge?"

"Yes."

"Have you then turned gendarme?"

"No; but I am a patriot. A patriot belongs to his country. Now my
country is horribly ravaged by this Chevalier, who forms plot upon
plot. Well, my country commands me, being a patriot, to free her from
this Chevalier de Maison-Rouge, who distresses her horribly, and I obey
my country."

"It is all the same," said Maurice; "but it is singular that you should
be charged with this commission."

"I am not charged; I charge myself, or rather, I should say, I
solicited the commission. It required a brilliant stroke to reinstate
us in our former position; while our re-establishment will not only
prove security for our lives, but still more the right of putting, at
the very first opportunity offered, six inches of steel into the belly
of that hideous Simon."

"But how are they sure it was the Chevalier who was the instigator of
this subterranean plot?"

"They are not yet certain, but they presume so."

"You proceed, then, upon inference?"

"No; we proceed by certainty."

"How do you make out all this?"

"Listen."

"I am listening."

"I had scarcely heard the cry 'Grand conspiracy discovered by the
Citizen Simon,'--that beast Simon (the wretch is everywhere),--than
I wished to judge of the truth for myself. Then, they spoke of a
subterranean passage."

"Does it really exist?"

"It does; I have seen it;

 "'Seen it with both my eyes; that I call seeing,--'

There, why do you not hiss?"

"Because that is Molière; and besides, these events, I must confess,
appear to me rather too serious for pleasantry."

"What can we jest about, if we do not jest about serious things?"

"You say, then, that you have seen it?"

"I repeat that I have seen the subterranean passage. It extends from
the cellar of the Widow Plumeau to a house in the Rue de la Corderie,
No. 12 or 14, I cannot remember which."

"Really? Have you passed through it, Lorin?"

"I have, the whole length; and, faith, it is a trench prettily cut, I
assure you; and moreover it was divided by three iron gratings, which
they have been obliged to remove one after the other, but which, in
case these conspirators had succeeded, would have given them time, by
sacrificing two or three of their number, to have placed Madame Widow
Capet in a place of safety. Happily it is not so, and that hideous
Simon discovered all!"

"But it appears to me," said Maurice, "those who ought to have been
first arrested were the inhabitants of the house in the Rue de la
Corderie."

"This would have been, had they not found the house perfectly
uninhabited."

"But at least this house must belong to some one?"

"Yes, to a new proprietor; but no one knows who. They know the house
changed masters two weeks since, and that is all. The neighbors have
often heard a noise; but the house being very old, they had imagined it
was undergoing thorough repair. As to the late proprietor, he has left
Paris. In the mean time I arrived."

"'Upon my word!' said I to Santerre, drawing him aside, 'you are in an
awkward situation.'

"'Indeed we are,' replied he.

"'This house has been sold, has it not?'

"'Yes, it was, about a fortnight ago.'

"'Was it sold in the presence of a notary?'

"'Yes.'

"'Then we must search all the notaries in Paris, to discover which of
them sold this house, and then make him produce the agreement, at the
bottom of which will be found the name of the purchaser.'

"'Well and good!' said Santerre, 'that is capital advice, and coming
too from a man they accuse of not being a good patriot. Lorin! Lorin! I
will re-establish you, or may the foul fiend seize me!'

"To be brief," continued Lorin, "this was no sooner said than done. The
notary was sought for, the act was found, and upon the agreement the
name and domicile of the culprit were written. Then Santerre took me
aside, and I have engaged to arrest him."

"Was this man the Chevalier de Maison-Rouge?"

"No, only his accomplice,--that is to say, in all probability he was
so."

"Then how is it you say you are going to arrest the Chevalier de
Maison-Rouge?"

"We are going to arrest them all together."

"Do you, then, know this Chevalier de Maison-Rouge?"

"Perfectly."

"Have you seen the description of him?"

"By thunder! Santerre gave it to me. Five feet two or three inches,
fair hair, blue eyes, straight nose, etc.; besides, I have seen him."

"When?"

"This very day."

"You have seen him?"

"And so have you."

Maurice started.

"The short, fair young man who rescued us this morning,--he who
commanded the troop of Muscadins, and struck so hard."

"Was that the Chevalier?" demanded Maurice.

"Himself. They followed and lost him in the environs of the domicile of
our proprietor of the Rue de la Corderie, so that we surmise they live
together."

"It seems probable."

"It is certain."

"But it seems to me, Lorin," added Maurice, "that if this evening you
arrest him who rescued you this very morning, you are much wanting in
gratitude."

"Go along, then," said Lorin; "why, you don't suppose he saved us for
our own sakes, do you?"

"For what else, then?"

"Not at all; they were in ambush to carry off the poor girl, Héloïse
Tison, as she passed to the scaffold. Our cut-throats embarrassed them,
so they fell upon the cut-throats; that was the whole of it. We have
been saved by a _contre-coup_. Now, as the intention is everything, and
there was no intention, I have nothing to accuse myself with on the
score of ingratitude. Besides, do you see, Maurice, the capital point
is necessity; and the necessity is that we should reinstate ourselves
by some brilliant achievement. And then I have promised for you."

"To whom?"

"To Santerre; he knows that you command this expedition."

"How can that be?"

"'Are you sure of arresting these criminals?' said he to me.

"'Yes,' I replied; 'if Maurice is with me.'

"'But are you sure of Maurice? For some time he has been looked upon as
rather lukewarm.'

"'Those who say so are totally deceived. Maurice is no more lukewarm in
the cause than I am myself.'

"'And you will answer for his fidelity?'

"'As for my own.' I then went to your house, but could not find you
at home. I took this road first because it lay in my way, and then I
remembered it was the one you usually frequented; so at last we have
met. Forward! March!

 "'Where Victory leads us still onward we go,
 Ever joyfully singing we'll face every foe.'"

"My dear Lorin, I am in despair. I do not feel the slightest taste for
this expedition. Say that you were not able to find me."

"Impossible! all our men have seen you."

"Well, then, say you met me, and I was not willing to join you."

"Again impossible."

"But why so?"

"Because this time you will not only be considered lukewarm, but a
_suspect_; and you well know the fate of _these suspects_. They are
conducted to the Place de la Révolution, and are there invited to
salute the statue of Liberty; only instead of saluting with the hat
they substitute the head."

"Well, Lorin, I hardly care how soon this fate may befall me; but
without doubt it seems strange to you to hear me say so."

Lorin opened his eyes wide, and looked at Maurice.

"Well," said Maurice, "I am weary of life."

Lorin burst into a roar of laughter.

"Ah! ah!" said he, "we have had a quarrel with our beloved, and that
fills us with melancholy ideas. Come, my handsome Amadis! let us return
to the man, and from that we shall pass to the citizen. As for me I
am never a better patriot than when I am embroiled with Arthémise.
Apropos, her Divinity the Goddess Reason charged me with a thousand
gracious messages for you."

"Pray thank her for me. Adieu, Lorin."

"Adieu! how adieu?"

"Yes, I am going."

"Where are you going?"

"I am going home."

"Maurice, you will ruin yourself."

"I laugh at the idea."

"Maurice, reflect; my friend, reflect!"

"I have done so."

"I have not repeated all--"

"What?"

"That Santerre said to me."

"What did he say?"

"When I asked for you to be chief of this expedition, he said to me,
'Take care!'"

"'Of whom?'

"'Of Maurice.'"

"Of me?"

"Yes, Maurice; and he also added, 'he often goes into that quarter?'"

"Into what quarter?"

"Into that of Maison-Rouge."

"How?" cried Maurice, "is it here he hides himself?"

"They fancy so, since it is here his supposed accomplice resides, the
purchaser of the house in the Rue de la Corderie."

"Faubourg Victor?" demanded Maurice.

"Yes; Faubourg Victor."

"And in what street?"--

"In the old Rue Saint Jacques."

"O God!" murmured Maurice, as if struck by a thunderbolt. And he
pressed his hand before his eyes. But after a moment's interval, during
which he had collected all his courage,--

"What trade?" said he.

"A master-tanner."

"His name?"

"Dixmer."

"You are right, Lorin," said Maurice, by a violent effort controlling
his emotion; "I will go with you."

"And you do well; are you armed?"

"I always carry my sword."

"Take also this pair of pistols."

"And you?"

"I have my gun. Carry arms! Shoulder arms! Forward! March!"

The patrol commenced its march, accompanied by Maurice, who walked
near Lorin. They were preceded by a man dressed in gray, who directed
their movements. This was an agent of police.

From time to time a shadow might be seen emerging from the angles of
the streets or the doors of the houses, who exchanged some words with
the man in gray. This was the inspector. On arriving at the little
street, the man in gray did not hesitate for an instant. He was well
instructed, and entered the street at once. Before the door of the
garden where Maurice had been so nearly garroted, he stopped.

"It is here," said he.

"What is here?" demanded Lorin.

"It is here we shall find the two principals."

Maurice supported himself against the wall; he felt as if he were
sinking to the ground.

"Now," said the man in gray, "there are three entrances,--the principal
entrance, this one, and another which leads into a pavilion. I shall
enter with six or eight men through the principal entrance, in the mean
time keep guard here with four or five men, and place three sure men at
the entrance of the pavilion."

"I will get over the wall," said Maurice, "and watch in the garden."

"The very thing," said Lorin, "as from the interior you can open the
door to us."

"Willingly," said Maurice, "but do not clear the passage, or come,
till I call you. All that passes in the interior I shall see from the
garden."

"You are acquainted with the house, then?" demanded Lorin.

"Some time back I wished to buy it."

Lorin proceeded to conceal his men in the corners of the hedges and
angles of the doors, while the agent of police retired with six or
eight National Guards to force his way by the principal entrance. In
an instant the noise of their receding steps ceased in the distance,
without having awakened the least suspicion. Maurice's men were at
their post, and did their best to keep concealed. One would have
declared that everything was perfectly quiet, and that nothing
extraordinary was passing in the old Rue Saint Jacques. Maurice then
began to climb the wall.

"Listen," said Lorin.

"To what?"

"The countersign."

"Right."

"'Carnation and Vault.' Stop all those who cannot give these three
words. Permit all to pass who can. This is the password."

"Thanks," said Maurice, dropping from the top of the wall into the
garden.




CHAPTER XXX.

THE PASSWORD.


The first blow was terrible. It indeed required all Maurice's
self-command to enable him to conceal from Lorin how powerfully he was
affected by these startling events; but once in the garden, once alone
in the silence of night, his mind became more calm, and his ideas,
instead of running disordered through his brain, became once more under
the control of reason.

What! this house that Maurice had so often visited with the purest
pleasure; this house which had formed for him a paradise on earth,--was
in reality only a den of sanguinary intrigues. The kind and flattering
receptions bestowed on his ardent friendship resulted then from sheer
hypocrisy; the love of Geneviève from fear.

The plan of the garden is well-known, our readers having more than once
followed our young folks there. Maurice glided from bush to bush till
he was shaded from the moon's rays by the little conservatory where he
had been imprisoned previous to his first introduction to the house.
This conservatory was opposite the pavilion inhabited by Geneviève.
But this evening, instead of gleaming stationary from her chamber,
the light moved frequently from one window to another. Maurice saw
Geneviève through the curtain, evidently raised by accident, hastily
packing some things in a portmanteau, and with astonishment beheld some
weapons in her hands. He raised himself upon a post to enable him to
see farther into the room. A large fire was blazing on the hearth,
where Geneviève was destroying papers.

At this moment the door opened and a young man entered the room.
At first Maurice imagined this man was Dixmer. The young woman ran
toward him, seized his hands, and they both stood facing each other
for a moment, evidently influenced by some deep emotion. What this
emotion meant he could not divine, as their words did not reach his
hiding-place. But all at once Maurice measured his height with his eye.

"This is not Dixmer," murmured he. Indeed, the man who had entered was
small and delicate, while Dixmer was tall and masculine. Jealousy is an
active stimulant, and in a second he had compared the figure of this
man with that of her husband.

"This is not Dixmer!" murmured he, compelled as it were to repeat it,
to convince himself of the perfidy of Geneviève.

He approached still nearer to the window, but the nearer he came the
less he saw. His brain was on fire. He stumbled on a ladder; the window
was seven or eight feet high. He seized the ladder, and planting it
firmly against the wall, ascended and placed his eye at an aperture in
the curtain.

Geneviève's unknown visitor was a fair young man, about twenty-six or
twenty-seven years of age, with blue eyes, and an elegant demeanor; he
retained both the young woman's hands within his own, and was speaking
soothingly, endeavoring fruitlessly to assuage the grief of Geneviève,
which was plainly evinced by the tears which suffused her charming
countenance. A slight noise, accidentally made by Maurice, caused the
young man to turn his face toward the window. Maurice suppressed a cry
of astonishment, he recognized his mysterious deliverer of the Place
du Châtelet. At this moment Geneviève withdrew her hands from those of
the unknown, and went toward the fireplace to ascertain that the papers
were utterly consumed.

Maurice could no longer command his indignation. All those fierce
passions which torture the heart of man--love, vengeance, and
jealousy--lacerated him with their fangs of fire. He at once threw open
the ill-closed casement, and vaulted into the chamber. At the same
moment two pistols were pressed to his breast.

Geneviève, who had turned round at the noise, on perceiving Maurice
stood speechless.

"Sir," said the young Republican, coldly, to him who had a double hold
on his life, "you are the Chevalier de Maison-Rouge."

"And what if I am?" replied the Chevalier.

"It is this: you are a brave man, and consequently a cool one, and I
would say two words to you."

"Say on," said the Chevalier, without lowering his pistols.

"You can kill me; but you cannot do so before I have uttered a cry,
or rather I will not die without giving an alarm. Should I do so, the
thousand men who surround this house will have reduced it to ashes ere
the lapse of ten minutes; so lower your pistols and listen to what I
have to say to the lady."

"To Geneviève?" said the Chevalier.

"To me?" murmured the young woman.

"Yes, to you."

Geneviève, pale as a statue, seized Maurice's arm; but he repulsed her
coldly.

"You know what you affirmed, Madame," said Maurice, with profound
contempt. "I now see that you told the truth. You indeed do not love
Monsieur Morand."

"Maurice! hear me," said Geneviève.

"I have nothing to hear, Madame; you have severed with a single stroke
every cord that united my heart with your own. You told me you did not
love Morand, but you did not tell me you loved another."

"Sir," said the Chevalier, "what say you of Morand; or rather of what
Morand do you speak?"

"Of Morand the chemist."

"Morand the chemist stands before you. Morand the chemist is the
Chevalier de Maison-Rouge."

And extending his hand toward the table, he in an instant resumed the
black wig which for so long a period had concealed him from the young
Republican.

"Ah, yes," said he, with redoubled disdain,--"yes, I understand. It
is not Morand that you love, since Morand does not exist; but the
subterfuge, for all its acuteness, is none the less contemptible."

The Chevalier made a threatening movement.

"Sir," said Maurice, "permit me to speak a moment with the lady; join
in the conversation if you like; it will not be long, I assure you."

Geneviève, with a gesture, asked Maison-Rouge to have patience.

"Thus, Geneviève, thus," continued Maurice, "you have made me a
laughing-stock to my friends and a curse to my party. You have rendered
me, blind fool that I was, an instrument in all your plots and an easy
tool in your hands. Listen! It was an infamous deed; but you will be
punished, Madame, for in five minutes this man, who is going to kill me
before your eyes, will be lying dead at your feet; or if his life be
spared, it will only be to lose his head upon the scaffold."

"He die!" cried Geneviève; "he lose his head upon the scaffold! But you
do not know then, Maurice, that he is my protector, and that of my
family; that I will give my life for his; that if he dies I will die;
and that if you are my love, he is my religion!"

"Ah!" said Maurice, "perhaps you still mean to pretend that you love
me. Really, women are sadly weak and contemptible."

Then turning to the young Royalist,--

"Now, sir," said he, "you must either kill me or die yourself."

"Why so?"

"Because, if you do not kill me, I shall arrest you."

Maurice extended his hand to seize him by the collar.

"I shall not dispute my life with you," said the Chevalier de
Maison-Rouge; and he flung his pistols on a chair.

"And why do you not dispute your life?"

"Because my life is not equivalent in value to the remorse I should
experience in feeling that I had killed a brave man, and more than all
since Geneviève loves you."

"Ah!" cried the young woman, clasping her hands, "you are always kind,
great, loyal, and generous, Armand!"

Maurice regarded them both, almost stupefied with astonishment.

"One moment," said the Chevalier, "allow me to return to my chamber.
I give you my word of honor it is not to escape; I wish to conceal a
portrait."

Maurice turned his eyes quickly toward that of Geneviève; it hung in
its place. Perhaps the Chevalier divined Maurice's thoughts, or perhaps
he wished to try his generosity to the utmost.

"Come," said he, "I know you are a Republican, but I know also that you
possess a pure and loyal heart. I will trust you to the end. Look!"

And he drew a miniature from his breast, and displayed it to Maurice.
He beheld before him the portrait of the queen. Maurice bowed his head,
and rested his forehead on his hand.

"I await your orders, sir," said Maison-Rouge; "if you desire my
arrest, knock at this door when it is time for me to give myself up. I
care not for my life from the moment it is not sustained by the hope of
saving my queen."

The Chevalier quitted the room without a gesture from Maurice offering
to detain him.

As he left the chamber Geneviève cast herself at the young man's feet.

"Pardon, Maurice," sobbed she,--"pardon for all the evil I have done.
Forgive my deception; forgive me, if only on account of my tears and
suffering, for believe me I have wept much and suffered much. My
husband left me this morning; I know not where he is gone, and perhaps
I may see him no more. And now I have only one friend left,--nay more
than friend, a brother,--and you will destroy him. Pardon, Maurice,
pardon!"

Maurice raised the young woman.

"What would you?" said he. "There is fatality in all this. Every one
stakes his life in these days; the Chevalier de Maison-Rouge has played
like all the rest, but he has lost the game, and he must therefore pay."

"That means that he must die, if I understand you rightly?"

"Yes."

"He must die; and it is you who tell me this?"

"It is not I, Geneviève; it is fatality."

"Fatality has not uttered its last word, since you can save him."

"At the expense of my word, and consequently of my honor. I comprehend,
Geneviève."

"Shut your eyes, Maurice; that is all I ask; and as far as a woman may
evince her gratitude I will promise you mine."

"I should close my eyes to little purpose, Madame; there is a password
given, and without this password no one could go out. Besides, the
house, as I have told you, is surrounded."

"And you know the word?"

"Certainly I know it."

"Maurice!"

"Well?"

"Dear friend Maurice, tell me this password; I must know it."

"Geneviève," cried Maurice, "do you mean to say to me, 'Maurice, for
the love I bear you, sacrifice your word and your honor, betray your
cause, abjure your opinions.' What do you offer me, Geneviève, in
exchange for all this, you who tempt me thus?"

"Oh, Maurice, save him, save him first! and then ask of me my life."

"Geneviève," replied Maurice, in a desponding tone, "hear me! I have
one foot on the road to infamy; before I make a final descent I wish at
least to find a sufficient excuse for so doing. Geneviève, swear to me
you do not love the Chevalier de Maison-Rouge!"

"I love him as a sister and a friend; not otherwise, I swear."

"Geneviève, do you love me?"

"Maurice, I do love you; it is true, as God now hears me."

"If I do what you ask me, will you abandon relatives, friends, country,
and fly with the traitor?"

"Maurice! Maurice!"

"She hesitates! Oh, she hesitates!"

And he turned from her with all the violence of disdain. Geneviève, who
was leaning upon him, feeling suddenly her support give way, fell upon
her knees.

"Maurice," said she, wringing her hands, "I will swear to do all that
you require of me. Order, and I will obey."

"You will be mine, Geneviève?"

"I will."

"Swear it, by Christ."

Geneviève extended her arms.

"My God," cried she, "thou didst pardon one poor woman who had gone
astray; I trust in thy mercy that thou wilt also pardon me."

And the great tears rained down her cheeks, falling upon her long hair
hanging dishevelled on her bosom.

"Not thus!" said Maurice, "swear not thus! or I cannot accept that
oath."

"O Heaven!" replied she, "I swear to devote my life to Maurice, to die
with him, and if requisite, for him, if he will save my friend, my
brother, my protector, the Chevalier de Maison-Rouge."

"'T is well: he shall be saved," said Maurice.

And he went toward his chamber.

"Sir," said he, "resume your costume of the tanner Morand; I return
your parole, you are free. And you, Madame," said he turning to
Geneviève, "this is the password, 'Carnation and Vault.'" And as if
horrified to remain in the chamber where he had pronounced the words
which constituted him a traitor, he opened the window, and sprang from
the room into the garden below.




CHAPTER XXXI.

THE SEARCH.


Maurice had returned to his post in the garden, opposite the window of
Geneviève, only it was now quite dark, she having left her apartment to
enter that of the Chevalier.

It was time Maurice returned, for scarcely had he reached the corner
of the conservatory when the garden-door opened, and the man in gray
appeared, followed by Lorin, and five or six gendarmes.

"Well?" asked Lorin.

"You see I am at my post," said Maurice.

"And no one has attempted to force past you?" said Lorin.

"No one," replied Maurice, happy to escape by an evasion, from the way
in which the question was put to him. "No one. And what have you done?"

"Why, we have acquired the certainty that the Chevalier entered the
house an hour ago, and has not left it since," replied the agent of
police.

"Do you know his chamber?" said Lorin.

"His room is only separated from that of Madame Dixmer by a corridor."

"Ah! ah!" said Lorin. "It appears this Chevalier de Maison-Rouge is a
gallant."

Maurice felt the hot blood rush to his forehead; he closed his eyes,
yet saw a thousand internal lights.

"Well, but Citizen Dixmer, what said he to that?" asked Lorin.

"Why, he thought himself highly honored."

"Come," said Maurice, in a choking voice; "upon what do we decide?"

"We have decided," said the police agent, "to arrest him in his
chamber, perhaps in his bed."

"He does not, then, suspect anything?"

"Absolutely nothing?"

"What is the ground plan?" inquired Lorin.

"We have an exact plan," said the man in gray. "A pavilion situated
at a corner of the garden, there it is; you ascend four steps--do you
see them here?--and find yourself on a landing; to the right is the
apartment of Madame Dixmer,--no doubt it is that of which we see the
window. Facing this window, at the back part, is a door opening on
the corridor, and in this corridor the entrance to the chamber of the
traitor."

"Well, with so careful a specimen of topography," said Lorin, "we
might, I think, easily find our way blindfold, much more with our eyes
open. Come on!"

"Are the streets well guarded?" said Maurice, with an interest which
the assistants very naturally attributed to his fear lest the Chevalier
should escape.

"The streets, the passages, even the crossings," said the man in gray.
"I defy any one to pass who has not the watchword."

Maurice shuddered; all these precautions being taken, made him fear
that he had uselessly parted with his honor to add to his happiness.

"Now," said the man in gray, "how many men do you require to secure the
Chevalier?"

"How many men?" said Lorin. "I hope Maurice and I are sufficient for
that. Are we not, Maurice?"

"Yes," murmured the municipal, "we are certainly sufficient."

"Listen!" said the police agent; "no vain boasting. Do you mean to take
him?"

"Zounds! Do we mean it?" said Lorin; "I should think so! We are
bound to take him, are we not, Maurice?" Lorin laid a stress upon
these words, for as he had truly said, suspicion began to settle
upon them; and it was not wise to allow time for suspicion, which
marched with such rapid strides at this epoch, to assume a firmer
consistence, for Lorin well knew that no one would presume to doubt
the stanch patriotism of any two men who had captured the Chevalier de
Maison-Rouge.

"Well, then," said the police agent, "if you are in earnest, better
take three men than two, and four than three, with you. The Chevalier
invariably sleeps with pistols under his pillow, and his sword on a
table by his side."

"Deuce take it!" said one of the gendarmes of Lorin's company. "Let
us go in, without standing on ceremony who should enter first. If he
resists, we will cut him to pieces; if he surrender, we will reserve
him for the guillotine."

"Well said!" exclaimed Lorin; "do we go in by the door or the window?"

"By the door," said the agent of police; "it may be the key is in the
lock, while if we enter by the window we must break some panes, and
that would make a noise."

"On for the door, then!" said Lorin; "as long as we enter, it little
matters how. Forward! sword in hand, Maurice."

Maurice mechanically drew his sword from the scabbard, and the little
troop advanced toward the pavilion. The information of the man in gray
proved perfectly correct; they first found the steps, then the landing,
and at last entered the vestibule.

"Ah!" cried Lorin, joyfully, "the key is in the door." In short,
extending his hand in the dark, his fingers had encountered the cold
key.

"Then open it, Citizen Lieutenant," said the man in gray.

Lorin cautiously turned the key in the lock. The door opened. Maurice
wiped the perspiration from his brow.

"We shall find him here," said Lorin.

"Not yet," said the man in gray; "if our chart is correct, this is the
apartment of Citizeness Dixmer."

"We can soon ascertain that," said Lorin; "light a wax candle; there is
some fire in the grate."

"Light the torches," said the man in gray, "they are not so soon
extinguished as candles," at the same time taking two torches from the
hand of a gendarme, which he lighted by the dying embers. He placed one
in the hand of Maurice, the other in that of Lorin. "You see," said he,
"I was not deceived; here is the door opening into Citizeness Dixmer's
sleeping apartment, and here the one opening into the corridor."

"On, for the corridor!" said Lorin. They opened the door at the farther
end, which was not more firmly secured than the first, and found
themselves fronting the door of the Chevalier's chamber. Maurice had
seen this door twenty times before, and never thought of inquiring
where it led to. All his world was centred in the room where he was
received by Geneviève.

"Oh! oh!" said Lorin, in a low voice, "here we must change our tactics;
no more keys, and the door locked."

"Are you," asked Maurice, hardly able to articulate, "sure that he is
here?"

"If our plan is correct, he ought to be here," replied the police
agent; "besides, we shall soon see. Gendarmes, force open the door;
and you, citizens, hold yourselves in readiness, and the instant the
door is opened, dash into the chamber!"

Four men, selected by the emissary of police, raised the butt-ends
of their muskets, and on a signal from the man who conducted this
enterprise, gave one blow all together, when the door flew into a
thousand fragments.

"Surrender, or you are a dead man!" cried Lorin, rushing into the
chamber.

No one replied, and the curtains of the bed were closely drawn.

"Mind the bed!" said the emissary of police; "at the first movement of
the curtains, fire!"

"Wait!" said Maurice, "I will open them."

And no doubt in the hope that the Chevalier de Maison-Rouge might be
concealed behind them, and that it would be his lot to meet the first
stab or pistol shot, Maurice hastily pulled apart the curtains, which,
creaking along the iron rod, left the tenantless bed exposed to view.

"The devil!" exclaimed Lorin, "there is no one here."

"He must have escaped," murmured Maurice.

"Impossible, citizens, impossible!" cried the man in gray. "I tell you
he was seen to enter here an hour ago, and no one has been seen to go
out, and all the outlets from the garden are well guarded."

Lorin opened the cabinets, the wardrobes, and looked everywhere, even
where it was physically impossible that a man could be concealed.

"You see, however, that no one is here."

"No one!" repeated Maurice, with an emotion easily understood,--"you
see no one is here."

"To the chamber of Madame Dixmer," said the police agent, "perhaps he
may be there?"

"Oh!" said Maurice, "respect the chamber of a woman."

"Certainly we will respect it," said Lorin, "and Madame Dixmer also,
but for all that we must visit it."

"Then," said Maurice, "permit me to pass first."

"Pass on, then," said Lorin, "you are captain: honor the powers that
be," and leaving two men to guard the apartment, they returned to
that where they had lighted the torches. Maurice approached the door
opening into the chamber of Geneviève. It was the first time he had
ever entered there. His heart beat violently. The key was in the door.
Maurice laid his hand upon the key, but still hesitated.

"Well," said Lorin, "open!"

"But," said Maurice, "if Madame Dixmer should be in bed?"

"We shall look in her bed, under her bed, in the chimney, in the
wardrobes, and then if we find no one there but herself, we shall wish
her good-night," said Lorin.

"No, not so," said the police agent; "we shall arrest her; Citizeness
Geneviève Dixmer is an aristocrat who has been recognized as an
accomplice of the girl Tison and the Chevalier de Maison-Rouge."

"Open it yourself, then," said Maurice, "I do not arrest women." The
agent of police looked at Maurice, sideways, and the men murmured among
themselves.

"Oh, you grumble, do you?" said Lorin; "then you shall have two to
grumble about. I am of Maurice's opinion," and he made a step backward.

The man in gray seized the key, opened the door, and the soldiers
rushed into the chamber. Two wax lights burned upon a little table, but
the chamber of Geneviève, like that of the Chevalier de Maison-Rouge,
was uninhabited.

"Empty!" cried the police agent.

"Empty!" cried Maurice, turning pale; "where is she, then?"

Lorin regarded Maurice with astonishment.

"Let us search," said the agent of police, and closely followed by
the military, he began to rummage the house from the cellars to the
workshops. At length, when their backs were turned, Maurice, who had
followed them impatiently with his eyes, in his turn darted into the
chamber, opening the presses, which had already been opened, and
calling in a voice replete with anxiety, "Geneviève! Geneviève!" But
Geneviève made no reply; the chamber was indeed vacated. Then he began
to search the house in a species of frenzy, out-houses, conservatories,
sheds,--nothing was omitted, but all without success.

Suddenly a noise was heard, a troop of armed men presented themselves
at the door, exchanged the password with the sentinel, entered the
garden, and dispersed themselves over the house. At the head of this
reinforcement waved the red plume of Santerre.

"Well!" said he to Lorin, "where is the conspirator?"

"How! where is the conspirator?"

"Yes! I asked what have you done with him?"

"I shall ask you that question. If your detachment had guarded the
outlets properly, ere this he must have been arrested, since he was not
in the house when we entered it."

"What! do you mean to say," cried the furious general, "that you have
really allowed the Chevalier to escape?"

"We could not allow him to escape since we have never taken him."

"Then I can comprehend nothing," said Santerre.

"Of what?" said Lorin.

"Of the message you sent me by your envoy."

"We sent you an envoy!"

"Yes; a man in a brown coat, with black hair, and green spectacles,
who came from you to inform me you were on the eve of capturing
Maison-Rouge, but that he was defending himself like a lion; upon
hearing which I hastened to your assistance."

"A man in a brown coat, black hair, and green spectacles?" repeated
Lorin.

"Yes, with a female on his arm."

"Young and pretty?" cried Maurice, glancing toward the general.

"Yes, young and pretty."

"It was he and Madame Dixmer," said Maurice.

"What, he!" exclaimed Santerre. "Maison-Rouge! Oh, blockhead that I was
not to have killed them both! Come, Citizen Lindey, we may capture them
yet."

"But how the devil," asked Lorin, "came you to let them pass?"

"Zounds!" said Santerre, "I let them pass because they gave the
password."

"They had the password?" exclaimed Lorin; "then there is surely a
traitor among us!"

"No, no, Citizen Lorin; you are known, and we well know that there are
no traitors among you."

Lorin looked around him as if to detect the miscreant, and publicly
proclaim his shame. He encountered the gloomy face and wandering eye of
Maurice.

"Ah!" murmured he, "what means this?"

"The man cannot be very far off," said Santerre; "let us search the
environs; perhaps he has fallen in with some patrol who, more wide
awake than we, did not allow themselves to be gulled so easily."

"Yes, yes; let us search," said Lorin; and, under the pretence of so
doing, he seized Maurice by the arm, and drew him into the garden.

"Yes, let us search," said the soldiers; "but before we search--" and
one of them flung his still burning torch into an adjacent shed, filled
with bundles of fagots and dried herbs.

"Come," said Lorin, "come!"

Maurice offered no resistance. He followed Lorin like a child; they
both ran as far as the bridge without speaking; there they stopped, and
Maurice turned round. The sky was red from the horizon to the Faubourg,
and above the houses ascended innumerable sparks.




CHAPTER XXXII.

THE FIRE.


Maurice shuddered as he extended his hand toward the Rue Saint Jacques.

"The fire!" said he,--"the fire!"

"Yes," said Lorin, "the fire; what then?"

"Gracious Heavens! if she has returned."

"Who?"

"Geneviève."

"Geneviève means Madame Dixmer, does it not?"

"Yes."

"There is no danger of her return; she did not go away for that
purpose."

"Lorin, I must find her. I will have my revenge."

"Oh, oh!" said Lorin.

 "None can escape thy puissant sceptre, Love.
 Thou reign'st on earth and in the heavens above."

"You will assist me in my search, will you not, Lorin?"

"Zounds! there will be no difficulty in that."

"Why so?"

"Without doubt, if you are so much interested, as to me you appear
to be, in Madame Dixmer's fate, you, being intimate with her, ought,
knowing her, also to know her friends. She has not quitted Paris; her
friends have every motive to stay; she has taken refuge in the house of
some confidential acquaintance, and to-morrow morning you will receive
a billet by some 'Rose,' or some 'Marton,' couched as follows,--

 "Wouldst see again, my Mars, thy Venus true?
 Borrow of Night her scarf of azure hue.

And requesting you to present yourself at the porter's lodge, such a
number, such a street, and to inquire for Madame Three-stars; that is
all."

Maurice shrugged his shoulders; he well knew there was no one with whom
Geneviève could take refuge.

"We shall not find her," said he.

"Will you permit me to say one thing, Maurice?"

"What?"

"That it will be no great misfortune if we should not find her."

"If we do not, Lorin, I shall die."

"The devil!" exclaimed the young man; "it was, then, of this love that
you lately so nearly died."

"Yes," replied Maurice.

Lorin reflected an instant. "Maurice," said he, "it is now nearly
eleven o'clock; this quarter is deserted; here is a stone seat,
particularly adapted for the reception of two friends. Accord me the
favor of a private interview, as they used to say, under the ancient
régime. I give you my word of honor that I shall speak only in prose."

They seated themselves upon the bench.

"Speak!" said Maurice, resting his aching head upon his hand.

"Without exordium, periphrasis, or commentary, I tell you one thing,
old fellow,--it is this, that we are ruining ourselves, or rather that
you are ruining us."

"How so?" demanded Maurice.

"There is, my friend, a decree issued by the Committee of Public
Safety, which declares every man a traitor to his country who enters
into any relationship with the acknowledged enemies of the said
country. Eh! do you know this decree?"

"To be sure I do," replied Maurice.

"Well, it seems to me, you are not a vile traitor to your country. What
say you? as Manlius says."

"Lorin!"

"Undoubtedly; unless you believe that those idolize their country
who give house-room, bed, and board to Monsieur le Chevalier de
Maison-Rouge, who is not a high Republican, as I suppose, and has not
been accused at any time of having taken part in the days of September."

"Ah! Lorin," said Maurice, sighing heavily.

"Still, it appears to me," continued the moralist, "that you have been,
and still are, too intimate with the enemies of your country. Come!
Come, friend Maurice, do not rebel! you are like the whilom Enceladus;
you move a mountain each time you turn yourself."

Lorin pronounced these words in the kindest manner possible, and
glossed them over with an artifice truly Ciceronian.

Maurice merely made a gesture of dissent, but the gesture was unheeded,
and Lorin continued,--

"If we exist in a greenhouse temperature, a healthy atmosphere,
where, according to botanic rules, the barometer invariably points to
sixteen degrees, I should say, my dear Maurice, that this is elegant,
satisfactory; what though we are occasionally rather aristocratic, we
flourish and do well. But if scorched in a heat of thirty-five or forty
degrees, the sap burns, so that it rises slowly, and from the excess of
heat seems cold; when cold, then comes the blight of suspicion,--you
know this, Maurice,--and once suspected, you possess too much good
sense not to know what we shall be, or rather that ere long we shall
be no more."

"Well, then," said Maurice, "they can kill me, and there will be an end
of me, for I am weary of my life."

"For the last quarter of an hour," said Lorin; "indeed scarcely so long
that I should leave you to act according to your own pleasure on this
subject; and then to die now, it is necessary to die a Republican while
you would die an aristocrat."

"Ah!" said Maurice, whose blood began to boil from impassioned grief,
resulting from the consciousness of his own criminality, "you go too
far, friend Lorin."

"I shall go farther still, and forewarn you, that if you turn
aristocrat--"

"You will denounce me?"

"For shame! No. I will confine you in a cellar, and have you sought
after to the sound of the drum, like something lost; then I will
proclaim that the aristocrats, knowing what you had in reserve for
them, had seized, victimized, and starved you, so that, like Provost
Élie de Beaumont, Monsieur Latude, and others, when found, you will
be publicly crowned with flowers by the ladies of La Halle, and the
ragpickers of Section Victor. Make haste, then, to appear again an
Aristides, else your business is concluded."

"Lorin! Lorin! I feel that you are right; but I am dragged along. I am
sliding down the precipice. Are you displeased with me, because my fate
drags me onward?"

"I am not displeased with you, but I shall remonstrate with you.
Call to mind a few of the scenes enacted daily between Pylades and
Orestes,--scenes which prove beyond all doubt that friendship is a
paradox, since these model friends quarrelled without ceasing."

"Leave me to my fate, Lorin, you had much better do so."

"I will never abandon you."

"Then, allow me to love, to be mad, at my ease; to be criminal,
perhaps, for if I again see her, I fear I shall kill her."

"Or fall upon your knees. Ah, ah, Maurice, Maurice, to love an
aristocrat, I never could have credited it! It is like poor Osselin
with the Marquise de Charny."

"No more, Lorin, I beseech you."

"Maurice, I will cure you, or may the Devil take me! I do not wish you
to be drawn in the lottery of Saint Guillotine, as the grocer of the
Rue des Lombards observes. Maurice, you will exasperate me! Maurice,
you will render me bloodthirsty! I feel as if I wanted to set fire to
the isle of Saint Louis! A torch! a firebrand!

 "The toil were idle. Maurice, thy passion dire
 Sufficient is Paris to set on fire."

Maurice smiled in spite of himself.

"You know," said he, "that it was agreed between us that we should
speak only in prose."

"But you exasperate me with your folly," said Lorin. "Drink, Maurice,
become a drunkard, do anything, study political economy; but for the
love of Jupiter, let us fall in love with nothing but Liberty!"

"Or Reason?"

"Ah! that is true; by the way, the Goddess Reason talks much about you.
She thinks you are a charming mortal."

"Are you not jealous?"

"Maurice, to save a friend I feel capable of any sacrifice."

"Thanks, my poor Lorin, and I truly appreciate your devotion; but the
best way to console me is to leave me to sate my grief. Adieu! Lorin,
go to your Arthémise."

"And you; where are you going?"

"I shall return home."

And Maurice turned toward the bridge.

"You live, then, in the direction of the old Rue Saint Jacques now?"

"No; but it pleases me to go that way."

"To look once again upon the place inhabited by your fair inconstant?"

"To see if she has not returned where she knows I am awaiting her. Ah,
Geneviève! Geneviève! I could not have believed you capable of so much
deceit!"

"Maurice, a tyrant who well knew the fair sex, since he died from
having loved them too well, said,--

 "'Woe to the man who trusts his heart
 To woman, changeful as the breeze.'"

Maurice sighed, and the two friends took the road to the old Rue Saint
Jacques.

As they approached they heard a great noise, and saw the light
increase; they listened to patriotic chants, which on a brilliant day
in the glorious sunshine, or in the atmosphere of combat, sounded like
hymns of heroism, but which by the red light of an incendiary fire
savored more of the diabolic incantations of drunken cannibals.

"Oh, my God! my God!" cried Maurice, forgetting that God had been
abolished, as he wiped the perspiration from his face.

Lorin watched him attentively and muttered,--

 "Alas! when caught in Cupid's snare,
 To Prudence we must bid adieu."

All the inhabitants of Paris appeared moving toward the theatre of the
events we have just narrated. Maurice was obliged to cross a hedge
formed by the gendarmes, the ranks of the sections, then the impetuous
crowd of this always furious populace, at this epoch easily aroused,
and who ran howling from spectacle to spectacle without intermission.
As they approached, Maurice impatiently hastened his steps; Lorin, with
some trouble, kept close behind him, for he did not like to leave his
friend to himself at such a moment.

It was nearly all over. The fire had communicated from the shed where
the soldier had flung his torch to the workshops, constructed of
planks so put together as to allow the free circulation of air; the
merchandise was consumed, and the house itself was now in flames.

"O God!" said Maurice to himself, "if she has returned, should she find
herself in a chamber encircled by the devouring element, waiting for
me, calling on me--" and Maurice, nearly insensible from grief, liked
better to think of the folly of those he loved than of his treason. He
rushed headlong toward the door, of which he caught a glimpse through
the mass of burning flame. Lorin still followed him. He would have
followed him to the infernal regions. The roof was in flames; the fire
had now indeed commenced its work of destruction on the staircase.
Maurice hastened to visit the first floor, the parlor, the chamber
of Geneviève, of the Chevalier de Maison-Rouge, and the corridors,
calling, in stifled accents, "Geneviève! Geneviève!"

No one replied. On returning from the search our two friends saw
volumes of flame now entering the door; but not heeding the shouts of
Lorin, who pointed to the window, Maurice passed through the flames,
then ran to the house, crossed, notwithstanding all impediments, a
court-yard strewed with broken furniture, searched the dining-room,
Dixmer's parlor, Morand's laboratory,--all filled with smoke,
fragments, and broken glass. The fire had reached this part of the
house, and the work of destruction would soon be complete. Maurice,
as in the pavilion, did not omit visiting a single chamber, or leave
unexamined even a corridor. He then descended to the cellars; perhaps
Geneviève had taken refuge from the fire there. He found no one.

"Zounds!" said Lorin; "no one but a salamander could take refuge here,
and it is not that fabulous animal that you are in search of. Let us
go; we can make inquiry in this assemblage. Some one has perhaps seen
her."

It needed all Lorin's force to drag away Maurice; hope still detained
him there.

Then they commenced their investigation; they visited the environs,
stopped all the females who passed, searched all the alleys, without
any result. It was now one o'clock in the morning, and Maurice,
notwithstanding his athletic vigor, was overpowered and broken down
with fatigue, and at length desisted from his worse than useless
efforts.

A carriage passed; Lorin hailed it.

"Come, bear up, old fellow," said he to Maurice; "we have done all in
the range of human possibility to recover Geneviève. We have broken
our backs, been roasted, and have been cruelly cuffed for her. Cupid,
however exacting he may be, could require no more from a man in love,
and above all, from one who is not. So jump into the carriage, and let
us return home."

Maurice submitted without making any reply. They arrived at Maurice's
door without either of the friends having uttered a single word. As
Maurice descended from the carriage, they heard a window of his
apartment closed.

"All right!" said Lorin, "he is waiting; I shall rest easy now. Knock,
however."

Maurice knocked, the door opened.

"Good-night!" said Lorin, "wait for me to-morrow morning to go out!"

"Good-night," said Maurice, mechanically, as the door closed behind
him. Upon the first steps of the staircase he met his official.

"Ah! Citizen Lindey," he exclaimed, "how much uneasiness you have
caused us!" The word _us_ struck Maurice.

"You?" said he.

"Yes, me and the little lady who is waiting for you."

"The little lady," repeated Maurice, feeling the moment ill-chosen to
remind him of his former loves; "you were right to tell me. I shall
sleep at Lorin's."

"That is impossible; she was at the window, and saw you alight, and
cried out, 'There he is!'"

"What care I whether she knows I am here or not? I have no heart for
love. Go upstairs, and tell this woman she is mistaken."

The official made a movement as if to obey him, then stopped.

"Ah! Citizen," said he, "you are wrong. The little lady is already very
sad; your message will drive her to despair."

"But," asked Maurice, "who is this woman?"

"Citizen, I have not seen her face; it is concealed by her mantle, and
she weeps, that is all I know."

"She weeps!" exclaimed Maurice.

"Yes, but very softly, stifling her sobs."

"She weeps," repeated Maurice; "there is then some one in the world who
loves me sufficiently to feel anxious in my absence?" and he ascended
slowly behind the official.

"Here he is, Citizen, here he is!" cried the latter, rushing into the
chamber. Maurice entered behind him.

He then beheld in a corner of the room the trembling form of a woman
whose face was hid in the cushions, and whom he would have thought
dead, but for her convulsive moaning, which made him start. He signed
to his official to leave the room, who went out, closing the door
behind him. Then Maurice ran to the young woman, who raised her head.

"Geneviève!" cried the young man, "Geneviève here! good Heavens! am I
then mad?"

"No, you are in possession of your senses, my friend," replied the
young woman. "I promised to be yours if you would save the Chevalier de
Maison-Rouge. You have saved him, and I am here; I was awaiting you."

Maurice mistook the meaning of these words; he recoiled a step, and
looked sadly at the young woman.

"Geneviève," said he, "you do not love me."

Geneviève regarded him with tearful eyes; then turning from him, leaned
her head on the pillow of the sofa, and gave free vent to her sobs and
tears.

"Alas!" said Maurice, "it is evident that you no longer love me;
and not only that you love me no more, Geneviève, but that you must
entertain a feeling of hatred toward me, to experience this despair."

Maurice had spoken so nobly, yet with so much feeling, that Geneviève
arose and took his hand.

"_Mon Dieu!_" said she, "and is it ever thus that those we think the
best prove merely egotists?"

"Egotists, Geneviève! what do you mean?"

"Can you not then imagine what I suffer? My husband a fugitive, my
brother proscribed, our house in flames, and all this in one night; and
then that dreadful scene between you and the Chevalier was added to the
rest!"

Maurice listened with delight, for it was impossible even for the
maddest passion not to admit that this accumulation of trouble was more
than sufficient excuse for Geneviève's deep and violent grief.

"And now you are come, I shall keep you; you shall leave me no more!"

Geneviève started.

"Where should I go?" replied she, with bitterness. "Have I an asylum, a
shelter, a protector, save he who has put a price upon his protection?
Oh, rash and foolish that I am! I stepped over the Pont Neuf, Maurice,
and in passing I stopped to gaze at the dark water, dashing angrily
against the corners of the arches; it attracted and fascinated me.
Then said I to myself, there, poor woman, is a shelter for you; there
inviolable repose and oblivion!"

"Geneviève! Geneviève!" cried Maurice, "you said that? Then you do not
love me?"

"I said it," replied Geneviève,--"I said it; but I am here."

Maurice drew a deep breath, and fell at her feet.

"Geneviève," murmured he, "weep no more! Geneviève, console yourself
for all your grief, since you love me. Tell me, Geneviève, for the sake
of Heaven! that it was not the violence of my menaces that brought
you hither. Assure me that even had you not seen me this evening, on
finding yourself alone, isolated, and without an asylum, you would have
come to me; and accept the oath which I now make you, to annul the one
that I compelled you to take."

Geneviève looked down upon the young man with an expression of
ineffable gratitude. "Generous!" said she; "Oh, my God! I thank thee,
he is generous."

"Listen, Geneviève!" said Maurice. "God, whom they have here driven
from their temples, but whom they cannot expel from our hearts, where
he has implanted love, has made this evening in appearance dark and
gloomy, but conceals behind its sombre curtain a silvery cloud. God has
conducted you to me, Geneviève, and speaks to you through me. God is at
length willing to compensate us for all the sufferings we have endured,
for the virtue we have displayed in combating this love, as if this
sentiment so long entertained, and so profound, could be a crime! Weep
no more, Geneviève, weep no more; give me your hand! Do you wish to
live in the house of your brother? Do you wish he should kiss the hem
of your robe, and pass over the threshold of his door without turning
his head? Well, say but the word, make but one sign, and I am gone, and
you are free. But on the other hand, my adored Geneviève, will you call
to mind that I have loved you so ardently that I had almost died of
this love, which it remains with you to render so fatal or so fortunate
to me; that for this love I have been a traitor to my party, and am
become vile and contemptible in my own eyes,--will you now consider all
the happiness which the future has in store for us, the strength and
energy which our youth and love possess to defend this happiness, now
but in the bud, from all who would dare attack it? Ah! Geneviève, what
will you reply? You who are an angel of mercy, will you render a man
so happy that he no longer regrets life, and ceases to desire eternal
felicity? Then, instead of repelling me, smile, my Geneviève; let me
place your hand upon my heart, and incline toward one who worships you
from the inmost recesses of his soul. Geneviève, my love, my life, do
not take back your vow!"

The heart of the young woman swelled at these words. The fatigue of
her late suffering had worn out her strength, and though her tears no
longer flowed, occasional sobs relieved her overcharged bosom.

Maurice saw that she no longer had the force to resist, and seized her
in his arms. Then she let her head fall on his shoulder, and her long
hair brushed against her lover's burning cheeks.

At the same time Maurice felt the heaving of her chest, still disturbed
like the ocean after a storm.

"You still weep, my Geneviève," continued Maurice, with profound
melancholy,--"you still weep. Oh, reassure yourself! I will never
impose my love on scornful grief, and never soil my lips with a kiss
empoisoned by a single tear of regret."

He unwound the living girdle of her arms, averted his face, and coldly
turned away.

But as quick as thought, in a moment of reaction so natural in a woman
who struggles contrary to her own inclination, Geneviève threw her
trembling arms around Maurice's neck, pressed him nervously to her
heart, and laid her cold cheek, still wet with the tears which had
ceased to flow, against the young man's burning one.

"Ah, Maurice!" murmured Geneviève, "do not abandon me, Maurice; I have
no one left me in the world but you!"




CHAPTER XXXIII.

THE MORROW.


A beautiful sun beamed across the green window-blinds, gilding the
leaves of three large roses placed in a flower-stand before the window
of Maurice. These flowers, more precious as the season was on the
decline, perfumed with a delicious fragrance the little dining-room of
spotless neatness, where at a table served with every elegancy, but
without profusion, sat Maurice and Geneviève. The door was closed, for
as the table contained all that was requisite, it was understood they
waited on themselves. They heard the official stirring in the adjoining
room. The warmth and life of the last few lovely days entered through
the half-open jalousie, making glitter like emeralds and rubies the
rose-leaves caressed by the rays of the sun.

Geneviève let fall upon her plate the golden fruit she held in her
hand. She appeared to be deep in thought, and smiling only with her
lips, while her eyes languished with a melancholy expression. She
remained thus silent, abstracted, and happy in the sun of her love, as
the beautiful flowers in the sun of heaven. Soon her eyes sought those
of Maurice, and encountered his gazing upon her. She placed her soft
white arm upon the young man's shoulder, and leaned on his breast with
that faith and confidence far exceeding love.

Geneviève looked at him without speaking, and blushed as she regarded
him. Maurice slightly inclined his head to imprint a kiss upon the
half-open lips of Geneviève. He bent his head, while she turned pale,
and closed her eyes as the delicate flower conceals its calyx from the
rays of light. They remained dreaming thus, when a sharp ring at the
door-bell suddenly startled them.

The official entered mysteriously, and closed the door.

"Here is the Citizen Lorin," said he.

"Ah! dear Lorin," said Maurice, "I will go and dismiss him. Pardon,
Geneviève."

Geneviève stopped him.

"Dismiss your friend, Maurice!" said she, "and such a friend! one who
has consoled, assisted, and sustained you? No; I would no more drive
such a friend from your house than from your heart. Let him come in,
Maurice; let him come in."

"With your permission?" said Maurice.

"I wish it," said Geneviève.

"Ah! you will find that to love you is not enough," cried Maurice,
delighted with her delicacy; "it is necessary to adore you!"

Geneviève held her blushing face to the young man. He opened the door,
and Lorin entered, smart as usual in his costume of demi-muscadin. On
perceiving Geneviève he manifested great surprise, which was succeeded
by a respectful salute.

"Come here, Lorin, come here, and look at the lady! You are dethroned,
Lorin. I have now some one I prefer to yourself. I would have given my
life for you; for her,--I tell you nothing new, Lorin,--for her I have
sacrificed my honor."

"Madame," replied Lorin, in accents of deep emotion, "I shall endeavor
to value Maurice the more, that he has not altogether ceased to care
for me."

"Sit down, sir," said Geneviève, smiling.

"Yes, sit down," said Maurice, who, having pressed in his right hand
that of his friend, and in his left that of his mistress, presented the
appearance of a man arrived at the height of human felicity.

"Then you do not wish to die now; do not wish any longer to kill
yourself?"

"What do you mean?" asked Geneviève, turning pale.

"Oh, in good truth!" said Lorin, "man is a most versatile animal,
and philosophers have good cause to despise his levity. Here is
one, would you believe it, Madame, who no longer ago than yesterday
evening wished to leap into the fire, throw himself into the water;
who declared there was no more happiness for him in this world. And
behold him this morning, gay, joyous, with a smile upon his lips, his
countenance resplendent with happiness, life in his heart, seated at a
well-furnished table; it is true he has not eaten much, but that does
not prove he is unhappy."

"Did he wish to do all this?" said Geneviève.

"All this, and much more. I will tell you all, some day, but at this
moment I am very hungry; it is all Maurice's fault for making me
yesterday evening run all over the Quarter Saint Jacques. Permit me,
then, to make an attack upon the breakfast, which I perceive you have
neither of you yet touched."

"That is right," said Maurice, with childish glee; "I have not
breakfasted, nor have you, Geneviève."

He watched Lorin's eyes as he uttered her name; but Lorin evinced no
surprise.

"Ah!" said Maurice, "you have already surmised who it is, Lorin."

"Zounds!" said Lorin, cutting himself a large slice of white and rosy
ham, and not seeming to hear Maurice's remark.

"I, also, am hungry," said Geneviève, holding her plate.

"Lorin," said Maurice, "I was ill yesterday."

"You were worse than ill; you were mad."

"Well, I think it is you who are suffering at this moment."

"Why?"

"You have not yet given us any verses."

"I will sing you one this moment," said Lorin,--

 "Phœbus, in the midst of the Graces,
   The lyre in his hand still retained,
 Till following of Venus the traces,
   T was lost, and could not be regained."

"Always ready with a quatrain," said Maurice, laughing.

"And you will have to be contented with it, as it is now necessary to
turn our attention to more serious affairs."

"Has anything new occurred, then?" said Maurice, anxiously.

"I am ordered on guard at the Conciergerie."

"At the Conciergerie!" said Geneviève, "near the queen?"

"Near the queen. I believe so, Madame."

Geneviève turned pale. Maurice frowned, and made a sign to Lorin, who
cut himself another slice of ham, double the size of the first. The
queen had indeed been removed to the Conciergerie, whither we shall
follow her.




CHAPTER XXXIV.

THE CONCIERGERIE.


At a corner of the Pont-au-Change and of the Quai aux Fleurs rose the
remains of the old palace of Saint Louis, called _par excellence_
the palace, as Rome is called the city, and which still continues to
retain the royal cognomen, when the only kings who inhabit it are the
registrars, the judges, and the pleaders.

The house of justice was a large and sombre building, exciting
more fear than love for the merciless goddess. There might be seen
united in this narrow space all the instruments and attributes of
human vengeance. The first wards were assigned to those who had been
arraigned for crime; farther on were the halls of judgment, and lower
down the dungeons of the condemned. By the door was a small space where
the red-hot iron stamped its mark of infamy; and about one hundred and
fifty paces from the first another space, far more extensive, where the
last act of the fearful tragedy took place,--that is to say, La Grève,
where they finished the work previously sketched out for them at the
Palace. Justice, as we see, reigned paramount over all.

All these portions of the edifice joined one with another,
sullen-looking, dark, and gray, pierced by iron-grated windows where
the gaping arches resemble the grated dens extending along the side of
the Quai des Lunettes. This is the Conciergerie.

This prison contains dens washed by the black mud from the waters of
the Seine; it also possesses mysterious outlets, through which were
formerly conducted to the river those miserable victims whom it was
thought necessary to remove.

As seen in 1793, the Conciergerie, unwearying _procureur_ for the
scaffold,--the Conciergerie overflowed with occupants, who within an
hour became the victims of the guillotine. At this epoch the old prison
of Saint Louis was literally the Inn of Death. Under the arches some
gates were hung, and at night a red lantern was suspended there, fit
emblem of this abode of misery and despair.

The evening preceding the day when Lorin, Maurice, and Geneviève were
breakfasting together, a dull rumbling shook the pavement of the quay
and rattled the windows of the prison, then ceased before the arched
gate. The gendarmes knocked with the handles of their swords, the gate
opened, and a carriage entered the court; when the hinges had turned,
and the rusty bolts had creaked, a female descended.

The gaping wicket opened immediately to receive her, and closed upon
her. Three or four curious heads, protruding to gaze upon the prisoner
by the light of the torches, appeared in mezzo-tinto, then vanished in
the darkness, while vulgar jokes and rude laughter passed between the
men leaving, who could be heard though not seen.

The person thus brought remained within the first wicket with the
gendarmes; she saw it would be necessary to pass through a second,
but forgot at the same time to raise the foot and lower the head, as
there is a step to ascend and a beam which descends. The prisoner, not
yet well habituated to prison architecture, notwithstanding her long
sojourn there, omitted to stoop, and struck her forehead violently
against the bar.

"Are you much hurt, Citizeness?" demanded one of the gendarmes.

"Nothing can hurt me now," she replied tranquilly, and passed on
without uttering a single complaint, although sanguinary traces of the
injury remained upon her brow.

Shortly the arm-chair of the keeper became visible,--a chair more
venerated by the prisoners than the throne of the king by his
courtiers; for the keeper of a prison is the dispenser of favor,
and all mercy is important to a prisoner, as sometimes the smallest
kindness may change the darkest gloom to a heaven of light.

The keeper Richard, installed in his arm-chair, felt a due perception
of his own importance. He remained undisturbed even when the rumbling
of the carriage announced a new arrival. He inhaled some snuff,
regarded the prisoner, opened a large register, and looked for a pen
in the little ink-horn of black wood, where the ink, incrusted on the
sides, retained in the centre a mouldy humidity, as in the midst of the
crater of a volcano there always remains some melted matter.

"Citizen Keeper," said the chief of the escort, "write, and write
quickly, for they are impatiently awaiting us at the Commune."

"I will not be long," said the porter, at the same time emptying into
the inkstand some drops of wine remaining at the bottom of his glass;
"I am a good hand at this, thank God! Your name and surname, Citizen,"
said he, and dipping his pen at the same time into this improvised
ink, he commenced entering the new arrival at the bottom of a page
already nearly filled; while standing behind his chair, Madame Richard,
a female of benevolent aspect, contemplated, with a mixture of
astonishment and respect, this woman, so sad, so noble, and so proud,
whom her husband interrogated.

"Marie Antoinette Jeanne Josèphe de Lorraine," replied the prisoner,
"Archduchess of Austria and Queen of France."

"Queen of France!" repeated the keeper, raising himself in astonishment
by the arms of his chair.

"Queen of France," repeated the prisoner, in the same voice.

"Otherwise called the Widow Capet," said the chief of the escort.

"Under which of these names am I to enter her?" demanded the keeper.

"Whichever you please, only do it quickly," said the chief of the
escort.

The keeper reseated himself, and with a trembling hand wrote down the
name, surname, and titles given him by the prisoner, inscriptions the
ink of which still appears visible to this day upon the register of
which the revolutionary rats of the Conciergerie have nibbled the leaf
at its most precious part.

Richard's wife still retained her position behind her husband's chair,
and remained standing with her hands clasped together, commiserating
the situation of the unfortunate being before her.

"Your age?" continued the keeper.

"Thirty-seven years and nine months," replied the queen.

Richard wrote this down, then the description, and finished with the
regular notes and forms.

"There," said he, "that is completed."

"Where shall we conduct the prisoner?" said the chief of the escort.

Richard helped himself to a second pinch of snuff, and looked at his
wife.

"Indeed," said she, "we did not anticipate this, and have had but brief
notice, so that we hardly know--"

"You must find out," said the brigadier.

"There is the council chamber," said Richard's wife.

"Too large," murmured Richard.

"The larger the better; we can the more easily place the guards."

"Go to the council chamber," said Richard. "But it is not habitable at
this moment; it has no bed."

"True," replied his wife, "I had quite forgotten that."

"Bah!" said one of the gendarmes, "you can put a bed there to-morrow,
and to-morrow will soon be here."

"Besides, the citizen could occupy our chamber for one night; could she
not, good man?" said Richard's wife.

"And what are we to do?" said the keeper.

"Oh, we can do without a bed for one night; and as the citizen gendarme
observes, 'the night is nearly gone.'"

"Then," said Richard, "conduct the citizeness to our chamber."

"And in the mean while you will prepare our receipt?"

"It shall be ready on your return."

Richard's wife took the candle from the table, and led the way.

Marie Antoinette followed without uttering a word, calm and pale as
usual. Two turnkeys, at a sign from Richard's wife, followed them.
The queen was shown her bed, on which the woman hastened to place
clean sheets. The turnkeys installed themselves outside; the door was
double-locked; and Marie Antoinette was left alone.

How she passed that night no one ever knew, as she passed it in close
communion with her God. On the next day the queen was conducted to
the council chamber, a long four-sided room, the wicket-door of which
opened upon a corridor of the Conciergerie, and which had been divided
in its whole length by a partition which did not reach the height of
the ceiling.

One of these compartments was occupied by the men on guard. The other
was the chamber of the queen. A window, thickly-grated with small iron
bars, lighted both these cells. A folding-screen, the substitute for a
door, secluded the queen from the guards, and closed the aperture in
the middle. The whole of this room was paved with brick. The walls, at
one period or another, had been covered with gilded wood, where still
hung some shreds of paper fleur-de-lis. A bed was placed opposite the
window, and a single chair near the light. This was all the furniture
the royal prison contained.

On entering, the queen requested that her books and work might be
brought her. They brought her the "Revolutions of England," which she
had commenced in the Temple, the "Voyage du Jeune Anacharsis," and her
tapestry.

The gendarmes established themselves in the adjoining compartment.
History has preserved their names, as it has done that of many
others more infamous, associated by destiny in great events, and who
see reflected on themselves a fragment of that light cast by the
thunderbolt which destroys the thrones of kings, perhaps even the kings
themselves.

They were called Duchesne and Gilbert.

These two men were selected by the Commune, who knew them to be stanch
patriots. They were to remain at their post in their cell till the
sentence of Marie Antoinette. They hoped by this measure to avoid the
irregularities consequent upon a change of office several times during
the day, and therefore laid the guards under a heavy responsibility.

The queen first became acquainted with this new regulation from the
conversation of the gendarmes, whose discourse, not being softly
uttered, reached her ears. She experienced at once joy and disquietude;
for if on the one hand she felt that these men ought to be trustworthy
since they had been chosen from a multitude, on the other side she
reflected that her friends might more easily corrupt two known men
at their post than a hundred unknown individuals selected by chance,
passing near her occasionally, and then only for a single day.

On the first night before she retired one of the gendarmes, according
to his usual custom, began to smoke. The noxious vapor glided
imperceptibly through the apertures of the partition, enveloping the
unfortunate queen, whose misfortunes had irritated instead of deadening
her nerves. She soon felt herself seized with nausea and swimming in
the head; but true to her indomitable system of firmness, she uttered
no complaint.

During her melancholy vigil, while nothing disturbed the deep silence
of the night, she fancied she heard plaintive cries outside. These
cries were mournful and prolonged; there was about them something
weird and piercing, like the howling of wind in the dark and deserted
corridor when the tempest borrows the human voice to animate the
passions of the elements.

She soon became aware that the noise that had at first startled her
was the doleful and persevering cry of a dog howling on the quay. She
immediately remembered her poor little Jet, whom she had not thought
of when they removed her from the Temple, and now believed she could
recognize his voice. Indeed, the poor little animal, who by his
mistaken vigilance had ruined his mistress, had unperceived descended
behind her, had followed the carriage as far as the grating of the
Conciergerie, where he continued till he narrowly escaped being cut in
two by the double iron portcullis which closed behind her.

But the faithful creature had soon returned, and comprehending that
his mistress was confined in this great stone building, he whined and
howled, waiting, within ten feet of the sentinel, a caressing reply.
The queen replied by a heart-broken sigh which reached the ears of her
guards; but as this sigh was not repeated, and no other sound proceeded
from the queen's chamber, they again composed themselves, and relapsed
into their former state of drowsiness.

At break of day the queen rose and dressed herself, then took her seat
near the window, the light from which, intercepted by the grating of
iron bars, fell with a bluish tint upon her emaciated hands, in which
she held a book. She was apparently reading, but her thoughts were far
away.

The Gendarme Gilbert half opened the screen, and regarded her in
silence. The queen heard the noise of the screen, but did not turn her
head. She was so seated that the gendarme could see her head bathed in
the morning light. Gilbert made a sign to his comrade to advance and
look through the opening with him. Duchesne approached.

"Look!" said Gilbert, in a low tone; "how very pale she is; it is
frightful! Those red circles round her eyes denote her suffering. She
has surely been weeping."

"You well know," said Duchesne, "Capet's widow never weeps. She is too
proud for that."

"Then she must be ill," said Gilbert, and raising his voice, "Tell me,
Citizen Capet," said he, "are you ill?"

The queen slowly raised her eyes, and fixed an inquiring look upon the
two men.

"Did you address me, gentlemen?" demanded she, in a voice full of
sweetness, for she fancied she detected the accent of kindness in him
who had spoken to her.

"Yes, Citizeness, we spoke to you," replied Gilbert; "we feared you
were ill."

"Why so?"

"Because your eyes are so red."

"And at the same time you are so pale," added Duchesne.

"Thank you, gentlemen, I am not ill; only I suffered much last night."

"Ah, yes, your misfortunes!"

"No, gentlemen, my miseries are always the same; and my religion having
taught me to carry them to the foot of the cross, I do not suffer more
one day than another. No; I am out of sorts because I could not rest
last night."

"Ah! your new lodging and different bed?" said Duchesne.

"And then the lodging is not very comfortable," added Gilbert.

"Ah! it is not that, gentlemen," said the queen, shaking her head.
"Lofty or lowly, it is all the same to me."

"What is it then?"

"I ask pardon for telling you; but I have suffered much inconvenience
from the smell of the tobacco which that gentleman is smoking at this
moment."

Indeed, Gilbert was smoking, which was his habitual occupation.

"Confound my stupidity!" cried he, much grieved from the kindness with
which the queen had expressed herself. "Why did you not tell me so
before, Citizen?"

"Because I thought, sir, I had no right to deprive you of any
enjoyment."

"Well, you shall be incommoded no more,--by me, at least," said
Gilbert, casting away his pipe, which broke upon the tiles, "for I
shall smoke no more."

He turned round, his companion followed, and he closed the screen.

"Possibly they may cut off her head, that is an affair of the nation;
but why should we cause her any suffering, poor woman? We are soldiers,
and not hangmen, like Simon."

"It rather savors of the aristocrat, comrade, what you did just now,"
said Duchesne, shaking his head.

"Whom do you term an aristocrat? Explain yourself!"

"I call aristocrats all those who annoy the nation, and succor its
enemies."

"Then, according to your theory, I annoy the nation because I cease
to annoy with my smoking the Widow Capet? Go along, then! As for me,"
continued the brave fellow, "I remember my oath to my country, and
the order of my brigadier. As for my order, I know it by heart. Not
to permit the prisoner to escape; not to allow any one to see her; to
resist all correspondence she may endeavor to institute; and to die at
my post,--this is what I promised, and to this will I keep. _Vive la
nation!_"

"That is what I tell you," said Duchesne. "It is not that I disapprove
of your conduct, but I fear lest you should compromise yourself."

"Hush! here is some one."

The queen had not lost one word of this conversation, although carried
on in a low voice. Captivity had rendered her hearing doubly acute.

The noise which had attracted the attention of the two guards was
the sound of several steps approaching the door. It opened, and two
municipals entered, followed by the keeper and some of the turnkeys.

"Well," they inquired, "where is the prisoner?"

"Here she is," replied the two gendarmes.

"How is she lodged?"

"You can see." And Gilbert touched the screen.

"What do you wish?" demanded the queen.

"It is the visit of the Commune, Citizeness Capet."

"This man is kind," thought the queen; "and if my friends--"

"Very good, very good!" said the municipals, pushing Gilbert aside and
entering the queen's chamber; "so much ceremony is not requisite here."

The queen did not even raise her head; and it might have been believed
from her impassibility that she neither saw nor heard them, but
fancied herself alone. The delegates of the Commune curiously observed
everything around the chamber, sounded the wainscoting, the bed,
shaking the grating of the window which looked upon the court of the
female prisoners, and then having recommended to the gendarmes the
utmost vigilance, took their departure without having addressed a word
to the queen, who on her part seemed not to have been aware of their
presence.




CHAPTER XXXV.

LA SALLE DES PAS-PERDUS.


Toward the decline of the day on which we have seen the municipals
so carefully inspecting the queen's prison, a man attired in a gray
jacket, his head covered with a mass of black hair, and on his
head one of those hairy bonnets, which then among the people was a
distinguishing mark of the most exaggerated patriotism, was walking
about in the large hall so philosophically termed "La Salle des
Pas-Perdus," and seemed most attentively observing all the goers and
comers forming the general population of this hall,--a population
considerably augmented at this period, when trials had acquired greater
importance, and when the only pleading was to dispute their heads with
the hangman and with Fouquier Tinville their indefatigable purveyor.

The attitude assumed by this man whose portrait we have just sketched
was in very good taste. Society at this epoch was divided into two
classes,--the lambs and the wolves. The one naturally inspired the
other with fear, since one half of society devoured the other. Our
fierce promenader was rather short, and wielded in his dirty black
hand one of those knotted cudgels then called "constitutions." It
is true the hand that flourished this horrible weapon might have
appeared rather small to any one who might take into his head to act
the inquisitorial part toward this singular personage which he had
arrogated to himself with respect to others; but no one felt the least
inclined to risk it, for this man's aspect was far too terrible.

Indeed, this man with the cudgel caused much disquietude to several
groups of petty scribes engaged in the discussion of public affairs,
which at this time daily progressed from bad to worse, or from better
to better, according as they were considered from a conservative or
revolutionary point of view. These valorous folks looked askance at
his long black beard, his green eyes surmounted by overhanging, shaggy
eyebrows, and trembled whenever the promenade of the mighty patriot (a
promenade which extended the whole length of the great hall) brought
them in near contact with one another.

This terror was augmented from the fact that whenever they ventured to
approach him too nearly, or even looked at him too attentively, the man
with the cudgel struck his powerful weapon with its full weight upon
the pavement, smashing the flag-stones upon which it fell, sometimes
with a dull and heavy, sometimes with a sonorous and clashing sound.

But it was not only these brave men among the scribes, designated
generally as the "rats of the Palace," who experienced this formidable
impression; it was also the various individuals who entered the Salle
des Pas-Perdus by the great door, or through some of its narrow
vomitories, who also quickened their pace on perceiving the man with
the cudgel, who obstinately continued his journey from one end of the
hall to the other, finding each moment some pretext for making his
weapon ring on the pavement.

If these writers had been less timorous, and the promenaders more
clear-sighted, they would have discovered that our patriot, capricious
like all eccentric or pronounced characters, appeared to evince a
preference for certain flag-stones, those for instance situated a
little distance from the wall on the right, near the centre of the
hall, which emitted a clear and ringing sound. He even finished by
concentrating his anger upon some particular stones in the centre of
the hall. At the same time he so far forgot himself as to stop, and
with his eye seemed to be estimating the distance.

True, it was a momentary absence of mind only, and he immediately
resumed his former expression, which a gleam of pleasure had replaced
for an instant.

Almost at the same moment another patriot,--for at this epoch every
one wore his opinions on his forehead, or rather in his dress,--almost
at the same moment, say we, another patriot entered by the door of the
gallery, and without appearing the least in the world to partake of
the fear generated by the former occupant, began to cross the hall at
a pace equal to his own, so that in the centre of the promenade they
encountered each other.

The new arrival had, like the former, a hairy bonnet, a gray jerkin,
dirty hands, and in one of them a cudgel; indeed, in addition he
carried a sword, which struck against his legs at every step; and
on the whole he appeared a greater subject for terror than his
predecessor. The first had an air of ferocity, the last seemed replete
with sinister cunning.

Although these two men appeared to belong to the same cause, and
entertained the same opinions, the assembly ventured to watch the
result, not of their meeting, for they were not walking in the same
line, but their approach toward each other. At the first turn they were
disappointed in their expectation, as the patriots contented themselves
with exchanging looks; at the same time the smaller of the two turned
slightly pale,--only from an involuntary movement of the lips it was
evident it was not caused by fear, but by disgust.

However, at the second turn, as if the patriot had made a violent
effort, his countenance, till now so overcast, cleared up suddenly, and
something like a smile passed over his lips as he inclined slightly to
the left, with the evident intention of stopping the second patriot in
his course.

Near the centre they joined each other.

"Why, upon my word, here is the Citizen Simon!" said the first patriot.

"Himself. But what do you want with the Citizen Simon? And, in the
first place, who are you?"

"It seems, then, that you do not recognize me?"

"I do not recognize you, and for an excellent reason,--I never saw you
before."

"Not recognize me!--when I had the honor to carry the head of the
Princess Lamballe!"

At these words, pronounced with savage fury, and bursting passionately
from the mouth of the patriot, Simon started.

"You?" said he, "you?"

"Ha! that surprises you! I thought that you would remember your friends
better than that, faith! Ah, Citizen! you grieve me."

"You have done very well," said Simon; "but I did not recognize you."

"It is a greater privilege to act as guardian to the young Capet; it
brings you more into notice. As for myself, I both know and esteem you."

"Ah! Thank you."

"You have no reason--are you taking a walk?"

"Yes; I am waiting for some one. And you?"

"I am doing the same."

"What is your name? I will make mention of you at the club."

"I am called Théodore."

"What else?"

"Nothing else: is not that enough?"

"Oh, certainly. Who are you waiting for, Citizen Théodore?"

"A friend to whom I wish to make a fine little denunciation."

"Indeed! Do tell me."

"A whole covey of aristocrats."

"What are their names?"

"No, indeed; I only tell that to my friend."

"You are wrong; for here is mine advancing toward us, who, it seems to
me, is sufficiently acquainted with business to settle at once all this
affair."

"Fouquier Tinville!" cried the first patriot.

"No one less, friend."

"That's all right."

"Yes. Good-day, Citizen Fouquier."

Fouquier Tinville, calm and pale, opening wide, according to habit, his
large black eyes shaded by his bushy eyebrows, at this moment entered
by a side-door, his register in his hand, and a bundle of papers under
his arm. "Good-day, Simon," said he; "anything new?"

"Several things. First, a denunciation from Citizen Théodore, who
carried the head of the Princess Lamballe. I will introduce him to you."

Fouquier fixed his scrutinizing glance upon the patriot, who,
notwithstanding his strong nerves, felt rather uneasy while undergoing
this examination.

"Théodore!" said he; "and who is Théodore?"

"I!" said the man in the jerkin.

"You carried the head of the Princess Lamballe?" said the public
accuser, with an unmistakable expression of doubt.

"I. Rue Saint Antoine."

"But I know a person who boasts that he did so," said Fouquier.

"I know ten," replied the Citizen Théodore, courageously; "but, indeed,
as they all make some claim for having done so, and I ask nothing, at
least I ought to have the preference, I hope."

This reply excited Simon's laughter, and dispersed the cloud on the
accuser's brow.

"Right," said he; "and if you did not do it, you ought to have done so.
But leave us now; Simon has some business to transact with me."

Théodore retired, very little hurt by the frankness of the public
accuser.

"One moment," cried Simon. "Do not send him away so; let us first hear
his denunciation."

"Ah!" said Fouquier Tinville, with an absent air, "a denunciation?"

"Yes; a covey of conspirators," replied Simon.

"All in good time. Speak; what is the matter now?"

"Oh! not much; only the Chevalier de Maison-Rouge and some of his
friends."

Fouquier made a leap backward, while Simon raised his arms toward
heaven.

"Is this the truth?" they exclaimed, both together.

"The pure truth; will you take them?"

"At once. Where are they?"

"I met the Chevalier de Maison-Rouge in the Rue de la Grande
Tissanderie."

"You are mistaken; he is not in Paris," replied Fouquier.

"I tell you I have seen him."

"Impossible! a hundred men have been sent in pursuit of him; he would
not show himself in the streets of Paris."

"It was he, by Heaven!" said the patriot. "A tall dark man, as strong
as three and bearded like the pard."

Fouquier shrugged his shoulders disdainfully.

"Another blunder," said he; "the Chevalier de Maison-Rouge is short,
pale, and has not the slightest sign of a beard."

The patriot dropped his weapon with an air of consternation.

"Never mind, your good intention is taken for the act. Come, Simon, we
must both make haste; they require the register, this is the time for
the carts."

"Well, there is nothing new; the child is well." The patriot turned his
back that he might not appear indiscreet, but remained in a position
which enabled him to hear.

"I will go," said he, "lest I should intrude."

"Adieu!" said Simon.

"Good-day," said Fouquier.

"Tell your friend that you were deceived," added Simon.

"Well, I shall wait," and Théodore removed to a short distance, and
stood resting on his cudgel.

"So the child goes on well; but how fares he morally?" asked Fouquier.

"I mould him to my will."

"He will speak then?"

"When I choose."

"Do you think he will testify in the trial of Antoinette?"

"I do not think it; I am sure of it."

Théodore was leaning against a pillar, his eyes directed toward the
door. But his eye was wandering, while his ears were erect and
uncovered under the hairy bonnet he wore. Perhaps he saw nothing, but
most assuredly he heard something.

"Reflect well," said Fouquier, "and do not make what is termed a
blunder of this commission. You feel sure that Capet will speak?"

"He will say all that I require."

"Has he told you what we are going to ask him?"

"He has told me."

"It is important, Simon, that you should promise this; the child's
evidence is fatal to the mother."

"Zounds! I count upon that."

"There will have been nothing equal to it seen since the intimacy
between Nero and Narcissus. Once more, reflect, Simon."

"One would fancy you took me for a brute, repeating constantly the same
thing. Take this as an example: when I put leather in water it becomes
supple, does it not?"

"But--I do not know," replied Fouquier.

"It becomes soft. Well, in my hands the little Capet becomes supple as
the softest leather. I have my own method for that."

"It may be so," said Fouquier. "Is that all you have to say?"

"All--I forgot. There is a denunciation."

"Again? You will overwhelm me with business," said Fouquier.

"One must serve his country."

Simon presented a small paper, black as the leather he had just
mentioned, but certainly less supple. Fouquier took it and read the
contents.

"Again the Citizen Lorin; you have a great hatred to this man."

"I find him always acting in hostility to the law. He said, 'Adieu,
Madame,' to a woman who saluted him from a window yesterday evening.
To-morrow, I hope to give you a little information concerning another
'suspect;' that Maurice who was Municipal at the Temple when that
affair of the red carnation occurred."

"Be sure! be sure!" exclaimed Fouquier, smiling at Simon.

He held out his hand, and then turned away with an abruptness that
evinced little favor toward the shoemaker.

"What the devil do you wish me to be sure of? Many have been
guillotined for much less."

"Patience," replied Fouquier, quietly; "everything cannot be done at
the same time," and he passed quickly through the wicket.

Simon looked round for the Citizen Théodore, to console himself with
him. He was no longer to be seen.

He had hardly crossed the western iron gate, when Théodore reappeared
at the corner of a writer's hut. The occupant of the hut accompanied
him.

"At what hour are the iron gates closed?" asked Théodore of this man.

"At five o'clock."

"Then what do they do here?"

"Nothing; the hall remains empty till next day."

"No rounds, no visits?"

"No, sir; our barracks are locked."

The word "sir" made Théodore knit his brows, and look round with
distrust.

"Are the crowbar and pistols safe in the barracks?" said he.

"Yes, under the carpet."

"Return home, then--By the bye, show me again the chamber of the
Tribunal that has not a grated window, and looks upon the court near
the Place Dauphine."

"To the left, between the pillars under the lantern."

"Go, now, and have the horses ready at the place assigned!"

"A glorious chance!--a glorious chance!--depend fully upon me."

"Now is your time--No one is looking--open your barrack."

"It is done, sir; I will pray for you."

"It is not for me you ought to pray. Adieu."

And the Citizen Théodore, after an eloquent look, glided so adroitly
under the low roof of the barrack, that he disappeared like the shadow
of the writer who closed the door.

The worthy scribe drew the key from the lock, took some papers under
his arm, and went out of the vast hall with the few employees that
the stroke of five sent rushing from their desks like a rear guard of
belated bees.




CHAPTER XXXVI.

THE CITIZEN THÉODORE.


Night had enveloped in her gray mantle the immense hall, whose sad
echoes had to repeat the severe words of the advocates and the
suppliant ones of the pleaders.

From afar, in the midst of the obscurity, upright and immovable, a
white column seemed watching, in the centre of the hall, like a phantom
protector over the sacred place.

The only noise heard in this darkness was the nibbling and galloping
of innumerable rats, which gnawed the papers enclosed in the writer's
huts, after drilling their way through the wood.

Sometimes the sound of a carriage penetrated as far as this sanctuary
of Themis (as an Academician would say), and the vague clanking of
keys, which appeared to proceed from under the ground; but all this
only reverberated in the distance, and nothing save these distant
sounds ever broke the deep silence, or penetrated the thick darkness
save the glimmering of some far remote light.

Certainly the man would be seized by bewildering terror who at this
hour would have ventured into the vast hall of the Palace, the exterior
of whose walls was yet stained with the blood of the victims of
September; whose staircases this very day had witnessed the descent of
twenty-five human beings condemned to an ignominious death, and were
separated only by a few feet from the dungeons of the Conciergerie,
peopled with bleached skeletons.

Nevertheless, in the middle of this frightful night, in the midst of
this almost solemn silence, a low grating noise was heard; the door of
a writer's hut turned upon its creaking hinges, and a shadow, darker
than the shadow of night, glided cautiously out of the barrack.

Then the fierce patriot we have heard addressed as "sir," but who
called himself Théodore, stepped lightly over the uneven stones. He
held in his right hand a ponderous iron lever, and with his left felt
that his double-barrelled pistol was secure in his belt.

"I reckoned twelve flag-stones from the stall; and see, here is the end
of the first!" murmured he; and while calculating, he groped with the
point of his foot to discover the chinks which time had rendered more
perceptible.

"Let me see," said he, stopping; "have I taken my measurement
correctly? Shall I possess strength sufficient; and she--will she have
the courage? Oh, yes, her courage is known to me. Oh, my God! When I
shall take her hand--when I can say, Madame, you are saved!"

He suddenly paused, as if oppressed by the weight of so great a hope.

"Ah!" he resumed, "rash and foolish project! others will say, hiding
themselves under their bedclothes, or contenting themselves by
sauntering about disguised as lackeys through the Conciergerie; but
they have not my motive for daring all,--it is, that I not only desire
to serve the queen, but the woman.

"Well, to work; let us again sum up the whole.

"To raise the stone is nothing, to leave it open is the danger,--they
may perhaps make the rounds; but yet they never do so. They cannot
suspect anything, for I have no accomplices; and then what time is
needed by an ardor like mine to dart through the dark passage? In three
minutes I am under her chamber; in other five I raise the stone which
is on the hearth. She will hear me working, but has too much firmness
to feel alarmed; on the contrary, she will understand that a deliverer
is near--She is guarded by two men who will doubtless hasten to the
spot--

"Well, after all," said the patriot, with a melancholy smile, looking
first at the weapon concealed in his girdle, and then at the one he
held poised in his hand, "a double shot from this pistol, or a couple
of strokes from this iron bar. Poor creatures! they will die like
others not more culpable than themselves."

And Citizen Théodore resolutely pressed his lever between the chinks of
the flag-stones.

At this moment a vivid light gleamed like a ray of gold across the
stones, and a noise, repeated by the echoes of the vault, caused the
conspirator to turn, and then with a single bound to conceal himself in
the stall.

Soon voices, weakened by the distance, and softened by the emotion
experienced by every one at night in a large and desolate building,
reached the ears of Théodore.

He stooped down, and through an aperture in the stall perceived first
a man in military costume, whose long sabre clanking on the pavement
partly produced the sound which had attracted his attention; then, a
man in a pistachio-colored suit, holding a rule in his hand and a roll
of papers under his arm; thirdly, a man in a large waistcoat of ratteen
and a fur bonnet; and lastly, a fourth, with wooden shoes and a jerkin.

The iron gate Des Merciers creaked upon its sonorous hinges, rattling
the chain intended to keep it open during the day.

The four men entered.

"A round," murmured Théodore. "God be praised! ten minutes later and I
should have been ruined."

He then with the utmost attention endeavored to recognize the
individuals who composed the round,--indeed, three of them were known
to him.

He who walked first, clad in the uniform of a general, was Santerre;
the man in the ratteen waistcoat and fur bonnet was Richard the porter,
and the man in clogs and jerkin was in all probability a turnkey.

But he had never seen the man in the pistachio-colored coat, who held
a rule in his hand and a bundle of papers under his arm. Who or what
could this man be; and what brought, at ten o'clock at night, to the
Salle des Pas-Perdus, the general of the Commune, the keeper of the
Conciergerie, a turnkey, and this other man? The Citizen Théodore knelt
on one knee, holding in one hand his loaded pistol, while with the
other he replaced his bonnet and hair, which his precipitous movement
had deranged too much to look natural.

Up to this moment the nocturnal visitors had kept silence, or if they
had spoken, their words had not reached the ears of the conspirator;
but when about ten paces from his lurking place Santerre spoke, and his
voice was distinctly heard by the Citizen Théodore.

"We are now," said he, "in the Salle des Pas-Perdus. It is for you now
to guide us, Citizen Architect, and to endeavor to convince us that
your revelation is no idle story; for you see the Revolution has done
justice to all this folly, and we believe no more in these subterranean
passages than in ghosts. What do you say, Citizen Richard?" added
Santerre, turning toward the man in the fur bonnet and ratteen vest.

"I have never said there was no subterranean passage under the
Conciergerie," he replied. "Here is Gracchus, who has been turnkey
for ten years, and consequently is as familiar with the whole of
the Conciergerie as he is with the alphabet, and yet he ignores the
existence of the vault of which the Citizen Giraud has spoken. However,
as the Citizen Giraud is the city architect, he ought to know better
than any of us. It is his business."

Théodore shivered from head to foot on hearing these words.

"Fortunately," murmured he, "the hall is large, and before they find
what they search for, two days at least must expire."

But the architect opened his great roll of papers, put on his
spectacles, and knelt down to examine the plan by the flickering light
of the lantern which Gracchus held in his hand.

"I fear," said Santerre, ironically, "that the Citizen Giraud has been
dreaming."

"You will see, Citizen General, if I am a dreamer. Wait a little; wait!"

"You see we are waiting," said Santerre.

"Good!" said the architect; and he began to calculate. "Twelve and four
make sixteen," said he, "and eight are twenty-four, which, divided by
six, makes four, and then half remains; that is it. I can tell the very
spot; and if I am mistaken by so much as a foot, you may henceforth dub
me an ass."

The architect pronounced these words with an assurance which curdled
the blood of the Citizen Théodore.

Santerre regarded the plan with a species of respect, but evidently
admired more than he comprehended it.

"Now follow what I say."

"Where?" asked Santerre.

"Zounds! upon this chart which I have drawn. Here we are! thirteen feet
from the wall is a movable stone I have marked A; do you see it?"

"Certainly, I see A," said Santerre. "Do you think I do not know how to
read?"

"Under this stone," continued the architect, "is a staircase; do you
see? It is marked B."

"B!" said Santerre; "I see B, but I do not see the staircase," and the
general laughed heartily at his own facetiousness.

"When once the stone is raised, and the foot upon the last step,
count fifty paces, look up, and you will find yourself exactly at the
register-office where the subterraneous passage terminates, passing
under the cell of the queen."

"Capet's widow, you mean, Citizen Giraud," said Santerre, knitting his
brows.

"Yes, Capet's widow."

"But you said 'the queen.'"

"The force of old habit."

"You say, then, it may be found under the register-office?" demanded
Richard.

"Not only under the register-office, but I will tell you also in what
part of the office you will discover it,--under the stove."

"That is curious," said Gracchus, "for I have noticed that every time I
dropped a log in that place the stone sounded hollow."

"In short, if we find your statement correct, Citizen Architect, I
shall pronounce geometry a fine thing."

"Then declare it, Citizen Santerre, for I am now going to conduct you
to the place indicated by the letter A."

The Citizen Théodore sank his nails into his flesh.

"When I have seen it," said Santerre,--"when I have seen it! I rather
resemble Saint Thomas."

"Ah! you said Saint Thomas."

"Yes, as you said 'the queen,' from mere habit; but they cannot accuse
me of conspiring for him."

"Nor me for the queen."

After this retort the architect delicately placed his rule, reckoned
the distance, then stopped, having apparently finished his calculation,
and struck upon a particular stone.

This was the identical stone struck by the Citizen Théodore in his fit
of frantic rage.

"It is here, Citizen General," said the architect.

"You fancy so, Citizen Giraud."

Our concealed patriot so far forgot himself as to strike his thigh with
his clinched fist, at the same time groaning deeply.

"I am positive," said Giraud; "and your examination, combined with my
report, will prove to the Convention that I have not been deceived.
Yes, Citizen General," continued the architect, with emphasis,
"this stone opens upon a subterranean passage, terminating at the
register-office, and passing below the cell of the Widow Capet. Let us
raise the stone; descend with me into the vault, and I will convince
you that two men, even one man, could effect a rescue in a single
night, without any one suspecting it."

A murmur of terror and admiration, elicited by the architect's words,
ran through the group, and faintly reached the Citizen Théodore, who
seemed turned to stone.

"Look at the danger we run," continued Giraud. "Well, now with a
grating which I shall place in the middle of this underground passage
before it reaches the cell of the Widow Capet, I shall save the
country."

"Ah, Citizen Giraud!" said Santerre, "that is an idea bordering on the
sublime."

"Perdition seize you, addle-pated fool!" grumbled the patriot, with
redoubled fury.

"Now raise the stone," said the architect to the Citizen Gracchus, who
in addition to a lantern carried a crowbar.

Gracchus set to work, and in a second the stone was raised.

The vault appeared open, with the staircase lost in its profundity,
while the moist air escaped like a pestilent vapor.

"Another abortive attempt," murmured the Citizen Théodore. "Alas!
Heaven does not will that she should escape, and her cause must be
accursed!"




CHAPTER XXXVII.

THE CITIZEN GRACCHUS.


For an instant the three men remained motionless at the entrance to the
vault, while the turnkey plunged his lantern into the opening without
being able to penetrate its depth. The architect triumphantly exulted
over his companions from the summit of his genius.

"Well!" said he, at length.

"Faith! yes," replied Santerre, "here incontestably is the passage. It
only remains to know where it leads to."

"Yes," repeated Richard, "it remains to know that."

"Well, then, descend yourself, Citizen Richard, and then you will see
if I have told you the truth."

"I have something better to do than go in there," said the porter. "We
will return with you and the general to the Conciergerie. There you can
raise the hearthstone, and we shall see."

"Very well," said Santerre, "we will return."

"But we must be careful," said the architect; "this stone remaining
unclosed may suggest an idea to some one."

"Who the devil do you imagine ever comes here at this hour?" said
Santerre.

"Besides," said Richard, "the hall is deserted, and to leave Gracchus
here is sufficient. Remain here, Citizen Gracchus, and we will return
to you from the other side of the subterranean passage."

"All right," said Gracchus.

"Are you armed?" demanded Santerre.

"I have my sword and this crowbar, Citizen General."

"Just the thing! keep strict watch; in ten minutes we will be with you."

And having closed the iron gate, the three took their departure by
the Gallery des Merciers, to repair to the private entrance of the
Conciergerie.

The turnkey watched their receding footsteps, and followed them with
his eyes as far as he could see, and listened as long as he had
anything to hear; then all relapsed into silence, and supposing himself
in perfect solitude, he placed his lantern on the ground, sat down,
his legs overhanging the depths of the vault, and began to meditate.
Turnkeys meditate sometimes; but people, generally speaking, do not
trouble themselves to find out what is the subject of their meditations.

All at once, in the midst of his profound revery, he felt a hand press
heavily upon his shoulder. He turned round, and attempted, on seeing a
stranger, to give the alarm, but at the same instant the cold point of
a pistol was pressed to his forehead.

The accents were arrested in his throat, his arms fell listlessly by
his side, and his eyes assumed the most suppliant expression.

"Not a word," said the intruder, "or you are a dead man."

"What do you want, sir?" stammered the turnkey.

Even in '93, there were moments when, renouncing their idea of
universal equality, they forgot to address each other as "Citizen."

"I wish," said the Citizen Théodore, "to be allowed to go down there."

"What for?"

"Never mind."

The turnkey regarded the person who had proffered this request with
the most profound astonishment; but in the mean time his interlocutor
fancied he detected in the man's look a ray of intelligence.

He lowered the pistol.

"Would you refuse to make your fortune?"

"I don't know. Hitherto no one has ever made me proposals on the
subject."

"Well, then, I will begin."

"You offer to make my fortune?"

"Yes."

"What do you mean by a fortune?"

"Fifty thousand golden francs, for instance. Money is scarce, and fifty
thousand francs now are worth a million. Well, I offer you that sum."

"To allow you to go down there?"

"Yes; but on condition that you come with me, and afford me your
assistance in my undertaking."

"But what are you going to do? In five minutes that vault will be
filled with soldiers, who will arrest you."

The Citizen Théodore was forcibly struck by this argument.

"Cannot you prevent the soldiers from descending there?"

"I have no means of so doing, I know none, and cannot think of any."

Indeed, it was evident the turnkey was taxing all his mental energies
to discover some means of winning the fifty thousand francs.

"But," demanded the Citizen Théodore, "could we not enter to-morrow?"

"Yes; but to-morrow a grate of iron will be placed across the passage,
occupying its whole width; and for the greater security it is arranged
that this partition should be entirely solid, and without even a door."

"Then we must think of something else," said Théodore.

"Yes; we must find some other way," said the turnkey.

It will be seen from the joint manner in which Gracchus expressed
himself, that an alliance had already been struck between himself and
the Citizen Théodore.

"That will be my concern," said Théodore. "What do you do at the
Conciergerie?"

"I am a turnkey."

"What are your duties?"

"I open the doors and shut them."

"Do you sleep there?"

"Yes, sir."

"Do you take your meals there?"

"Not always. I have my hours of recreation."

"And then?"

"I avail myself of them."

"What to do?"

"To pay my respects to the mistress of a tavern called Noah's Well, who
has promised to marry me when I am possessed of twelve hundred francs."

"Where is the tavern Noah's Well?"

"Near the Rue de la Vieille-Draperie."

"Very well."

"Hush, sir."

The patriot listened.

"Ah! ah!" said he.

"Do you hear?"

"Yes. Voices and footsteps."

"They are returning."

"You see very well that we should not have had time."

This _we_ was becoming more and more pronounced.

"That is true. You are a brave fellow, Citizen, and are through me
predestined--"

"To what?"

"To be rich one day."

"God grant it!"

"You then still believe in God?"

"Sometimes; here and there. To-day, for example--"

"Well?"

"I should willingly believe."

"Believe, then," said the Citizen Théodore, putting ten louis into the
man's hand.

"The devil!" said he, regarding the gold by the light of the lantern.
"Is it, then, serious?"

"It could not be more so."

"What must I do?"

"Meet me to-morrow at Noah's Well; I will then tell you what I require
of you. What is your name?"

"Gracchus."

"Well, Citizen Gracchus, get yourself dismissed from here to-morrow by
the keeper Richard."

"Dismissed! give up my place!"

"Do you reckon on remaining a turnkey, with fifty thousand francs?"

"No, but being a turnkey and poor, I am certain of not being
guillotined."

"Certain?"

"Or nearly so; while being free and rich--"

"You will hide your money, and make love to a spinster instead of to
the mistress of Noah's Well."

"Well, then, it is settled."

"To-morrow at the tavern."

"At what hour?"

"At six in the evening."

"Flee quickly; there they are. I tell you to be quick, because, I
presume, you descend and go through the vaults."

"To-morrow," repeated Théodore, hastening away.

And not before it was time, for the voices and steps drew near,
and lights were already seen approaching in the obscurity of the
underground passage. Théodore gained the gate which the writer from
whom he had taken the hut had shown him, opened the lock with his
crowbar, reached the window, threw it open, dropped softly into the
street, and found himself upon the pavement of the Republic once again.

Before quitting the Salle des Pas-Perdus he heard the Citizen Gracchus
again question Richard, and also his reply.

"The Citizen Architect was quite right; the vault passes below the
chamber of the Widow Capet, and it was dangerous."

"I well believe it," said Gracchus, who in this instance told the
perfect truth.

Santerre reappeared at the opening of the staircase.

"And the workmen, Citizen Architect?" demanded he of Giraud.

"Before daybreak they will be here; and during the session the grating
will be placed," replied a voice which seemed to proceed from the
bowels of the earth.

"And you will have saved the country," cried Santerre, half in jest,
half in earnest.

"You little know the truth of what you say, Citizen General," murmured
Gracchus.




CHAPTER XXXVIII.

THE ROYAL CHILD.


In the mean time, as we have seen in the chapter preceding, the queen's
trial was about to take place.

It was already surmised that by the sacrifice of this illustrious head
the popular hatred, so long displayed in murmurs, would at length be
satisfied.

The means were not wanting for the completion of this tragedy; and in
the mean time Fouquier Tinville, that fatal accuser, had resolved not
to neglect the new mode of accusation which Simon had promised to place
in his hands.

The day after he and Simon had met in the Salle des Pas-Perdus, the
noise of arms again startled the prisoners who remained in the Temple.

These prisoners were Madame Elizabeth, Madame Royale, and the child who
after having been called "Your Majesty" in his cradle, was now styled
simply the "Little Capet."

General Hanriot, with his tricolored plume, his splendid horse, and
long sword, followed by several of the National Guard, dismounted, and
entered the dungeon where the royal child languished.

By the general's side walked a registrar of very unprepossessing
appearance, carrying a writing-desk, a large roll of paper, and
flourishing a pen of immoderate length.

Behind the scribe walked the public accuser. We have seen, we know, and
shall meet again at a later period, this dry, jaundiced, cold man, with
his blood-shot eyes, who made the ferocious Santerre himself tremble,
even when cased in his armor.

Several National Guards and a lieutenant followed them.

Simon, smiling hypocritically, and holding his bear-skin bonnet in one
hand and his shoemaker's stirrup in the other, walked before to show
the committee the way.

They came to a very dirty chamber, spacious and ill-furnished, at the
end of which, seated upon his bed, was the young Louis, in a state of
perfect immobility.

When we saw the poor child fleeing from the brutal anger of Simon, he
still retained a species of vitality, resenting the unworthy treatment
of the shoemaker of the Temple. He fled, he wept, he prayed; then he
feared and suffered, but still he hoped.

But now both fear and hope had vanished; without doubt the suffering
still existed, but if it still remained, the infant martyr, whom they
had made pay after so cruel a fashion for his parents' faults, buried
it in the depths of his heart, and veiled it under an appearance
of total insensibility. He did not even raise his head when the
commissioners walked up to him.

Without further ceremony they instantly installed themselves. The
public accuser seated himself at the head of the bed, Simon at the
foot, the registrar near the window, the National Guard and their
lieutenant on the side and rather in the shade.

Those among them who regarded the little prisoner with the slightest
interest, or even curiosity, remarked the child's pallor, his
extraordinary stoutness (resulting from his bloated condition), and
his bent legs, the joints of which had already begun to swell.

"That child is very ill," said the lieutenant, with an assurance that
caused Fouquier to turn round, though already seated and prepared to
question his victim.

Little Capet raised his eyes to discover who had uttered these words,
and recognized the same young man who had already once before saved
him from Simon's cruelty in the court of the Temple. A sweet and
intelligent glance shot from his deep blue eyes, and that was all.

"Ah, ah! is that you, Citizen Lorin?" said Simon, thus calling the
attention of Fouquier Tinville to the friend of Maurice.

"Myself, Citizen Simon," said Lorin, with his usual nonchalance.

And as Lorin though always ready to face danger was not the man to
seek it uselessly, he availed himself of this circumstance to bow to
Fouquier Tinville, which salutation was politely returned.

"You observed, I think, Citizen," said the public accuser, "that the
child was ill; are you a doctor?"

"I have studied medicine, at least, if I am not a medical man."

"Well, and what do you discover in him?"

"Symptoms of sickness, do you mean?" asked Lorin.

"Yes."

"I find his cheeks and eyes puffed up, his hands thin and white, his
knees swollen; and were I to feel his pulse, I should certainly count
eighty-five or ninety pulsations in a minute."

The child appeared insensible to the enumeration of his sufferings.

"And to what might science attribute the condition of the prisoner?"

Lorin rubbed the tip of his nose, murmuring,--

 "Phyllis wants to make me speak,
 I am not the least inclined.

"Faith, Citizen!" replied he, "I am not sufficiently acquainted with
little Capet's constitution to reply. However--"

Simon lent an attentive ear, and laughed in his sleeve to find his
enemy so near committing himself.

"However," said Lorin, "I think he does not have sufficient exercise."

"I believe the little scoundrel," said Simon, "does not choose to walk."

The child remained quite unmoved by this apostrophe of the shoemaker.

Fouquier Tinville arose, advanced to Lorin, and addressed some words
to him in a low tone. No one heard the words, but it was evident they
assumed the form of interrogatories.

"Oh, oh! do you believe that, Citizen? It is a serious charge for a
mother--"

"Under any circumstances, we shall find out. Simon pretends he has
heard him say so, and has engaged to make him acknowledge it."

"This would be frightful," said Lorin; "but indeed it is possible; the
Austrian is not exempt from sin, and right or wrong, does not concern
me--They have made her out a Messalina: but not content with that, they
wish to make her an Agrippina. I must acknowledge it appears to me
rather hard."

"This is what has been reported by Simon," said the impassible Fouquier.

"I do not doubt that Simon has said all this. There are some men who
stick at nothing, even the most impossible accusations. But do you
not find," said Lorin, fixing his eyes steadily on Fouquier,--"do you
not find--you, an intelligent and upright man, possessed with a strong
mind--that to inquire of a child concerning such circumstances as those
which all the most natural and most sacred laws of Nature command us to
respect, is to insult all human nature in the person of a child?"

The accuser did not frown, but took a note from his pocket and showed
it to Lorin.

"The Convention enjoins me to investigate," said he; "the rest does not
concern me. I shall investigate."

"It is just," said Lorin; "and I declare that if this child
acknowledges--" And the young man shook his head, expressive of disgust.

"Besides," continued Fouquier, "it is not only upon the denunciation of
Simon that we proceed; the accusation is public."

And Fouquier drew a second paper from his pocket.

This was a number of the paper entitled "Le Père Duchesne;" which, as
is well known, was written by Hébert.

The accusation indeed appeared there in full.

"It is written, and even printed," said Lorin; "but till I hear a
similar accusation proceed from the lips of the child,--mind, I mean
voluntarily, freely, and without menaces,--notwithstanding Simon and
Hébert, I shall disbelieve it, as much as you in reality do yourself."

Simon impatiently awaited the issue of this conversation.

The miserable creature was not unaware of the power exercised upon
an intelligent man by the looks which he receives from the crowd,
expressive either of sympathy or subtle hatred. Sometimes this subtle
influence repels, sometimes it attracts, makes the thought flow out and
even draws the person of the man toward that other man of equal or
superior mental calibre whom he recognizes in the crowd.

But Fouquier Tinville had felt the keen observation of Lorin, and was
anxious to be fully understood by him.

"The examination is about to commence," said the public accuser.
"Registrar, resume your pen!"

The registrar, who had just drawn out the preliminaries of the
investigation, was waiting, like Hanriot, Simon, and all the rest, till
the colloquy between Fouquier and Lorin had ceased.

The child alone appeared perfectly unconscious of the scene in which he
was soon to become the principal actor, and his face, which had for an
instant gleamed with a ray of the highest intelligence, had relapsed
into its listless, apathetic expression.

"Silence!" cried Hanriot, "the Citizen Fouquier Tinville is going to
interrogate the child."

"Capet," said the public accuser, "do you know what has become of your
mother?"

The little Louis turned from an ashy paleness to a brilliant red, but
made no reply.

"Did you hear me, Capet?"

He still remained silent.

"Oh, he hears well enough," said Simon, "only he is like the ape, he
will not reply for fear he should be taken for a man, and so made to
work."

"Reply, Capet!" said Hanriot; "it is the Commission of the Convention
that interrogates you. You must show obedience to the laws."

The child turned pale, but did not reply.

Simon made a frantic gesture of rage. With natures so stupid and brutal
as his, anger becomes an intoxication, attended with all the loathsome
symptoms of alcoholic inebriety.

"Will you reply, wolf's cub?" showing him the strap.

"Be quiet, Simon," said Fouquier Tinville; "you have not the right to
speak."

This expression, which had become habitual to Tinville at the
Revolutionary Tribunal, now escaped him involuntarily.

"Do you hear, Simon?" said Lorin. "This is the second time you have
been told this in my presence; the first was when you accused Tison's
daughter, whom you had the pleasure of bringing to the scaffold."

Simon was silent.

"Does your mother love you, Capet?" asked Fouquier.

Still the same silence.

"They say not," continued the accuser.

Something like a ghastly smile passed over the child's pale lips.

"But then, I say," roared Simon, "he has told me she loves him too
much!"

"Look here, Simon," said Lorin, "you are angry that the little Capet
chatters so much when you are together, and remains silent before
company to-day."

"Oh, if we were alone!" said Simon.

"Yes, if you were alone; but unfortunately you are not alone. Oh, if
you were, brave Simon, excellent patriot! how you would belabor the
poor child, eh? But you are not alone, and dare not show your rage
before honest men like us who know that the ancients, whom we endeavor
to take for our models, respected all who were weak. You dare not, for
you are not alone; and you are not valiant, my worthy man, when you
have children of five feet six inches to combat."

"Oh!" muttered Simon, grinding his teeth.

"Capet," said Fouquier, "have you confided any secrets to Simon?"

The child never turned round, but his face assumed an expression of
irony impossible to describe.

"About your mother?" continued Fouquier.

A look of supreme contempt passed over his countenance.

"Reply, yes or no!" cried Hanriot.

"Say yes!" roared Simon, holding his leather stirrup over the child's
head.

The child shuddered, but made no movement to avoid the blow. Those
present uttered a cry expressive of their disgust. Lorin did more.
Before the wretch could lower his arm he darted forward and seized him
by the wrist.

"Will you let me go?" roared Simon, purple with rage.

"Come, there is no harm," said Fouquier, "in a mother loving her child.
Tell us in what way your mother loved you, Capet. It may be useful to
her."

The young prisoner started at the idea of being useful to his mother.

"She loves me as a mother loves her son, sir," said he; "there are not
two ways for mothers to love their sons, or sons to love their mothers."

"And I, little serpent, declare that you have told me your mother--"

"You have dreamed that," interrupted Lorin, quietly, "you must often
have the nightmare, Simon."

"Lorin! Lorin!" growled Simon, grinding his teeth.

"Yes, again, Lorin. There is no way of beating Lorin, since he
chastises the wicked; there is no way to denounce him for what he
did in arresting your arm, as it was done before General Hanriot and
Fouquier Tinville, who approve of it, and they are not lukewarm in the
cause. There is then no way to bring him to the guillotine, as you did
poor Héloïse Tison. It is very grievous, very vexatious, very enraging;
still it is so, my poor Simon!"

"Later! later!" replied the shoemaker, with his mocking laugh.

"Yes, dear friend," said Lorin, "I hope with the help of the Supreme
Being--Ah! you expected I was going to say with the help of God! But
I hope with the assistance of the Supreme Being, and my good sword,
to disembowel you first; but move aside, Simon, you prevent me from
seeing."

"Rascal!"

"Be silent, you prevent me from hearing," and Lorin silenced him with a
threatening look.

Simon clinched his black hands and shook his fists, but as Lorin had
told him, he was obliged to confine himself to these manifestations.

"Now he has begun to speak," said Hanriot, "he will continue no doubt.
Go on, Fouquier!"

"Will you reply now?" demanded Fouquier.

The child returned to his former silence.

"You see, Citizen! you see!" exclaimed Simon.

"The obstinacy of this child is strange," said Hanriot, troubled in
spite of himself at this royal firmness.

"He is ill advised," said Lorin.

"By whom?" demanded Hanriot.

"By his guardian."

"Do you accuse me?" cried Simon,--"do you denounce me? Ah! that is
curious--"

"Let us try gentleness," said Fouquier. Then turning toward the child,
whom one would have supposed to be insensible,--

"My child," said he, "reply to the National Commission; do not
aggravate your situation by refusing us any useful information. You
have spoken to the Citizen Simon about your mother,--how you caress her
and love her; how she caresses and loves you?"

Louis threw a glance around the assembly, which gleamed with hatred
when it rested on Simon, but he did not reply.

"Do you feel yourself unhappy?" demanded the accuser; "are you
uncomfortably lodged, badly fed, and unkindly treated? Would you wish
more liberty, better food, another prison, another guardian? Would you
like a horse to ride upon, and some companions of your own age?"

Louis still maintained the profound silence he had only once broken, to
defend his mother.

The Commission was utterly confounded at so much firmness and
intelligence evinced by a child.

"Ah, these kings!" said Hanriot, in a low voice, "what a race! They are
like tigers; even the young ones inherit their wickedness."

"How are we to write the investigation?" asked the registrar, much
embarrassed.

"There is no charge against Simon; there is nothing to write," said
Lorin; "that will suit him exactly."

Simon again shook his fist at his implacable enemy.

Lorin began to laugh.

"You will not laugh like that the day you will sneeze in the sack,"
said Simon, drunk with fury.

"I do not know whether I shall precede or follow you in the little
ceremony you menace me with," said Lorin; "but this I do know, that
many will laugh when your turn comes. Gods!--I have spoken in the
plural,--gods! you will not be ugly then, Simon; you will be hideous."

And Lorin retired behind the Commission, with a fresh burst of laughter.

The Commission, having nothing more to attend to, withdrew.

As for the poor child, released from his tormentors, he began to sing a
little melancholy ditty which had been a great favorite of his father.




CHAPTER XXXIX.

THE BOUQUET OF VIOLETS.


As might be foreseen, the felicity of Geneviève and Maurice was not of
long continuance.

In the tempest which unchains the wind and hurls the thunderbolt, the
nest of the doves is shaken in the tree where they had retired for
shelter.

Geneviève passed from one terror to another. She no longer feared for
Maison-Rouge, she now trembled for Maurice.

She knew her husband sufficiently well to feel convinced, the moment
of his disappearance, that he was saved; but sure of his safety, she
thought now of her own.

She dared not confide her grief to the least timid man of this epoch
when all from desperation were devoid of fear, but it was plainly
evinced by her red eyes and pallid cheeks.

One day Maurice softly entered, so quietly indeed that Geneviève,
buried in a profound revery, did not notice his entrance. He stopped
upon the threshold and saw Geneviève sitting immovable, her eyes fixed
on vacancy, her hands lying listlessly on her lap, her head hanging
pensively upon her bosom.

He gazed at her for a moment with an expression of deepest sadness, for
all that was passing in the young girl's heart was suddenly revealed,
as if he had read even to her latest thought. He stepped up to her.

"You have ceased to care for France, Geneviève; confess it is so. You
fly from the air breathed here, and not without the greatest reluctance
will you even approach the window."

"Alas!" said Geneviève, "I know I cannot conceal my thoughts from you,
Maurice; you have divined rightly."

"It is nevertheless a fine country," said the young man; "life is
here important, and well occupied now. This bustling activity of the
Tribune, the clubs, the conspiracies, renders sweeter the hours spent
by our own fireside. One loves it the more ardently, it may be, from
the fear of not being able to love it on the morrow, for on the morrow
one may have ceased to exist."

Geneviève shook her head. "An ungrateful country to serve," said she.

"Why so?"

"Yes; you who have labored so much for the cause of liberty, are you
not to-day more than half suspected?"

"But you, dear Geneviève," said Maurice, with a look replete with
tenderness, "you a sworn enemy to this liberty,--you who have done so
much against it! You yet sleep, peaceable and inviolate, beneath the
roof of a Republican; and there, you see, is my recompense."

"Yes," said Geneviève, "but that cannot last long; that which is wrong
cannot endure."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean to say that I,--that is to say an aristocrat,--that I who dream
quietly of the defeat of your party and the ruin of your plans; I who
plot, even in your house, the return of the ancient régime; I who,
recognized, would condemn you to death and dishonor, according to your
opinions at least,--I, Maurice, will not remain here as the evil genius
of your house; I will not drag you to the scaffold."

"And where will you go, Geneviève?"

"Where shall I go, Maurice? One day when you are out I shall go and
denounce myself, without saying where I come from."

"Oh!" cried Maurice, wounded to the heart's core, "already ungrateful?"

"No," cried the young woman, throwing her arms round Maurice's neck;
"it is love, and the most devoted love, I swear. I should not wish my
brother to be taken and slaughtered as a rebel; I do not wish my lover
to be arrested and guillotined as a traitor."

"And you will do this, Geneviève?"

"As truly as there is a God in heaven," replied the young woman;
"besides, I not only experience fear but remorse," and she bowed her
head as if remorse were a burden too heavy to be borne.

"Oh, Geneviève!" said Maurice.

"You will understand all that I say, all that I feel, Maurice, for you
yourself experience this remorse. You know I gave myself to you while
I belonged to another, and you have taken me without my possessing the
right to dispose of myself."

"Enough!" said Maurice, "enough!" He knit his brow, and a melancholy
resolution shone in his clear bright eyes. "I will show you, Geneviève,
how entirely I love you," said the young man, "I will prove to you that
no sacrifice is beyond my love. You hate France. Well, so be it. We
will quit France."

Geneviève clasped her hands, and regarded her lover with enthusiastic
admiration.

"You will not deceive me, Maurice," murmured she.

"Have I ever deceived you?" asked Maurice, "and is this the time when,
to obtain you, I have dishonored myself?"

Geneviève approached her lips to Maurice's, and remained hanging on the
neck of her lover.

"Yes, you are right," said Geneviève; "it is I who am mistaken. What I
feel is not remorse, perhaps it is a degradation of soul; but you will
comprehend at least I love you far too much to feel any other emotion
than the all-engrossing one, the fear of losing you. Let us go far
away, Maurice, let us go far away where no one can ever reach us."

"Oh, thanks!" said Maurice, transported with joy.

"But how can we flee?" said Geneviève, trembling at the hazard. "It is
not so easy to escape nowadays from the poniard of the assassins of
the 2d of September, or the hatchet of the executioners of the 21st of
January."

"Geneviève," said Maurice, "God will protect us. Listen to me! A good
action which I endeavored to perform, on that very 2d of September
which you have just named, is now about to receive its reward. I wished
to save a poor priest who had studied with me. I went to Danton, and at
his request the Committee of Public Safety signed a passport for the
unfortunate man and his sister. This passport Danton forwarded to me;
but the unfortunate priest, instead of coming to my house for it, as I
had advised him to do, went and shut himself up with the Carmelites,
from whom he was taken and killed."

"And the passport?" asked Geneviève.

"I have it now. It is worth a million. It is worth more than that,
Geneviève,--it comprises both life and happiness!"

"Oh, God be praised!" cried the young woman.

"Now, my property, as you are aware, consists of an estate managed by
an old servant of the family, a stanch patriot, and strictly loyal,
in whom we may confide. He will send remittances whenever I wish. On
arriving at Boulogne, we will go to his house."

"Where does he reside then?"

"At Abbeville."

"When shall we go, Maurice?"

"Within an hour."

"No one need know of our departure."

"No one will know it. I will run to Lorin; he has a cabriolet and
no horse, while I have a horse and no carriage. We will set out
immediately on my return. Remain you here, Geneviève, and prepare
everything for our departure. We want but little luggage; we can
purchase all that we require in England. I shall give Scævola some
commission that will remove him out of the way. Lorin will explain our
departure to him this evening. By that time we shall be far away."

"But if we should be arrested upon the road?"

"Have we not our passport? We shall go to Hubert's house,--that is the
steward's name. Hubert is a member of the town council of Abbeville;
from Abbeville to Boulogne he will accompany us as safeguard. At
Boulogne we will purchase and freight a vessel. I could, besides,
proceed to the Committee, and make them give me a mission to Abbeville.
But no; we shall use no fraud, Geneviève. It is better to risk our
lives to save and secure our happiness."

"Yes, yes, dear Maurice; and we shall succeed. But how you are perfumed
this morning!" said the young woman, concealing her face on Maurice's
breast.

"True; I purchased a bunch of violets for you this morning, passing
before the Palace d'Egalité; but on my return, finding you so sad, I
thought of nothing but inquiring into the cause of your distress."

"Oh, give it to me; I will return it."

Geneviève inhaled the odor of the bouquet with that intense delight
which persons of nervous organization always experience from the
perfume of flowers. Suddenly her eyes suffused with tears.

"What is the matter?" asked Maurice.

"Poor Héloïse!" murmured Geneviève.

"Ah, yes!" said Maurice, with a sigh; "but let us think of ourselves,
and leave the dead, wherever they may be, to rest in the grave dug by
their devotion. Adieu! I am going."

"Return quickly."

"In less than half an hour I shall be here again."

"But if Lorin is not at home?"

"What does it matter? his servant knows me. And even in his absence I
can take what I please, as he would do here in mine."

"Very well."

"Now, my Geneviève, prepare everything; but, as I have told you,
confine yourself to necessaries. I do not wish our departure to appear
like a removal."

The young man advanced a step toward the door.

"Maurice!" said Geneviève.

He turned round, and saw the young woman extend her arms toward him.

"Good-by for the present, dear love," said he; "in half an hour I shall
be here."

Geneviève remained alone, occupied, as we have said, in preparations
for their departure.

She accomplished her task in feverish haste. As long as she remained in
Paris, the part she was acting appeared to her doubly culpable. Once
out of France, once among strangers, it seemed that her crime--a crime
rather of fatality than her own--would weigh the less heavily on her
conscience.

She even hoped, isolated and in solitude, she might at last forget the
existence of any other man than Maurice.

They would fly to England; everything was arranged. There they would
hire a little cottage, standing alone, very retired, shut out from all
eyes; they would change their names, and instead of two names would
have one.

There they would have two servants who would be perfectly ignorant of
their past. Fortunately, both Geneviève and Maurice spoke English.

Neither of them left anything to regret in France, save that mother
whom one always regrets, even when she is only a step-mother,--one's
country. Geneviève commenced, then, making preparations for their
voyage, or rather flight.

She took singular pleasure in selecting from the rest those objects for
which Maurice had evinced any predilection. The coat setting off his
tall figure to advantage, the cravat and waistcoat best suited to his
complexion, the books whose leaves he had most frequently turned.

She had already made her selection. Clothes, linen, and books, waiting
to be packed, strewed the floor, the chairs, the sofa and the piano.

Suddenly she heard the key turn in the lock.

"Why, Scævola has returned," said she; "surely Maurice could not have
met him."

And she continued her occupation.

The doors of the salon were open, and she heard Scævola moving in the
antechamber. She held a roll of music in her hand, and was looking for
some string to tie round it.

"Scævola!" cried she.

An approaching step sounded in the adjoining room.

"Scævola!" repeated Geneviève, "do come here, please!"

"I am here," said a voice.

At the sound of this voice Geneviève turned quickly round, and uttered
a terrified cry.

"My husband!" cried she.

"Himself," said Dixmer, coolly.

Geneviève was upon a chair, searching for some string in the wardrobe.
She felt her head turn round, and extending her arms, fell backward,
wishing she could precipitate herself into an abyss beneath.

Dixmer took her in his arms, and carried her to a sofa.

"What is the matter, my dear? What is it? My presence seems to have
produced a most disagreeable effect upon you."

"I am dying," murmured Geneviève, turning from him, and pressing both
hands over her eyes that she might shut out the frightful apparition.

"What!" said Dixmer, "did you believe me dead, my dear, and do you take
me for a ghost?"

Geneviève looked round her with a bewildered air, when, perceiving the
portrait of Maurice, she glided from the sofa and fell upon her knees,
as if to implore the assistance of this powerless and insensible image,
which still continued to smile.

The unhappy woman fully comprehended the menaces concealed by Dixmer
under his affected calmness.

"Oh, my dear child," continued the master-tanner, "it is indeed myself.
Perhaps you thought I was far from Paris; but no, I remained here. The
day after I had left the house, I returned, and found in its stead
a heap of ruins. I inquired after you. No one had seen you. I then
commenced a search for you, and have had much trouble to find you. I
avow that I did not think you were here; however, I had my suspicions.
So, as you see, I came. So here I am; and there are you. And how is
dear Maurice? Indeed, I fear you have suffered much. You so stanch a
Royalist, compelled to seek shelter under the roof of so fanatical a
Republican."

"My God! my God!" murmured Geneviève, "take pity upon me!"

"After all, my dear," continued Dixmer, "what serves to console me most
is that you are so comfortably lodged here, and that you do not appear
to have suffered much from the proscription. As for myself, since the
burning of our house, and the ruin of our fortune, I have had my share
of wandering adventures, sometimes living in caves, sometimes in boats,
and sometimes even in the common sewers which empty into the Seine."

"Sir!" said Geneviève.

"You have there some beautiful fruit; as for me, I have often gone
without any dessert, not having had any dinner."

Geneviève, sobbing bitterly, supported her head between her hands.

"Not," continued Dixmer, "that I was destitute of money. I have, thank
God! generally carried with me thirty thousand francs in gold, which
at this time is worth five hundred thousand francs; but how should
a 'collier,' a 'fisherman,' or a 'rag merchant' draw louis from his
pocket to purchase a morsel of cheese or a sausage. Eh! my God! yes,
Madame, I have successively adopted these three costumes. To-day, the
better to disguise myself, I am dressed as a patriot of the patriots; I
lisp, and I swear. An outlaw cannot conceal himself so easily in Paris
as a young and pretty woman, and I have not the happiness of knowing
an ardent young female Republican who could hide me from every eye."

"Sir! sir!" cried Geneviève, "have mercy upon me! you see that I am
dying."

"Anxiety; I can understand you have had much anxiety about me; but
console yourself, you see me now. I have returned, and we shall part no
more, Madame."

"Oh, you will kill me!" cried Geneviève.

Dixmer regarded her with a frightful smile.

"Kill an innocent woman! Oh, Madame, what makes you say so? It must be
that grief for my absence has turned your brain."

"Sir!" cried Geneviève, "sir, I beseech you to kill me at once, rather
than torture me with these cruel railleries. No, I am not innocent;
yes, I am criminal; yes, I merit death. Kill me, sir, kill me!--"

"Then you acknowledge that you merit death?"

"Yes! yes!"

"And to expiate this I know not what crime of which you accuse
yourself, you will submit to death without complaint?"

"Strike, sir, I will not utter a cry; and instead of cursing I will
bless the hand that strikes me."

"No, Madame, I do not wish to strike you; nevertheless in all
probability you will die. Only your death, instead of being as you seem
to fear an ignominious one, shall be most glorious. Thank me, Madame;
while punishing, I will immortalize you."

"What then will you do, sir?"

"You will follow the end to which we were tending when interrupted on
our route. In your own eyes and in mine, you will die guilty; in the
eyes of the world you will die a martyr."

"Oh, my God! you will drive me mad by speaking thus. Where are you
conducting me? Where are you dragging me?"

"In all probability to death."

"Let me then offer up one prayer."

"To whom?"

"It matters not to you. The moment you deprive me of life, my debt is
cancelled. My debt paid, I owe you nothing."

"True," said Dixmer, retiring into another room; "I will await you."
And he left her once more alone.

Geneviève sank on her knees before the portrait, pressing her hands
against her breaking heart.

"Maurice," said she, in a low tone, "pardon me; I did not expect to be
happy, but I hoped to make you so. Maurice, I am depriving you of a joy
that constituted your life; pardon me for causing your death, my best
beloved."

Then severing a ringlet from her mass of curls, she bound it round
the bouquet of violets, and placed them beneath the portrait, which
insensible, and speechless as it was, still appeared to assume an
expression of grief at her departure.

At least so it appeared to the unfortunate Geneviève, as she gazed at
it through her tears.

"Well, are you ready, Madame?" demanded Dixmer.

"So soon?" murmured Geneviève.

"Oh, take your time, Madame," replied Dixmer; "I am in no hurry.
Besides, I dare say Maurice will not be long, and I shall be delighted
to thank him for all his kindness and hospitality toward you."

Geneviève trembled with terror at the idea of a meeting between her
lover and husband. She automatically raised herself.

"It is finished, sir," said she, "and I am ready now."

Dixmer went out first, and the trembling Geneviève followed him with
half-closed eyes, her head turned back to take a last fond look. They
ascended the carriage which was waiting at the door. It rolled away.

As Geneviève had said, "It was finished."




CHAPTER XL.

THE TAVERN OF NOAH'S WELL.


This man attired in a jerkin, whom we have seen traversing with long
and rapid strides the Salle des Pas-Perdus; whom we have heard, during
the expedition of the architect Giraud, General Hanriot, and Richard,
conversing with the turnkey left to guard the subterranean passage;
this fierce patriot, who had introduced himself to Simon as having
carried the head of the Princess de Lamballe,--found himself, on the
next evening, about seven o'clock, at the tavern of Noah's Well,
situated, as we have said, at the corner of the Rue de la Vieille
Draperie.

He was seated at the end of a dirty room, redolent of tobacco and
candles, pretending to devour a plate of fish swimming in melted butter.

The room where he supped was nearly deserted; two or three habitués
of the house alone remained after the rest, enjoying the privilege to
which their daily visit to the establishment entitled them.

The tables were for the most part empty; but we ought to remark, in
honor to the tavern of Noah's Well, that the stained tablecloths
denoted the departure of a satisfactory number of satisfied guests.

The last three successively disappeared, and at about a quarter to
eight our patriot found himself alone. Then, with true aristocratic
disgust, he pushed away the greasy plate, which an instant before he
had appeared to think so delicious, and drew from his pocket a tablet
of Spanish chocolate, which he ate slowly and with a very different
expression to that we have seen him endeavor to give to his countenance.

From time to time, while eating his chocolate and black bread, he cast
toward a glass door, shaded by a red and white checked curtain, anxious
and impatient glances. Sometimes he interrupted his frugal repast to
listen; in short, evinced an absence of mind sufficient to induce the
mistress of the mansion--seated at her counter, and near the door on
which the patriot so eagerly fixed his eyes--to conclude that she might
without vanity consider herself the object of his preoccupation.

At length the door-bell sounded in a way that made him start; he
drew the plate again before him, and without attracting the woman's
observation, threw half the contents to a famished-looking dog, and the
remainder to a cat, who treated the dog to some stinging strokes of her
velvet paws.

The door opened, and a man entered, dressed almost the same as the
patriot, with the exception of the hairy cap, which he had replaced
with the red bonnet. An enormous bunch of keys hung from his girdle,
from which also depended a sword.

"My soup! my half-pint!" cried the man, entering the public room
without removing his bonnet, but merely saluting the mistress of the
house by a slight inclination of his head. With a sigh of fatigue,
he seated himself at a table adjoining that where our patriot was
discussing his black bread and chocolate.

The mistress of the tavern, in consequence of the deference she
entertained for the new-comer, rose herself to order the requisite
viands.

The two men turned their backs to each other,--one to look into the
street, the other toward the end of the room,--not a word was exchanged
between them till the mistress of the tavern had disappeared.

When the door had closed behind her, by the light from a single candle,
suspended from the end of an iron wire so as to divide the light
equally between the two guests, the man in the bear-skin bonnet--thanks
to the glass placed before him--at length saw that the room was
deserted.

"Good-evening," said he to his companion, without turning round.

"Good-evening, sir!" said the new-comer.

"Well," asked the patriot, with the same affected indifference, "where
are we now?"

"Well! it is done!"

"What is done?"

"As we agreed, I have had some conversation with Father Richard about
the situation. I complained of swimming in the head, dimness of
eyesight,--in short, of general ill-health."

"What then?"

"Father Richard called his wife, and she rubbed my temples with
vinegar, and that revived me. Then, as we had arranged between us, I
said that want of fresh air produced this swimming in the head, that I
was of too full a habit, and that the duty at the Conciergerie, which
contains at the present moment four hundred prisoners, was killing me."

"What did they say to that?"

"Richard's wife pitied me, but he showed me to the door."

"It was not enough to show you to the door."

"But wait! Then his wife, who is a good soul, reproached him with
having no heart, seeing that I was the father of a family."

"What did he say to that?"

"He said that she was right; but that the very first condition annexed
to the situation of turnkey was to remain within the prison to which
he was attached; that the Republic did not jest, but would without
ceremony cut the throats of those who grew dizzy in the exercise of
their duty."

"The devil!" exclaimed the patriot.

"And he was not far wrong either; for since the Austrian has been
there, it is a perfect hell of surveillance. One would act the spy
there upon his own father." The patriot here gave his plate to the dog
to lick, who was directly bitten by the cat.

"Go on!" said he, without turning round.

"At last, sir, I began to groan, and to say that I felt very ill; asked
concerning the infirmary, and said I was certain my children would die
of hunger if my pay was stopped."

"And Father Richard?"

"The Father Richard replied that turnkeys had no business with
children."

"But you had his wife on your side, I suppose?"

"Fortunately! She made a great to-do with her husband, reproached him
with possessing a bad and hard heart, and Richard finished by saying to
me,--

"'Well! Citizen Gracchus, speak to some one of your friends who will
advance you something on your wages, present him to me, and I promise
to accept him as your substitute.' Upon which I left him, saying,--

"'Very good, Father Richard, I will directly seek one.'"

"And you have found one, my brave fellow."

At this moment the mistress of the establishment entered, bringing the
Citizen Gracchus his soup and half-pint.

This did not suit either the patriot or Gracchus, who evidently had
still some communications to make to each other.

"Madame," said the turnkey, "I have received a slight remuneration
from Father Richard to-day, which will permit me to treat myself to
some better fare. So bring me a pork cutlet with cucumbers and a
bottle of Burgundy wine; send your servant to fetch the one from the
pork-butcher's, and bring me the other yourself fresh from the cellar."

The hostess immediately went to execute his orders.

"Well," said the patriot, "you are an intelligent fellow."

"So far intelligent that I do not hide from myself what,
notwithstanding all your fine promises, will be the end of us both. Do
you suspect what it may be?"

"Yes, perfectly."

"We both stake our necks."

"Do not be uneasy about mine."

"It is not yours, sir, I must confess, that causes me the greatest
uneasiness."

"It is your own?"

"Yes."

"But what if I estimate it at double its worth?"

"Ah, sir, there is nothing more precious than one's neck!"

"Not yours."

"Why not mine?"

"At this moment at least."

"What do you mean by that?"

"I mean to say your neck is not worth a cent, seeing that if I, for
example, were an agent of the Committee of Public Safety, you would be
guillotined to-morrow."

The turnkey suddenly turned round so abruptly that the dog barked at
him.

He was as pale as death.

"Neither turn round nor turn pale about it," said the patriot, "but
finish your soup quietly. I am not an agent, friend. Let me once enter
the Conciergerie, install me in your situation, give me the keys, and
to-morrow I will count out to you fifty thousand francs in gold."

"Is all this true?"

"Well, you have excellent security,--my head."

The turnkey considered for some seconds.

"Come," said the patriot, who could see him in the glass, "do not
indulge in meditations of evil. If you denounce me, as you will only
have done your duty, you will not receive a sou from the Republic; if
you serve me, and on the contrary are deficient in this same duty to
the Republic, as it is unjust in this world to do anything for nothing,
I will give you fifty thousand francs."

"I understand perfectly," said the turnkey. "I have every inducement to
do what you require, but I fear the results--"

"The results! And what have you to fear? I will not denounce you; very
far from it."

"No doubt."

"The day after I am duly installed, take a turn through the
Conciergerie, and I will count you twenty-five rolls each containing
two thousand francs. These you can easily dispose of in your two
pockets. With the money I will give you a ticket to leave France.
You go, and wherever you are you will be, if not rich, at least
independent."

"Well! it is settled, Monsieur, happen what may. I am a poor devil who
never dabbled in politics. France has always got on very well without
me, and will not perish through any fault of mine; if you do a wicked
action so much the worse for you."

"At all events," said the patriot, "I think I shall never do worse than
they are doing at this moment."

"Sir, permit me to decline passing an opinion upon the politics of the
National Convention."

"You are a pattern of philosophy and indifference. When, however, will
you present me to Father Richard?"

"This evening, if you please."

"Yes, certainly; but who am I?"

"My cousin Mardoche."

"Mardoche, then, let it be; the name pleases me. What trade?"

"A breeches-maker."

"Either breeches-maker or tanner. I have that at my fingers' ends."

"Are you a tanner?"

"I could be one."

"True."

"At what time will you present me?"

"In half an hour if you like."

"At nine o'clock then."

"When shall I have the money?"

"To-morrow."

"You must be enormously rich."

"I am in easy circumstances."

"A former nobleman? Is it not so?"

"What does it matter to you?"

"To possess money, and give it away to run the risk of being
guillotined; surely the former nobility must be great blockheads."

"What would you have? Your red Republicans have too much sense to leave
any for others."

"Hush! here is my wine."

"This evening, in front of the Conciergerie."

"All right."

The patriot paid his bill and went out. At the door his stentorian
voice was heard,--

"Come, Citizen, quick! make haste with the pork cutlets; my cousin
Gracchus is dying of hunger!"

"Mardoche is a good fellow," said the turnkey, tasting the wine poured
out for him by the hostess, while she regarded him tenderly.




CHAPTER XLI.

THE REGISTRAR OF THE MINISTER OF WAR.


The patriot left, but he had not gone far. Through the smoky panes
he kept watch over the turnkey, to discover if he entered into
conversation with any of the agents of the Republican police, one of
the best that ever existed, since one half of society closely watched
the other, less from the desire of promoting the great glory of the
government than for the greater security of their own heads.

But nothing occurred of what the patriot feared. At a few minutes
before nine the turnkey rose, chucked the hostess under the chin, and
went out.

The patriot rejoined him at the quay of the Conciergerie, and they
entered the prison together.

On that same evening the affair was concluded, and Father Richard
accepted Mardoche as a substitute for Gracchus.

Two hours before this arrangement took place, another scene had been
enacted in a different part of the prison, which, although apparently
of no interest, was possessed of vital importance to the principal
personages of this history.

The registrar of the Conciergerie, fatigued with his day's labor, was
folding up his papers and preparing to leave, when a man, conducted by
Madame Richard, presented himself in his office.

"Citizen Registrar," said she, "here is your fellow registrar of the
Minister of War, who comes on the part of the Citizen Minister to
transfer some military entries."

"Ah, Citizen," said the registrar, "you are too late; I have just put
away all my papers."

"Dear brother, pardon me," said the new-comer; "but we are really
so overwhelmed with business that we can only achieve our course by
turning our leisure to profit; and our leisure is the time occupied by
others in eating and sleeping."

"That alters the case, my dear fellow; so make haste, for, as you
observe, it is near supper-time, and I am very hungry. Have you your
documents?"

"Here they are," said the registrar of the Minister of War, exhibiting
a portfolio of papers which his brother, anxious as he was to leave,
scrutinized with the strictest attention.

"Oh, they are all right!" said Richard's wife, "and my husband has
already thoroughly inspected them."

"Never mind, never mind!" said the registrar, continuing his
examination. The registrar of the Minister of War remained like a man
who had expected the strict accomplishment of all due formalities.

"Perfectly correct," said the registrar of the Conciergerie; "and
you can now commence as soon as you please. Have you many entries to
transfer?"

"A hundred."

"That will occupy you for several days."

"Therefore dear brother, I wish to form a small establishment with
you,--that is to say, if you will permit me."

"How am I to understand you?" said the registrar of the Conciergerie.

"I will explain it to you fully, if you will join us at supper this
evening. You say you are hungry?"

"I do not deny it."

"Well, you shall see my wife, who is a good housekeeper; and you will
become better acquainted with me, and will acknowledge me for a good
companion."

"Faith, yes; you strike me as such, my dear brother; yet,
notwithstanding--"

"Oh, come without ceremony, and partake of some oysters that I will
purchase as I pass the Place du Châtelet, a roasted chicken, and a few
dishes which Madame Durand excels in."

"You tempt me, my brother," said the registrar of the Conciergerie,
delighted at the bill of fare, to which he was totally unaccustomed
as a registrar paid by the Revolutionary Tribunal at the rate of two
livres in paper money, in reality hardly equal to two francs.

"Then you will accept my invitation?"

"Yes, willingly."

"In that case, to work to-morrow; this evening let us go."

"All right; let us start."

"Are you ready?"

"In an instant, only I must first inform the gendarmes who guard the
Austrian."

"Why must you tell them?"

"So that when they know that I am absent, and that there is no one at
the wicket, they may become suspicious of every noise."

"Ah, that is a very wise precaution, faith!"

"You understand now?"

"Perfectly."

The registrar of the Conciergerie went and knocked at the wicket, which
was opened by one of the gendarmes.

"Who is there?"

"I, the registrar, you know. I am going out. Good-evening, Citizen
Gilbert."

"Good-evening, Citizen Registrar," and the wicket was shut.

The registrar of the Minister of War had paid the greatest attention
to this scene, and while the door of the queen's prison remained open,
his looks rapidly penetrated to the first compartment, when, seeing the
other gendarme Duchesne seated at table, he felt perfectly assured the
queen had only two guards.

When the registrar of the Conciergerie returned, his fellow registrar's
face had resumed its expression of stolid indifference.

As they went out of the Conciergerie two men entered. They were the
Citizen Gracchus and his cousin Mardoche.

On seeing each other, Cousin Mardoche and the registrar of the Minister
of War each, by a simultaneous movement arising from the same impulse,
pulled over their eyes, the one his hairy bonnet, the other his
broad-brimmed hat.

"Who are these men?" asked the registrar of the Minister of War.

"I only know one of them; it is a turnkey named Gracchus."

"Ah!" said the other, with affected indifference, "do the turnkeys then
go out of the Conciergerie?"

"They have their day."

The investigation did not proceed any further, and the new friends took
the road to the Pont-au-Change. At the corner of the Place du Châtelet,
the registrar of the Minister of War, following the programme he had
announced, purchased some oysters, and continued his way by the Quai de
Gèvres.

The dwelling of this individual was simple. The Citizen Durand
inhabited three little rooms in the Place de Grève, in a house
without any porter. Each tenant had a key of the door in the passage,
and it was agreed that if any one had omitted to take his key, he
should intimate the same by one, two, or three raps with the knocker,
according to the story he inhabited, and any one who was waiting, and
heard the signal, then descended and opened the door; but the Citizen
Durand, having provided himself with his key, had not any occasion to
knock. They ascended two flights of stairs, when the Citizen Durand
drew another key from his pocket, and they both entered.

The registrar of the Palace found his friend's wife much to his taste.
She was indeed a charming woman; an appearance of profound melancholy
diffused over her countenance stamped it with an expression of deep
interest. It has always been allowed that sadness is seductive in
women, especially pretty women. It attracts all men without exception,
even registrars,--for registrars are but men after all; and what man
possessed with natural feeling would not wish to console a pretty woman
in affliction, and, as the Citizen Dorat remarks, "Change the pale tint
of the white rose to a livelier hue"?

The two registrars did ample justice to their excellent supper; it was
only Madame Durand who ate nothing.

In the mean time conversation proceeded. The registrar inquired of his
brother registrar--with a curiosity the more remarkable in these days,
when such frightful dramas were daily enacted--concerning the customs
of the Palace, the days of judgment, and the means of surveillance.

The registrar of the Palace, delighted at being listened to with so
much deference, replied with the greatest complaisance, spoke of the
manners of the jailers, of Fouquier Tinville, and lastly of Citizen
Sanson, the principal actor in the tragedies daily performed upon the
Place de la Révolution.

Then in his turn, addressing his colleague and host, he made various
inquiries concerning his vocation and ministry.

"Oh!" said Durand, "I am not so well informed as yourself, being a
person of much less importance, seeing that I am rather secretary
to the registrar than the incumbent of the place. I do the work of
the registrar-in-chief,--an obscure employment,--laborious for me,
profitable for them; but that is the way with all bureaucracies, not
excepting those of the Revolution. Heaven and earth may perhaps change
one day, but these things never."

"Well, I will assist you, Citizen," said the registrar of the Palace,
charmed with the excellence of his host's wine, and above all with the
beautiful eyes of Madame Durand.

"Thanks!" said he to whom this offer had been made, "anything to vary
the habits; and locality is some distraction to a poor employee. I wish
to protract my work at the Conciergerie rather than to hasten it, and
therefore thought if I might every day bring Madame Durand with me to
the office, who is very dull here--"

"I do not see any inconvenience in that," said the registrar of the
Palace, delighted with the prospect of the charming recreation afforded
him by his colleague.

"She can dictate the papers," said the Citizen Durand; "and
occasionally when our work is finished, if you have not found this
evening unpleasant, you can return and spend an hour or two with us."

"Yes; but not too often," replied the registrar of the Palace,
foppishly; "for I declare I shall be scolded if I return later than
usual to a small house in the Rue du Petit Musc."

"Oh, we shall arrange all that splendidly; shall we not, my dear?"

Madame Durand, pale and melancholy as usual, raised her eyes toward her
husband, and replied,--

"What you wish shall be done."

Eleven o'clock struck, announcing it was time to retire. The registrar
of the Palace rose and took leave of his new friends, expressing the
great pleasure he felt in making their acquaintance.

The Citizen Durand conducted his friend to the landing, then re-entered
the apartment.

"Go, Geneviève, go to bed!" said he.

The young woman made no reply, but rose directly, took her lamp,
and withdrew to the bedroom on the right. Durand, or rather Dixmer,
watched her departure, remained stationary for a moment with a gloomy,
thoughtful expression of countenance, and then passed into his own
chamber on the opposite side.




CHAPTER XLII.

THE TWO BILLETS.


From this time the registrar of the Minister of War worked every
evening indefatigably in his colleague's office, while Madame Durand
dictated from the registers previously prepared, which Durand copied
with avidity.

Durand strictly examined everything, while appearing to notice nothing.
He had remarked that every evening, at nine o'clock, a basket of
provisions, carried by either Richard or his wife, was placed at the
door.

The instant the registrar said to the gendarme, "I am going, Citizen,"
one of the guards, either Gilbert or Duchesne, came out, took the
basket, and carried it to Marie Antoinette.

During three consecutive evenings, when Durand had remained rather
later at his post, the basket also was left untouched, since it was
only when opening the door to say adieu to the registrar that the
gendarme took in the basket containing the provisions, which a quarter
of an hour afterward was returned empty to the same place by one of the
two guards.

On the evening of the fourth day, it was the beginning of October, when
after the ordinary sitting the registrar of the Palace had withdrawn,
and Durand, or rather Dixmer, remained alone with his wife; he laid
down his pen, looked around and listened as if his very life was at
stake; he then rose hastily, and running noiselessly toward the door of
the wicket, raised the cloth which covered the contents of the basket,
and in the new bread destined for the prisoner inserted a small silver
case.

Pale and trembling with that emotion which even men of the strongest
organization feel when they have done an act of the most vital
importance, the moment for which has been long planned and patiently
awaited, he quickly regained his seat, and sank down overpowered,
placing one hand on his forehead, the other on his heart.

Geneviève regarded him in silence; indeed, since the day her husband
had taken her from Maurice, she had never spoken till he addressed her
first. But this time she first broke silence.

"Is it to be this evening?" she inquired.

"No; to-morrow," replied Dixmer.

He then rose, and having again looked and listened, closed the
registers, and approaching the wicket, knocked at the door.

"What now?" said Gilbert.

"Citizen," said he, "I am going."

"Well," said the gendarme, from the end of the cell, "good-night."

"Good-night, Citizen Gilbert."

Durand heard the grinding of the bolts, and knew that the gendarme was
opening the door. He went out.

In the passage leading from the apartment of Father Richard to the
court, he jostled against a turnkey dressed in a bear-skin bonnet, and
dangling a heavy bunch of keys.

Dixmer was much alarmed. Perhaps this man, brutal as the generality of
his species, was about to interrogate him, to watch him, and perhaps to
recognize him. He drew his hat over his eyes, while Geneviève concealed
herself, as she best could, in the folds of her cloak. But he was
mistaken.

"Pardon!" said the turnkey only, although he was the man who had been
nearly overthrown.

Dixmer trembled at the sound of that sweet soft voice. But the turnkey
was doubtless pressed for time; he glided into the passage, opened
Richard's door, and disappeared. Dixmer continued his road, leading
Geneviève.

"It is strange," said he, when outside and the gate had closed behind
them, and the freshening breeze had cooled his fevered brow.

"Oh, yes, 'tis very strange!" murmured Geneviève.

In former times they would have communicated to each other the cause
of their astonishment, but Dixmer now confined his thoughts to his
own breast, and combated them as an hallucination; while Geneviève
contented herself, on turning the corner of the Pont-au-Change, with
casting a last look at the dark and gloomy Palace, where something like
the phantom of a lost friend awoke in her memory many sweet and bitter
remembrances.

They both reached La Grève without having exchanged a single word.

During this time the Gendarme Gilbert had brought in the basket of
provisions intended for the queen. It contained some fruit, a cold
chicken, a bottle of white wine, a carafe of water, and half a loaf.

Having first raised the napkin, and ascertained that everything was
arranged as usual, he opened the screen.

"Citizeness," said he, "here is your supper."

Marie Antoinette divided the bread; but as her fingers pressed it, they
came in contact with the silver. In an instant she comprehended that
the bread contained something unusual.

When she looked around her the guard had already disappeared.

The queen remained for an instant motionless, calculating his retiring
footsteps. When she felt certain he was seated by his comrade, and
not till then, she drew the case from its place of concealment. It
contained a billet, which she opened, and read as follows:--

 "Madame, be ready to-morrow at the hour when you receive this billet,
 as to-morrow at this hour a female will be introduced into your
 Majesty's prison. This female will exchange dresses with you, and you
 will then quit the Conciergerie on the arm of one of your most devoted
 servants.

 "Do not be alarmed at any noise that passes in the first compartment;
 let neither cries nor groans deter you, only attire yourself quickly
 in the dress and mantle of the female who comes to take your Majesty's
 place."

"This is devotion!" murmured the queen. "Thank God, I am not, as it is
said, an object of execration to all!"

She then re-read the billet, when the second paragraph attracted her
attention,--"Let neither cries nor groans deter you."

"Oh! that means they will sacrifice my two guards. Poor men, who have
evinced so much kindness and pity toward me! Oh, never!--never!"

She tore off the blank portion of the letter, and having neither pen
nor ink, pricked on the paper the following words,--

 I neither can nor will accept the sacrifice of any one's life in
 exchange for my own.

 M.A.

She then replaced the paper in the case, which she concealed in the
other half of the broken bread.

This operation was just completed when ten o'clock struck; and the
queen, holding the piece of bread in her hand, sadly counted the
strokes which vibrated slowly and distantly, when she heard at one of
the windows opening upon the court termed the women's court a grating
sound, like that produced by a diamond dividing the glass. This noise
was followed by a slight knock upon the window, which was several
times repeated, with the intention of concealing the cough of a man.
Then at the corner of the pane a small roll of paper appeared, which
glided slowly down and fell on the inside of the wall. The queen then
heard the sound of keys jingling and clashing against each other, and
receding footsteps on the pavement.

She was aware that the window had been perforated at this corner, and
that through this aperture the departing individual had conveyed a
paper which was doubtless a billet. It was now lying on the ground. The
queen fixed her eyes upon it, listening if either of her guards was
approaching, but heard them conversing in a low tone as they usually
did, as if by a tacit agreement not to annoy her with their voices.
Then she rose softly, holding her breath, and secured the paper. Some
minute and hard substance slipped from it, which, falling on the
bricks, sounded like metal. It was the most exquisite file that could
be imagined,--more of the jewel than the tool,--one of those steel
springs, with which the most feeble and uninitiated hand could, in a
quarter of an hour, divide a bar of iron. The paper said:--

 "Madame, to-morrow, at half-past nine, a man will be conversing with
 the gendarmes who guard you, through the window of the women's court.
 During this time your Majesty will saw the third bar of your window,
 going from the left to the right. Cut slanting. A quarter of an hour
 will suffice for your Majesty; and then be prepared to escape through
 the window. This advice reaches you from one of your most devoted and
 faithful subjects; one who has consecrated his life to your Majesty's
 service, and would be happy also to sacrifice it for you."

"Oh!" murmured the queen, "it must be a snare. But no; this writing
appears familiar to me,--it is the same as at the Temple. It is--it
must be that of the Chevalier de Maison-Rouge! God is perhaps willing
that I should escape."

And the queen fell on her knees, and took refuge in prayer, the only
balm and consolation undenied to the unfortunate prisoner.




CHAPTER XLIII.

THE PREPARATIONS OF DIXMER.


The morrow, prefaced by a sleepless night, at length arrived,
presenting a terrible appearance, and it might, without exaggeration,
be said that the sky was the color of blood.

Indeed, each day at this epoch and in this year, however beautiful the
sun, had a livid hue.

The queen slept with difficulty, and it was a sleep without repose.
Hardly had she closed her eyes when she seemed to see blood, when she
seemed to hear shrieks.

She had dropped asleep with the file in her hand. One part of the day
was devoted by her to prayer, and the guards, seeing her often thus
engaged, did not feel any alarm at what they considered an increase of
religious feeling.

From time to time, however, she examined the file transmitted to her
by one of her intended deliverers, and compared the fragility of the
instrument with the strength of the bar.

Fortunately, these bars were only secured in the wall on one
side,--that is to say, at the lower part.

The upper part was set in a crossbar; the lower part divided, there was
only to pull the bar, and it of course would yield.

But it was not the physical difficulties which worried the queen. She
perfectly comprehended that the thing was possible, and it was this
very possibility which caused hope, like a blood-red meteor, to dazzle
her eyes.

She felt that to reach her, her friends must necessarily sacrifice her
guards; and could she at any price consent to the death of the only
individuals who, for a length of time, had evinced any interest in her,
or pity for her?

On the other hand, beyond these bars which she had been directed
to saw, over the bodies of the two men who would have to die in
endeavoring to prevent her deliverers from reaching her, were life,
liberty, and perhaps vengeance,--three things so sweet, especially to a
woman, that she asked pardon of God for so earnestly desiring them.

She believed, moreover, that not the slightest suspicion agitated the
minds of her guards; that they had not any idea of a snare (if such a
thing existed) into which it was intended their prisoner should fall.

These simple men would have betrayed themselves to eyes so much
exercised as those of this woman, habituated to detect evil from having
so severely suffered from it.

The queen, then, entirely abandoned the idea that these double
overtures were contrived as a trap; but as the fear of being betrayed
into this snare disappeared, the still greater apprehension increased
of bloodshed for her sake, before her very eyes.

"Strange destiny! sublime sight!" murmured she; "two conspiracies
united to save a poor queen, or rather a poor female prisoner who has
had no means of inducing or encouraging these conspiracies which are
about to take place at the same moment! Who knows? Perhaps there may be
one only. Perhaps it may be a double mine, leading to one and the same
point.

"If I wished, I might then be saved.

"But a poor woman sacrificed in my stead!--two men killed before this
woman could reach me! God and the future might perhaps forgive me.
Impossible! impossible!"

Then passed and repassed in her mind visions of the great devotion of
servants for their masters, and the ancient traditions of the right
exercised by masters over the lives of their retainers,--phantasies
almost effaced from the mind of expiring royalty.

"Anne of Austria would have accepted this," said she. "Anne of Austria
would have set aside every consideration to the safety of the royal
person.

"Anne of Austria was of the same blood, and was almost in the same
situation as myself.

"What madness to have come to France to pursue Anne of Austria's
principles of royalty! Was I not brought hither? Two kings said, It is
important that two royal children who have never seen or loved each
other, who perhaps never may love each other, should be married at the
same altar, to die upon the same scaffold.

"And then will not my death accelerate that of my poor child, who in
the eyes of my few friends is still king of France?

"And when my son, like his father, is dead, will not their shades
both smile on me in pity, seeing me, in order to spare some drops of
plebeian blood, stain with my own the remains of the throne of Saint
Louis?"

In this ever-increasing anguish of thought, this fever of doubt whose
pulsations went on in geometrical progression, and in a tempest of
terror and fear, the unhappy queen continued till the arrival of night.

She had several times closely scrutinized her guards; but they had
never appeared more composed.

Never had she been more forcibly struck by the invariable kindness and
attention of these two uneducated men.

When the darkness of night reigned in the cell; when the steps of the
patrol, the noise of resounding arms, and the barking of dogs awoke
the echoes of the gloomy vaults; when all the horrors of the prison
revealed themselves, gloomy and hopeless,--Marie Antoinette, subdued by
the natural weakness of a woman, rose affrighted.

"Oh, I will fly! I will fly!" said she. "Yes, yes; I will fly! When he
comes, when he speaks, I will saw the bar. I will await what God and
my deliverers ordain me. I owe myself to my children. They shall not
murder them; or if they slay them, and I am free--oh, then, at least--"

She did not conclude; her eyes closed, and her deep emotion checked
all utterance. This was a frightful vision to the unfortunate queen,
enclosed with gratings and iron bars. But soon this vision disappeared,
and in its stead another presented itself to her view. Gratings and
bolts had vanished. She saw herself in the midst of a dark, stern,
inflexible army; she orders the fire to consume, the sword to leap from
the scabbard, and vengeance to be taken on a people she will no longer
claim as her own.

During this time Gilbert and Duchesne were conversing tranquilly, and
preparing their evening repast.

At this time, also, Dixmer and Geneviève entered the Conciergerie, and
installed themselves in the office as usual. At the end of an hour the
registrar of the Palace, having completed his business, according to
custom took his departure, leaving them alone to themselves.

Directly the door had closed on his colleague, Dixmer rushed toward the
empty basket placed at the door in exchange for that of the evening. He
seized the bread, broke it, and found the case. The queen's answer was
enclosed within it; he grew pale on reading it.

Geneviève observed him tear it into a thousand pieces, and throw them
into the mouth of the burning stove.

"It is well," said he; "all is arranged."

Then turning toward Geneviève,--

"Come here, Madame," said he; "I must speak with you, and must speak
low." Geneviève, motionless and cold as marble, gave a gesture of
assent, and approached him.

"The time has arrived, Madame; listen to me!"

"Yes, sir."

"You prefer a death beneficial to your cause,--a death that will insure
you the blessings of your party and pity from the whole nation,--to an
ignominious and revengeful end of life, do you not?"

"Yes, sir."

"I might have killed you on the spot when I found you in the house of
your lover; but a man who, like myself, consecrates his life to a holy
and honorable cause, ought to be able to profit by his own private
griefs by rendering them subservient to this cause. This I have done,
or rather intend to do. I have, as you see, denied myself the pleasure
of doing myself justice, and have also spared your lover."

Something resembling a fugitive but appalling smile flitted over the
lips of Geneviève.

"But as for your lover, you who know me should be well aware that I
only bide my time."

"Monsieur," said Geneviève, "I am ready. Then wherefore all this
prelude?"

"You are ready?"

"Yes, I am ready. Kill me, if you choose; you have good cause to do so."

Dixmer looked at Geneviève, and started in spite of himself. She at
this moment appeared sublimely beautiful; a glory the most brilliant
of all shone around her,--the glory that emanates from love.

"To continue," said Dixmer, "I have informed the queen; she expects
you, notwithstanding she will in all probability raise numerous
objections. You must overrule them all."

"Give me your orders, sir, and I will execute them."

"Immediately," continued Dixmer, "I shall knock at the door; Gilbert
will open it, and with this poniard--" here Dixmer threw open his coat,
and half drawing from its scabbard a double-edged poniard--"with this I
shall kill him."

Geneviève shuddered.

Dixmer made a motion with his hand to command her attention.

"The instant I strike him, dart into the second chamber, that of the
queen. There is, as you are aware, no door, only a screen. You will
exchange clothes with her while I despatch the other soldier. Then I
shall take the queen's arm, and pass through the wicket with her."

"Very well," said Geneviève, coldly.

"You understand me?" said Dixmer. "You have been seen each evening in
your black taffeta mantle which conceals your face. Place your mantle
upon her Majesty, and arrange it on her precisely as you have been
accustomed to arrange it on yourself."

"All shall be done as you desire, sir."

"It remains now for me to pardon and to thank you, Madame."

Geneviève shook her head with a scornful smile.

"I neither want your pardon nor your thanks, sir," said she, extending
her hand. "What I have done, or rather am about to do, would efface
a crime. I have only been guilty of a weakness; and again, this
weakness--recall your own conduct, sir--you all but forced me to
commit. I withdrew myself from him; you drove me back into his arms;
so you are at the same time instigator, judge, and avenger. It remains
for me to pardon you my death; and I do pardon you. It is I who should
thank you for death, since life has become insupportable to me,
separated from the only man I love; since that hour especially when you
severed by your savage vengeance every tie that bound me to him."

Dixmer drove his nails into his flesh. He strove to reply, but his
voice failed him.

He moved toward the wicket.

"Time passes," said he, at last. "Madame, every moment is of
consequence. Are you ready?"

"I have told you, sir," replied Geneviève, with the calmness and
courage of a martyr, "I await you."

Dixmer collected his papers, saw that the gates were fast closed, so
that no one could enter the wicket, and then wished to reiterate his
instructions.

"It is unnecessary, sir," said Geneviève. "I know perfectly all I have
to do."

"Then, adieu!" and Dixmer extended his hand, as if at this supreme
moment all recrimination was effaced before the grandeur of the
situation and the sublimity of the sacrifice.

Geneviève, shuddering, touched with the tips of her fingers the
proffered hand of her husband.

"Place yourself near me, Madame, and the moment I have struck Gilbert,
pass on."

"I am ready."

Then Dixmer grasped in his right hand his poniard; with his left he
knocked at the gate.




CHAPTER XLIV.

THE PREPARATIONS OF THE CHEVALIER.


During the scene described in the preceding chapter as passing at the
door of the register-office leading into the prison of the queen, or
rather into the first compartment occupied by the two gendarmes, other
preparations were taking place on the opposite side,--that is to say,
in the women's court.

Suddenly a man appeared, like a statue of stone which had detached
itself from the wall. He was followed by two dogs, and was humming the
"Ça ira," a song much in vogue at this period. He held in his hand a
large bunch of keys, which, in passing, he had rattled against the bars
which barricaded the window of the queen.

The royal prisoner at first started, but recognizing the signal,
immediately opened her window softly to commence her work, with a hand
more experienced than would have been believed; for more than once in
the blacksmith's shop where her royal husband amused himself by passing
part of the day, she had with her delicate fingers handled instruments
similar to that upon which at this moment depended her every chance of
safety and deliverance.

Directly the man with the keys heard the queen's window open, he
knocked at that of the gendarmes.

"Ah! ah!" said Gilbert, looking through the window, "here is the
Citizen Mardoche."

"Himself," said the turnkey. "Well, but it appears you keep strict
watch?"

"Much as usual, Citizen Key-bearer. It seems to me you do not often
find us at fault?"

"Ah!" said Mardoche; "and vigilance is more than ever necessary
to-night."

"Bah!" said Duchesne, who had now approached.

"Truly."

"Why, then?"

"Open the window, and I will tell you all about it."

Gilbert opened it, and shook hands with Mardoche, who had already made
friends with the two gendarmes.

"What is it, Citizen Mardoche?" repeated Gilbert.

"The sitting of the Convention has been rather hot to-day. Have you
read about it?"

"No. What passed then?"

"It was first stated that the Citizen Hébert had made a discovery."

"What?"

"It is, that the conspirators believed to be dead are found to be
alive, and very much alive indeed."

"Oh! yes," said Gilbert; "Delessart and Thierry; I have heard speak of
that. They are in England, the scoundrels!"

"And the Chevalier de Maison-Rouge?" asked the key-bearer, raising his
voice so that the queen might hear.

"What, is he in England also?"

"Not at all," said Mardoche; "he is in France," still speaking in the
same loud key.

"He has returned, then?"

"He has never quitted it."

"Well, he, for one, has good courage," said Duchesne.

"Indeed, he has."

"Well, are they going to arrest him?"

"Certainly; but that is much easier said than done."

At this moment the queen's file grated so forcibly upon the iron bars
that the turnkey feared it might be heard, notwithstanding all his
efforts to drown the sound. He hastily trod upon the paw of the nearest
of his dogs, which uttered a prolonged howl of pain.

"Oh, poor beast!" said Gilbert.

"Bah!" said the turnkey, "he had not put on his clogs. Be quiet,
Girondin; will you be quiet?"

"Is your dog named Girondin, Citizen Mardoche?"

"Yes; that is the name I have given him."

"But pray go on with what you were telling us," said Duchesne, who,
imprisoned himself, took that lively interest in news that all
prisoners feel.

"I was telling you that in the Citizen Hébert you see a good patriot;
and Hébert has made a motion to return the Austrian to the Temple."

"And why so?"

"Faith! because he pretends that she was only withdrawn from the Temple
to remove her from the immediate inspection of the Commune of Paris."

"Yes; and from the attempts of that cursed Maison-Rouge," said Gilbert;
"it seems too that the subterranean passage still exists."

"That was the reply the Citizen Sauterre made; but Hébert said, the
instant that was defeated there was no more danger; that at the Temple,
fewer precautions were requisite for the security of Marie Antoinette
than here; and finally, that the Temple was a much more secure place
than the Conciergerie."

"Faith!" said Gilbert, "for my part, I wish they would remove her again
to the Temple."

"I understand; you are tired of the confinement?"

"No; but it makes me melancholy."

Maison-Rouge coughed loudly, as the noise of the file biting through
the iron bar was distinctly heard.

"Well, what have they decided on?" said Duchesne, when the turnkey's
cough had subsided.

"It is settled that she shall remain here, but that her trial shall
take place immediately."

"Poor woman!" said Gilbert.

Duchesne, whose sense of hearing was no doubt more acute than that
of his colleague, or his attention less engrossed by the recital of
Mardoche, stooped down to listen on the left side of the compartment.

The turnkey saw the movement.

"So you see, Citizen Duchesne," said he, in an animated tone, "the
attempts of the conspirators will become the more desperate from the
fact of their having less time before them for their execution. They
are going to double the guards of the prisons; so look out, Citizen
Gendarme, since the matter in question is nothing less than the
irruption of an armed force into the Conciergerie. They will murder
all, sacrifice every impediment, till they effect an entrance to the
queen,--to the widow of Capet, I mean to say."

"Ah! bah! How can these conspirators of yours get in?"

"Disguised as patriots, they will pretend to recommence the 2d of
September, the rascals! and when once the gates are open, good-night!"

There was an instant's silence, produced by the astonishment of the
guards.

The turnkey heard with emotions of joy and terror the continued grating
of the file. Nine o'clock struck.

At the same moment there was a knock at the wicket, but the gendarmes,
preoccupied, did not reply.

"Well, we shall watch, we shall watch!" said Gilbert.

"And if necessary, will die at our post like staunch Republicans,"
added Duchesne.

"She must soon be done," said the turnkey to himself, wiping the drops
of perspiration from his face.

"And you on your side," said Gilbert, "keep on the lookout, I presume?
They would spare you no more than us, were such an event as you have
been talking of to take place."

"I should think so," said the turnkey. "I pass the night in going the
round; thus I am always on the alert. The rest of you at least relieve
each other, and can sleep every other night."

At this moment a second summons at the wicket was heard. Mardoche
started; any event, however trifling, might mar the execution of his
project.

"What is it, then?" demanded he, in spite of himself.

"Nothing, nothing!" said Gilbert; "it is only the registrar of the
Minister of War. He is going now, and comes to inform me of it."

"Oh, very well!" said Mardoche.

The registrar still continued to knock.

"All right!" cried Gilbert, without leaving the window. "Good-night!
Adieu!"

"I think he is speaking to you," said Duchesne, turning toward the
door. The voice of the registrar was then heard.

"Come here, Citizen Gendarme," said he; "I wish to speak to you."

This voice, which appeared affected by some strong emotion which
deprived it of its natural accent, startled the turnkey, who fancied he
recognized it.

"What do you want, Citizen Durand?" asked Gilbert.

"I wish to speak a word with you."

"Well, you can tell me to-morrow."

"No, this evening; it must be this evening," replied the same voice.

"Hah!" murmured the turnkey, "what is about to happen now? It is
Dixmer's voice."

Sinister and vibrating, this voice seemed to borrow something funereal
from the far-off echoes of the gloomy corridor.

Duchesne turned round.

"Well," said Gilbert, "if he wishes it I must go," and he directed his
steps toward the door.

The turnkey availed himself of this moment when the attention of the
two gendarmes was thus occupied by this unforeseen circumstance. He ran
toward the window of the queen.

"Is it done?" said he.

"I have more than half finished," said the queen.

"Oh, for the love of God!" murmured he; "make haste! make haste!"

"Hallo! Citizen Mardoche," said Duchesne, "what has become of you?"

"Here I am," said the turnkey, returning quickly to the window of the
first compartment.

At that very moment, and as he turned to resume his former station, a
frightful cry resounded through the prison, then an oath, and the ring
of a sword snatched from its scabbard.

"Villain! brigand!" cried Gilbert, and the sound of a struggle was
heard in the corridor.

At the same moment the door opened, displaying to the eyes of the
turnkey two shadows struggling in the wicket, and thus affording free
passage to a female, who, pushing aside Duchesne, rushed into the
queen's chamber.

Duchesne, without noticing the woman, ran to his comrade's assistance.

The turnkey sprang toward the other window, and beheld the female on
her knees before the queen, praying and supplicating her Majesty to
exchange clothes with her.

He lowered his burning eyes, endeavoring to gain a clearer view of this
woman whom he feared he had already recognized too well. All at once he
uttered a dreadful cry.

"Geneviève! Geneviève!" murmured he.

The queen had dropped the file from her hand, and seemed transfixed
with despair. Here, alas! was another abortive attempt.

The turnkey seized the bar with both hands, shook it with all his
strength; but the file had not accomplished its work, the bar of iron
would not yield to his efforts.

Meanwhile Dixmer had hurled Gilbert back into the prison, and would
have entered with him, but Duchesne, leaning against the door,
prevented him. But he was unable to close it, for Dixmer, in despair,
had placed his arm between the gate and the wall.

In his hand he still retained the poniard, which in the contest,
checked by the buckle of the belt, had glided over the gendarme's
breast, tearing open his coat and lacerating his flesh.

The two gendarmes encouraged each other to reunite their efforts, at
the same time calling loudly for assistance.

Dixmer felt his arm must break; he placed his shoulder against the
door, shook it violently, and succeeded in withdrawing his bruised arm.

The door closed with a great noise; Duchesne pushed the bolts, while
Gilbert turned the key.

A rapid step was heard in the corridor, then all was over. The two
gendarmes looked at each other, and searched everywhere around them.

They detected the sound of the assumed turnkey wrenching the bar.

Gilbert rushed into the queen's chamber, where he found Geneviève
entreating her Majesty on her knees to exchange clothes with her.

Duchesne seized his gun and ran to the window; he discovered a man
hanging to the bar, which he shook with rage, and tried in vain to
scale.

He pointed his gun.

The young man saw it levelled at him.

"Oh, yes! yes!" cried he, "kill me! kill me!" and sublime in his
despair, he bared his breast to the bullet.

"Chevalier," said the queen,--"Chevalier, I entreat you to live."

At the sound of the queen's voice the Chevalier sank upon his knees.
The gun was discharged, but this movement saved him; the ball passed
over his head. Geneviève, imagining her friend was dead, fell upon the
ground without sense or motion. When the smoke disappeared, no one was
seen in the women's court.

Ten minutes afterward, thirty soldiers, led by two commissioners,
searched the Conciergerie even to its most inaccessible retreats.

They discovered no one; the registrar had passed, calm and smiling,
before Father Richard's arm-chair.

As to the turnkey, he had gone out crying, "Alarm! alarm!"

The sentinel opposed his egress with his bayonet, but his two dogs
seized the soldier by the throat.

Geneviève alone was arrested, interrogated, and imprisoned.




CHAPTER XLV.

THE INQUIRY.


We can no longer leave in forgetfulness one of the principal personages
of this history, he who, during the accomplishment of the various
incidents of the preceding chapter had suffered most of all, and whose
anxieties merit the liveliest sympathy on the part of our readers.

The sun shone gloriously in the Rue de la Monnaie, and the gossips were
discoursing merrily at their doors, as if for the last ten months a
mist of blood had not hung over the city, when Maurice returned home,
bringing, as he had promised, the cabriolet with him. He gave the
bridle of the horse to a shoeblack, on the pavement of Saint Eustache,
and hastily ran upstairs, his heart filled with joy.

Love is a vivifying sentiment. It animates hearts long deadened to
every other sensation; it peoples the desert; it resuscitates before
the eyes the shade of the beloved one; it causes the voice which sings
in the soul of the lover to display before him the entire creation
illumined by the brilliant rays of hope and happiness,--at the same
time it is egotistical, blinding him who loves to all but the existence
of the beloved object.

Maurice neither saw these women nor listened to their commentaries; he
saw only Geneviève preparing for a departure which was at last to bring
them durable happiness; he heard only Geneviève singing carelessly her
customary song, and this little song trilled so sweetly in his ear
that he might have sworn he was listening to the varied modulations of
her voice, mingled with the less harmonious sound of closing locks.

Upon the landing Maurice stopped; the door was half open; it was
generally kept closed, and this circumstance surprised Maurice. He
looked all around, thinking Geneviève was in the corridor. She was not
there. He entered, looked in the antechamber, the dining-room, the
parlor, the bed-chamber; but anteroom, parlor, and bed-chamber were all
empty. He loudly called. No one replied.

The official, as he knew, had gone out. Maurice imagined that during
his absence Geneviève had perhaps required some cord to fasten her
trunk, or some refreshments to store in the carriage, and had gone out
to purchase them. He thought it imprudent; but although every moment
his anxiety increased, he as yet feared nothing serious.

Maurice waited for some time, walking up and down the room with long
impatient strides, and occasionally leaning out of the window, which,
half opened, admitted puffs of air charged heavily with rain.

But soon he believed that he heard a step upon the staircase; he
listened, it was not that of Geneviève; he ran to the landing, looked
over the palisade, and recognized the official, who leisurely mounted
the stairs after the manner of domestics.

"Scævola!" cried he.

The official raised his head.

"Ah! is it you, Citizen?"

"Yes. Where is the lady?"

"The lady?" demanded Scævola, with much surprise, as he continued
mounting the stairs.

"Certainly! Have you seen her below?"

"No."

"Go down, then, and ask the porter, and inquire of all the neighbors!"

Scævola descended.

"Quicker! quicker!" said his master; "do you not see I am burning with
impatience?"

After waiting five or six minutes, and Scævola not having made his
appearance, Maurice re-entered the apartment and again leaned out of
the window. He saw Scævola enter several shops, and leave them without
having gained any fresh intelligence. He called him. The official
raised his head, and saw his master impatiently looking from the
window. Maurice signed to him to come up.

"It is impossible that she has gone out," said Maurice to himself, and
again he called, "Geneviève! Geneviève!"

All was silent as death; even the solitary chamber appeared no longer
to have an echo. Scævola reappeared.

"Well?" demanded Maurice.

"The porter is the only person who has seen her."

"The porter has seen her; how was that?"

"He saw her go out."

"She has gone out, then?"

"It seems so."

"Alone! It is impossible Geneviève would go out alone."

"She was not alone, Citizen; she had a man with her."

"How! a man with her?"

"That is what the porter says, at least."

"Go and seek him. I must find out who this man was."

Scævola made a step toward the door, then, turning, "Wait," said he,
appearing to reflect.

"What is it?" said Maurice. "Speak, or you will be the death of me!"

"Perhaps it was the man who ran after me."

"What for?"

"To tell me that you wished the key."

"What key, stupid! will you not tell me?"

"The key of your apartment."

"You gave the key of the apartment to a stranger?" cried Maurice,
seizing the official by the collar with both hands.

"It was not to a stranger, sir; it was to one of your friends."

"Ah, yes! to one of my friends. It is Lorin, no doubt. She has gone out
with Lorin," and smiling a ghastly smile Maurice wiped away the drops
of agony which had gathered on his brow.

"No, sir; no, it was not he. Zounds! I think I should know Monsieur
Lorin."

"Who was it, then?"

"You know the man who came here one day?"

"What day?"

"The day when you were so sad; and he took you away with him, and you
returned so happy."

Scævola had remarked all these things.

Maurice regarded him with a bewildered air; a cold shudder ran through
his body. Then after a long silence:

"Dixmer!" cried he.

"By my faith! yes. I think it was he, Citizen."

Maurice tottered, and fell back upon a chair.

"Oh, my God!" murmured he.

When he re-opened his eyes they encountered the violets, forgotten, or
rather left there by Geneviève.

He rushed toward them, seized and kissed them; then, remarking where
she had placed them,--

"There is no longer any doubt," said he, "these violets--It is her last
adieu."

When Maurice turned round he perceived for the first time that the
trunk was half full, the rest of the linen was on the floor, or in the
half-opened wardrobe.

The linen which lay upon the floor had no doubt fallen from Geneviève's
hand at the appearance of Dixmer.

It was all explained now. The scene rose vivid and terrible before
his eyes, between these four walls that had lately witnessed so much
happiness.

Till now Maurice had remained crushed and heart-broken. Now the
reaction was fearful. His rage bordered on frenzy.

He rose, closed the window, took from the top of his desk a pair
of pistols, ready loaded for their intended journey, looked to the
priming, and finding all right placed them in his pocket.

He also furnished himself with two rolls of louis, which
notwithstanding his patriotism he had thought it prudent to conceal at
the bottom of a drawer, and taking his sabre in his hand,--

"Scævola," said he, "you are attached to me, I think; you have served
my father and myself for fifteen years."

"Yes, Citizen," replied the official, terrified at the pallor and
nervous trembling he had never before remarked in his master, who had
always been justly considered one of the most courageous and vigorous
of men,--"yes; what are your orders for me?"

"Listen! if this lady who lived here--" He stopped; his voice trembled
so much in pronouncing these words that he was unable to proceed. "If
she should return," continued he, after a moment's pause, "receive her,
close the door after her, take this gun, and station yourself upon
the staircase; and for your head, for your life, for your soul, do not
permit a single person to enter here! If any one should try to break
through the door, defend it! Strike! kill! kill! and fear nothing,
Scævola, for I will answer for all."

The young man's impetuous harangue, his vehement confidence,
electrified Scævola.

"I will not only kill, but will even suffer death for the Citizeness
Geneviève," said he.

"Thanks. Now attend! This apartment is odious to me, and I shall not
enter it again until I find her; if she has been able to effect her
escape, if she return, place before the window the Japan vase with the
china-asters, which she loved so much. That is, during the day. At
night, put a lantern. Every time I pass the end of the street I shall
know, and if I see neither vase nor lantern I shall still continue my
researches."

"Be prudent, sir! Oh, pray be prudent!" continued Scævola.

His master made no reply, but rushing from the chamber flew down the
staircase as if possessed of wings, and ran toward Lorin's house.

It would be difficult to paint the astonishment and rage of our worthy
poet when he heard the news; we might as well attempt to indite the
touching elegies with which Orestes inspired Pylades.

"And you do not know where she is?" he repeated, incessantly.

"Lost! disappeared!" shrieked Maurice, in accents of despair, "he has
killed her, Lorin! he has killed her!"

"No, my dear friend; no, Maurice; he has not killed her; it is not
after so many days of reflection that he would be likely to kill a
woman like Geneviève. If he had thought of doing so, he would have done
it on the spot, and have left her corpse there in token of his just
vengeance. No, no; he has taken her away, only too happy at having
regained his lost treasure."

"You do not know him, Lorin; you do not know him! This man had
something fatal in his look."

"You are mistaken," said Lorin; "he always struck me as a brave man. He
has taken her as a sacrifice. He will get himself arrested with her;
and they will die together. Ah, there is the danger!"

These words redoubled Maurice's fury.

"I will find her! I will find her, or perish in the attempt!" cried he.

"Oh, as to that, we are certain to find her," said Lorin; "only calm
yourself. They fail in success who do not reflect, and when agitated as
you are, we reflect badly and unwisely."

"Adieu, Lorin, adieu!"

"Where are you going, then?"

"I am going."

"You will leave me, then? Why is that?"

"Because this concerns me only. I alone should risk my life to save
Geneviève's."

"Do you wish to die?"

"I will face all. I will find out the president of the Committee of
Surveillance. I will speak to Hébert, to Danton, to Robespierre. I will
avow all; but she must be restored to me."

"Very well," said Lorin; and without adding another word he rose,
adjusted his belt, put on his military cap, and as Maurice had done,
provided himself with a pair of pistols, ready loaded, which he put in
his pocket.

"Let us go," said he, simply.

"But you will compromise yourself," said Maurice.

"Well! what of that?"

"Where shall we seek her first?" asked Maurice.

"We will first search in the old quarter, you know,--the old Rue Saint
Jacques; then we will watch for Maison-Rouge, as where he is, doubtless
Dixmer will be also; then we will draw near the houses in the Vieille
Corderie. You know they talk of transferring Marie Antoinette to the
Temple; believe me, men like them will not, till the last moment,
abandon the hope of saving her."

"Yes," repeated Maurice; "you are right--Maison-Rouge, do you think he
is in Paris?"

"Dixmer is certainly."

"It is true, it is true; of course they will be together!" said
Maurice, to whom these vague ideas seemed partially to restore reason.

The two friends commenced their search immediately, but all in vain.
Paris is large and well adapted for concealment. Never was a pit known
to conceal more obscurely the secret confided to its keeping by crime
or misery.

A hundred times Maurice and Lorin passed over the Place de Grève,
a hundred times passed the house that contained Geneviève, watched
incessantly by Dixmer, as the priests watch the victim destined for
sacrifice.

Geneviève on her side, seeing herself destined to perish, like all
generous souls accepted the sacrifice, and only wished to die quietly
and unnoticed; besides, she dreaded less for Dixmer than for the cause
of the queen the publicity that Maurice would not fail to give to his
vengeance.

She kept, then, a silence as profound as if death had already sealed
her lips.

In the mean time, without saying anything to Lorin, Maurice had applied
to the members of the terrible Committee of Public Safety; and Lorin,
without speaking to Maurice, had, on his part, determined to adopt
similar proceedings.

Thus on the same day a red cross was affixed by Fouquier Tinville to
both their names, and the word "Suspects" united them in a sanguinary
embrace.




CHAPTER XLVI.

THE SENTENCE.


On the twenty-third day of the month of the second year of the French
Republic, one and indivisible, corresponding to the 14th of October,
1793, old style, as it was then called, a curious crowd had since the
morning invaded the galleries of the hall where the revolutionary
sittings were held.

The passages of the Palace, the avenues of the Conciergerie, were lined
with greedy and impatient spectators, who made over one to another
their reports and passions, as the waves transmit their froth and foam.

Notwithstanding the curiosity with which each spectator was agitated,
and perhaps even on account of this curiosity, each wave of this sea,
swaying, pressed between two barriers,--the outer barrier which urged
it forward, the inner barrier which urged it backward,--each wave kept,
in this flux and reflux, almost the same position which it had at
first taken. Thus those more conveniently situated, comprehending it
was necessary they should obtain forgiveness for their good fortune,
kept this object in view by transmitting to their neighbors less
comfortably and commodiously placed than themselves, and who in their
turn recounted to others, the first words they heard, and all they saw.

Near the door of the Tribunal a group of men was collected, rudely
disputing for ten lines of space in width and height,--for ten lines in
breadth sufficed to see between two shoulders the corner of the hall
and the form of the judges; for ten lines in height was sufficient to
overlook the entire hall and see the face of the accused.

Unfortunately, this entrance to the passage of the hall, this narrow
defile, was almost entirely filled by a man with broad shoulders, and
his arms akimbo, who most effectually excluded the wavering crowd ready
to drop into the hall if this rampart of flesh were to give way.

This immovable man was young and handsome; and at every push bestowed
on him by the crowd, he shook his head of hair, thick as a lion's mane,
under which gleamed a dark and resolute expression; then, when either
by a look or a movement he had repelled the crowd and resisted their
violent attacks, he fell back into his attentive immobility.

A hundred times this compact mass had, notwithstanding, striven hard to
overthrow him,--as, from his great height, to see anything behind him
was utterly impossible,--but, as we have said, firm as a rock, he stood
his ground.

In the mean time, at the other extremity of this human sea, in the
midst of the crushing crowd, another man was forcing a passage, with
a perseverance almost amounting to ferocity. Nothing impeded his
indefatigable exertions,--neither the blows of those he left behind,
the fearful imprecations of those he almost stifled in passing, nor the
wails of the women, for there were many females in this crowd.

To blows he responded with blows; to imprecations, by a look before
which the most courageous quailed; to complaints, by a carelessness
bordering on disdain.

At last he arrived behind the powerful young man who, so to speak,
closed the entrance to the hall. In the midst of the general
expectation--for all were anxious to see how the contest between
two such rude antagonists would terminate--he essayed his peculiar
method, which consisted in planting like wedges his elbows between two
spectators, and thus breaking through the thickest of the crowd.

He was, notwithstanding, a short young man, whose wan face and
emaciated appearance betokened latent illness.

His elbows had scarcely touched the young man before him, when he,
indignant at the aggression, turned sharply round, at the same moment
raising his clinched fist, which threatened, in falling, to crush the
slender form of the intruder.

The two antagonists now found themselves face to face, when a cry of
recognition escaped from each.

"Ah, Citizen Maurice," said the delicate young man, with an accent
of inexpressible anguish, "permit me to pass; only let me see her, I
entreat you; you may kill me afterward."

Maurice--for it was indeed he--felt himself affected by admiration and
compassion for this ceaseless devotion, this adventurous daring.

"You here!" murmured he. "How imprudent!"

"Yes; but I am exhausted--O God! she speaks. Let me see her; let me
hear her!"

Maurice drew aside, and the young man passed before him, and being at
the head of the crowd there was nothing now to intercept the view of
him who had undergone so many blows, so much buffeting, to attain his
end.

All this scene, and the murmurs it occasioned, aroused the curiosity of
the judges.

The accused also turned round, and immediately perceived and recognized
the Chevalier.

A shudder ran through the queen's frame, seated in the iron arm-chair.
The examination, conducted by the President Harmand, interpreted by
Fouquier Tinville, discussed by Chauveau Lagarde, the counsel for the
queen, lasted as long as the strength of the judges and the accused
permitted.

During all this time Maurice remained motionless in his place, while
several times already the concourse was renewed both in the hall and
the corridors.

The Chevalier leaned against a pillar. He was no less pale than the
marble that supported him.

The day was succeeded by a dark night; some lighted candles on the
tables of the jurors, and some smoky lamps on the walls of the hall
threw a red and sinister expression on the noble face of that woman who
had been the cynosure of all eyes at the splendid fêtes at Versailles.

She was alone there, replying in brief and dignified language to the
questions of the president, and occasionally addressing some words to
her counsel in a low voice.

Her white and polished forehead retained all its wonted haughtiness.
She was attired in a black dress, which she had worn ever since her
husband's death.

The judges retired from the hall. The sitting had terminated.

"Have I evinced too much contempt for them, sir?" said she, addressing
herself to Chauveau Lagarde.

"Ah, Madame," replied he, "you are always right when you act like
yourself."

"How proud she is!" cried a woman among the audience, as if a voice
from the people had replied to the question of the unfortunate queen to
her advocate.

The queen turned and looked at her.

"Yes," repeated the woman, "you are proud, Antoinette; and I tell you,
pride has been the ruin of you."

The queen blushed. The Chevalier turned toward the female who had
uttered these words, and replied softly, "She was queen."

Maurice seized him by the wrist, saying, in a low tone, "Take care; do
not forget yourself!"

"Oh, Monsieur Maurice!" replied the Chevalier, "you are a man yourself,
and you know you are speaking to a man. Tell me, oh, tell me! do you
think they will condemn her?"

"I do not think it," said Maurice; "I am sure of it."

"What! a woman!" said the Chevalier, with a deep groan.

"No, a queen," said Maurice; "you have yourself said so."

The Chevalier in his turn seized Maurice by the wrist, and with a force
of which he appeared incapable compelled him to bend his ear. It was
half-past three in the morning. Many vacuums were visible among the
spectators; and a few lights burning here and there served only to
render darkness visible. In one of the most obscure parts of the hall
were the Chevalier and Maurice, the latter listening to what the former
was telling him.

"Why are you here? What brings you here?" demanded the Chevalier; "you,
sir, who have not a tiger's heart?"

"Alas!" said Maurice, "to discover what has become of an unfortunate
woman."

"Yes, yes," said Maison-Rouge; "she whom her husband forced into the
queen's cell? The female who was arrested before my eyes?"

"Geneviève?"

"Yes, Geneviève."

"Then Geneviève is a prisoner, sacrificed by her husband, killed by
Dixmer? Oh, I comprehend all; I understand all now! Chevalier, tell me
all that has occurred; tell me where she is; tell me where I can find
her! Chevalier, this woman constitutes my life; do you hear me?"

"I witnessed all. I was there when she was arrested. I was there also
to effect the escape of the queen; but our different projects not
having been communicated to each other, injured instead of assisting
our mutual cause."

"Why did you not save her, at least--your sister, Geneviève?"

"How could I when an iron bar divided us? Oh, if you had only been
there, if you had united your efforts with mine, the bar must have
yielded, and both might have been saved!"

"Geneviève! Geneviève!" murmured Maurice. Then regarding Maison-Rouge
with an indefinable expression of hatred and rage,--

"And Dixmer, where is he?" demanded he.

"I know not; he saved himself, as I did also."

"Oh!" said Maurice, grinding his teeth, "if ever I meet him--"

"Yes; I understand. But there is nothing yet to despair about
concerning Geneviève," said Maison-Rouge; "her case is not yet
desperate; but the queen--Oh! stop, Maurice, you are a man of feeling,
an influential man; you have friends--Oh! I pray to you as I would
pray to my God--Maurice, help me to save the queen! Maurice, Geneviève
supplicates you through me!"

"Pronounce not that name, sir! Who knows but that, like Dixmer, you may
have sacrificed this unhappy woman?"

"Sir," replied the Chevalier, haughtily, "when I attach myself to a
cause, I know better than to sacrifice any one but myself."

Maurice was about to reply, when the door of the chamber of debate
opened.

"Silence, sir! silence!" said the Chevalier, "the judges are
returning," and Maurice felt the hand tremble which Maison-Rouge had
placed upon his arm. "Ah!" murmured the Chevalier, "my heart fails me
now!"

"Have courage and constrain yourself, or you are lost!" said Maurice.

The Tribunal re-entered; and the news of its return spread rapidly
through the corridors and galleries. The crowd again congregated in
the hall, and even the dim lights appeared to burn brighter at this
solemn and decisive moment. The queen rose and stood erect, haughty
and immovable, her eyes fixed, her lips closed. The decree was then
read which doomed the queen to death. She heard her sentence without
even turning pale or uttering a sigh; her countenance evinced not the
slightest emotion. Then turning toward the Chevalier, she regarded him
with a long and eloquent look, as if to indicate her gratitude to this
man whom she had ever seen a living statue of devotion, and supported
on the arm of the officer of the gendarmes who commanded the forces,
with a calm and dignified demeanor she quitted the court.

Maurice drew a deep sigh. "Thank God!" said he, "nothing in this
declaration can compromise Geneviève; there is yet hope."

"Thank God!" murmured the Chevalier on his side, "it is all finished,
and the struggle at length terminated. I have not strength to go
further."

"Courage, sir!" said Maurice, in a low voice.

"I will take courage, sir," replied the Chevalier; and having shaken
hands, they disappeared by different outlets. The queen was reconducted
to the Conciergerie; the large clock struck four as she entered. At the
end of Pont Neuf, Maurice was stopped by Lorin.

"Halt!" said he; "you do not pass here!"

"Why?"

"First, where are you going?"

"I am going home. I can return there now, since I know what has become
of her."

"So much the better; but you must not enter there."

"For what reason?"

"The reason is, that two hours ago the gendarmes went there to arrest
you."

"Ah!" cried Maurice. "Well, that is the greater reason why I should go!"

"Are you mad? And Geneviève?"

"You are right. But where are we to go?"

"Zounds! To my house."

"But I shall ruin you!"

"The more reason, then, that you should come," said Lorin, dragging
Maurice away with him.




CHAPTER XLVII.

THE PRIEST AND THE EXECUTIONER.


On leaving the court, the queen had been conducted back to the
Conciergerie. On reaching her chamber she had taken a pair of scissors,
and cut off her long and beautiful ringlets, rendered still more so
from the absence of powder, which she had not used for a year; she
enclosed them in a packet, on which was inscribed, "For my son and
daughter." She then seated herself, or rather sank into a chair, and
worn out with fatigue, the trial having lasted eighteen hours, she fell
asleep. At seven o'clock the noise of the opening screen roused her
suddenly, and turning round, she beheld a man perfectly unknown to her.

"What do you want?" demanded she.

He approached and saluted her as respectfully as if she had not been
the queen.

"I am called Sanson," said he.

The name was sufficient. The queen slightly shuddered and rose up.

"You are here early, sir; could you not have made it rather later?"

"No, Madame," replied Sanson; "I received orders to come."

As he uttered these words, he advanced still nearer to the queen. At
this moment everything about this man was expressive and terrible.

"I understand," said the prisoner; "you wish to cut off my hair?"

"It is necessary, Madame," replied the executioner.

"I knew it, sir; and I wished to spare you the trouble. My hair is on
the table."

Sanson followed the direction of the queen's hand.

"Only," said she, "I should like my hair sent to my children to-night."

"Madame," said Sanson, "this does not concern me."

"However, I thought--notwithstanding--"

"Oh, I get nothing," replied the executioner; "the clothes, the
jewels--unless formally made over to me--all go to La Salpêtrière,
and are allotted to the poor of the hospital. The Committee of Public
Safety has so arranged these things."

"But, sir," persisted Marie Antoinette, "may I at least depend upon
this packet being forwarded to my children?"

Sanson remained silent.

"I will endeavor to send it," said Gilbert.

The prisoner cast upon him a look of deep gratitude.

"I came," said Sanson, "to cut off your hair; but since you have done
so, I can, if you wish it, leave you for a moment alone."

"I entreat you to do so, sir. I wish to collect my scattered thoughts,
and offer up a prayer."

Sanson bowed and retired, when the queen once more found herself
in solitude. While the condemned knelt on a low chair which served
her as a _prie-dieu_, a scene no less terrible was passing in the
parsonage of the small church of Saint Landry, in the city. The curé
had just got up; the old housekeeper had prepared the humble morning
meal, when a loud summons at the gate was heard. Even in our day, an
unexpected visit to a clergyman is in general the precursor of some
serious event,-- either a baptism, a marriage "in extremis," or a last
confession; but at this epoch the visit of a stranger announced some
matter of far graver import. Indeed, at this period the priest was no
longer the mandatary of God, but rendered his account to man.

However, the Abbé Girard was of the number of those who had least
cause for fear, as he had sworn to abide by the Constitution,--in him
conscience and probity had spoken louder than either self-love or
religious spirit. No doubt the Abbé Girard admitted the possibility of
improvement in the government, and much regretted the abuses committed
under the name of the Divine will, and had, while retaining his God,
accepted the fraternity of the Republican régime.

"Go and see, Dame Jacinthe," said he, "who disturbs us at this early
hour; and if the business is of no very pressing nature, say that this
morning I have been sent for to the Conciergerie, and must go there
directly."

Dame Jacinthe, formerly called Madeleine, had accepted this flowery
appellation in lieu of her own, as the Abbé Girard had taken the title
of citizen instead of that of curé. At the suggestion of her master,
Jacinthe hastened down the steps of the little garden leading to the
entrance gate. She drew back the bolts, when a thin, pale young man,
much agitated, but with a frank and amiable expression, presented
himself before her.

"Monsieur l'Abbé Girard?" said he.

Jacinthe, not slow to remark the disordered dress, the neglected beard,
and the nervous tremor of the new-comer, augured unfavorably of him.

"Citizen," said she; "there is here neither 'Monsieur' nor 'abbé.'"

"Pardon me, Madame," replied the young man; "I meant to say the Curé of
Saint Landry."

Jacinthe, notwithstanding her patriotism, was struck by the title
"Madame," with which the Republicans would not have honored an empress.
She, however, replied,--

"You cannot see him now; he is repeating his breviary."

"In that case I will wait," replied the young man.

"But," said Jacinthe, in whom this obstinate persistence revived her
first unfavorable impression, "you will wait in vain; for he has been
summoned to the Conciergerie, and must go there immediately."

The young man turned frightfully pale, or rather from pale to livid.

"It is then true!" murmured he; then raising his voice, "This, Madame,
is the business which brings me to the Citizen Girard."

And in spite of the old woman he had, while speaking, effected an
entrance; then coolly but firmly closing the bolts, and notwithstanding
the expostulations and even menaces of Dame Jacinthe, he not only
entered the house, but also the chamber of the curé, who on perceiving
him uttered an exclamation of surprise.

"Forgive me, Monsieur le Curé," immediately said the young man; "I wish
to speak to you on a very serious subject; permit us to be alone."

The aged priest had experienced deep sorrow, and knew what it was to
endure. He discerned deep and devouring passion in the confusion of the
young man, and intense emotion in his fevered tones.

"Leave us, Dame Jacinthe!" said he.

The visitor impatiently followed with his eyes the receding steps of
the housekeeper, who, from being accustomed to the confidence of her
master, hesitated to comply; then when at length the door was closed,
"Monsieur le Curé," said the unknown, "you will first wish to know who
I am. I will tell you. I am a proscribed man, doomed to death, who only
at this moment lives from the power of audacity; I am the Chevalier de
Maison-Rouge."

The abbé started in horror from his arm-chair.

"Fear nothing!" said the Chevalier, "no one has seen me enter here; and
even those who might have seen me would never know me. I have altered
much these last two months."

"But what do you wish, Citizen?" asked the curé.

"You are going this morning to the Conciergerie, are you not?"

"Yes; the porter has sent for me."

"Do you know why?"

"To perform the duties of my sacred office to an invalid, or some dying
person, perhaps even to one condemned."

"You are right; it is to one condemned."

The old priest regarded the Chevalier with undisguised astonishment.

"But do you know who this person is?" demanded Maison-Rouge.

"No, I do not know."

"This person is the queen!"

The abbé uttered an exclamation of grief.

"The queen! Oh, my God!"

"Yes, sir; the queen! I made inquiry as to the priest who would attend
her, and learned it was you. I therefore came directly to seek an
interview."

"But what do you require of me?" asked the priest, alarmed at the wild
accents of the Chevalier.

"I wish--I wish nothing, sir. I implore, I entreat, I supplicate you!"

"For what, then?"

"To allow me to enter with you into the presence of her Majesty?"

"You are mad!" exclaimed the curé; "you would not only ruin me, but
would sacrifice yourself."

"Fear nothing."

"The poor woman is condemned, and that is the end of her."

"I know it, and it is not to make any attempt to save her that I wish
to see her; it is--But listen to me, my father; you are not listening."

"I do not listen to you, since what you ask is impossible; I do not
listen to you, since you act like a man bereft of his senses," said the
aged man. "I do not listen to you, because you terrify me."

"Father, reassure yourself," said the young man, endeavoring to calm
himself; "believe me, Father, I am in my senses. The queen, I know, is
lost; but if I could only for an instant prostrate myself at her feet,
it would save my life. If I do not see her I shall kill myself; and as
you will have caused my despair, you will at the same moment destroy
both body and soul."

"My son! my son!" replied the priest, "you ask me to sacrifice my
life for you! Old as I am, my existence is still necessary to the
unfortunate; old as I am, to precipitate my own death is to commit
suicide."

"Do not refuse me, Father," replied the Chevalier; "you must have a
curate, an acolyte; take me, let me go with you."

The priest tried to maintain his firmness, which was beginning to give
way.

"No, no!" said he; "this would be a dereliction of duty; I have sworn
to the Constitution, and I am bound heart, soul, and conscience. The
unhappy woman condemned to death is a guilty queen. I would accept
death, if by so doing I could benefit a fellow-creature; but I will not
depart from the path of duty."

"But," cried the Chevalier, "when I tell you, and again repeat, even
swear to you, I do not want to save the queen; here by the Gospel, by
the crucifix, I swear I do not go to the Conciergerie to prevent her
death!"

"What is your motive, then?" said the old man, affected by such
undisguised accents of despair.

"Hearken!" said the Chevalier, whose soul seemed to speak from his
lips; "she was my benefactress; she is attached to me; to see me in her
last moments will I feel sure prove a consolation to her."

"And this is all that you desire?" demanded the curé, yielding to these
irresistible accents.

"Absolutely all."

"And you have woven no plot to attempt to rescue the condemned?"

"None. I am a Christian, Father; and if there rests in my heart a
shadow of deceit; if I entertain any hope of her life, or try in any
way to save it,--may God visit me with eternal damnation!"

"No, no!" said the curé; "I can promise nothing," as the innumerable
dangers attendant on an act so imprudent returned to his mind.

"Now listen to me, Father!" said the Chevalier, in a voice hoarse with
emotion; "I have spoken like a submissive child; I have not uttered one
bitter word or uncharitable sentiment; no menace has escaped my lips.
Yet now my head whirls; fever burns in my veins; now despair gnaws my
heart; now I am armed. Behold! here is my dagger." And the young man
drew from his bosom a polished blade which threw a livid reflection on
his trembling hand. The curé drew back quickly.

"Fear nothing," said the Chevalier, with a mournful smile; "others,
knowing you to be so strict an observer of your word, would have
terrified you into an oath. But no! I have supplicated, and I still
continue to supplicate, with hands clasped, my forehead in the dust,
that I may see her for a single moment. Look! here is your guarantee!"
And he drew from his pocket a billet which he presented to Girard, who
opened it and read as follows:--

 I, René, Chevalier de Maison-Rouge, declare by God and my honor, that
 I have by threats of death compelled the worthy curé of Saint Landry
 to convey me to the Conciergerie, notwithstanding his refusal and
 great repugnance to do so. In proof of which I have signed--

 Maison-Rouge.

"It is well," said the priest; "but swear to me once again that you
will be guilty of no imprudence. It is not sufficient that my life is
saved, I am answerable also for yours."

"Think not of that," said the Chevalier. "Then you consent?"

"I must, since you so absolutely insist. You can wait outside, and when
she comes to the wicket you will see her."

The Chevalier seized the hand of the old priest and kissed it with all
the ardor and respect he would have kissed the crucifix.

"Oh!" murmured the Chevalier, "she shall die at least like a queen, and
the hand of the executioner shall never touch her!"




CHAPTER XLVIII.

THE CART.


Immediately after having obtained this permission from the curé of
Saint Landry, Maison-Rouge withdrew into a cabinet, the door of which,
being half opened, he had recognized as the priest's dressing-room.
There his long beard and mustachios speedily disappeared under the
stroke of the razor; and then only he was fully aware of his frightful
pallor and altered appearance. It was terrible to behold. He re-entered
perfectly calm, and seemed to have forgotten that notwithstanding the
absence of his beard and mustachios, he might still probably be known
at the Conciergerie. He followed the abbé, whom, during his momentary
absence, two officials were seeking; and with the cool audacity which
disarms suspicion, entered the iron gate at this time opening into
the court of the Palace. He was, like the Abbé Girard, dressed in
black,--sacerdotal habits at that period being abolished.

In the register-office they found about fifty persons assembled;
some employed about the prison, some deputies, some commissaries,
all waiting in the expectation of seeing the queen pass; there might
be some mandataries and many idlers. Maison-Rouge's heart beat so
violently when he found himself opposite the wicket that he heard not
even the parley that ensued between the abbé, the gendarmes, and the
porter. Only a man with a pair of scissors in his hand and a piece of
stuff newly cut pushed against Maison-Rouge upon the threshold. He
turned round and recognized the executioner.

"What do you want, Citizen?" demanded Sanson.

The Chevalier endeavored to repress the shudder which, in spite of
himself, ran through his veins.

"You see, Citizen Sanson," replied the Chevalier, "that I accompany the
curé of Saint Landry."

"Oh, very well!" said the executioner, drawing himself on one side, and
giving orders to his assistant.

During this time Maison-Rouge had passed into the interior of the
office, and from there into the compartment inhabited by the two
gendarmes.

These men were overcome by contending emotions. Proud and haughty as
she had been to others, she had ever been gentle and condescending to
them. They seemed more like her servants than her guards.

In his present position the Chevalier could not obtain a view of the
queen,--the screen was closed. It had been opened to give entrance to
the curé, but directly closed behind him. When the Chevalier entered,
the conversation had already commenced.

"Sir," said the queen, in a clear and firm voice, "since you have sworn
allegiance to the Republic--in whose name they have condemned me to
death--I have no confidence in you. We do not even worship the same
God!"

"Madame," said Girard, struck by this disdainful profession of faith,
"a Christian about to die should dismiss all hatred from her heart, and
ought not to repulse her God, under whatever form he may be presented
to her."

Maison-Rouge advanced a step to open the screen, hoping that when she
saw him, and knew what brought him, she would change her opinion in
regard to the curé; but the gendarmes detected the movement.

"But," said Maison-Rouge, "I am the acolyte of the curé--"

"Then, since she refuses the curé," said Duchesne, "she does not
require you."

"But still, perhaps she may accept me," said he, raising his voice;
"it is impossible she would refuse me." But Marie Antoinette was too
much engrossed by the sentiment which agitated her either to hear or
recognize the Chevalier's voice.

"Go, sir!" continued she; "leave me!" addressing Girard; "since at this
time we in France live under the régime of liberty, I claim the right
to die according to my own fashion."

Girard offered some resistance.

"Leave me, sir!" said she. "I desire you to leave me."

Girard endeavored to speak.

"I will not hear you; leave me!" said she, with the gesture of Marie
Thérèse.

Girard went out.

Maison-Rouge essayed to gain a glimpse of her through the opening in
the screen; but the prisoner had turned her back. The executioner's
assistant crossed before the curé; he came in holding a cord in his
hand. The two gendarmes pushed the Chevalier toward the door; amazed,
despairing, and utterly bewildered, before he had been able to utter
a cry or make the slightest movement to effect his purpose, he found
himself with the curé in the corridor of the turnkey. This corridor
brought them again into the register-office, where the news of the
queen's refusal had already circulated, and where the Austrian pride of
Marie Antoinette was to some the pretext of the coarsest invectives,
and to others the subject of secret admiration.

"Go!" said Richard to the abbé, "return home, since she repulses you,
and let her die as she likes."

"Well, she is in the right," said Richard's wife, "and I would act in
the same way."

"Then you would do wrong, Madame," said the curé.

"Be silent," said the keeper, opening his eyes very wide; "what does it
concern you? Go, Abbé, go!"

"No," said Girard, "no; I will, notwithstanding all, accompany her; one
word, only one word, if she will listen, might bring her back to duty;
besides, I am sent by the order of the Commune, and I must discharge my
office."

"Send back your sexton, then," brutally observed the adjutant-major,
commandant of the armed forces. He was a former actor at the Comédie
Française, named Grammont. The eyes of the Chevalier flashed lightning,
as he mechanically thrust his hand into his breast, where Girard knew
he had the poniard. He checked him with a suppliant look.

"Spare my life," said he, in a low voice; "you see that your cause is
ruined; do not destroy yourself with her. I will mention you to her on
the route; I swear to you I will tell her you risked your life that you
might see her once more on earth."

These words calmed the effervescence of the young man, and the ordinary
reaction taking place, he sank into a state of quiescence. This man of
heroic mind, of marvellous power, had arrived at the termination of
both strength and will, and glided irresolute, or rather exhausted and
vanquished, into a state of torpor that might have been imagined to be
the precursor of death.

"Yes, I believe," said he, "it should be thus: the cross for Jesus, the
scaffold for her,--gods and kings drink deep of the chalice presented
to them by men." This thought produced resignation; and now, totally
prostrated, he allowed himself to be pushed without offering any
resistance, except an occasional involuntary groan, to the outer gate,
passive as Ophelia when, devoted to death, she found herself borne away
by the remorseless waves.

At the bottom of the gates and at the doors of the Conciergerie, a
crowd was assembled, which unless once seen it was impossible to
describe. Impatience ruled every passion; and each passion spoke its
own language; and these combined formed an immense and prolonged
uproar, as if the whole noise and the entire population of Paris were
on this occasion concentrated in the quarter of the Palais de Justice.

In front of this crowd the whole army was encamped, with guns intended
to guard the procession, and also to secure the privilege of those who
came to witness the last act of the tragedy.

It would have been vain to attempt to pierce this deep rampart,
increasing gradually, since the condemnation of the queen was now known
not only at Paris, but by the patriots of the faubourgs.

Maison-Rouge, expelled from the Conciergerie, naturally found himself
in the first rank among the soldiers, who instantly demanded who he
was. He replied, "he was the vicar of the Abbé Girard, but having bound
himself by the same oath, he, like the curé, had been dismissed and
refused by the queen;" on which the soldiers, in their turn, pushed
him into the first row of spectators, where he was again compelled to
repeat what he had previously told them.

Then the cry arose, "He has just left!" "He has seen her!" "What did
she say?" "What did she do?" "Is she as haughty as usual?" "Is she cast
down?" "Does she weep?" The Chevalier replied to all these questions
in a feeble but sweet and affable tone; as if this voice was the last
manifestation of life suspended on his lips. His answer was couched
in the language of truth and simplicity. It contained an eulogium on
the firmness of Marie Antoinette; and that which he recounted with the
simplicity and faith of an evangelist cast sorrow and remorse over many
hearts.

When he spoke of the little dauphin, and of Madame Royale; of this
queen without a throne; of this wife without a husband; this mother
bereft of her children; this woman alone and abandoned, without a
friend, surrounded by executioners,--more than one face here and
there assumed a sad expression, and more than one tear of regret was
clandestinely wiped from eyes a moment before animated by hatred.

The Palace clock struck eleven. All murmuring at this moment ceased.
One hundred thousand human beings counted these strokes, echoed by the
pulsations of their own hearts.

When the last vibration had ceased and died away in the distance, a
loud noise was heard within the gates, and at the same time a cart,
advancing from the side of the Quai aux Fleurs, broke through the
crowd, then the guards, and drew up at the bottom of the steps.

The queen soon appeared at the top of the staircase. Looks expressive
of all kinds of passion were bent upon her; the mob stood in breathless
expectation. The queen's hair was cut short; the greater portion had
turned gray during her captivity, and this shade of silver rendered
still more delicate the mother-of-pearl pallor which at this moment
lent an almost angelic beauty to this daughter of the Cæsars. She
was attired in a white robe, and her hands were fastened behind
her back. When she appeared with the Abbé Girard on her right, who
notwithstanding all opposition would still accompany her, and the
executioner on her left, both dressed in black, there ran throughout
the crowd a murmur, of which God alone, who reads all hearts, could
comprehend and sum up the truth.

A man passed between the executioner and Marie Antoinette; it was
Grammont. He conducted her to the fatal car. The queen recoiled.

"Mount!" cried Grammont.

This word was distinctly heard by all. Emotion held every breath
suspended on the lips of the spectators. A blush suffused the face of
the queen, mounting even to the roots of her hair, but it immediately
disappeared, and her face resumed its former death-like hue.

"Why a car for me," said she, "when the king had a carriage to convey
him to the scaffold?"

The Abbé Girard advanced, and addressed a few words to her in a low
tone; doubtless he condemned this last utterance of royal pride. The
queen remained silent, but tottered so much that Sanson held out his
arms to support her; but she recovered her self-possession before he
could touch her. She then descended the staircase, while the assistants
placed a foot-board behind the car. The queen entered first; the abbé
followed her.

When the car was in motion it caused a great movement in the
assemblage; and the soldiers at the same time, ignorant of its cause,
united their efforts to push back the crowd, and consequently, a
large space was cleared between the people and the vehicle of death,
when suddenly a mournful howling was heard. The queen started, and
instantly rose, looking around her. She then saw her little dog, which
had been lost for two months, and which, unable to follow her into
the Conciergerie, regardless of kicks, blows, and thrusts, now rushed
toward the car; but almost directly poor Jet, emaciated, starving, and
bruised, disappeared under the horses' feet. The queen followed him
with her eyes; she could not speak, for her voice was drowned in the
noise; she could not point her finger toward him, for her hands were
tied; and had she been able to do either, who would have regarded her?
Having closed her eyes for an instant, she soon revived. He was in the
arms of a pale young man, who, standing on a cannon, was conspicuous
above the crowd, and whose natural stature seemed enlarged from the
unspeakable elevation of the sentiments with which he was animated,
while he saluted the queen and pointed to heaven. Marie Antoinette
looked upward and smiled sweetly.

The Chevalier uttered a groan, as if this smile had broken his heart;
and as the fatal car turned toward the Pont-au-Change, he fell back
among the crowd, and disappeared.




CHAPTER XLIX.

THE SCAFFOLD.


Upon the Place de la Révolution, leaning against a lamp-post, two men
were waiting. Of those who followed with the crowd, some were carried
to the Place du Palais, others to the Place de la Révolution, while the
rest spread, impatient and tumultuous, over the whole road separating
the two places. They were waiting until the queen should reach the
instrument of punishment, which, defaced by the sun and storm, worn
by the hand of the executioner, and, most horrible! blunted by too
frequent contact with its victims, reared its head with a sinister
pride over the subjacent mass, like a queen ruling her people. The
two men, arm-in-arm, and speaking by fits and starts, with pale lips
and contracted brows, were Lorin and Maurice. Lost in the crowd, but
not in a way calculated to excite suspicion, they continued in a low
tone their conversation, which was perhaps not the least interesting
one then circulating among the various groups which, like an electric
chain, a living sea, was agitated from the Pont-au-Change to the Pont
de la Révolution.

The idea we have expressed regarding the scaffold seemed to have struck
them both.

"See," said Maurice, "how the hideous monster rears her red arms; might
it not be said that she calls us, and grins at us through her wicket as
if it was her horrid mouth?"

"I," said Lorin, "must confess I do not belong to the school of poetry
which sees everything blood-color. I see everything _couleur-de-rose_,
and even at the foot of that dreadful machine I should sing and hope
still. '_Dum spiro spero._'"

"You hope when they murder women?"

"Maurice," said Lorin, "child of the Revolution, do not deny your
mother! Ah! Maurice, remain a stanch and loyal patriot. She who is
condemned to die is unlike all other women; she is the evil genius of
France."

"Oh, it is not she that I regret; it is not for her I weep!" cried
Maurice.

"Yes; I understand, it is Geneviève."

"Ah!" said Maurice, "there is one thought that drives me mad! It is
that Geneviève is in the hands of those purveyors to the guillotine,
Hébert and Fouquier Tinville,--in the hands of the men who sent here
the poor Héloïse, and are now sending the proud Marie Antoinette."

"Well!" said Lorin, "it is this very fact that inspires me with hope.
When the rage of the people has feasted on two tyrants it will be
satiated for some time at least,--like the boa-constrictor, which
requires three months to digest what he has devoured. Then the popular
rage will swallow no more; and as is said by the prophets of the
faubourg, 'the lesser morsels will be no longer palatable.'"

"Lorin! Lorin!" said Maurice, "I am more positive than you, and I
say it in a whisper, but am ready to repeat it aloud,--Lorin, I hate
the new queen who seems destined to succeed the Austrian, whom she
destroys. It is a sad queen whose purple is daily dyed in blood, and to
whom Sanson is prime minister."

"Bah! we shall escape her."

"I do not think so," said Maurice, shaking his head; "to avoid being
arrested at your house we have no resource but to live in the street."

"Bah! we can quit Paris; there is nothing to prevent us. We need not
complain. My uncle will await us at Saint Omer; money, passport,
nothing will be wanting. There exists not the gendarme who shall arrest
us; what do you think? We remain in Paris because we choose to do so."

"No; that is not correct, excellent friend, devoted and faithful as you
are-- You remain because I wish to continue here."

"And you wish to remain to discover Geneviève. Well! nothing is more
simple, just, or natural. You think she is in prison; nothing more
probable. You wish to keep watch over her, and on that account we
cannot quit Paris."

Maurice drew a deep sigh; it was evident his thoughts were wandering.

"Do you remember the death of Louis XVI?" said he. "I can see him
yet, pale with pride and emotion. I was then one of the chiefs of
this crowd, in whose folds I conceal myself to-day. I was greater at
the foot of the scaffold than the king upon it had ever been. What a
change, Lorin! and when one thinks that nine short months have sufficed
to work this change!"

"Nine months of love, Maurice-- Love ruined Troy!"

Maurice sighed; his wandering thoughts now took another direction.

"Poor Maison-Rouge," said he; "this is a sad day for him!"

"Alas!" said Lorin, "shall I tell you what appears to me the most
melancholy thing about revolutions?"

"Yes," said Maurice.

"It is that one often has for friends those we should prefer as
enemies; and for enemies those we would wish--"

"There is one thing I can hardly believe," interrupted Maurice.

"What?"

"It is that he will not invent some project, though the most hopeless,
to save the queen."

"What! one man stronger than a hundred thousand!"

"I said, 'though the most hopeless.' I know that to save Geneviève--"
Lorin frowned.

"I again tell you, Maurice," said he, "you are wild! No; even were it
possible for you to save Geneviève, you would not become a bad citizen.
But enough of this, Maurice; they are listening to us. Look how the
heads undulate; see! there is Sanson's valet raising himself from under
his basket, and looking in the distance. The Austrian arrives."

In short, as if to accompany this undulation which Lorin had remarked,
a shuddering, prolonged and increasing, pervaded the crowd. It was one
of those hurricanes which commence with a whistle and terminate with a
bellow. Maurice raised himself by the help of the lamp-post, and looked
toward the Rue Saint Honoré.

"Yes," said he shuddering; "there she is." And another machine now made
its appearance, almost as revolting as the guillotine. It was the fatal
car.

On the right and left glittered the arms of the escort; while in front
marched Grammont, replying with flashes of his sabre to the shouts
and cries of some fanatics. But ever as the cart advanced these cries
subsided under the haughty courage of the condemned.

Never had a countenance commanded more respect; never had Marie
Antoinette looked more the queen. Her proud courage struck terror into
those around her.

Indifferent to the exhortations of the Abbé Girard, who despite of her
opposition accompanied her, her face moved neither to the right nor
left; her deep thought was as immutable as her look; even the jolting
motion of the cart upon the uneven pavement did not by its violence
disturb the rigidity of her demeanor. She might have been taken for a
marble statue conveyed in the car, had it not been for her brilliant
eyes, and her hair waving in the wind.

A silence equal to that of the desert fell suddenly upon the three
hundred thousand spectators of this scene, witnessed by the heavens for
the first time by the light of the sun.

In the place where Maurice and Lorin were standing they heard the
creaking of the axles and the snorting of the horses.

The car stopped at the foot of the scaffold.

The queen, who doubtless was not thinking of this moment, recalled
herself, and understood it all; she threw a haughty glance upon the
crowd, and again beheld the pale young man she had previously seen
standing on the cannon. He was now mounted on a wall, and repeated
the respectful salutation he had before offered her as she left the
Conciergerie. He then disappeared. Many persons seeing him, it was
soon reported, from his being dressed in black, that a priest was in
attendance on Marie Antoinette, to give her absolution ere she ascended
the scaffold.

Further than that no one disturbed the Chevalier. In moments of highest
concern, certain things are treated with marked deference.

The queen cautiously descended the steps from the car, supported by
Sanson, who to the last moment, in accomplishing the task to which he
himself appeared to be condemned, treated her with the greatest respect.

As the queen walked toward the steps of the scaffold some of the
horses reared, and several of the foot-guards and soldiers appeared
to oscillate and lose their equilibrium; then a shadow was seen to
glide under the scaffold; but tranquillity was almost instantaneously
re-established, since no one was willing to quit his place at this
solemn moment,--no one was willing to lose the minutest detail of the
dreadful tragedy about to be accomplished. All eyes were directed
toward the condemned.

The queen was already on the platform of the scaffold. The priest still
continued to address her; an assistant moved her gently forward, while
another removed the scarf from her shoulders.

Marie Antoinette felt the touch of the infamous hand upon her neck,
and making a sudden movement trod upon Sanson's foot, who, without her
having seen him, was engaged in fixing her to the fatal plank. Sanson
drew back his foot.

"Excuse me, sir," said the queen; "I did not do it intentionally."

These were the last words pronounced by the daughter of the Cæsars, the
queen of France, the widow of Louis XVI.

As the clock of the Tuileries struck a quarter after twelve, the queen
was launched into eternity.

A terrible cry--a cry comprising at once joy, terror, sorrow, triumph,
expiation--rose like a storm, drowning a feeble burst of lamentation
which at the same moment issued from beneath the scaffold.

The gendarmes heard it notwithstanding, feeble as it was, and advanced
some steps in front. The crowd, now less compact, expanded like a
river whose dike has been enlarged, threw down the fence, dispersed
the guards, and rushed like the returning tide to beat the foot of the
scaffold, which was already shaking.

All wished for a nearer view of the remains of that royalty which they
believed, root and branch, forever exterminated in France.

But the gendarmes had another object in view,--they sought the shadow
which had repassed their lines, and glided beneath the scaffold.

Two of them returned leading between them by the collar a pale young
man, whose hand held a blood-stained handkerchief, which he pressed to
his heart; he was followed by a little spaniel howling piteously.

"Death to the aristocrat! death to the noble!" cried some men of the
people; "he has dipped his handkerchief in the Austrian's blood,--to
death with him!"

"Good Heavens!" said Maurice to Lorin, "do you recognize him? Do you
recognize him?"

"Death to the royalist!" repeated the madmen; "take away the
handkerchief he wishes to preserve as a relic! wrest it from him! tear
it from him!"

A haughty smile flitted across the young man's lips, he tore open his
shirt, bared his breast, and dropped the handkerchief.

"Gentlemen," said he, "this blood is not the queen's, but my own. Let
me die in peace;" and a deep, gushing wound appeared widely gaping
under the left breast. The crowd uttered one cry and retired. The young
man sank slowly upon his knees, and gazed upon the scaffold as a martyr
looks upon the altar.

"Maison-Rouge!" whispered Lorin to Maurice.

"Adieu!" murmured the young man, bowing his head with an angelic
smile,--"adieu! or rather, _au revoir_!" and he expired in the midst of
the stupefied guards.

"There is still this expedient, Lorin," said Maurice, "before becoming
an unworthy citizen."

The little spaniel turned toward the corpse, terrified and howling
lamentably.

"Why, there is Jet," said a man, holding a large club in his
hand,--"why, there is Jet; come here, old fellow."

The dog advanced toward him, but was scarcely within arm's length of
the man who had called him, when the brutal wretch raised his club and
dashed out his brains, at the same time bursting into a hoarse laugh.

"Cowardly wretch!" cried Maurice.

"Silence!" whispered Lorin, "or we are lost. It is Simon."




CHAPTER L.

THE VISIT TO THE DOMICILE.


Lorin and Maurice returned to their home; but the latter, in order not
to compromise his friend too openly, usually absented himself during
the day, and returned at night.

In the midst of these events, being present at the removal of the
prisoners to the Conciergerie, he watched daily for the sight
of Geneviève, not having been yet able to discover her place of
imprisonment. Lorin, since his visit to Fouquier Tinville, had
succeeded in convincing Maurice that on the first ostensible act he was
lost, and would then have sacrificed himself without having benefited
Geneviève; and Maurice, who would willingly have thrown himself into
prison in the hope of being united to his mistress, became prudent from
the fear of being separated from her forever.

He went every morning from the Carmelites to Port Libre, from the
Madelonnettes to Saint Lazare, from La Force to the Luxembourg; he
stationed himself before the prisons to watch the cars as they came out
to convey the accused to the Revolutionary Tribunal. Then when he had
scanned the victims, he proceeded to the other prisons to prosecute
this hopeless search, for he soon became aware that the activity of ten
men would prove inadequate to keep watch over the thirty-three prisons
which Paris could boast of at this period. He therefore contented
himself by going daily to the Tribunal, there to await the appearance
of Geneviève.

He was already beginning to despair. Indeed, what hope was there for a
person arrested and condemned? Sometimes the Tribunal, whose sittings
commenced at ten o'clock, had condemned twenty or thirty people by four
o'clock: those first condemned had six hours to live, but the last,
sentenced at a quarter to four, fell at half-past beneath the axe. To
resign himself to such a fate for Geneviève, would be to grow weary in
his battle against destiny.

Oh, if he had known beforehand of the imprisonment of Geneviève, how
Maurice would have baffled the blind, human justice of this epoch; how
easily and promptly would he have torn Geneviève from prison! Never
were escapes more easy; and it may be said, never were they so rare.
All the nobles, once placed in prison, installed themselves there as
in a château, and died at leisure. To fly was like evading a duel; the
women even blushed at liberty acquired at this price.

But Maurice would not have shown himself so scrupulous. To kill the
dogs, to bribe a door-keeper, what more simple? Geneviève was not one
of those splendid names calculated to attract general attention. She
would not dishonor herself by flying, and besides--when could she be
disgraced!

Oh, how bitterly he thought of the gardens of Port Libre, so easy
to scale; the chambers of Madelonnettes, so easy of access to the
street; the low walls of the Luxembourg, and the dark corridors of the
Carmelites, where a resolute man could so easily penetrate by opening a
window.

But was Geneviève in one of these prisons?

Then, devoured by doubt, and worn out with anxiety, he loaded Dixmer
with imprecations; he threatened, and nourished his hatred against
this man, whose cowardly vengeance concealed itself under an apparent
devotion to the royal cause.

"I shall find him out too," thought Maurice; "for if he wishes to save
the unhappy woman, he will show himself; if he wishes to ruin her, he
will insult her. I shall find him out, the scoundrel! and it will be an
evil day for him!"

On the morning of the day when the events occurred which we are about
to relate, Maurice went out early to take his usual station at the
Revolutionary Tribunal, leaving Lorin asleep.

Lorin was suddenly awakened by a loud noise at the door, the voices
of women and the butt-ends of guns. He threw around him the startled
glance of a surprised man who wished to convince himself that nothing
that could compromise him was in view. Four sectionaries, two
gendarmes, and a commissary entered at the same moment. This visit was
sufficiently significant, and Lorin hastened to dress himself.

"Do you come to arrest me?" said he.

"Yes, Citizen Lorin."

"What for?"

"Because you are suspected."

"Ah, all right!"

The commissary scribbled some words at the bottom of the warrant for
arrest.

"Where is your friend?" he inquired.

"What friend?"

"The Citizen Maurice Lindey."

"At home, probably."

"No; he lodges here."

"He! go along! Search, and if you find--"

"Here is the denunciation," interrupted the commissary, "it is plain
enough;" offering Lorin a paper in vile writing and enigmatical
orthography. It stated that every morning the Citizen Lindey, suspected
and ordered for arrest, was seen going out of the Citizen Lorin's
house. The denunciation was signed "Simon."

"Why," said Lorin, "the cobbler will lose his custom if he follows two
trades at the same time,--a spy and boot-mender. He is a Cæsar, this
Monsieur Simon," and he burst into a fit of laughter.

"The Citizen Maurice, where is he?" asked the commissary. "We summon
you to deliver him up."

"When I tell you he is not here!"

The commissary passed into the chamber adjoining, then ascended to
the loft where Lorin's official slept, and at last opened a lower
apartment, but found no trace of Maurice. But upon the dining-room
table a recently written letter attracted the attention of the
commissary. It was from Maurice, who had deposited it there on leaving
in the morning without awakening his friend.

 "I go to the Tribunal," said Maurice; "take breakfast without me. I
 shall not return till night."

"Citizens," said Lorin, "however anxious I may feel to obey your
commands, I cannot follow you undressed. Allow my official to assist
me."

"Aristocrat," said a voice, "do you require assistance to put on your
breeches?"

"Oh, goodness! yes," said Lorin; "I resemble the Citizen
Dagobert,--mind, I did not say king."

"Well, dress," said the commissary; "but make haste!"

The official came down to help his master to dress. However, it was not
exactly that Lorin required a _valet-de-chambre_; it was that nothing
might escape the notice of the official, and that consequently he might
detail everything to Maurice.

"Now, gentlemen,--pardon, Citizens. Now, Citizens, I am ready, and will
follow you; but permit me, I beg, to carry with me the last volume of
'Lettres à Émilie,' by Monsieur Demoustier, which has just appeared,
and I have not read. It will enliven the hours of my captivity."

"Your captivity?" said Simon, sharply, now become municipal in his
turn, and entering, followed by four sectionaries, "that will not last
long. You figure in the trial of the woman who wanted to assist the
Austrian to escape. They try her to-day; and to-morrow, when you have
given your testimony, your turn will come."

"Cobbler," said Lorin, "you stitch your soles too quickly."

"Yes; but what a nice stroke from the leather-cutting knife!" replied
Simon; "you will see, you will see, my fine grenadier!"

Lorin shrugged his shoulders.

"Well," said he, "let us go; I am waiting for you."

As each one turned round to descend the staircase Lorin bestowed on the
municipal Simon so vigorous a kick that he sent him rolling and howling
down the entire flight of stairs. The sectionaries could not restrain
their laughter. Lorin put his hands in his pockets.

"In the exercise of my functions!" cried Simon, livid with rage.

"Zounds!" said Lorin, "are we not all here in the exercise of our
functions?"

He got into the carriage, and was conducted by the commissary to the
Palais de Justice.




CHAPTER LI.

LORIN.


If for the second time the reader is willing to follow us to the
Revolutionary Tribunal, we shall find Maurice in the same place where
we have already seen him, only now infinitely more pale and agitated.

At the moment our scene again opens upon the lugubrious theatre,
whither we are led by a tissue of events rather than by our own
inclinations, the jury were deliberating; a cause had just been tried.
Two of the accused had already, by one of those insolent anticipations
by which they ridiculed the judges, attired themselves for the
scaffold, and were conversing with their counsel, whose words somewhat
resembled those of a physician who despairs of the life of his patient.

The people of the Tribune were this day in a ferocious mood, calculated
to excite the severity of the jury placed under the immediate
surveillance of the gossips and inhabitants of the suburbs. The juries
under these circumstances became more excited and energetic, resembling
an actor who redoubles his efforts beneath the eyes of a censorious
public.

Since ten in the morning five condemnations had already taken place
under the decisions of these harsh and insatiable juries.

The two individuals who now found themselves on the bench of the
accused awaited the decisive moment when "yes" or "no" would return
them to life or doom them to death.

The audience, rendered savage by the daily occurrence of these
spectacles, now become their favorite pastime, prepared them by
exclamations and anticipations for the awful moment.

"There! there! look at the tall one!" said a beldam, who, not having
a bonnet, wore a tricolored cockade as large as a hand on her
head,--"there! is he not pale? One would swear he was already dead."

The condemned regarded the woman with a contemptuous smile.

"What do you say?" replied her neighbor; "why, he is smiling."

"Yes; on the wrong side of his mouth."

One of the men looked at his watch.

"What is the time?" inquired his companion.

"A quarter to one. This has lasted three quarters of an hour."

"The same as at Domfront, that unfortunate town, where you arrive at
noon, and are hung in an hour."

"And the short one! the short one!" cried another person, "will he not
be ugly when he sneezes in the sack?"

"Bah! it is done so quickly, you will barely have time to perceive it."

"Then we will demand the head from Sanson; one has a right to see it."

"Look! what a beautiful blue coat he has on. It is rather a pleasant
thing that the poor can shorten the rich and well-dressed people."

Indeed, as the executioner had told the queen, the poor inherited the
spoils of each victim; they were carried to La Salpêtrière, immediately
after the execution, and distributed among the indigent; and there
even the clothes of the unfortunate queen had been conveyed.

Maurice heard this whirlwind of words without paying any attention;
for he was at this moment occupied by one engrossing thought, to the
exclusion of all else. For several days his heart beat only at certain
moments, and by fits and starts, as from time to time hope or fear
appeared to suspend all vital action, and these perpetual oscillations
to bruise the most tender sensibilities of his soul.

The jury returned to their places; and as had been fully anticipated,
the president pronounced the condemnation of the two accused, who were
directly removed, walking with a firm step and erect bearing,--for at
this epoch every one learned to die boldly.

The solemn and sinister voice of the usher was again heard.

"The public prosecutor against the Citizeness Geneviève Dixmer."

A shudder ran through Maurice's frame, and a cold sweat bedewed his
brow. The little door by which the accused entered suddenly opened,
and Geneviève appeared. She was dressed in white; her ringlets were
tastefully arranged, instead of being cut short, hanging in long masses
of clustering curls. Doubtless, to the last moment poor Geneviève
wished to appear beautiful to her lover, who might perchance be able to
see her.

Maurice beheld Geneviève, and felt that all the strength he had
collected was inadequate to this occasion, notwithstanding he had
expected this blow, since for twelve days he had not omitted a single
sitting, and three times already had the name of Geneviève proceeded
from the mouth of the public prosecutor, and reached his ear. But
there are certain griefs and miseries so profound that it is quite
impossible to sound the depths of the abyss.

All those who witnessed the appearance of this young female, so lovely,
so pale and innocent, uttered a simultaneous cry; some of fury,--for
at this period there existed a class of people who detested everything
bordering on superiority of beauty, riches, or of birth,--others of
admiration, and some of pity. Geneviève, doubtless, among all these
cries had recognized one cry, amid all these voices had distinguished
one voice, for she turned in the direction of Maurice, while the
president, looking up at her from time to time, turned over the law
papers of the accused.

At the first glance she discovered Maurice, concealed as his features
were under the broad brim of his hat; and turning round with a sweet
smile, and a gesture still more engaging, she pressed her rosy but
trembling hands upon her lips, and depositing her whole soul with her
breath, she gave wings to a last kiss, which only one in this vast
crowd had the right to appropriate to himself.

A murmur of interest ran through the hall. Geneviève, recalled, turned
toward her judges, but stopping suddenly in the midst of this movement,
her eyes dilated, and became fixed with an undefinable expression of
horror toward one point of the hall.

Maurice in vain raised himself on his toes; he saw nothing, or rather
something of more consequence recalled his attention to the scene that
was being enacted,--that is to say, to the Tribunal.

Fouquier Tinville had commenced reading the act of accusation. This act
stated that Geneviève Dixmer was the wife of an obstinate conspirator
suspected of having assisted the ex-Chevalier de Maison-Rouge in
his successive attempts to rescue the queen. She had, besides,
been surprised at the feet of the queen, entreating her to exchange
garments with her, and offering to die in her stead. This absurd
fanaticism, continued the act, merited, no doubt, the admiration of the
counter-revolutionists; but in our day every French citizen owes his
life to the nation; it is therefore double treason to sacrifice it to
the enemies of France.

Geneviève, when asked if she acknowledged that she had knelt before the
queen, as stated by the two gendarmes Gilbert and Duchesne, and had
entreated her to exchange vestments, simply replied, "Yes."

"Then," said the president, "inform us of your plan, and what hope you
entertained of its success."

Geneviève smiled.

"A woman might conceive hopes," said she, "but a woman could not form a
plan like this of which I am the victim."

"How came you there, then?"

"Not of my own accord. I was compelled."

"Who compelled you?" demanded the public prosecutor.

"Those who menaced me with death if I did not obey;" and again the
agitated look of the young woman was centred on that part of the hall
invisible to Maurice.

"But to escape from this death which menaced you, did you not know that
you faced that death which must result from your condemnation?"

"When I consented, the knife was at my throat, while the guillotine was
only in perspective. I succumbed under present violence."

"Why did you not call for assistance? All good citizens would have
defended you."

"Alas! sir," said Geneviève, in a voice at once so sad and sweet that
it caused Maurice's heart to beat tumultuously, "I had no one near me."

Commiseration succeeded to interest, as interest had succeeded to
curiosity. Many heads were lowered, some to conceal their tears, many
to allow them to flow freely.

Just then Maurice perceived on his left an immovable head and an
inflexible countenance. It was Dixmer, standing dark, gloomy, and
implacable, never for a moment losing sight of Geneviève or of the
Tribunal.

The blood rushed to the young man's temples; rage mounted from his
heart to his forehead, filling his whole being with intense desire for
vengeance. He darted at Dixmer a look so replete with burning hate, so
condensed and powerful, that he, as if attracted by the electric fluid,
turned his head toward his enemy. Their glances encountered like two
flashes.

"Tell us the names of your instigators," said the president.

"There was only one, sir."

"Who?"

"My husband."

"Do you know where he is?"

"Yes."

"Inform us of his retreat."

"He has been brutal, but I will not be cowardly. It is not for me to
tell you his retreat, but for you to find him."

Maurice looked at Dixmer. He never moved. One idea flashed through the
young man's brain. It was to denounce him at the same time that he
denounced himself; but he quickly suppressed the thought.

"No," said he; "it is not thus that he should die."

"Then you refuse to assist us in our search?" said the president.

"I think, sir, I could not do so without rendering myself as
contemptible in the eyes of others as he is in mine."

"Are there any witnesses?" demanded the president.

"There is one," replied the usher.

"Call the witness."

"Maximilien-Jean Lorin!" shouted the usher.

"Lorin!" cried Maurice, "Oh, my God! what has happened?"

This scene took place the same day that Lorin had been arrested, and
Maurice was in utter ignorance of the fact.

"Lorin!" murmured Geneviève, looking round with anxious solicitude.

"Why does not the witness answer to the call?" demanded the president.

"Citizen President," said Fouquier Tinville, "upon a recent
denunciation the witness was arrested at his own house; he will be
brought directly."

Maurice started.

"There is another still more important witness," continued Fouquier;
"but we have not yet been able to find him."

Dixmer turned toward Maurice smiling. Perhaps the same idea flitted
through the mind of the husband which had before entered that of the
lover.

Geneviève, pale and horror-stricken, uttered a low groan.

At this moment Lorin entered, followed by two gendarmes.

After him, and by the same door, Simon appeared, who came to take his
seat in the judgment-hall, according to his custom in that locality.

"Your name and surname?" inquired the president.

"Maximilien-Jean Lorin."

"Your condition in life?"

"Independent."

"You will not remain so long," muttered Simon, shaking his fist at him.

"Are you related to the prisoner at the bar?"

"No; but I have the honor of being one of her friends."

"Are you aware that she conspired to carry off the queen?"

"How could I be aware of it?"

"She might have confided in you?"

"In me! a member of the section of the Thermopyles? A likely story!"

"Notwithstanding, you have sometimes been seen with her."

"I might have been seen with her often."

"Did you know that she was an aristocrat?"

"I knew her as the wife of a master-tanner."

"But her husband did not in reality follow the business which he
pretended to."

"Of that I am ignorant; her husband was not one of my friends."

"Tell us what you know of this husband."

"Oh, very willingly. He is a villain, who--"

"Monsieur Lorin," said Geneviève, "for pity's sake!"

Lorin continued unmoved.

"He is a villain, who has sacrificed his wife, the poor woman before
you, not so much to his political opinions as to his private hatred.
Faugh! I look upon the brute as lower and more degraded even than
Simon."

Dixmer became livid with rage. Simon wished to speak, but a gesture
from the president imposed silence.

"You appear to know the whole history, Citizen Lorin," said Fouquier;
"continue your testimony."

"Pardon me, Citizen Fouquier," said Lorin, rising; "I know nothing
more." He bowed and reseated himself.

"Citizen Lorin," said Fouquier, "it is your bounden duty to enlighten
this Tribunal."

"It has received all the light that I can give it. As to this poor
woman, I repeat she has only acted under compulsion. Look at her! does
she look like a conspirator? What she has done she was compelled to do.
That is all."

"You think so?"

"I am sure of it."

"In the name of the law," said Fouquier, "I require that the witness
Lorin shall be placed before this Tribunal as an accomplice of this
woman."

Maurice groaned, while Geneviève buried her face in her hands.

Simon screamed out in a transport of joy, "Citizen Prosecutor, you are
the savior of your country!"

As to Lorin, he leaped over the balustrade without making any reply,
and seating himself near to Geneviève, took her hand, and respectfully
kissed it, saying, "Good-day, Madame," with a coolness which
electrified the assembly; "how do you do?"

Then he took his seat on the bench of the accused.




CHAPTER LII.

SEQUEL TO THE PRECEDING.


All this scene had passed before Maurice like a fantastic vision.
Leaning upon the handle of his sword, which he had never quitted, he
saw his friends precipitated one after another into that gulf which
never yields back its victims; and this fatal sight so affected him
that he asked himself why he, the companion of these unfortunates,
should still cling to the brink of the precipice, and not surrender
himself to the giddiness which was dragging him with them.

In leaping the balustrade Lorin saw the dark and sneering features of
Dixmer.

When, as we have said, he had placed himself near Geneviève, she
whispered in his ear.

"_Mon Dieu!_" said she, "do you know that Maurice is here?"

"Where?"

"Do not look round directly; one look might prove his ruin."

"Calm yourself."

"Behind us, near the door. What a trial for him if we are condemned!"

Lorin regarded the young woman with tender sympathy.

"We shall be," said he. "I conjure you not to doubt it. The deception
would be too cruel if you were to permit yourself to hope."

"Oh, my God!" said Geneviève, "pity our poor friend, who will remain
alone in the world!"

Lorin then turned round toward Maurice, and Geneviève also could not
refrain from glancing at him.

His eyes were fixed upon them both, and one hand was placed upon his
heart.

"There is one way to save you," said Lorin.

"Are you sure?" said Geneviève, her eyes sparkling with joy.

"Oh, of that one I am sure," replied Lorin.

"Oh, if you can save me how I will bless you!"

"But this way--" replied the young man.

Geneviève read his hesitation in his eyes.

"You have also seen _him_?" said she.

"Yes; I have seen him. Will you be saved? Let him, in his turn,
take his seat in the iron arm-chair, and you will be safe." Dixmer,
doubtless from Lorin's look and the expression of his countenance,
divined what he uttered. He at first turned pale, but soon recovered
his gloomy composure and satanic smile.

"Impossible!" said Geneviève; "I can no longer hate him."

"Say that he knows your generous nature, and defies you."

"No doubt; for he is sure of him, of me, of us all."

"Geneviève! Geneviève! I am less perfect than you. Let me bring him
here! Let him perish!"

"No, Lorin, I conjure you. Nothing in common with that man, not even
death. It seems to me I should be unfaithful to Maurice were I to die
with Dixmer."

"But you will not die."

"How can I live when Maurice is to die?"

"Ah!" said Lorin, "Maurice has reason to love you; you are an angel,
and heaven is the angels' home. Poor dear Maurice!"

In the mean time Simon, who could not overhear the conversation
between the accused, devoured their looks instead of their words.

"Citizen Gendarme," said he, "prevent those conspirators from
continuing their plots against the Republic, even in the Revolutionary
Tribunal."

"You know, Citizen Simon," replied the gendarme, "that here they
conspire no more, and if they do so it will not be for long. These
citizens are only conversing together; and since the law does not
forbid them to do so in the car, why should it be forbidden at the
Tribunal?"

This gendarme was Gilbert, who, having recognized the prisoner taken
in the queen's chamber, avowed with his ordinary honesty the interest
which he could not help according to her courage and devotion.

The president having consulted the court, at the request of Fouquier
Tinville commenced his questions.

"Accused Lorin," demanded he, "of what nature was your acquaintance
with the citizen Madame Dixmer?"

"Of what nature, Citizen President?"

 "The pure flame of friendship bound us one to another;
 As a sister she loved me, and I her as a brother."

"Citizen Lorin," said Fouquier Tinville, "your poetry is out of season
here, and the rhythm is bad."

"Why so?"

"You have one syllable too many."

"Cut it off! cut it off! Citizen Prosecutor! that is your trade, you
know."

The imperturbable countenance of Fouquier Tinville assumed a pallid hue
at this horrible pleasantry.

"And in what light," demanded the president, "did the Citizen Dixmer
view this liaison of a professed Republican with his wife?"

"As to that I can tell you nothing, declaring that I was never
acquainted with the Citizen Dixmer, and never had any desire to be so."

"But," resumed Fouquier Tinville, "you did not tell us that your friend
Maurice Lindey formed the link of this pure friendship between yourself
and the accused?"

"If I did not say so," replied Lorin, "it was because it seemed to
me wrong to speak of it; and I think that you might even follow my
example."

"The citizen jurors," said Fouquier Tinville, "will appreciate this
singular alliance between an aristocrat and two Republicans, and at the
very moment when this aristocrat is convicted of the blackest plot that
could be concocted against the nation."

"How should I know anything concerning this plot you speak of?"
demanded Lorin, disgusted by the brutal stupidity of the argument.

"You were acquainted with this woman; you were her friend; you term
yourself her brother; you speak of her as your sister,--and you were
not cognizant of her proceedings? Is it then probable, as you have
yourself remarked," continued the president, "that she would have
committed alone this act imputed to her?"

"She did not commit it alone," replied Lorin, repeating the technical
words used by the president; "since, as she has told you, and I have
told you, and now repeat, her husband compelled her."

"Then how is it that you are not acquainted with the husband," said
Fouquier Tinville, "since the husband was united with the wife?"

It remained only for Lorin to recount the first disappearance of
Dixmer; to mention the amours of Geneviève and his friend; and, in
short, to relate the manner in which Dixmer had carried off and
concealed his wife in some impenetrable retreat,--it needed only this
to exculpate himself from all connivance, and to elucidate the whole
mystery. But for this he must betray the secrets of his two friends; to
do this would be to put Geneviève to shame before five hundred people.
Lorin shook his head, as if saying "no" to himself.

"Well?" demanded the president, "what do you reply to the public
prosecutor?"

"That his logic is crushing," said Lorin; "and I am now convinced of
one thing which I never even suspected before."

"What is that?"

"That I am, as it appears, one of the most frightful conspirators that
has ever been seen."

This declaration elicited a roar of laughter; even the jury could not
refrain, so ludicrous was the young man's manner in enunciating these
words.

Fouquier felt the ridicule; and since with his usual indefatigable
perseverance he had managed to know all the secrets of the accused as
well as they did themselves, he could not help feeling toward Lorin a
sentiment of pity mingled with admiration.

"Come, Citizen Lorin," said he, "speak in your own defence. The
Tribunal will lend a willing ear. We are acquainted with your previous
conduct, and it has always been that of a stanch Republican."

Simon essayed to speak; but the president made him a signal to remain
silent.

"Speak, Citizen Lorin!" said he; "we are all attention;" but Lorin only
shook his head.

"This silence is confession," said the president.

"Not so," said Lorin; "silence is silence, that is all."

"Once more," said Fouquier Tinville; "will you speak?"

Lorin turned toward the audience to encounter the eyes of Maurice, and
to learn from them what course he would wish him to pursue; but Maurice
made no sign to him to speak, and Lorin maintained his former silence.
This was self-condemnation.

All that followed was quickly executed. Fouquier summed up his
accusation; the president reviewed the evidence; the jury retired, and
unanimously returned a verdict of "guilty" against Lorin and Geneviève.

The president condemned them both to suffer the penalty of death.

Two o'clock sounded from the great clock of the Palace.

The president had just time sufficient to pronounce the condemnation as
the clock struck.

Maurice heard the two with a sense of confusion and utter bewilderment.

When the vibration had ceased, his strength was utterly exhausted. The
gendarmes led away Geneviève and Lorin, who had offered her his arm.

Both saluted Maurice, but in different ways. Lorin smiled; but
Geneviève, pale and fainting, wafted him a last kiss upon her fingers,
bathed in tears.

She had till the last moment clung to the hope of life, and now wept,
not the loss of her life, but of her love, which must perish with her.

Maurice, half mad, had not replied to his friends' farewell. He rose,
pale and bewildered, from the bench on which he had fallen. His friends
had disappeared.

He felt only one sentiment alive within him. It was the hatred which
was gnawing at his heart.

He threw a last look around him and recognized Dixmer, who was leaving
with the rest of the spectators, and at that moment stooped to pass
under the arched door of the passage.

With the rapidity of a steel spring when it unbends, Maurice sprang
from bench to bench, and reached the door.

Dixmer had already passed through, and descended into the darkened
corridor. Maurice followed behind him. At the moment Dixmer planted
his foot on the pavement of the grand hall, Maurice tapped him on the
shoulder.




CHAPTER LIII.

THE DUEL.


At this epoch it was always a serious thing to feel a touch upon the
shoulder. Dixmer turned, and recognized Maurice.

"Ah! good-day, Citizen Republican," said Dixmer, without evincing any
other emotion than an almost imperceptible start, which he immediately
repressed.

"Good-day, Citizen Coward," replied Maurice. "You were waiting for me,
were you not?"

"That is to say," replied Dixmer, "that, on the contrary, I had ceased
to expect you."

"Why was that?"

"Because I expected you sooner."

"I still arrive too soon for you, assassin!" added Maurice, with a
murmured growl rather than a voice, since it resembled the grumbling
of a storm gathered in his heart, his looks being like the lightning's
flashes.

"You fling fire from your eyes, Citizen," replied Dixmer. "We shall be
recognized, and followed."

"Yes; and you fear to be arrested, do you not? You dread lest you might
be conducted to the scaffold where you send others. Let them arrest
us, so much the better; for it seems to me that the life of one guilty
wretch was due to national justice."

"As there is one name the less on the list of people of honor. Is it
not so--since yours has disappeared?"

"Well, we shall speak about all that again, I hope; but, in the mean
time, you are avenged--miserably avenged--upon a woman. Why, since you
have waited for me elsewhere, did you not do so at my house, when you
stole away Geneviève?"

"You were the first thief, I believe."

"Neither by your wit nor your words have I ever known you, sir. I know
you better by your actions,--witness the day when you wanted to murder
me. That day your true nature spoke."

"And I have more than once regretted that I did not listen to it,"
answered Dixmer, coolly.

"Well," said Maurice, touching his sword, "I offer you your revenge."

"To-morrow, if you like, but not to-day."

"And why to-morrow?"

"Or this evening."

"Why not directly?"

"Because I am engaged till five o'clock."

"Another hideous project!" said Maurice; "another ambush!"

"Really, Monsieur Maurice, you are rather ungrateful!" replied Dixmer.
"In truth you are. Here, for six months, I have allowed you to make
love to my wife; for six months have permitted your meetings, and have
not noticed your smiles. Never man, you must confess, has evinced so
little of the tiger in his composition as myself."

"That is to say, you thought I might be useful, and you could mould me
to your purpose."

"Without doubt," returned Dixmer, calmly, who ruled his own passion as
much as Maurice was carried away by his. "Without doubt; while you were
betraying your Republic, and were selling it to me for a look from my
wife; while you were dishonoring yourselves,--you by your treason, she
by her adulterous love,--I remained the sage and hero. I waited, and I
triumphed."

"Horrible!" said Maurice.

"Is it not? Yes; you appreciate your own conduct fully, sir. It is
horrible!--it is infamous!"

"You deceive yourself, sir; the conduct I term horrible and infamous
is that of the man to whom the honor of a woman had been confided, who
had sworn to guard this honor pure and unsullied, and who, instead of
keeping his word and oath, employed her beauty as a shameful bait to
ensnare a feeble heart. It was your sacred duty beyond all others to
protect this woman, and instead of protecting her, you have sold her."

"What I had to do, sir," replied Dixmer, "I will tell you. I had to
save my friend who united with me in this sacred cause. Even as I have
sacrificed my property to this cause, so have I sacrificed my honor.
As for me, I have completely forgotten, completely effaced myself. Now
my friend is no more; he has died by the poniard. My queen is no more;
she has died ignominiously on the scaffold. Now! now! I can think of
revenge."

"Say of assassination."

"One cannot assassinate an adulteress; when she is killed, she is but
punished for her crime."

"This sin you imposed upon her, therefore it was rendered lawful."

"You think so?" said Dixmer, with a sardonic smile. "Judge from her
remorse if she believes she has acted lawfully."

"Those who punish strike openly. You, you do not punish; for while
striking you fly, and while casting her head to the guillotine you
conceal yourself."

"I fly! I hide myself! when did you see that, poor idiot that you
are?" demanded Dixmer. "Is it concealing myself to be present at her
condemnation? Is it flying when I go into the Salle des Morts to fling
her my last adieu?"

"You are going to see her again,--to fling her a last adieu?" cried
Maurice.

"Decidedly you are not expert at revenge, Citizen," replied Dixmer,
shrugging his shoulders. "Thus, in my situation you would abandon these
events to their strength alone, these circumstances to their natural
course; thus, for example, the adulterous woman having merited death,
the moment she has received the punishment of death I am quits with
her, or rather she is quits with me. No, Citizen Maurice; I know better
than that. I have discovered a way to return this woman all the evil
she has done me. She loves you, and will die far from you; she detests
me, and I will be near her. There!" said he, drawing a pocket-book
from his pocket, "do you see this? It contains a card signed by the
registrar of the Palace. With this card I can gain near access to the
condemned. I will penetrate to Geneviève; I will call her 'Adulteress!'
I shall see her curls fall under the hand of the vile executioner,
and as they are severed she shall still hear my voice hissing,
'Adulteress!' I will even accompany her to the fatal car, and as she
plants her foot upon the scaffold, the last sound that greets her ear
shall be the word 'Adulteress!'"

"Take care! she will not have strength to support so much cowardice;
she will denounce you."

"No," cried Dixmer, "she hates me too much for that. If she had wished
to denounce me she would have done so when her friend urged her so
softly. If she did not denounce me to save her life, she will not do
so that I may die with her; for she well knows in that case I should
retard her execution for a day. She well knows that if she denounces
me, I shall go with her not only to the lowest step of the Palace, but
even to the scaffold; she well knows that instead of leaving her at the
foot of the ladder, I shall ascend into the car with her, and that,
seated by her side, the whole length of the road I shall constantly
repeat the one dreadful word 'Adulteress;' that even on the scaffold I
shall continue to do so till the moment she sinks into eternity and the
accusation falls with her."

Dixmer was frightful in this state of anger and hatred. He seized
Maurice by the hand and shook it with a force unknown to the young
man, upon whom this had acted with a contrary effect; as Dixmer became
excited, Maurice grew calm.

"Listen!" said the young man, "in your vengeance you have omitted one
thing."

"What?"

"That you will be able to tell her, 'On leaving the Tribunal, I have
seen your lover, and have killed him.'"

"On the contrary, I prefer telling her that you live, and will suffer
for the remainder of your days from the spectacle of her death."

"You shall kill me, notwithstanding," said Maurice; "or," added he,
turning round and finding himself nearly master of his position, "I
will kill you!"

And pale with emotion, and excited by fury, finding his strength
redoubled from the restraint he had imposed upon his feelings while
listening to the unfolding of Dixmer's horrible project, he seized him
by the throat and drew him backward toward a stair which led to the
high bank of the river. At the contact with his hand, Dixmer, in his
turn, felt hatred rush over him like hot lava.

"You need not compel me by force, I will follow."

"Come, then. You are armed."

"I will follow you."

"No, go first; but I give you notice, at the least sign or gesture I
will cleave your skull with my sword."

"You know I am a stranger to fear," said Dixmer, with a smile rendered
frightful from his pallor.

"Fear of my sword," said Maurice, "no; but fear of losing your revenge;
and now that we are face to face you may bid it adieu."

They had, indeed, arrived at the water's brink; and had any one seen
and followed them, he could not have arrived in time to prevent the
duel from taking place, since an equal desire for vengeance now
animated both. While speaking, they had descended the short stair
leading to the Palace square, and gained the nearly deserted quay; for
as the condemnations continued, seeing it was two o'clock at least, the
crowd still filled the judgment-hall, the corridors, and the courts.

They appeared equally to thirst for each other's blood.

They plunged under one of those arches leading from the cells of the
Conciergerie to the river; at this time drained, but then foul and
saturated with blood, serving more than once as a means of conveyance
for the corpses, which floated far away from the dungeons, leaving no
trace behind.

Maurice placed himself between Dixmer and the water.

"I decidedly think I shall kill you, Maurice," said Dixmer, "you
tremble so much."

"And I, Dixmer," said Maurice, taking his sword in hand and carefully
enclosing him so as to cut off all retreat,--"I, on the contrary,
believe that I shall kill you; and having killed you, shall remove from
your pocket-book the pass signed by the registrar of the Palace. Nay,
you need not button your coat; my sword shall open it, I will be bound,
were it even formed of brass like the cuirasses of old."

"And this paper," roared Dixmer, "you will take it, will you?"

"Yes," said Maurice; "I will use the pass. With this talisman I will
secure an entrance to Geneviève. I will sit next her in the car; I will
murmur in her ear while her life remains, 'I love thee;' and when the
last stroke has fallen, I will murmur still, 'I loved thee.'"

Dixmer made a movement with his left hand to take the pass from his
pocket, and together with the pocket-book to cast it into the river,
when rapid as a thunderbolt, and trenchant as a hatchet, Maurice's
sword fell upon his hand, nearly severing it from the wrist. The
wounded man uttered a cry, and shaking his mutilated limb, flung
himself furiously on his antagonist.

Then in the obscurity of this gloomy vault the deadly combat commenced.
The two men, enclosed in a space so narrow that the sword strokes
could not diverge from the line of the body, slid upon the humid
pavement, and with difficulty supported themselves by the sides of the
arch; the impatience of the combatants caused them to redouble their
blows. Dixmer, who, as he felt his life-blood flow, was aware that his
strength diminished, charged Maurice so furiously that the latter was
compelled to step backward; in so doing he lost his footing, and his
enemy's sword grazed his breast. But by a movement rapid as thought,
kneeling as he was, he raised the blade with his left arm and turned
the point toward Dixmer, who, maddened with rage, darted forward, and
impelled by the inclining ground, fell on the sword, the point of which
entered his body. He uttered a fearful imprecation, and the two bodies
rolled to the outside of the arch.

One only rose. It was Maurice,--Maurice covered with blood, but with
the blood of his enemy.

He drew his sword toward him, and as he drew it the remnant of life
which still agitated with a nervous shuddering the limbs of Dixmer,
ceased.

Then, when assured that he was dead, Maurice stooped toward the corpse,
opened the dead man's coat, withdrew the pass, and hurried away
directly.

But on looking at himself he felt assured that in his present state he
should not proceed far without being arrested. He was literally covered
with blood.

He approached the water's edge, and bending toward the river, washed
his hands and coat. He then rapidly ascended the steps, casting a
last look toward the arch, from whence a red, smoking stream issued,
advancing slowly toward the river.

On approaching the Palace he opened the pocket-book, and there found
the pass signed by the registrar.

"Thanks, just God!" murmured he, and he rapidly mounted the steps
leading to the Salle des Morts.

It struck three.




CHAPTER LIV.

THE SALLE DES MORTS.


It will be remembered that the registrar of the Palace had opened his
jailer's book to Dixmer, and had also entered into an arrangement with
him which the presence of Geneviève rendered peculiarly agreeable.
This man, it may be imagined, was terribly alarmed when the news of
Dixmer's plot was communicated to him. He would doubtless be considered
as nothing less than an accomplice of Dixmer, his false colleague,
and would therefore be condemned to die with the wretched Geneviève.
Fouquier Tinville had summoned him to appear before him.

It may easily be understood that this poor man would have some trouble
to prove himself innocent in the eyes of the public prosecutor; he had,
however, succeeded in so doing, thanks to Geneviève, whose declaration
had clearly established his utter ignorance of the plot of her husband.
He had succeeded, thanks to Dixmer's flight, and above all from the
interest excited in Fouquier Tinville, who wished to preserve his
administration free from all stain.

"Citizen," said he, flinging himself upon his knees before Fouquier,
"pardon me, for I have been deceived."

"Citizen," replied the public prosecutor, "an employee of the nation
who in these days permits himself to be deceived deserves to be
guillotined."

"I may have been a blockhead, Citizen," replied the registrar, who was
longing to call Fouquier Tinville "Monseigneur."

"Blockhead or not," replied the rigid prosecutor, "no one should allow
his love for the Republic to sleep. The spies of the Capitol were only
geese, yet they were sufficiently awake to save Rome."

The registrar looked upon this argument as totally unanswerable; he
groaned, and remained waiting.

"I pardon you," said Fouquier Tinville. "I will go so far as to defend
you, since I do not wish one of my employees to be even suspected; but
you will bear in mind that at the least word that reaches my ears, the
least revival of this affair, you shall go to the scaffold."

It is scarcely necessary to say with what anxiety this man sought the
newspapers, always in haste to tell what they know, and sometimes more
than they can certify, even should they cause the heads of ten men to
fall by the guillotine.

He sought Dixmer everywhere, to recommend him to keep his own counsel;
but Dixmer had very naturally changed his apartments, and was nowhere
to be found.

Geneviève had been placed on the bench of the accused, and had already,
in her testimony, declared that neither herself nor husband had any
accomplices; and he thanked the poor woman with his eyes as she passed
before him on her way to the Tribunal.

When she had passed, and he was returning to the office to fetch some
law papers for Fouquier Tinville, he all at once saw Dixmer approaching
him with a calm and quiet step.

This vision petrified him.

"Oh!" said he, as if he had seen a spectre.

"Do you not know me?" said the new-comer.

"Of course, I do. You are the Citizen Durand, or rather the Citizen
Dixmer."

"Just so."

"But are you a dead man, Citizen?"

"Not yet, as you see."

"I mean to say that they will arrest you."

"Who wants to arrest me?--no one knows me."

"But I know you; and it only needs one word from me to send you to the
guillotine."

"And two words from me to send you there with me."

"It is shameful of you to say that."

"No; it is logic."

"But what is your business? Make haste,--speak quickly; for the less
time we are together the less danger we incur from each other."

"My wife is about to be condemned, is it not so?"

"I greatly fear for her, poor woman!"

"Well, I wish to see her once more, to bid her adieu."

"Where?"

"In the Salle des Morts."

"Would you dare to enter there?"

"Why not?"

"Oh!" said the registrar, like a man whose hair stood on end at the
very thought.

"There must be some way," continued Dixmer.

"To enter the Salle des Morts? Without doubt there is."

"How?"

"To procure a pass."

"And where are these passes to be procured?"

The registrar turned frightfully pale, and stammered, "Where are they
to be procured, you ask?"

"I inquire where are they to be procured?" replied Dixmer; "the
question is plain enough, I think."

"They are procured--here."

"Ah! true; and who usually signs them?"

"The registrar."

"But you are the registrar?"

"Certainly I am."

"Oh, how lucky that is!" said Dixmer, seating himself, "you will sign
me a pass."

The registrar made one bound.

"Do you ask for my head, Citizen?" said he.

"No; I ask you for a pass, that is all."

"I shall have you arrested, unhappy man!" said he, summoning all his
energy.

"Do," said Dixmer; "and the next moment I will denounce you as an
accomplice, and instead of leaving me to go alone to the famous hall,
you shall accompany me."

The registrar turned ghastly pale.

"Villain!" said he.

"There is no villany in that," said Dixmer; "I wish to speak to my
wife, and all I require of you is a pass to enable me to do so."

"Is it then so imperative that you should speak to her?"

"It seems so, since I risk my head to do so."

This appeared very plausible to the registrar, and Dixmer immediately
perceived that he was relenting.

"Rest assured," said he, "no one shall know anything. The devil! why
surely sometimes a similar case to mine must present itself to your
notice!"

"Very rarely; it is by no means a common occurrence. But, let me see;
let us arrange it in another way."

"If it is possible, I should ask nothing better."

"Nothing is more possible. Enter by the door of the condemned; there a
card is not required. Then, when you have spoken to your wife, call
me, and I will let you out."

"Not a bad idea," said Dixmer; "but unfortunately there is a story
current in the city."

"What story?"

"The history of a poor hunchback who mistook the door, thinking to
enter the archives, but instead of so doing found himself in the hall
of which we are now speaking. Only since he had entered by the door of
the condemned instead of the large door, as he had no pass to prove his
identity, once there he was not permitted to go out. They strenuously
maintained that since he entered the door with the other condemned,
he was condemned likewise. In vain he protested, swore, appealed; no
one believed him, no one came to his assistance, no one helped him to
get out. So that, notwithstanding his protestations, his oaths, and
supplications, the executioner first cut off his hair, and afterward
his head. Is this anecdote true, Citizen Registrar! You ought to know
better than any one else."

"Alas! yes; it is too true," said the registrar, trembling.

"You must see then that with such a precedent I should be a fool to
enter this cut-throat place without a pass."

"But I shall be there, I tell you."

"But if you should happen to be called away; if you should be otherwise
engaged; if you should forget!"

Dixmer laid particular stress on these last words, "if you should
forget."

"But since I promise you--"

"No; besides it would compromise you. They would see you speaking to
me; and, in short, it does not suit me. I therefore prefer a pass."

"Impossible!"

"Then, dear sir, I will speak; and we shall both take a ride together
to the Place de la Révolution."

The registrar, bewildered, stupefied, half-dead with terror, signed a
pass for a "citizen."

Dixmer rose and went out precipitately to take his station in the
judgment-hall, where we have already seen him. The rest is known to us.

At the same moment the registrar, to avoid all accusation of
connivance, went and seated himself near Fouquier Tinville, leaving the
management of the office to his head clerk.

       *       *       *       *       *

At ten minutes to three, Maurice, furnished with the pass, crossing a
hedge of turnkeys and gendarmes, arrived without interruption at the
fatal door.

When we say fatal, we exaggerate, for there were two doors,--the
principal one by which those possessing passes entered and returned;
and the door of the condemned, by which no one departed except to the
scaffold.

The place that Maurice entered was divided into two compartments. One
of these was set apart for those employed in registering the name
of the arrivals; the other, furnished only with wooden benches, was
appropriated for the reception of those who were arrested and those who
were condemned, which amounted to pretty nearly the same thing.

The hall was very dark, lighted only from the panes of the partition
which divided it from the register-office.

A female dressed in white, in a half-fainting attitude, lay in a
corner, supported against the wall.

A man was standing in front of her, from time to time shaking his head.
His arms were crossed upon his breast, and he hesitated to speak to
her, as if fearful of restoring her to the consciousness she appeared
to have lost.

Around these two individuals several condemned persons were scattered
promiscuously,--some giving vent to their feelings in sobs and groans,
others joining in patriotic songs, while the remainder walked rapidly
up and down, as if to chase away the thoughts which devoured them.

This was indeed the antechamber of death, and the furniture rendered
it worthy of the name. Here were seen half-opened coffins filled with
straw, seeming as if to invite the living to their beds of repose, the
receptacles provided for the ashes of the dead.

There was a large closet opposite the partition. A prisoner, prompted
by curiosity, opened it, but recoiled horror-struck. It contained the
blood-stained garments of those executed on the preceding evening; long
tresses of hair hanging here and there, the executioner's perquisites,
who sold them to the relatives when not enjoined by the authorities to
burn these precious relics.

Maurice, trembling with emotion, had hardly opened the door, when the
whole tableau at once presented itself to his view. He advanced three
steps into the hall, and fell at Geneviève's feet. The unfortunate
woman uttered a cry, which Maurice stifled on her lips.

Lorin, weeping, pressed his friend in his arms; these were the first
tears he had shed.

Strange that all these unhappy individuals, assembled to die together,
scarcely looked at the touching tableau presented to their view by
their unfortunate fellow-creatures! Every one suffered too much himself
to take part in the miseries of others.

The three friends remained for a moment united in a silent embrace,
happy, almost joyous. Lorin was the first of the ill-fated group to
disengage himself.

"Are you, then, condemned also?" said he to Maurice.

"Yes," replied he.

"Oh, happiness!" murmured Geneviève.

But the joy of those who have only one hour to live cannot last even
as long as their lives. Maurice, having contemplated Geneviève with
looks of ardent and profound affection, and having thanked her for
the expression, at once so egotistical and so tender, which had just
escaped her, turned toward Lorin.

"Now," said he, taking Geneviève's hands within his own, "let us talk
together."

"Yes," said Lorin; "let us converse while the time remains to us. It is
only right so to do. What do you wish to say to me, Maurice?"

"You have been arrested for my sake, condemned on account of her. As
for Geneviève and me, we are paying our debt; it is not fair, at the
same time, that you should be made to pay also."

"I do not understand you."

"Lorin, you are free."

"I free? You are mad!" said Lorin.

"No, I am not mad; I repeat that you are free. See, here is a pass.
They will inquire who you are; you are employed at the registrar-office
of the Carmelites, and are going to speak to the registrar of the
Palace; you have, from motives of curiosity, requested a pass from
him to see the condemned; you have seen them, and are now leaving,
perfectly satisfied with your visit."

"This is a joke, is it not?"

"No, indeed, my friend; here is the pass, take advantage of it. You
are not a lover, like myself; you do not need to die that you may be
enabled to pass a few more minutes in the society of the well-beloved
of your heart, and not to lose a second of eternity with her."

"But, Maurice," replied Lorin, "if one might be able to get out
from here--a circumstance I swear to you I could not have believed
possible--why do you not first save the lady? As to yourself, we will
consider afterward about that."

"Impossible!" said Maurice, with a frightful oppression at his heart,
"this card is for a man, not for a lady; besides, Geneviève would
not depart, and leave me here, to live herself, while knowing that I
remained to die."

"If she would not, then why should I? Do you imagine I possess less
courage than a woman?"

"No, dear friend; I know and acknowledge your bravery, but nothing can
excuse your obstinacy in this case. Then profit by this moment, and
allow us the supreme felicity of knowing and feeling that you are free
and happy."

"Happy!" exclaimed Lorin; "you are facetious, surely? Happy without
you, eh? What the devil am I to do in this world without you; in Paris,
without my usual avocations? Never to see you again, never to weary you
more with my doggerel rhymes,--ah, good faith, no!"

"Lorin, my friend--"

"Exactly; it is because I am your friend that I persist in my
opinion. With the prospect of recovering you both, were I a prisoner
as I now am, I would tear down the walls; but to save myself, and
go out from here alone into the streets, my head bowed down with
a feeling resembling remorse, and a continual cry in my ears:
'Maurice!--Geneviève!' To pass into certain quarters and before certain
houses where I have seen your persons, but shall now only recognize
your shadows; to come at last to such an extremity of despair as to
execrate this dear Paris that I have loved so well; ah, by my faith,
no! And I find there was good reason for proscribing kings, were it
only on account of King Dagobert."

"And what relation has King Dagobert with what concerns us?"

"What? Did not this frightful tyrant say to the great Éloi, 'The best
company must part?' Ah, well! I am a Republican, and I say that nothing
should make us quit good company, not even the guillotine; I feel very
comfortable here, and here I will remain."

"My poor friend! my poor friend!" said Maurice.

Geneviève said nothing, but looked at them with eyes bathed in tears.

"You regret to lose your life, then?" said Lorin.

"Yes, on her account."

"I am not in the least sorry at losing mine, not even on account of
the Goddess Reason, who, I had forgotten to tell you, has latterly
behaved most shamefully to me; who will not take the trouble even
to console herself, like the other Arthémise of old. I shall go to
my death perfectly cool and rather facetious. I will amuse all the
beggarly wretches who follow the car. I will repeat a pretty quatrain
to Monsieur Sanson, and wish the company good-night,--that is to
say--wait!--" Lorin interrupted himself. "Ah! to be sure," said he, "I
will go out. I well knew that I loved no one, but I forgot that I hated
some one. The time, Maurice, the time?"

"Half-past three."

"I have time, Heaven! there is time."

"Certainly," cried Maurice; "there are nine more accused persons still
to be tried, this will not terminate before five o'clock; we have
therefore nearly two hours' respite."

"That is all that I require; give me your pass, and lend me twenty
sous."

"_Mon Dieu!_ what are you going to do?" murmured Geneviève. Maurice
pressed his hand. The all-important thing for him was that Lorin was
going out.

"I have my own plan," said Lorin.

Maurice drew his purse from his pocket, and placed it in his friend's
hand.

"Now, the pass, for the love of God!--I ought to say for the love of
the Supreme Being."

Maurice gave him the pass.

Lorin kissed Geneviève's hand, and availing himself of the moment when
a fresh batch of the condemned were ushered in, he leaped the benches,
and presented himself before the principal entrance.

"Eh!" said the gendarme, "here is one, it appears to me, trying to
escape."

Lorin drew himself up and presented his pass.

"Hold, Citizen Gendarme," said he, "and learn to know people better."

The gendarme recognized the signature of the registrar, but belonging
to a class of functionaries rather wanting in confidence, and as at
this moment the registrar himself came down from the Tribunal with a
nervous shudder, which had not left him since he had so imprudently
hazarded his signature,--

"Citizen Registrar," said he, "here is a pass bearing your signature,
with which this person wishes to leave the Salle des Morts, is it all
right?"

The registrar turned pale with fright, and feeling convinced that if
he turned his eyes in that direction it would only be to encounter the
terrible look of Dixmer, hastily seized the card and replied,--

"Yes, yes; it is my signature."

"Then," cried Lorin, "if it is your signature, return it to me."

"No;" said the registrar, tearing it into a thousand pieces; "these
cards can be available only once."

Lorin remained for a moment irresolute.

"So much the worse," said he; "but above all things it is necessary I
should kill him;" and he passed through the office.

Maurice had followed Lorin with an emotion easy to comprehend. When he
had disappeared, Maurice returned, saying with an exultation nearly
amounting to joy, "He is saved! Geneviève; the card is destroyed,
therefore he cannot enter. Besides, even if he were able to gain
admission, the sitting of the Tribunal will have terminated. At five
o'clock, he will return; but we shall have ceased to live."

Geneviève shuddered, and breathed a deep sigh.

"Oh, press me in your arms," said she, "and let us separate no more!
Why is it not possible, oh, my God! for one blow to annihilate us both,
that together we might breathe our last sigh?"

Then retiring into the depth of the gloomy hall, Geneviève placed
herself near Maurice, and twined her arms round his neck. Thus they
remained, rendered by the strength of their love insensible to the
surrounding scene, almost to the approach of death itself.

Half an hour passed thus.




CHAPTER LV.

WHY LORIN WENT OUT.


Suddenly a loud noise was heard; the gendarmes entered by the lower
door, behind them appearing Sanson and his assistants, the latter
carrying rolls of cord.

"Oh, my love!" said Geneviève, "the fatal moment has arrived, and I
feel that my senses are leaving me!"

"There you are wrong," said the cheering voice of Lorin.

 "That you are wrong is plain, you see;
 For what is death but to be free?"

"Lorin!" cried Maurice, in despair.

"They are not good, are they? I have adopted your opinion since
yesterday; I can only make contemptible--"

"Ah! that is the question. You are returned, unhappy man, you are
returned!"

"I considered that was our agreement. But listen, as what I have to say
to you will also interest the lady."

"My God! my God!"

"Allow me to speak, or I shall not have time to tell you all. I wished
to go out that I might purchase a knife in the Rue de la Baullerie."

"What did you want with a knife?"

"I wished to despatch this nice Monsieur Dixmer."

Geneviève shuddered.

"Ah!" said Maurice, "I comprehend."

"I purchased it. Listen attentively to what I said to myself, and
you will understand your friend has a mind for logic; indeed, I
begin to think I should have been a mathematician instead of a poet.
Unfortunately, it is now too late. This is the way I reasoned: Monsieur
Dixmer has compromised his wife; Monsieur Dixmer was present at her
trial; and Monsieur Dixmer will not deprive himself of the pleasure of
seeing her pass in the fatal car; especially as we accompany her. I
will then look out for him among the foremost of the spectators. I will
glide near him, and say, 'Good-day, Monsieur Dixmer;' and I will plunge
my knife into his heart."

"Lorin!" cried Geneviève.

"Compose yourself, dear friend; Providence had arranged all. Picture to
yourselves the spectators, instead of remaining stationary in front of
the Palace, according to their usual custom, made a half-turn to the
right, and lined the quay. 'Oh!' said I to myself, 'it is doubtless a
dog drowned. Why should not Dixmer be there? Even a dog drowning will
serve to pass away the time.' I approached the parapet, and beheld all
along the high bank a crowd of people who, throwing their arms aloft
into the air, and uttering loud exclamations, stooped down to gaze at
something on the ground. I joined them, and also looked down. There was
something!--Guess what it was."

"Dixmer!" said Maurice, in a gloomy tone.

"Yes. How could you guess that? Yes; it was Dixmer, killed by a ghastly
wound. The unfortunate wretch had no doubt committed suicide in
expiation of his guilt."

"Ah," said Maurice, with a sad smile, "do you think so?"

Geneviève let her head droop between her hands. She was too feeble to
support these successive emotions.

"Yes; I thought so, from his blood-stained sword being found near him;
unless, indeed--he had met some one."

Maurice, without reply, availing himself of the moment when Geneviève,
overpowered by emotion, did not observe him, opened his coat and
displayed to Lorin his waistcoat and shirt stained with blood.

"Ah! that alters the case," said Lorin, as he held out his hand to
Maurice. "Now," said he, whispering in his ear, "they have not searched
me, seeing that I entered in Sanson's suite. I have still the knife, if
the guillotine is too revolting to your feelings."

Maurice seized the weapon with a joyful expression.

"No," said he, "she would suffer too much," and he returned the knife
to Lorin.

"You are right," said Lorin; "long live Monsieur Guillotine! Why, what
is it, after all? A fillip on the neck, according to Danton. And what
signifies a fillip?"

And he flung his knife in the midst of a group of the condemned, one of
whom immediately seized and buried it in his breast. He was dead in an
instant.

At the same moment Geneviève awoke, and uttered a piercing cry. She
felt the pressure of the executioner's hand upon her shoulder.




CHAPTER LVI.

LONG LIVE SIMON!


At the sound of this cry Maurice understood that the struggle was
about to commence. The influence of love may be able to exalt the soul
to heroism,--it may, against natural instinct, impel a human being
to desire death, but it had not in this instance extinguished the
repugnance to pain. It was evident that Geneviève resigned herself
the more patiently to death since Maurice was to die with her; but
resignation does not exclude suffering, and to quit this world is not
only to fall into the abyss termed unknown, but also to suffer in the
descent.

Maurice, at a glance, embraced the entire scene, and thought of what
would follow.

In the centre of the hall lay the suicide, from whose breast the
gendarme had just torn the weapon of destruction, fearing, probably, it
might be used by some of the others.

Around him were several individuals mute with despair and scarcely
heeding him, inscribing in their pocket-books some disconnected
words, or pressing one another's hands; some repeating, without any
intermission, a cherished name, or bathing with tears a portrait, a
ring, or tress of hair; some venting imprecations against tyranny,
a state of affairs cursed by all, ay sometimes even by the tyrants
themselves. In the midst of these unfortunates, Sanson, oppressed less
from his fifty years than his melancholy office,--Sanson, as mild,
and as much their consoler as his terrible vocation permitted him to
be, to this one offered advice, to that one some sad consolation or
encouragement, finding some Christian responses to their accents of
despair as well as to their bravado.

"Citizeness," said he to Geneviève, "I must remove your scarf, and cut
off your hair, if you please."

Geneviève began to tremble.

"Come, dear lady," said Lorin, softly, "take courage!"

"May I remove the lady's hair?" asked Maurice.

"Oh, yes," cried Geneviève; "I entreat you to permit him to do so,
Monsieur Sanson."

"He may," said the old man, turning away his head.

Maurice first took off his necktie, and Geneviève, stooping, fell on
her knees before the young man, presenting her charming head, appearing
more beautiful in her grief than she had ever been in her days of
sunshine and happiness.

When Maurice had completed the funereal operation, his hands were so
tremulous and his countenance betrayed so much grief that Geneviève
exclaimed,--

"Ah! I am courageous, Maurice."

Sanson turned round.

"Is it not so, sir?" said Geneviève; "am I not courageous?"

"Certainly, Citizen," replied the executioner, in a perturbed voice,
"for yours is true courage."

In the mean time the first assistant had glanced over the list
forwarded by Fouquier Tinville.

"Fourteen," said he.

Sanson counted the condemned.

"Fifteen, including the dead," said he; "why, how is this?"

Lorin and Geneviève counted after him, both struck by the same thought.

"You say there are only fourteen condemned, and that we are fifteen?"
said she.

"Yes; the Citizen Fouquier Tinville must have made a mistake."

"Ah! you spoke falsely, then," said Geneviève, turning to Maurice; "you
were not condemned."

"And why wait for to-morrow, when you die to-day?" said Maurice.

"My love," said she, smiling, "you reassure me; I am now convinced that
it is easy to die."

"Lorin," said Maurice, "now for the last time--no one here can
recognize you--say that you came to bid me adieu; say that you have
been shut in by mistake; call the gendarme who saw you go out. I am the
true criminal who ought to die. But you, my friend, we beseech you to
live to love our memory. There is yet time, Lorin; we entreat you!"

Geneviève joined her hands in an attitude of prayer. Lorin took both
her hands and kissed them.

"I have said no, and I mean no," said Lorin, in a firm voice; "say no
more on the subject, or I shall think I am a bore to you."

"Fourteen," repeated Sanson, "and here are fifteen;" then elevating his
voice, "Is there any one here who can protest against this?" said he;
"is there any one here who can prove he is here by mistake?"

Perhaps some lips half-opened at this question, but closed again
without uttering a single word; since those who felt inclined to lie
were ashamed to do so, and those who would not lie were determined not
to speak.

A silence of several minutes ensued, during which the assistants
continued their mournful office.

"Citizens, we are ready," said old Sanson, in his deep and solemn
voice. He was answered only by sobs and groans.

"Well!" said Lorin, "so be it!

 No death is nobler, none more high,
 Than for our native land to die.

Yes, to die for our native land; but decidedly I begin to think we do
not die for her, but for the pleasure of those who witness our deaths.
Faith! Maurice, I have adopted your opinion. I am disgusted with the
Republic!"

"The call!" said a commissary, at the door.

Several gendarmes entered the hall, closing up the issues, thus placing
themselves between life and the condemned, as if to prevent them from
returning to it.

The death-roll was called.

Maurice, who had witnessed the trial of the condemned man who had
destroyed himself, when his name was called answered in his stead. They
then found that, excepting the dead man, the number was correct.

The corpse was removed from the hall; but if the man's identity had
been established, and he had been recognized as one condemned, he would
have been guillotined with the rest, though already dead.

The survivors were pushed toward the outlet, in order that as each
passed before the wicket his hands might be tied behind his back.
For the space of ten minutes not a word was exchanged between these
unfortunates; the executioners alone seemed endowed with life or motion.

Maurice, Geneviève, and Lorin, not being any longer able to retain
their hold of each other, crowded together that they might not be
separated.

When the condemned were removed from the Conciergerie into the court,
the scene became truly appalling. Several grew faint at the sight of
the carts, and the turnkeys were compelled to assist them to mount the
steps of these vehicles of death. Behind the still closed doors was
heard the confused murmur of the crowd; and it might be inferred from
the sound that the concourse was immense.

Geneviève courageously ascended the car; Maurice at her side sustained
her; he sprang in rapidly after her.

Lorin did not hurry himself, but carefully selected his seat at the
left of Maurice.

The doors opened, and foremost in the crowd stood Simon. The two
friends immediately recognized him; indeed, the recognition was mutual.
He was standing upon a fence near which the cars must pass, for there
were three of them. The car containing our three friends moved first.

"Ah! good-day to you, my brave grenadier!" said Simon to Lorin; "you
are going to try the effect of my leather-cutting machine, I suppose?"

"Yes," said Lorin; "and I will be careful not to notch it, that it may
be ready when your turn comes."

The two remaining cars followed the direction of the first. And
now commenced a terrific tempest of cries, shouts, groans, and
maledictions, surrounding and following the condemned.

"Courage! Geneviève, take courage!" murmured Maurice.

"Oh!" replied the young woman, "I do not wish for life since I die with
you. I regret only that my hands are tied, so that I cannot embrace you
before I die."

"Lorin," said Maurice, "feel in my waistcoat pocket, there you will
find a knife."

"Zounds!" said Lorin, "a penknife is the very thing needed; I should be
ashamed to die, garroted like a calf."

Maurice placed his pocket on a level with his friend's hands; Lorin
found the knife, which between them they succeeded in opening. Maurice
then placed it between his teeth, and severed the cord which bound
Lorin's hands, who, the moment they were free, performed the same
office for Maurice.

"Make haste!" said the young man; "Geneviève is fainting."

In fact, to accomplish this operation Maurice had for a moment turned
from Geneviève, when, as if all her strength had been derived from him,
her eyes closed, and her head sank upon her breast.

"Geneviève, open your eyes, my love," said Maurice; "we have only a few
minutes more to see each other in this world."

"The cords wound me," murmured the young woman.

Maurice unbound them. She immediately re-opened her eyes, and rose,
radiant with almost celestial beauty. She threw one fair arm around
Maurice's neck, and with the other hand took that of Lorin; and thus,
all three standing in the cart, with two more victims lying at their
feet wrapped in the stupor of anticipated death, they gazed toward
heaven with a look of ardent gratitude for having been permitted to
support and console each other, while those who had outraged and
insulted them previously were now perfectly silent. The scaffold was in
sight. Maurice and Lorin beheld it. Geneviève did not; she saw naught
but her lover. The car stopped.

"I love thee!" said Maurice to Geneviève; "I love thee!"

"The woman first! the woman first!" shouted a thousand voices.

"Thanks, good people," said Maurice; "who then can call you cruel?"

He took Geneviève within his arms, pressed his lips fondly upon hers,
and delivered her to Sanson.

"Courage!" cried Lorin; "courage!"

"I have it!" said Geneviève; "I have it!"

"I love thee!" murmured Maurice; "I love thee!"

They were no longer victims about to be slaughtered, but friends making
a festival of death.

"Adieu!" cried Geneviève to Lorin.

"Farewell, till we meet again!" replied he.

And Geneviève disappeared under the fatal drop.

"After you," said Lorin.

"After you," replied Maurice.

"Hark! she calls you."

At this moment Geneviève uttered her last cry.

"Come!" said she.

A furious uproar took place in the crowd. The fair and graceful head
had fallen.

Maurice rushed forward.

"It is exactly correct," said Lorin; "let us follow logic. Do you hear
me, Maurice?"

"Yes."

"She loved you, and they have murdered her first; you are not
condemned, and therefore die the second; and I, who have done nothing,
being the greatest criminal of the three, die the last.

 And thus you see how passing clear
 Logic makes everything appear.

Good faith! Citizen Sanson, I promised you a quatrain; but you must be
content with a distich."

"I did love thee!" murmured Maurice, lying on the fatal plank, and
smiling at the head of his beloved,--"I did lo--" The knife cut short
the last word.

"Now for my turn!" cried Lorin, bounding on the scaffold, "and be
quick, or I shall lose my head! Citizen Sanson, I owe you two verses,
instead of which I offer you a pun."

Sanson placed him in his turn.

"Let us see," said Lorin,--"it is the fashion to cry long live
something, when dying. Once it was, 'Vive le Roi,' but now there is
no king; next the cry was, 'Vive la Liberté,' but there is no more
liberty. Faith, Long live Simon! say I, who unites us all three."

And the head of the generous and noble-hearted young man fell near
those of Maurice and Geneviève.


THE END.










THE

Romances of Alexandre Dumas.

ROMANCES OF THE REIGN OF HENRY II.

  I. The Two Dianas                     3 vols.
 II. The Page of the Duke of Savoy      2 vols.


THE VALOIS ROMANCES.

   I. Marguerite de Valois     2 vols.
  II. La Dame de Monsoreau     2 vols.
 III. The Forty-Five           2 vols.


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   I. The Three Musketeers                               2 vols.
  II. Twenty Years After                                 2 vols.
 III. The Vicomte de Bragelonne; or, Ten Years Later     6 vols.


THE REGENCY ROMANCES.

  I. Le Chevalier D'Harmental     1 vol.
 II. The Regent's Daughter        1 vol.


A ROMANCE OF THE REIGN OF LOUIS XV.

 Olympe de Clèves      2 vols.


THE MARIE ANTOINETTE ROMANCES.

   I. Memoirs of a Physician            3 vols.
  II. The Queen's Necklace              2 vols.
 III. Ange Pitou                        2 vols.
  IV. La Comtesse de Charny             4 vols.
   V. Le Chevalier de Maison-Rouge      1 vol.


THE NAPOLEON ROMANCES.

 The Companions of Jehu             2 vols.
 The Whites and the Blues           2 vols.

 The Black Tulip                    1 vol.
 The Count of Monte Cristo          4 vols.
 The She-Wolves of Machecoul }
 The Corsican Brothers       }      2 vols.


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LIST OF ROMANCES.


THE VALOIS ROMANCES.

 Marguerite de Valois                        2 vols
 La Dame De Monsoreau                        2  "
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 The Forty-Five                              2  "
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 Twenty Years After                      2  "
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 The Queen's Necklace                  2  "
 Ange Pitou                            2  "
   ⁂ Sometimes called "Taking the Bastille."
 Comtesse de Charny                    4  "

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 The Regent's Daughter                       1  "


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The paper is of extra quality, affording an important adjunct to the
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The exquisite frontispieces are etched in the finest manner from
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LIST OF THE VOLUMES.


THE CAXTON NOVELS.

 The Caxtons                   2 vols.
 My Novel                      4  "
 What will he do with It?      3  "


NOVELS OF LIFE AND MANNERS.

 Pelham   }
 Falkland }               2 vols.
 The Disowned             2  "
 Paul Clifford            2  "
 Godolphin                1 vol.
 Ernest Maltravers        1  "
 Alice                    1  "
 Night and Morning        2 vols.
 Lucretia                 1 vol.
 Kenelm Chillingly }
 The Coming Race   }      2 vols.
 The Parisians            2  "


ROMANCES.

 Eugene Aram                        1 vol.
 The Pilgrims of the Rhine }
 Zicci                     }        1  "
 Zanoni                             1  "
 A Strange Story              }
 The Haunted and the Haunters }     2 vols.


HISTORICAL ROMANCES.

 Devereux                                    2 vols.
 The Last Days of Pompeii                    1 vol.
 Rienzi, the Last of the Roman Tribunes      2 vols.
 The Last of the Barons                      2  "
 Leila and Calderon     }
 Pausanias, the Spartan }                    1 vol.
 Harold, the Last of the Saxon Kings         2 vols.


_Any Story can be supplied separately._


 WARREN. Ten Thousand a Year. By Samuel Warren. With a Portrait of the
 author, beautifully etched by F.T. Stuart. 3 vols. 12mo. Decorated
 cloth, gilt top, $4.50; plain cloth, gilt top, $3.75; half calf or
 half morocco, extra, gilt top, $9.00.

A new and choicely printed edition of this celebrated English novel,
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The story has always been deservedly popular, has been widely read for
nearly fifty years in England and America, and translated in France
and Germany; the present edition, in clear, readable type, with choice
presswork and paper, has been accepted as the only adequate library
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 GEORGE SAND. The Choice Works of the Great French Novelist.

 1. François the Waif (_François le Champi_). Translated from the
 French by Jane Minot Sedgwick. Printed at the De Vinne Press. With
 a frontispiece especially drawn and etched for this edition by the
 eminent French artist, E. Abot.

 2. The Devil's Pool (_La Mare au Diable_). Translated from the French
 by Jane Minot Sedgwick and Ellery Sedgwick. Printed at the De Vinne
 Press. With frontispiece drawn and etched by E. Abot.

 3. Fadette (_La Petite Fadette_). Translated from the French by Jane
 Minot Sedgwick. Printed at the De Vinne Press. With frontispiece,
 embodying an original design and a portrait of George Sand, drawn and
 etched by E. Abot.

 4. The Master Mosaic Workers (_Les Maîtres Mosaïstes_). Translated
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Limited Edition. Seven hundred and fifty numbered sets on Windsor
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 Chambers's Cyclopædia._


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 254 Washington Street, Boston.




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