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.