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.