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.