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."