Knight of Maison-Rouge

  He could not believe it. This house that Maurice had so often visited out of the sheerest pleasure, this house that had been for him paradise on Earth, was just a den of murderous intriguers! All the warm welcomes he had been given, all the protests of undying friendship—all that was nothing but hypocrisy; all Geneviève’s love was nothing but fear!

  We already know the layout of the garden, where our readers have followed our young protagonists more than once. Maurice darted from one dark mass to the next until he was sheltered from the moon’s rays by the shadow of the hothouse in which he’d been locked up that first day.

  The hothouse was opposite the pavilion where Geneviève lived. But this night, instead of there being a single light burning steadily in the young woman’s bedroom alone, there were lights all over the house, moving from one window to the next. Maurice spotted Geneviève through a curtain that lifted accidentally; she was shoving things frantically into a portmanteau, and he saw with astonishment that a weapon gleamed in her hands.

  He hoisted himself up on a ledge to get a better view. A great fire caught his eye, burning away in the fireplace. Geneviève was burning papers!

  At that moment a door opened and a young man walked into Geneviève’s room. Maurice’s first idea was that this was Dixmer. The young woman ran to him and seized his hands and they stood looking at each other for a moment, seemingly in the grip of some intense emotion. What was this emotion? Maurice couldn’t guess; their words did not reach him. But Maurice quickly sized the man up.

  “That’s not Dixmer,” he muttered. Indeed, the man who had just walked in was thin and short; Dixmer was tall and stocky.

  Jealousy is a powerful stimulant. In one second flat Maurice had estimated the height of the stranger to within a quarter of an inch and compared this with the husband’s silhouette.

  “That’s not Dixmer,” he muttered again, as though he had to repeat it to himself to be convinced of Genevieve’s perfidy.

  He drew closer to the window, but the closer he got the less he could see. His forehead was on fire, and he stumbled and knocked a ladder with his foot. The window was about seven or eight feet from the ground. He leaned the ladder against the wall, climbed up, and glued his eyes to the gap in the curtain.

  The stranger in Geneviève’s bedroom was a young man of twenty-seven or twenty-eight, with blue eyes and an elegant demeanor; he was holding the young woman’s hands, talking to her and wiping the tears that veiled her beautiful eyes.

  A slight noise that Maurice made caused the young man to wheel around to the window. Maurice bit off a cry of surprise: he recognized his savior from the place du Châtelet.

  At that moment, Geneviève withdrew her hands from the stranger’s and went to the fireplace to assure herself the papers had been consumed.

  Maurice couldn’t contain himself any longer. All the terrible passions that can torture a man—love, lust for vengeance, jealousy—tore at his heart with their teeth of fire. He seized his chance, violently pushed open the loose casement window, and sprang into the room.

  At the same moment two pistols were aimed at at his chest. Geneviève had turned around at the noise and was absolutely dumbfounded at seeing Maurice.

  “Monsieur,” said the young republican coldly to the man who held his life twice over at the end of two barrels, “monsieur, so you are the Knight of Maison-Rouge?”

  “And what if I were? “replied the Knight.

  “Oh! If you were, you are a brave man and so a reasonable man, and I have a couple of things to say to you.”

  “Say away,” said the Knight without lowering his guns.

  “You can kill me, but not before I utter a cry, or rather I won’t die without having uttered one. If I call out, a thousand men who are circling this house even as we speak will have reduced it to ashes in a matter of minutes. So put down your pistols and listen to what I have to say to madame.”

  “To Geneviève? “asked the Knight.

  “To me?” murmured Geneviève.

  “Yes, to you.”

  Geneviève, whiter than a marble statue, clutched at Maurice’s arm. The young man pushed her away.

  “You know what you told me, madame,” said Maurice with profound contempt. “I see now that you told the truth. You do not, obviously, love Monsieur Morand.”

  “Maurice, listen to me!” cried Geneviève.

  “I have nothing to listen to, madame,” said Maurice. “You lied to me; you have broken in one blow all the bonds that bound my heart to yours. You told me you did not love Monsieur Morand but you did not tell me you loved another.”

  “Monsieur,” the Knight interrupted, “why are you going on about Morand? Or rather, which Morand are you going on about?”

  “Morand the chemist.”

  “Morand the chemist stands before you. Morand the chemist and the Knight of Maison-Rouge are one and the same.”

  And reaching to a nearby table he instantly grabbed and clapped on his head that old black wig that had for so long made him unrecognizable to the young republican.

  The Knight made a threatening move.

  “Monsieur,” Maurice continued, “please let me have a word with madame; stay and listen to our little chat, if you like; it won’t be long, I can assure you.”

  Geneviève signaled to Maison-Rouge to be patient.

  “So,” Maurice resumed, “so, Geneviève, you’ve made me a laughingstock among my friends! A thing of loathing to my own people! You used me, blind as I was, to serve your plots! You used me as though I were some handy implement! What you’ve done is base! But you’ll be punished for it, madame; for this man is going to kill me before your very eyes! But he’ll be lying lifeless at your feet too before five minutes are up. Or if he lives it will be to carry his head to the scaffold.”

  “Him, die!” cried Geneviève. “Him, carry his head to the scaffold! But don’t you understand, Maurice, that he is my chevalier, my protector, that of my family; that I would 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. “So you are going to go on saying you love me, perhaps. Women truly are the most pathetic cowards.”

  Then he turned around: “Do it, monsieur,” he said to the young royalist. “Kill me or die.”

  “Why?”

  “Because if you don’t kill me I’ll arrest you.”

  Maurice lunged forward and grabbed the man by the collar.

  “I won’t fight you for my life,” said the Knight of Maison-Rouge. “Here!”

  And he threw his weapons on an armchair.

  “Why won’t you fight me for your life?”

  “Because my life is not worth the remorse I would feel in killing a gallant man, and, more to the point, because Geneviève loves you.”

  “Ah!” cried the young woman, clasping her hands. “Ah! You are always so good, grand, loyal, and generous, Armand!”

  Maurice watched them both in such amazement his mouth was gaping like an idiot’s.

  “Here,” said the Knight. “I’m going back to my room. I give you my word of honor that it is not to escape but to hide a portrait.”

  Maurice swiftly glanced at Geneviève’s portrait on the wall, but it was in its place. Either Maison-Rouge guessed Maurice’s thoughts or he wished to push his generosity to the limit: “Come,” he said, “I know you are a republican, but I also know you are a pure and loyal heart. I trust you to the end, you see! Have a look!”

  And he drew from his breast pocket a miniature, which he showed to Maurice. It was a portrait of the Queen. Maurice looked askance and brought a hand to his forehead.

  “I await your orders, monsieur,” said Maison-Rouge. “If you still want to go ahead and arrest me, knock on this door when the time comes for me to hand myself over. Life has lost its meaning for me now that it is no longer sustained by the hope of saving the Queen.”

  The Knight left the room without Maurice making a single move to stop him. He was barely o
ut of the room when Geneviève threw herself at Maurice’s feet.

  “Forgive me,” she begged. “Forgive me, Maurice, for all the wrong I have done you. Forgive me for all my deceit, forgive me in the name of all my suffering and my tears, for, I swear to you, I’ve nearly drowned in my tears, I’ve nearly died of suffering. Ah! My husband left this morning; I don’t know where he’s gone and perhaps I’ll never see him again. And now a single friend remains to me—no, not a friend, a brother—and you’re about to have him killed. Forgive me, Maurice! Forgive me!”

  Maurice pulled her up off the floor.

  “What do you expect?” he said. “It’s fate. Everyone is playing for their lives now. The Knight of Maison-Rouge has played like all the rest, but he has lost. Now he has to pay.”

  “That is to say he’ll die, if I understand you correctly.”

  “Yes.”

  “He has to die and you’re the one who is telling me that?”

  “It’s not me, Geneviève; it’s destiny.”

  “Destiny hasn’t had the last word yet in this affair, for you can save him.”

  “At the cost of my word and so of my honor. I see, Geneviève.”

  “Close your eyes, Maurice, that’s all I’m asking you to do; I promise you, I’ll be as grateful as it is possible for a woman to be.”

  “I would close my eyes in vain, madame; there is a watchword, a watchword without which no one can get out of here; for, I repeat, the house is surrounded.”

  “But you know what it is?”

  “Of course I know what it is.”

  “Maurice?”

  “Well?”

  “My friend, my dear Maurice, tell me the watchword, I must have it.”

  “Geneviève!” cried Maurice. “Geneviève! Who are you to come to me and say: Maurice, in the name of the love I feel for you, forgo your word, forgo your honor, betray your cause, renounce your beliefs? What are you offering me, Geneviève, in exchange for all that, you who are thus tempting me?”

  “Oh, Maurice! Save him first, and then you can ask for my life.”

  “Geneviève,” said Maurice in a somber voice, “listen to me: I have one foot on the road to infamy; to go down that road completely I need a good reason at least to defeat my own purpose and sink myself. Swear to me, Geneviève, you don’t love the Knight of Maison-Rouge.…”

  “I do love the Knight of Maison-Rouge, but like a sister, like a friend, not otherwise, I swear to you!”

  “Geneviève, do you love me?”

  “Maurice, I love you, as surely as God can hear me.”

  “If I do what you ask me to do, will you abandon family, friends, your country, to flee with such a traitor?”

  “Maurice! Maurice!”

  “She’s hesitating.… Ah! She’s got to think about it!”

  With that Maurice jerked back with all the violence of disdain. With his support suddenly removed, Geneviève fell to her knees.

  “Maurice,” she said wringing her hands. “Maurice, I’ll do anything you want, I swear; just say the word and I will obey.”

  “You will be mine, Geneviève?”

  “Whenever you ask.”

  “Swear to Christ!”

  Geneviève stretched out her arm. “My God!” she said. “You forgave the woman taken in adultery, I hope you will forgive me.”

  Enormous tears rolled down her cheeks and fell on long wisps of hair floating over her breasts.

  “Oh, not like that!” cried Maurice. “How can I accept your vow now?”

  “My God!” she started again. “I swear to consecrate my life to Maurice, to die with him, and if need be for him, if he saves my friend, my protector, my brother, the Knight of Maison-Rouge.”

  “That’s enough! He will be saved,” said Maurice. And he called the Knight.

  “Monsieur,” he said, “put Morand the tanner’s outfit back on. I’m giving you back your word, you are free.”

  “And you, madame,” he said to Geneviève, “here are the words: Carnation and Underground Tunnel.”

  Then, as though he could not bear to remain in the room where he had pronounced the words that made him a traitor, he flung the window open and jumped from the room to the garden.

  31

  THE SEARCH

  Maurice had resumed his position in the garden opposite Geneviève’s casement window; but the light was now out. Geneviève had gone back in to the Knight of Maison-Rouge.

  Maurice had fled just in time, for he had scarcely reached the hothouse when the garden door opened and the man in grey appeared, followed by Lorin and a handful of grenadiers.

  “Well?” asked Lorin.

  “As you can see,” Maurice answered, “I’m at my post.”

  “No one has tried to force their way out?” asked Lorin.

  “No one,” Maurice answered, happy to have avoided telling a lie by the manner in which the question had been posed. “No one! What about you? What have you been up to?”

  “We have confirmed with certainty that the Knight of Maison-Rouge entered this house one hour ago and has not come out since,” answered the man from the police.

  “And you know which is his room?” asked Lorin.

  “His room is separated from citizeness Dixmer’s only by a hallway.”

  “Aha!” said Lorin.

  “There was no need for any separation at all: apparently this Knight of Maison-Rouge is a horny dog.”

  Maurice felt the blood rush to his head; he closed his eyes and a blaze of light hit his eyeballs.

  “I see! But … what about citizen Dixmer? What did he have to say about that cozy arrangement?” asked Lorin.

  “He felt rather honored.”

  “Right!” said Maurice in a strangled voice. “What have we decided?”

  “We have decided,” said the man from the police, “that we’ll go and take him in his room, maybe even in his bed.”

  “He doesn’t suspect anything?”

  “Absolutely nothing.”

  “What is the layout of the terrain?” asked Lorin.

  “We have a perfectly exact floor plan,” said the grey man. “A pavilion is situated in one corner of the garden—there it is; you go up four steps—see them here? You find yourself on a landing. To the right, the door of citizeness Dixmer’s apartment; no doubt that’s it, where we can see the window. Opposite the window, at the back, there’s a door opening onto the hall, and off the hall, the door of the traitor’s room.”

  “Good, well, that’s some map,” said Lorin. “With a plan like that you could get around blindfolded, or better still with your eyes open. So let’s go.”

  “Are the streets well-guarded?” asked Maurice with a keenness that all those present naturally attributed to the fear that the Knight would escape.

  “Streets, passageways, crossroads, the whole shebang,” said the grey man. “I defy a mouse to get through without the watchword.”

  Maurice shivered; all these precautions made him fear that his treason would not be crowned with bliss.

  “Now,” said the grey man, “how many men do you need to arrest the Knight?”

  “How many men?” asked Lorin. “I certainly hope Maurice and I can do the trick on our own, eh, Maurice?”

  “Yes,” stammered Maurice, “I would think the two of us would be enough.”

  “Listen,” said the man from the police, “no pointless boasting. Are you determined to nab him?”

  “For heaven’s sake! Are we determined?” cried Lorin. “I should think so! Eh, Maurice? We have to get him, don’t we?”

  Lorin emphasized the verb. As he had said, the beginnings of suspicion were hovering over them, and suspicion had to be given no time to take hold, for in those days it took no time at all for it to firm up into fact. Lorin knew that no one would dare doubt the patriotism of the two men who had managed to bag the Knight of Maison-Rouge.

  “Well then!” said the man from the police. “If you really are determined, let’s take three men rather than two
with us, four rather than three; the Knight always sleeps with a sword under his pillow and two pistols on his night table.”

  “Damn!” said one of the grenadiers from Lorin’s company. “Let’s all go in, no special treatment for anyone. If he gives himself up, we’ll hold him for the guillotine; if he resists, we’ll rip him to shreds.”

  “Well said!” said Lorin. “Forward! Do we go through the door or the window?”

  “Through the door,” said the man from the police. “Maybe, if we’re lucky, the key will be in it, whereas if we go in by the window we have to break a few panes, and that’ll make a noise.”

  “The door it is!” said Lorin. “As long as we enter, who cares how? Off we go, sword in hand, Maurice.”

  Maurice drew his sword from its sheath mechanically. The small troop advanced toward the pavilion. They found everything as the man in grey had indicated, encountering first the front steps before finding themselves on the landing and then in the hallway.

  “Ah!” cried Lorin gleefully. “The key is in the door!”

  He had reached out in the dark and, incredibly, felt the cold metal of the key.

  “What are we waiting for! Open up, citizen lieutenant!” said the grey man.

  Lorin turned the key in the lock with care; the door opened. Maurice wiped his forehead, dripping with sweat.

  “Here we are,” said Lorin.

  “Not yet,” said the grey man. “If our topographical information is correct, we are now in the apartment of citizeness Dixmer.”

  “We can check,” said Lorin. “Light some candles, there’s still a bit of a fire in the grate.”

  “Let’s light the torches,” said the grey man. “Torches don’t go out like candles.”

  He took two torches from the hands of a grenadier and lit them by the dying fire. He stuck one in Maurice’s hand and the other in Lorin’s.

  “You see,” he said, “I was not mistaken: here’s the door that leads to citizeness Dixmer’s bedroom and here’s the one that leads to the hallway.”

  “Forward!” said Lorin. “Into the hallway!”