“But,” said Geneviève timidly, “if you feel Monsieur Maurice is so essential to your plans …”
“Let’s just say that I despair of seeing them succeed without him.”
“Well then, why don’t you try a new tack with citizen Lindey?”
It seemed to her that in calling him by his last name, her voice sounded less tender than when she called him by his first name.
“No,” said Dixmer, shaking his head. “No, I’ve done all I could: a new tack would seem strange—he’d smell a rat. No, and you know, Geneviève, I see further than you in all this business: there’s a wound at the bottom of Maurice’s heart: Maurice is hurting.”
“A wound?” asked Geneviève, genuinely moved. “My God! What are you saying? Tell me, my friend.”
“I’m saying that there’s more to our break with citizen Lindey than a mere caprice, and you know it as well as I do, Geneviève.”
“And to what do you thereby attribute such a break?”
“To pride!” said Dixmer with verve.
“Pride?”
“Yes, he was honoring us, or so he felt at least, this fine upstanding burgher of Paris, this strutting demiaristocrat fashion plate, preserving his susceptibilities beneath his patriotism; he was honoring us, this republican who is so high and mighty in his section, in his club, in his municipal council, by bestowing his friendship upon mere manufacturers of skins. Perhaps we didn’t make enough of a fuss over him, perhaps we forgot our place.”
“But,” protested Geneviève, “if we didn’t make enough of a fuss, if we did forget our place, it seems to me what you’ve done since should make up for that.”
“Yes, supposing that the wrong comes from me; but what if, on the contrary, it comes from you?”
“From me! How do you imagine I’ve wronged Monsieur Maurice?” Geneviève cried in amazement.
“Well, who knows, with someone like that? Didn’t you yourself say he was impetuous before anyone else did? Look, I’ve come back to my first idea, Geneviève: you were wrong not to write to Maurice.”
“Me!” cried Geneviève. “Do you really think so?”
“Not only do I think so, but I have thought so for the three weeks since the break.”
“And?” Geneviève timidly asked.
“And I regard such a measure as indispensable.”
“Oh, no, no, Dixmer! Don’t ask that of me.”
“You know perfectly well, Geneviève, that I never ask anything of you; I’m not asking you, I’m begging you, it’s as simple as that. Do you hear me? I beg you to write to citizen Maurice.”
“But …” stammered Geneviève.
“Listen,” Dixmer interrupted. “Either there are serious reasons why you and Maurice are fighting—for, as far as I’m concerned, there’s never been any complaint about my conduct; or your tiff is part of some childish game.”
Geneviève did not reply.
“If your little tiff is a childish game, you’d be mad to let it go on. If the cause is serious, we’ve come so far—let’s be perfectly clear about this—we must not stand on our dignity, or even on our pride. We cannot let some puerile spat jeopardize immense interests. Do you hear me? Pull yourself together, drop citizen Maurice Lindey a line, and he’ll be back in a flash.”
Geneviève reflected for a moment.
“But,” she said, “can’t we find a less compromising means to restore the good understanding between you and Monsieur Maurice?”
“Compromising, you say? On the contrary, it seems a perfectly natural way to do it to me.”
“Not to me, my friend.”
“You really are stubborn as an ox, Geneviève.”
“Allow me to observe that this is the first time you’ve noticed, at least.”
Dixmer, who had been twisting his handkerchief for some little time, used it to wipe his forehead, which was covered in sweat.
“Yes,” he said, “which is why I’m all the more astounded.”
“My God!” said Geneviève. “Is it possible, Dixmer, that you really don’t know why I’m resisting? Must you force me to speak?”
With that she hung her head and dropped her arms to her sides, exhausted, enfeebled, pushed to the limits. Dixmer appeared to be making a violent effort at self-control; he took Geneviève’s hand, forced her to lift her head, and, focusing on a point between her eyes, burst out laughing in a way that would have seemed particularly forced to Geneviève if she herself had been any less agitated at that moment.
“I know what it is!” said Dixmer. “In truth, you’re right. I was blind. For all your wit, my dear Geneviève, for all your distinction, you let yourself fall for a cliché: you were frightened Maurice might be in love with you.”
Geneviève felt something like a mortal chill pierce her heart. This irony of her husband’s about the love Maurice felt for her, a love of which, from what she knew of his nature, she could imagine all the violence, a love, in a word, that, without admitting it to herself other than by the nagging tug of remorse, she herself shared in her heart of hearts—this irony turned her to stone. She didn’t have the strength to look up. She knew she couldn’t possibly reply.
“I guessed right, didn’t I?” crowed Dixmer. “Well, rest assured, Geneviève, I know Maurice. He’s a fierce republican with no other love in his heart than love of his homeland.”
“Monsieur,” cried Geneviève. “Are you sure of what you’re saying?”
“There’s no doubt about it,” Dixmer said. “If Maurice loved you, instead of falling out with me he would have turned himself inside out showing how much he cared about me as the man he needed to deceive. If Maurice loved you, he would not so easily have given up his position as firm friend of the family, by means of which this kind of betrayal is usually cloaked.”
“For the sake of honor,” said Geneviève, “please don’t joke about such things!”
“I’m not joking, madame; I’m telling you Maurice doesn’t love you, that’s all.”
“And I’m telling you,” cried Geneviève, flushing wildly, “I’m telling you you’re wrong.”
“In that case,” said Dixmer, “Maurice has had the strength to clear out rather than betray the confidence of his host; he is a good man. Now, good men are rare, Geneviève; you can’t do too much to bring them back when they stay away. Geneviève, you will write to Maurice, won’t you?”
“Oh, God!” said the young woman.
With that she dropped her head into both hands, for the one she was about to lean on at such a dangerous juncture suddenly wasn’t there, and her head fell. Dixmer looked at her for a second, then forced himself to smile.
“Come, dear friend,” he said, “no feminine pride. If Maurice makes some great declaration to you again, just laugh it off as you did the first time. I know you, Geneviève, you are a worthy and noble soul. I’m sure of you.”
“Oh!” cried Geneviève, losing her footing so that one of her knees slipped and hit the ground. “Oh, God! Who can be sure of anyone else when no one can be sure of themselves?”
Dixmer went pale as though all his blood had rushed to his heart.
“Geneviève,” he said. “I was wrong to put you through all the anguish you’ve been through. I ought to have said to you straightaway: Geneviève, we are in an age of great devotion; Geneviève, I have devoted to the Queen, our benefactress, not only my arm, not only my head, but also my happiness. Others will give their lives for her. I would do more than give my life for her; I would risk my honor. And my honor, if it were to perish, will be just one more drop in the ocean of pain welling up ready to flood France. But my honor is not at risk when it is in the hands of a woman like my Geneviève.”
This was the first time Dixmer had ever wholly revealed himself.
Geneviève lifted up her head, fixed on him her beautiful eyes brimming with admiration; then she slowly rose and gave him her forehead to kiss.
“It’s what you want?” she said. Dixmer nodded. “
Tell me wha
t to say, then.”
And she picked up a quill.
“No,” said Dixmer. “It’s bad enough to use, perhaps abuse, this worthy young man. Since he’ll be reconciled with you the moment he receives a letter from you, Geneviève, let the letter be from you and not from Monsieur Dixmer.”
With that, Dixmer planted a second kiss on his wife’s forehead, thanked her, and left.
So Geneviève wrote, trembling all the while:
CITIZEN MAURICE,
You knew how much my husband loved you. Three weeks’ separation have seemed a century to us; have they made you forget? Come, we’ll be waiting for you. Your return will be a real celebration.
GENEVIÈVE
15
THE GODDESS OF REASON1
As Maurice had sent word to General Santerre the day before, he was seriously ill. Since he’d kept to his room, Lorin had come regularly to see him and had done everything in his power to persuade his friend to find some distraction. But Maurice hadn’t budged. There are some sicknesses you don’t want to recover from.
On the first of June, Lorin arrived at one o’clock.
“What’s so special today?” asked Maurice. “You’re done up to the nines.”
In fact, Lorin was wearing the compulsory getup: red bonnet, carmagnole, and red, white, and blue belt, decorated with the two implements then known as abbé Maury’s cruets2 but which, before that and ever since, have been known quite simply as pistols.
“The first thing,” said Lorin, “is the general collapse of the Girondins, which is happening even as we speak—and faster than you can imagine, at that. Right now, for example, they’re laying into them with cannonballs in the place du Carrousel. Then, speaking more precisely, there is a most solemn event to which I invite you the day after tomorrow.”
“But what’s on today, then? You say you’ve come to get me?”
“Yes. Today’s the rehearsal.”
“What rehearsal?”
“The rehearsal for the most solemn event.”
“My dear friend,” said Maurice, “you know I haven’t been able to go out for a week, so I’m no longer up on anything and I really do need to be kept informed.”
“Didn’t I tell you?”
“You haven’t told me a thing.”
“To start with, my dear friend, you already knew that we’d gotten rid of God some time ago now and that we’d replaced him with the Supreme Being.”3
“Yes, I know that.”
“Well, it seems they realized something—which is that the Supreme Being was a moderate, a Rolandist, a Girondin.”
“Lorin, please don’t joke about sacred things; you know I don’t like it.”
“What’s a person to do, my friend! You have to keep up with the times. I was pretty fond of the old God myself, first and foremost because I was used to Him. As for the Supreme Being, it appears he really does have some serious defects and that, since he’s been up there, everything’s been going to the dogs. In the end our legislators have decreed him deposed.…”
Maurice shrugged his shoulders.
“Shrug your shoulders all you like,” said Lorin.
“Thanks to philosophy
We, great henchmen of Momus,
Decree that madness
Will have its cult in partibus.
“ ‘Without real functions’—so much so, in fact,” Lorin continued, “that we’ve decided to worship the Goddess of Reason.”
“And you’re mixed up in all these masquerades?” asked Maurice.
“Ah, my friend! If you knew the Goddess of Reason like I know the Goddess of Reason, you’d be one of her hottest followers. Listen, I want you to meet her, let me introduce you.”
“Leave me out of all your lunatic shenanigans. I’m sad, you know very well.”
“All the more reason, for heaven’s sake! She’ll cheer you up, she’s a good sort.… Oh! But you know her, the austere goddess that the people of Paris are going to crown with laurel and parade about on a chariot covered in gold leaf! It is … guess!”
“How do you expect me to guess?”
“Artemisia.”4
“Artemisia?” said Maurice, trying to put a face to the name, without any such face popping into his head.
“Yes. A tall brunette I met last year … at the Opera ball. You came and had supper with us and got her drunk.”
“Ah, yes! That’s right,” replied Maurice. “I remember now. So she’s it?”
“She’s got the best chance. I presented her at the competition: all the Thermopylae club promised me their votes. The general election’s in three days. Today is the preview feast; we’ll be spilling a bit of champagne. Maybe the day after tomorrow we’ll be spilling blood! But whatever gets spilled, Artemisia will be goddess or the devil take me! So on your feet. We’ll get her to try on her tunic for us.”
“Thanks, but I don’t think so. I’ve always hated that kind of thing.”
“Dressing up goddesses? Christ, you’re hard to please! All right, then, if it will amuse you, I’ll put her tunic on for her and you can take it off.”
“Lorin, I’m sick; not only do I not have an ounce of gaiety left in me, but the gaiety of other people makes me even sicker.”
“Now you’re beginning to scare me, Maurice. You’ve given up the fight, you’ve lost your sense of humor; you’re not involved in some conspiracy by any chance, are you?”
“Me! Good God!”
“You mean: Good Goddess of Reason!”
“Leave me, Lorin; I can’t, I won’t go out. I’m in bed and I’m going to stay there.”
Lorin scratched his ear.
“All right!” he said. “I see what it is.”
“What do you see?”
“I see you’re waiting for the Goddess of Reason.”
“Hell’s bells!” cried Maurice. “Witty friends are such a pain in the neck. Get lost or I’ll heap curses upon you, you and your goddess.…”
“Heap away.…”
Maurice raised his hand to deliver a curse when he was interrupted by his officieux, who entered at that moment holding a letter for the citizen, his brother.
“Citizen Agesilaus,” said Lorin, “you come at a bad time; your master was about to enjoy a moment of glory.”
Maurice dropped his hand and reached out nonchalantly for the letter. But at the mere touch he shuddered; avidly bringing it closer to his eyes, he devoured the writing and the seal with a glance and, going pale all the while as though he were about to be sick, he broke the seal.
“Aha!” murmured Lorin. “Our curiosity’s finally been aroused, it would seem.”
Maurice was no longer listening. He was reading with all his soul Geneviève’s few lines. After reading them once, he read them again, twice, thrice, four times, then he wiped his forehead and dropped his hands, gazing at Lorin like a man in a daze.
“Cripes!” said Lorin. “Now there’s a letter that must bear interesting tidings!”
Maurice reread the letter for the fifth time and a new shade of scarlet colored his face. His dry eyes became moist and his chest rose in a profound sigh. Then, suddenly forgetting all about his illness and the weakness that had ensued, he leapt out of bed.
“My clothes!” he shouted to the stupefied officieux. “My clothes, my dear Agesilaus! Ah! My poor Lorin, my good Lorin! I was waiting for it every day but in all honesty I didn’t expect it. This, white pants, a shirt with a ruffle, and I’ll need my hair done and a shave right away!”
The officieux hastened to execute Maurice’s orders and managed to do his hair and shave him at once in a remarkable sleight of hand.
“Oh! To think I’m going to see her again! I’m going to see her again!” cried the young man. “Lorin, in all honesty, I have never known what happiness was till this moment.”
“My poor Maurice,” said Lorin, “I think you’re in need of that visit I advised.”
“Oh, my dear friend,” cried Maurice, “forgive me, but I’ve honestly lost my reason
.”
“Well then, let me offer you mine,” said Lorin, laughing at this appalling play on words.
What was most amazing was that Maurice laughed too. Happiness had made him facile when it came to matters of wit. And that was not all.
“Here,” he said, cutting off a branch of an orange tree covered in blossom. “My compliments to Artemisia, worthy widow of Mausolus.”5
“About time!” cried Lorin. “We could use a bit of chivalry! Looks like I’ll have to forgive you. And then it seems to me you really are in love, and I’ve always had the greatest respect for terrible misfortune.”
“Yes! I am in love!” cried Maurice, whose heart was bursting with joy. “I am in love and now I can admit it, because she loves me; for she’s asking me to come back—that means she loves me, doesn’t it, Lorin?”
“No doubt,” answered the worshiper of the Goddess of Reason rather casually. “But watch out, Maurice. The way you’re going about it worries me.…
“Often love of a Muse
Leads you to choose
Her over tyrant Cupid.
Next to the best, you lose your head
So love as I do Reason
And you won’t do anything stupid.”
“Bravo! Bravo!” cried Maurice, clapping his hands.
On that note, he bolted down the stairs four at a time with his knees up around his neck, ran to the quay, and flew off in the oh-so-familiar direction of the old rue Saint-Jacques.
“I think he applauded me, didn’t he, Agesilaus?” said Lorin.
“He certainly did, citizen, and there’s nothing surprising about that: that was very nice, what you said just then.”
“He’s sicker than I thought,” said Lorin.
And he descended the stairs too, though a little more calmly. Artemisia was not Geneviève, after all.
Scarcely had Lorin reached the rue Saint-Honoré, he and his orange blossom with him, than a mob of young citizens, to whom he was in the habit of distributing either centimes or kicks from under his carmagnole according to his frame of mind, trotted along respectfully behind him, no doubt taking him for one of those virtuous men Saint-Just6 recommended be offered white apparel and bouquets of orange blossom.