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.