We have already said that in a few hours the news of this event had circulated through Paris. In short, there were at this epoch various indiscretions easy to comprehend on the part of a government of which the political schemes were made and unmade in the street.
The rumor gradually gained ground, till it at length reached the old Rue Saint Jacques, and two hours after the arrest of Maurice they heard of his detention.
Thanks to the activity of Simon, the details of the plot were quickly reported beyond the Temple; but as every one embellished the original according to his fancy, the truth was somewhat altered by the time it reached the master-tanner's. One said a poisoned flower had been conveyed to the queen, by means of which the Austrian would stupefy her guards, and thus be enabled to escape from the Temple; it was also said that certain suspicions were entertained of the fidelity of the battalion dismissed by Santerre on the preceding evening,--so that already several victims were consigned to the hatred of the people.
But the inhabitants of the old Rue Saint Jacques were not, of course, deceived as to the real nature of the event; and Morand on one side, and Dixmer on the other, went out immediately, leaving Geneviève a victim to the most violent despair.
If this misfortune had befallen Maurice, it was she who had been the sole cause of it. It was her hand that had conducted the young man blindfold to the entrance of the dungeon which now enclosed him, and which, in all human probability, he would quit only for the scaffold.
But under any circumstances Maurice should not lose his head on account of his devotion to her wishes. If Maurice were condemned, she would accuse herself before the tribunal, and would confess all. She would take all the responsibility upon herself, and at the expense of her life would save Maurice. And Geneviève, instead of feeling any fear of death, experienced, on the contrary, a melancholy happiness at the idea of dying for Maurice.
She loved the young man, she loved him more than was right in a woman who belonged not to herself; and to die would be for her the means of giving back to God her soul, pure and unspotted as she had received it from him.
On quitting the house, Dixmer and Morand separated, the former took the road to the Rue de la Corderie, the latter hastened to the Rue des Nonandières. Arriving at the end of the Bridge Marie, Morand perceived that crowd of idlers and common people which in Paris during or after the occurrence of anything remarkable collects at the place, as crows assemble on the field of battle.
At this sight Morand stopped short, a universal tremor shook his frame, and he leaned for support against the parapet.
At length, after a few seconds, he regained the almost miraculous power which under trying circumstances he exercised over his feelings, and mingling with the various groups, commenced his inquiries, and learned that a short time before they had taken from the Rue des Nonandières, No. 24, a young woman, most certainly guilty of the crime of which she stood then accused, as they surprised her in the act of making these packets. Morand inquired before what club the poor girl would be interrogated, and found they had conducted her to the section Mère, where he immediately followed her.
The club was thronged, but by making free use of his elbows and fists, he succeeded in forcing an entrance. The first sight he encountered was the tall and noble figure of Maurice, standing haughtily in the place of the accused, and annihilating Simon by his looks.
"Yes, Citizens," cried Simon, who was concluding his accusation; "the Citizen Tison accuses the Citizen Lindey and the Citizen Lorin. The Citizen Lindey mentions a flower-girl, upon whom he endeavors to cast all the blame; but, as I told you before, the flower-girl will not be found, and that it is a vile plot formed by a body of aristocrats who toss back the ball from one to the other, like cowards as they are. You have seen, besides, that the Citizen Lorin had decamped when his presence was required; and he will return no more than the flower-girl."
"Then you have lied, Simon," cried a furious voice; "he will return, for he is here."
And Lorin strode into the hall.
"Room for me!" said he, pushing aside the spectators. "Room for me!" And he placed himself near Maurice.
The entrance of Lorin, so natural, and without affectation, yet combining all the freedom and strength inherent in the character of the young man, produced an immense effect upon the Tribunes, who instantly greeted him with cries of applause.
Maurice contented himself by smiling and holding out his hand to his friend,--the friend concerning whom he had said to himself, "I shall not long stand alone at the bench of the accused."
The spectators gazed with visible interest on these two handsome young men whom the foul shoemaker of the Temple, like a demon envious of their youth and beauty, had accused.
He soon perceived the unfavorable impression he had made, and determined to strike the last blow.
"Citizens!" roared he; "I demand that the generous Citizen Tison should be heard; let her speak, and bring forward her accusation."
"Citizens," said Lorin, "I demand that the flower-girl who has just been arrested, and who no doubt will be brought before you, may be first heard."
"No, no," said Simon; "it is just some false evidence,--some partisan of the aristocrats. Besides, the woman Tison is most impatient to forward the means of justice."
Meanwhile Lorin took the opportunity to whisper to Maurice.
"Yes," cried the Tribunes; "the deposition of the woman Tison; let her testify!"
"Is the woman Tison in the hall?" demanded the president.
"Without doubt she is here," cried Simon. "Citizen Tison, answer for yourself."
"I am here, President; but if I depose, will they give me back my daughter?" said the female jailer.
"Your daughter has nothing at all to do with the affair with which we are at present engaged," said the president. "Make your deposition first, and then appeal to the Commune to restore your child."
"Do you hear?" said Simon; "the citizen president commands you to make your deposition. Do so at once!"
"A moment," said the president, turning toward Maurice, astonished at the calmness of a man generally so impetuous. "One moment. Citizen Municipal, have you nothing to say first?"
"No, Citizen President,--except that before Simon attached the words 'traitor and coward' to a man like myself, it would have been better to have waited till he was more correctly informed."
"You say that? you say that?" replied Simon, with the sneering accent peculiar to the plebeian Parisian.
"I say, Simon," replied Maurice, with more of sorrow than anger, "that you will be most cruelly punished immediately, when you see what is about to happen."
"What is about to happen, I should like to know?" demanded Simon.
"Citizen President," said Maurice, without deigning to notice the question of his hideous accuser, "I unite with my friend Lorin in demanding that the young girl who has just been arrested may be heard before this poor woman is compelled to speak, who, no doubt, has been prompted to this deposition."
"Listen, Citizeness!" said Simon; "listen! They say down there that you are a false witness?"
"I a false witness!" cried the woman Tison. "You shall see; you shall see! Wait!"
"Citizen," said Maurice, "in pity desire this woman to remain silent."
"Ah! you are afraid," said Simon,--"you are afraid! Citizen President, I require the deposition of the woman Tison."
"Yes! yes! the deposition!" cried the Tribunes.
"Silence!" cried the president; "the Commune returns."
At this moment the sound of a carriage was heard outside, amid the noise of shouts and arms.
Simon turned uneasily toward the door.
"Quit the box," said the president to him; "you have nothing more to tell." Simon descended.
At this moment some gendarmes entered, with a crowd of curious idlers, which was soon driven back, and a woman was pushed toward the judgment-hall.
"Is it she?" whispered Lorin to Maurice.
"It is," replied Maurice. "Miserable woman, she is lost!"
"The flower-girl! the flower-girl!" murmured the Tribunes, whose curiosity was raised to the highest pitch. "Is this the flower-girl?"
"I demand, before everything else," roared Simon, "the deposition of the woman Tison. You commanded her to testify, President, and she has not yet done so."
The woman was recalled, and entered upon a dreadful and circumstantial deposition. The flower-girl, it was true, was alone criminal; but Maurice and Lorin were her accomplices.
This denunciation produced an incredible effect upon the public mind; and now, indeed, Simon was in the ascendant.
"Gendarmes," said the president, "bring forward the flower-girl."
"Oh, this is frightful!" said Maurice, concealing his face in his hands.
The flower-girl was called, and placed before the Tribune, exactly opposite to Tison's wife, whose testimony had convicted her of a capital crime.
She raised her veil.
"Héloïse!" cried the woman Tison; "my child. You here!"
"Yes, mother," replied the young woman, gently.
"And why do you enter between two gendarmes?"
"Because I am accused, mother."
"You! Accused, and by whom?" cried the woman, in anguish.
"By you, mother."
A frightful silence, like the precursor of death, fell suddenly upon the noisy assemblage, while the painful feeling excited by this horrible scene oppressed every heart.
"Her daughter," was whispered, as if by voices in the distance,--"her daughter! Unhappy woman!"
Maurice and Lorin regarded both the accuser and the accused with sentiments of deep commiseration, mingled with respectful pity for their unhappy fate.
Simon, anxious to witness the conclusion of this tragedy, in which he hoped both Maurice and Lorin would remain actors, endeavored to withdraw from the attention of the woman Tison, who gazed wildly around.
"What is your name, Citizeness?" said the president to the young girl, himself affected at the scene.
"Héloïse Tison, Citizen."
"What is your age?"
"Nineteen years."
"Where do you reside?"
"Rue des Nonandières, No. 24."
"Did you sell the Citizen Lindey, whom you now see in the dock, a bouquet of carnations this morning?"
The young girl turned round and looked at Maurice.
"Yes, Citizen, I did," said she.
The mother herself gazed at her daughter, her eyes dilated with terror.
"Are you aware that every carnation contained a billet addressed to the widow Capet?"
"I know it," replied the accused.
A movement of horror and admiration spread itself through the hall.
"Why did you offer these carnations to the Citizen Maurice?"
"Because I perceived that he wore the scarf of a municipal, and I imagined he was going to the Temple."
"Who are your accomplices?"
"I have none."
"What! have you then concocted this plot alone?"
"If it is a plot, I alone am concerned in it."
"But did the Citizen Maurice know--"
"That the flowers contained the billets?"
"Yes."
"The Citizen Maurice is a municipal; the Citizen Maurice could converse with the queen at any hour of the day or the night. The Citizen Maurice, if he had wished to say anything to the queen, had no occasion to write; he could speak."
"And you do not know the Citizen Maurice Lindey?"
"I had sometimes seen him come to the Temple while I was there with my poor mother, but I only know him by sight."
"Do you see, miserable wretch," said Lorin, shaking his fist at Simon, who, dismayed at the turn of affairs, with his head lowered, was attempting to sneak away unperceived,--"do you see what you have done?"
Every one regarded Simon with looks of deep indignation.
The president continued.
"Since you made up these bouquets, you of course are aware that each flower contained a paper, and therefore must know also what was written upon that paper?"
"Of course I do."
"Well, then, tell us what it was?"
"Citizen," said the young girl, with firmness, "I have told all I either can, or will, tell."
"Then you refuse to answer this question?"
"Yes."
"Do you know to what you expose yourself?"
"Yes."
"You trust perhaps to your youth and beauty?"
"I trust in God."
"Citizen Maurice Lindey, Citizen Hyacinthe Lorin," said the president, "you are free. The Commune recognizes your innocence, and admires your loyal spirit. Gendarmes, conduct the Citizeness Héloïse to the prison of the section."
At these words the woman Tison seemed to awake, and uttering a piercing cry, attempted to rush forward once more to embrace her daughter, but was withheld by the guards.
"I forgive you, mother," said the young girl, as they led her away.
The woman Tison uttered a savage roar, and fell down as if dead.
"Noble girl!" murmured Morand, filled at once with grief and admiration.