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“Oh! You’re crying again, Geneviève,” he said with deep sadness. “You’re crying. Oh, don’t worry! I will never force myself where I’m not wanted. My lips will never besmirch themselves with a kiss that a single tear of regret would poison.”

With that he pulled his arms from around her, he unlocked his brow from hers and slowly turned away. But immediately, in one of those reactions that come so naturally to a woman who defends herself while feeling acute desire, Geneviève threw her trembling arms around Maurice’s neck, pressed herself against him violently, and plastered her cheek, still cold and wet with tears, against his burning face.

“Oh!” she murmured. “Don’t abandon me, Maurice, you’re all I have left in the world!”

33

THE MORNING AFTER

Golden sunshine streamed through the green shutters, gilding the leaves of three tall rose trees standing in wooden boxes on Maurice’s windowsill.

The roses were all the more precious since the season was almost over. Their perfume filled the air of a small, stone-floored, sparkling clean dining room where Geneviève and Maurice had just sat down to a table sparsely but elegantly laden.

The door was closed, for the table held everything the couple could want. And naturally they had both agreed to serve themselves.

Yet the officieux could be heard bustling about in the room next door, all in a flurry, like Phedra’s Ardelio. The heat and vibrancy of the last lovely days of summer filtered through the shutters along with the light, making the sun-kissed rose leaves glimmer like gold and emeralds.

Geneviève dropped the fruit she was holding onto her plate and smiled dreamily, but with her mouth only, while her great big eyes drooped forlornly; she remained silent, numb, even though she was alive and happy and basking in the sunshine of love as the gorgeous roses were soaking up the sunshine from the sky above.

Her eyes soon sought those of Maurice, which she found fixed on her; he was gazing at her and dreaming. She stretched her arm, so soft, so luminously white, and draped it across the young man’s shoulder, causing him to shudder with pleasure; then she leaned her head there with that confidence and abandon that are so much more than love.

Geneviève returned his gaze in silence and blushed. Maurice had only to incline his head slightly for his lips to press the open lips of his lover; he inclined his head. The color drained from Geneviève’s face, and her eyes closed like the petals of a flower hiding its inner cup from the rays of the sun.

They were still in this half-asleep state, enjoying unaccustomed bliss, when the sharp noise of the doorbell made them jump. They leapt apart as the officieux entered and mysteriously shut the door.

“It’s citizen Lorin,” he said.

“Ah! Good old Lorin,” said Maurice. “I’ll go and get rid of him. Excuse me, Geneviève.”

Geneviève stopped him.

“Get rid of your friend, Maurice!” she said. “A friend, a friend who has comforted you, helped you, supported you? No, I don’t want to chase such a friend from your house any more than your heart. Let him in, Maurice, let him in.”

“Really? You don’t mind?”

“I want him to come in,” said Geneviève.

“Oh! So you don’t think I love you enough,” cried Maurice, delighted by this delicacy. “You want to be idolized.”

Geneviève flushed and gave Maurice a nod; Maurice opened the door and Lorin strode in, beautiful as the day in his foppish muscadin getup. Seeing Geneviève, he showed surprise but swiftly followed this with a respectful greeting.

“Come, Lorin, come,” said Maurice, “you see madame. You’ve been dethroned, Lorin; there is now someone I prefer to you. I would have given my life for you. For her—I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know, Lorin, I know—but for her I’ve given my honor.”

“Madame,” said Lorin with a gravity that betrayed profound emotion, “I’ll try to love Maurice more than you do so he won’t stop loving me completely.”

“Please sit down, monsieur,” said Geneviève, smiling.

“Yes, do sit down,” said Maurice, who had