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“Don’t worry.”

The young man took a step toward the door. “Maurice!” cried Geneviève.

He turned back and saw her arms stretched toward him.

“Good-bye! Good-bye, my love!” he said. “Be brave! I’ll be back before you know it.”

Geneviève was alone in the house with the mission of packing for the journey. She threw herself into the task with a kind of frenzy. While she remained in Paris it seemed to her she was doubly guilty. Once they were out of France, once they were on foreign soil, it seemed to her that her crime, a crime that was more fate’s than her own, would surely weigh less. She even went so far as to hope that in some future splendid isolation she would wind up forgetting that any man but Maurice ever existed.

They had to flee to England, that much was agreed. They would find a small house, a cottage somewhere, on its own, isolated, shut well away from the prying eyes of others. They would change their names, making a single shared name out of the two they bore.

Once there they would take on a couple of servants, who would know nothing whatever about their past. Providence evidently wanted both Maurice and Geneviève to speak English. Neither of them was leaving anything behind in France they would miss—but for the mother you can’t help but miss even when she is wicked; the mother that goes by the name of motherland, nation.…

And so Geneviève began to sort out the objects that were indispensable for their voyage, or rather their flight. She felt ineffable pleasure in distinguishing among them the things for which Maurice had a predilection: the jacket that fitted most snugly into his waist, the cravat that best set off his ruddy coloring, the books he most often flicked through.

She had already made her choice; already, awaiting the chests that would safely contain them and bear them away, frocks, linen, and books covered the chairs, the sofas, and the piano. Suddenly she heard the key grind in the lock.

“Ah!” she thought. “That must be Agesilaus coming back. Maurice must have met up with him.”

She continued at her task. The doors of the salon were open, so she could hear the officieux shifting about in the anteroom. At that precise moment she was holding a roll of sheet music and looking for something to tie it with.

“Agesilaus!” she called out.

Someone’s tread, coming nearer, resounded in the neighboring room.

“Agesilaus!” Geneviève called out again. “Come here, would you?”

“Here I am!” said a voice.

At the sound of the voice, Geneviève turned around sharply and gave a terrible shriek.

“My husband!” she shrieked.

“In person,” said Dixmer calmly.

Geneviève was standing on a chair; she had been reaching up to feel around for some sort of ribbon or string somewhere to tie the music. She felt her head spin, reached out her arms, and let herself fall backward, as though into an abyss below that she could plummet into. But Dixmer caught her and carried her to a sofa and sat her down.

“What could be the matter with you, dear heart?” he asked. “Is it my presence that produces such an unpleasant effect on you?”

“I’m dying!” cried Geneviève, lying back with both hands over her eyes so as not to see the terrible apparition.

“Right!” said Dixmer. “Did you think I had already passed away, my darling? Do you think I’m a ghost?”

Geneviève looked around her, dazed, and, seeing the portrait of Maurice, let herself slip off the sofa onto her knees, as though to beseech the help of this powerless and insensate image that continued to beam at her. The poor woman knew only too well all the menace that Dixmer hid under the affected calm.

“Yes, my dear child,” the tanner continued, “it really is me. Perhaps you thought I was miles away from Paris, but I wasn’t: I stayed here in town. The day after the day I left the house I went back and saw a lovely heap of ashes in its place. I asked after you but no one had seen you. I began to look for you and I had a devil of a job finding you. I confess I didn