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“Citizen Morand hates me,” he complained to Geneviève one day. “You?” said Geneviève gazing at him with her great round eyes. “You? Monsieur Morand hates you?”

“Yes, I’m sure of it.”

“Why would he hate you?”

“Do you really want me to tell you?” cried Maurice.

“Of course.”

“Well then, because …”

Maurice bit off his words. He was going to say: “because I love you.”

“I can’t tell you why,” said Maurice, blushing to the roots of his hair. Around Geneviève, the staunch republican was as bashful and hesitant as a girl. Geneviève smiled.

“If you said there was no sympathy between you, I might believe you. You have an ardent, impetuous nature, a brilliant mind, you’re very much sought after. Morand is a merchant grafted onto a chemist. He’s shy, modest … and it’s this shyness and this modesty that prevent him from making the first move toward you.”

“So who’s asking him to make the first move? I’ve made fifty moves toward him; he’s never responded. No,” Maurice continued, shaking his head, “no, it can’t be that.”

“Well then, what can it be?”

Maurice preferred not to say.

The day after Geneviève had offered him this explanation, he got to her place at two in the afternoon and found her dressed to go out. “Ah, welcome,” she said. “You can be my knight in shining armor.”

“And where are you off to?”

“To Auteuil.3 The weather’s so delicious, I’d like to have a little walk. Our carriage will take us just past the city barrier, then we’ll proceed to Auteuil on foot, and when I’ve finished what I have to do there, we’ll walk back and pick it up again.”

Maurice was enchanted. “Oh, what a gorgeous prospect—how can I resist!”

The two young people took off in the carriage, which dropped them off just past Passy. They sprang down to the side of the road and continued their promenade on foot. When they reached Auteuil, Geneviève stopped.

“Wait for me at the edge of the park,” she said. “I’ll come and join you when I’ve finished.”

“Who are you going to see, then?” asked Maurice.

“A woman I know.”

“And I can’t go with you?”

Geneviève shook her head, smiling.

“No, you can’t,” she said.

Maurice bit his lip.

“Fine,” he said. “I’ll wait.”

“What’s wrong?” asked Geneviève.

“Nothing,” Maurice answered. “Will you be long?”

“If I’d realized I was putting you out, Maurice, if I’d known your day was full, I would not have asked you to do me the small service of accompanying me. I’d have asked …”

“Morand?” Maurice promptly cut in.

“No. You know Monsieur Morand is at the factory in Rambouillet and won’t be back till tonight.”

“So that’s why you asked me instead.”

“Maurice,” Geneviève said gently, “I can’t keep the person who’s expecting me waiting. If it’s a nuisance taking me back to Paris, you go; just send the carriage back for me.”

“No, no, madame,” said Maurice sharply, “I’m at your service.”

With that he bowed to Geneviève, who gave out a gentle sigh and set off into Auteuil. Maurice went to the meeting point and wandered around like Tarquin,4 whipping the heads off the grasses and all the flowers and thistles in his path. This path was restricted to a pretty small space; like anyone lost in thought, Maurice paced back and forth relentlessly.

What was troubling Maurice was the weighty question of whether Geneviève loved him or not. She treated him the way a sister or close friend would; but for him, this was no longer enough. He loved her with all his heart. She had become the idea that occupied his every waking hour and that appeared to him in his dreams each and every night. Once he had asked only to be able to see her again. Now that was no longer enough: Geneviève had to love him back.

Geneviève was gone for a good hour, which seemed like a century to Maurice. When he saw her coming toward him with a smile on her lips, he strode toward her, frowning. Our poor hearts are so made that they seek to draw pain from happiness itself.

Still smiling, Geneviève took Maurice’s arm.

“Here I am,” she said. “Sorry to keep you waiting.…”

Maurice managed a nod by way of reply and they both turned down a sumptuous