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It was one of those lovely spring evenings when each plant sends its scent heavenward and each bird, sitting still on its branch or flitting among the bushes, sings its hymn of love to God, one of those evenings that seem destined to live on in memory.

Maurice was silent, Geneviève distracted and thoughtful; she was fingering the flowers in a bouquet she held in her other hand, the one resting on Maurice’s arm.

“What’s the matter?” Maurice suddenly asked. “What’s making you so sad today?”

Geneviève might have said: “my happiness.”

She turned her soft, poetic gaze upon him.

“But what about you? Aren’t you sadder than usual?”

“I have every reason to be sad, I am unhappy; but you?”

“You, unhappy?”

“Of course. Can’t you tell by the way my voice sometimes trembles that I’m suffering? Don’t you notice that sometimes when I’m talking to you or your husband I’m suddenly forced to get up and go outside for air because it feels like my chest will burst?”

“But to what do you attribute this suffering?” asked Geneviève, at a loss.

“If I were some kind of neurasthenic,” said Maurice, laughing a painful little laugh, “I’d say I had a case of nerves.”

“Are you suffering at this moment?”

“Very much,” said Maurice.

“Then we’ll go back.”

“So soon, madame?”

“Of course.”

“Oh, yes, of course,” the young man muttered. “I’d forgotten Monsieur Morand will be back from Rambouillet at nightfall, and night is beginning to fall.”

Geneviève cast him a reproachful glance.

“Again!” she said.

“Just why did you praise him so pompously the other day?” asked Maurice. “It’s your fault.”

“Since when can one not say what one thinks of someone admirable to someone one admires?”

“That’s some admiration that makes you race the way you’re doing at the moment for fear of being a few minutes late.”

“You are royally unjust today, Maurice. Haven’t I spent a good part of the day with you?”

“You’re right; I am too demanding,” said Maurice, giving in to his impetuous nature. “Let’s go and see Monsieur Morand!”

Geneviève felt a stab of bitter disappointment in the region of her heart.

“Yes,” she said, “by all means let’s go and see Monsieur Morand; he is one friend, at least, who has never caused me pain.”

“Friends like that are precious,” said Maurice, choking with jealousy. “I wish I had some.”

They were now on the main road. The horizon was turning red as the sun disappeared, sending its dying rays dancing over the molten gold moldings of the dome of the Invalides.5 A star, the first, the one that on another evening had attracted Geneviève’s gaze, twinkled in the limpid azure sky.

Geneviève let go of Maurice’s arm in sad resignation.

“Why do you make me suffer like this?” she said.

“Ah, well, it’s because I’m not as clever as other people I know; I don’t know how to make myself loved.”

“Maurice!” cried Geneviève.

“Oh, madame! If he’s always on his best behavior, always even-tempered, it’s because he doesn’t care.”

Geneviève placed her white hand back on Maurice’s powerful, manly arm.

“Please,” she whispered in a changed voice, “let’s not talk anymore, let’s not!”

“Why not?”

“Because your voice hurts me.”

“So there’s nothing about me you like, not even my voice?”

“Be quiet, I beseech you.”

“Your wish is my command, madame.”

And the impetuous young man wiped his hand across his forehead, which was damp with sweat. Geneviève could see that he really was suffering. Men like Maurice feel pain others can’t imagine.

“You are my friend, Maurice,” said Geneviève, gazing at him with a heavenly expression. “A very precious friend. Please, Maurice, don’t let me lose you.”

“Oh! You won’t miss me for long!” cried Maurice.

“You’re wrong,” said Geneviève. “I would miss you for a very long time—always.”

“Geneviève! Geneviève! Have pity on me!” cried Maurice.

Geneviève shivered. It was the first time Maurice had pronounced her name with such deep longing.

“All right,” Maurice continued, “since you’ve finally understood, let me get it off my chest,