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She was sitting at a table with her head down and her eye on her embroidery. She turned around at the sound of the door opening and acknowledged Dixmer.

“Ah, it’s you, my friend,” she said.

“Yes,” said Dixmer with a placid, beaming face. “I’ve just had a letter from our friend Maurice that I can’t make head or tail of. Here, you read it and tell me what you think.”

Geneviève reached out for the letter; despite her best efforts at self-control, she couldn’t stop from trembling as she took the letter and read.

Dixmer watched her, and sure enough, she scanned every line.

“Well?” he asked when she was done.

“Well, I think citizen Monsieur Maurice Lindey is an honest man,” answered Geneviève with the greatest possible composure, “and that there is nothing to fear from him.”

“Do you think he knows about the people you went to see in Auteuil?”

“I’m sure he doesn’t.”

“So why this sudden break? Did he seem to you colder or more emotional yesterday than usual?”

“No,” said Geneviève. “I think he was much the same.”

“Think carefully what you’re saying there, Geneviève, because, as you know, your answer will have serious consequences for all our plans.”

“Just a moment,” said Geneviève with an emotion that broke through all her efforts at maintaining a cool demeanor. “Just a moment …”

“All right!” said Dixmer with a slight contraction of the muscles of his face. “All right, try to remember everything, Geneviève.”

“Oh, yes,” the young woman collected herself. “Yes, I remember now: yesterday he was most morose. Monsieur Maurice is a bit of a tyrant when it comes to his friendships … and he sometimes sulks and stays away from us days on end.”

“So he’s just sulking?” asked Dixmer.

“Probably.”

“Geneviève, in our position, you understand, we can’t be content with probabilities. We need certainties.”

“Well then, my friend … I’m certain.”

“So this letter is just a pretext for not coming to the house anymore?”

“My friend, how can you expect me to tell you such things?”

“Tell me, Geneviève,” Dixmer went on. “I wouldn’t ask any other woman.”

“It is a pretext,” said Geneviève, eyes downcast.

“Ah!” said Dixmer.

Then, after a moment’s silence in which he frantically tried to suppress the beating of his heart with his hand, he pulled his hand out from his vest and placed it on the back of his wife’s chair.

“Do something for me, dear friend,” Dixmer said.

“What?” asked Geneviève, looking up, astonished.

“I don’t want there to be even the shadow of a doubt. Perhaps Maurice knows more about our secrets than we realize. What you think is a pretext may be more than that. Drop him a line.”

“Me?” gasped Geneviève, flinching.

“Yes, you; tell him it was you who opened the letter and that you’d like an explanation. He will come, you will question him, and that way you’ll be able to make an informed guess as to what it’s all about.”

“Oh, no, never!” cried Geneviève. “I can’t do what you ask of me and I won’t.”

“Dear Geneviève, when interests as powerful as those which rest on us are at stake, how can you recoil before puny considerations of pride?”

“I’ve given you my opinion of Maurice, monsieur,” Geneviève replied. “He is honest, he is chivalrous, but he is changeable, and I do not wish to suffer any other servitude than that imposed upon me by my husband.”

This statement was made so calmly and so firmly that Dixmer realized it would be useless to insist, at least for the moment. He did not say another word, looked at Geneviève without seeming to see her, wiped his hand across his clammy brow, and left.

Morand was waiting impatiently for him, and Dixmer gave him a blow-by-blow description of what had just been said.

“Fine,” said Morand, “let’s be content with that and put it out of our minds. Rather than cause the slightest hint of worry to your wife, rather than wound Geneviève’s pride in any way, I would renounce …”

Dixmer laid his hand on his shoulder.

“You are mad, monsieur,” he said staring straight into his eyes. “Either that or you don’t mean a word you say.”

“Dixmer! Do you think …”

“I think,