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“Someone was supposed to be there but he didn’t show.”

“Who?”

“Citizen Maurice Lindey,” said Dixmer in a tone he forced himself to keep neutral.

“And why didn’t he show?” asked Geneviève, making the same effort at self-control.

“He was sick.”

“Him, sick?”

“Yes, and pretty seriously, too. Patriot as you know him to be, he was forced to let someone else take his place.”

Dixmer paused, then went on: “God knows, Geneviève, even if he’d been there, it would have amounted to the same thing. Since we’re supposed to have fallen out, he might have avoided speaking to me.”

“My friend,” said Geneviève, “I think you’re exaggerating the gravity of the situation. Monsieur Maurice may have given us the cold shoulder for some silly reason, but that does not make him our enemy. He may have cooled, but that would not stop him from being polite, and if he’d seen you coming toward him, I’m certain he’d have met you halfway.”

“Geneviève,” said Dixmer, “for what we were hoping to get out of Maurice, you need more than politeness—though that wasn’t too much to hope for from a true and deep friendship. Our so-called friendship is in tatters. So there’s nothing more to hope for from that quarter.”

With that Dixmer let out a deep sigh, while his forehead, usually so untroubled, furrowed sadly.

“But,” said Geneviève timidly, “if you feel Monsieur Maurice is so essential to your plans …”

“Let’s just say that I despair of seeing them succeed without him.”

“Well then, why don’t you try a new tack with citizen Lindey?”

It seemed to her that in calling him by his last name, her voice sounded less tender than when she called him by his first name.

“No,” said Dixmer, shaking his head. “No, I’ve done all I could: a new tack would seem strange—he’d smell a rat. No, and you know, Geneviève, I see further than you in all this business: there’s a wound at the bottom of Maurice’s heart: Maurice is hurting.”

“A wound?” asked Geneviève, genuinely moved. “My God! What are you saying? Tell me, my friend.”

“I’m saying that there’s more to our break with citizen Lindey than a mere caprice, and you know it as well as I do, Geneviève.”

“And to what do you thereby attribute such a break?”

“To pride!” said Dixmer with verve.

“Pride?”

“Yes, he was honoring us, or so he felt at least, this fine upstanding burgher of Paris, this strutting demiaristocrat fashion plate, preserving his susceptibilities beneath his patriotism; he was honoring us, this republican who is so high and mighty in his section, in his club, in his municipal council, by bestowing his friendship upon mere manufacturers of skins. Perhaps we didn’t make enough of a fuss over him, perhaps we forgot our place.”

“But,” protested Geneviève, “if we didn’t make enough of a fuss, if we did forget our place, it seems to me what you’ve done since should make up for that.”

“Yes, supposing that the wrong comes from me; but what if, on the contrary, it comes from you?”

“From me! How do you imagine I’ve wronged Monsieur Maurice?” Geneviève cried in amazement.

“Well, who knows, with someone like that? Didn’t you yourself say he was impetuous before anyone else did? Look, I’ve come back to my first idea, Geneviève: you were wrong not to write to Maurice.”

“Me!” cried Geneviève. “Do you really think so?”

“Not only do I think so, but I have thought so for the three weeks since the break.”

“And?” Geneviève timidly asked.

“And I regard such a measure as indispensable.”

“Oh, no, no, Dixmer! Don’t ask that of me.”

“You know perfectly well, Geneviève, that I never ask anything of you; I’m not asking you, I’m begging you, it’s as simple as that. Do you hear me? I beg you to write to citizen Maurice.”

“But …” stammered Geneviève.

“Listen,” Dixmer interrupted. “Either there are serious reasons why you and Maurice are fighting—for, as far as I’m concerned, there’s never been any complaint about my conduct; or your tiff is part of some childish game.”

Geneviève did not reply.

“If your little tiff is a childish game, you’d be mad to let