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Alas! Maurice was wrong again! The next day was the second of June, the terrible day that saw the Girondins fall. But Maurice sent his friend Lorin packing when Lorin had done his utmost to cart Maurice off to the Convention, putting everything else aside to go off and see the woman he loved. The Goddess of Liberty had a formidable rival in Geneviève.

Maurice found Geneviève in her little salon, and she was gracious and full of consideration. But by her side was a young chambermaid, sporting a red, white, and blue cockade, and busy marking handkerchiefs by the windowsill without any apparent intention of budging.

Maurice scowled; Geneviève could see the Olympian was in a bad mood and she laid her attentions on with a trowel. But as she didn’t push amiability as far as getting rid of the young officieuse, Maurice decided he’d had enough and flounced off an hour earlier than usual.

Yet, since all this could have been sheer bad luck, Maurice decided to be patient. That evening, in any case, the situation was so terrible that, although Maurice had lived beyond the reach of politics for some time now, the news floored even him. It required nothing less than the fall of a party that had ruled France for ten months to distract him for a second or two from his love.

The next day saw the same caper on Geneviève’s part, but Maurice had his own plan ready in anticipation: ten minutes into his visit, Maurice noticed that, after marking a dozen handkerchiefs, the chambermaid was starting on six dozen napkins, and so he pulled out his watch, saluted Geneviève, and left without a word. Better than that: as he left, he did not turn round once.

Geneviève, who’d gotten up to watch him cross the garden, remained momentarily blank, faint, and nervous; she fell back down onto her chair, completely distraught over the outcome of her little diplomatic exercise.

Right then, Dixmer strode in.

“Has Maurice gone?” he cried, astounded.

“Yes,” stammered Geneviève.

“But he only just got here, didn’t he?”

“About a quarter of an hour ago.”

“So he’s coming back?”

“I doubt it.”

“Leave us, Peony,” said Dixmer.

The chambermaid had taken the flower’s name out of hatred of the name Marie, which she had the misfortune to share with the Austrian woman. On her master’s invitation, she rose and left the room.

“Well, then, dear Geneviève,” Dixmer coaxed, “have you made peace with Maurice?”

“Quiet the opposite, my friend. I believe we are on worse terms than ever at this moment.”

“This time who’s in the wrong?” asked Dixmer.

“Maurice, without a shadow of a doubt.”

“Let me be the judge of that.”

“What!” said Geneviève, flushing. “Can’t you guess?”

“Why he’s angry? No, I can’t.”

“He’s allergic to Peony, it would seem.”

“Oof! Really? Well then, we’ll have to get rid of the girl. I’m not about to deprive myself of a friend like Maurice for the sake of some chambermaid.”

“Oh!” said Geneviève. “I don’t think he’ll go as far as demanding we banish her from the house. I think he’ll be satisfied with …”

“What?”

“With her being banished from my room.”

“And Maurice is right,” said Dixmer. “He comes to see you—not Peony; so there’s no point in Peony’s being there all the time when he comes.”

Geneviève looked at her husband with amazement.

“But, my friend …” she said.

“Geneviève,” Dixmer continued, “I thought you were an ally who would make the task I’ve imposed on myself easier; yet I find, on the contrary, that your fears are making our problems twice as bad. I thought we’d reached an agreement four days ago and now we’re back at square one. Geneviève, didn’t I tell you I trust in you, in your honor? Didn’t I say to you that it was essential that Maurice be our friend again—a closer, more trusting friend than ever? God! Women are always getting in the way of our plans!”

“But, my friend, isn’t there some other way? It would be better for all of us, as I’ve said, if Maurice stayed away.”

“Yes, for all of us, perhaps; but for she who is above all of us, for she for whom we have sworn to sacrifice our fortunes