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“Oh! If that’s all, Maurice, I swear to you and with all my heart,” cried Geneviève, delighted that Maurice was himself offering her this trade-off with her conscience.

Maurice seized both hands Geneviève had raised heavenward and covered them with hot kisses.

“Well then, now I’ll be good, docile, confident,” he said. “Now I’ll be generous. I want to laugh with you, I want to be happy.”

“And you won’t ask for anything more?”

“I’ll try not to.”

“Now,” said Geneviève, “I think it’s pointless having your horse held for you like this. The section can wait.”

“Oh, Geneviève! I wish the whole world could wait and that I could make it wait for you.”

Steps were heard in the courtyard.

“Someone’s coming to tell us lunch is served,” said Geneviève.

They squeezed each other’s hand furtively.

It was Morand who’d come to tell them that everyone was waiting only for them to sit down at the table.

He, too, had dressed up for the occasion.

19

THE REQUEST

Maurice was most interested to see Morand decked out so luxuriously. The most refined young fop of a muscadin would have found nothing to reproach him with in the knot of his tie, the fold of his boots, the fineness of his linen. It has to be admitted, though: it was the same old hair and the same old glasses. But Maurice was so reassured by Geneviève’s vow that it seemed to him he was seeing this hair and these glasses for the first time as they really were.

“Damn me,” said Maurice to himself as he went to meet him, “and the devil take me if I’m ever jealous of you again, excellent citizen Morand! You can put on your décadi-best dove-grey frock coat every day of the week if you like, and get yourself a décadi frock coat of spun gold. Starting from today, I promise to see only your lank hair and your goggles, and in particular never to accuse you of loving Geneviève again.” You can imagine how much more frank and cheerful than usual was the handshake he gave to citizen Morand.

For once, there was only a small gathering for lunch. Only three places were set at a small table. Maurice realized that he could touch Geneviève’s foot under the table and that their feet would be able to carry on the quietly amorous conversation their hands had begun.

They sat down. Maurice watched Geneviève out of the corner of his eye. She sat with her back to the light, between him and the window, her black hair gleaming with a blue reflection like a crow’s wing, her complexion sparkling, her eyes moist with love.

When Maurice sought and found Geneviève’s foot, he watched her face for a reflection of the first contact and saw her at once blush and turn white; but her tiny foot remained peacefully under the table, happily wedged between both of his.

With his dove-grey frock coat, Morand seemed to have resumed his décadi-best wit, that brilliant rapier wit Maurice had previously seen spurt from the lips of this strange man and which would no doubt have been beautifully accompanied by the flame in his eyes if those dreadful green spectacles hadn’t extinguished any such fire.

He said heaps of hilarious things without once laughing: what gave Morand’s jokes their punch, what lent a strange charm to his sallies, was his imperturbable cool. This merchant who had traveled so widely in the skin trade, seeking out all kinds of skins, from the coats of panthers to rabbit fur; this chemist with arms stained red with dye; he knew Egypt as well as Herodotus did, Africa as well as Levaillant and the opera and the boudoir1 as well as any young blade of a muscadin.

“But I’ll be damned, citizen Morand,” said Maurice, “you not only know everything, you’re wise with it.”

“Oh! I’ve seen a lot, all right—or I’ve read a lot, more to the point,” said Morand. “But then, shouldn’t I prepare myself a bit for the life of leisure I count on throwing myself into as soon as I’ve made my fortune? It’s time, citizen Maurice, it’s high time.”

“Bah!” said Maurice. “You talk like an old man! How old are you, anyway?”

Morand gave a start at the question, innocent as it was.

“I’m thirty-eight years old,