• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

“While they’re having dinner or supper, if that’s all right with you, through the glass partition where the municipal officers are.”

“Perfect!” said Morand.

Maurice then saw Morand go to the cupboard at the back of the kitchen and swiftly down a glass of strong wine. This surprised him. Morand was a most sober man and usually only drank water with a drop of red in it.

Geneviève noticed that Maurice was watching Morand drink in amazement.

“Imagine,” she said, “he’s killing himself with work, poor old Morand, so much so that he’s capable of not having had anything to eat or drink since yesterday morning.”

“So he didn’t dine here last night?” asked Maurice.

“No, he’s conducting experiments in town.”

Geneviève’s precaution was pointless, for Maurice, like a true lover, that is, like an egoist, had only remarked Morand’s action with the superficial attention a man in love accords anything that is not his beloved.

To the glass of wine Morand added a slice of bread, which he gulped down.

“And now,” he said with his mouth full, “I am ready, dear citizen Maurice. Whenever you are.”

Maurice, who brushed the withered pistils off one of the dead carnations he had picked in passing, offered Geneviève his arm, saying, “Off we go.”

And off they went. Maurice was so happy that his chest could barely contain his happiness; he would have cried for joy if he hadn’t held himself in check. Indeed, what more could he desire? Not only was Morand not loved, he was sure of that now, but he himself, he hoped, was loved. God had sent beautiful sunshine raining down over the earth, Geneviève’s arm trembled beneath his own, and the town criers, screaming their heads off about the triumph of the Jacobins and the fall of Brissot and his accomplices, announced that the nation was saved.

There truly are moments in life when a man’s heart is too small to hold the joy or pain that builds there.

“Oh, what a beautiful day!” cried Morand.

Maurice turned round with amazement; this was the first such outburst to issue forth to his knowledge from this eternally buttoned-up man, who always seemed to be elsewhere.

“Oh, yes! Yes, it really is beautiful,” said Geneviève, leaning on Maurice’s arm. “Let’s hope it remains clear and without a cloud until tonight, just as it is at this moment!”

Maurice thought her words were meant for him, and his happiness redoubled.

Morand looked at Geneviève through his green glasses, with a special expression of gratitude. Perhaps he, too, thought her words were meant for him.

And so they crossed the Petit-Pont, the rue de la Juiverie and the pont Notre-Dame, before crossing the place de l’Hôtel-de-Ville and following the rue Barre-du-Bec and the rue Sainte-Avoye. As they went along Maurice’s step became lighter, whereas, on the contrary, his partner and her companion slowed more and more perceptibly.

They had reached the rue des Vieilles-Audriettes when, all of a sudden, a flower girl blocked their way, presenting them with her tray of flowers.

“Oh! Look at the magnificent carnations!” cried Maurice.

“Oh! Yes, aren’t they gorgeous!” cried Geneviève. “Whoever grew them can’t have had anything else to do, for they are not dead, not these.”

This remark was music to the young man’s ears.

“Ah! My handsome municipal officer,” said the flower girl. “Buy a bouquet for the citizeness. She’s all in white, and here are some superb red carnations. Red and white go well together—and when she holds the bouquet to her heart, since her heart is very close to your blue uniform, between you you’ll have the national colors.”

The flower girl was young and pretty. She delivered her little compliment with a special kind of grace, and besides, her compliment was admirably apt and she couldn’t have done better in the circumstances if she’d been working at it. Furthermore, the flowers were almost symbolic. They were carnations similar to the ones that had died in the mahogany planter.

“Yes,” said Maurice, “I’ll buy you some, but only because they are carnations,