Maurice left Dixmer with Morand and joined Geneviève as he said to himself, "It must be confessed the trade of municipal is degrading to the hero! About eight days in the Temple one might fancy one's self an aristocrat and denounce one's self. Honest Dixmer! Plodding Morand! Gentle Geneviève! And I, idiot that I was, to have suspected them for a moment!"
Geneviève awaited Maurice with a sweet smile calculated most effectually to dispel every vestige of suspicion. She was as usual sweet, amiable, and charming.
The hours passed in Geneviève's society were those only in which Maurice could be said really to exist. At all other times he was infected with that fever which might be termed the fever of '93, by which Paris was separated into two hostile camps, and existence rendered a perpetual combat. Toward noon, however, he had to part with Geneviève, and return to the Tower of the Temple.
At the end of Rue Sainte Avoie he met Lorin, who was bringing down his guard from duty. He left the ranks and came to meet Maurice, who still wore upon his countenance the impress of the happiness he had enjoyed in the society of the lovely Geneviève.
"Ah!" said Lorin, cordially shaking his friend by the hand,—
"In vain you seek your anguish
Within your heart to hide,
I know for whom you languish,
For whom so long you've sighed;
Within your heart, within your eyes,
Love reigns, and triumphs in his prize."
Maurice put his hand in his pocket in search of his key. This was the method he adopted to put a stop to his friend's poetical vein. But Lorin saw the movement, and ran away, laughing. "Apropos," said he retracing his steps, "you have three days more at the Temple; I recommend poor little Capet to your care."