"Dear Geneviève, when interests so powerful as those that rest upon us are at stake, will you recoil before any paltry consideration of self-love?"
"I have told you my opinion of Maurice, Monsieur," said Geneviève, "he is honest and brave, but capricious; and I do not choose to submit to any authority but that of my husband."
This answer, returned with so much calmness, and at the same time firmness, convinced Dixmer that to insist further at this moment would be worse than useless. He did not add another word, but looked at Geneviève without seeming to do so, wiped the perspiration from his forehead, and went out.
Morand was awaiting his return with great anxiety. Dixmer repeated word for word all that had been said.
"Well!" said Morand, "we will wait, and think no more about it; rather than I would cast a shadow of care on your wife, rather than wound her self-love, I would renounce—"
Dixmer placed his hand upon his shoulder.
"You are mad, sir," said he, looking at him steadily, "or else you do not know what you are saying."
"What! Dixmer, do you think—"
"I think, Chevalier, that you have no more self-command than I have, to give utterance to sentiments on the impulse of the moment. Neither you, I, nor Geneviève belong to ourselves, Morand. We are the chosen defenders of a certain cause, and this cause depends upon its supporters."
Morand trembled, and preserved a gloomy and thoughtful silence. They took several turns round the garden without exchanging a word. Then Dixmer left Morand.