Geneviève saw that Maurice regarded him with astonishment.
"Only imagine," said she, "he must be half-dead with fatigue; he has taken nothing since yesterday morning."
"Did he not dine here?" asked Maurice.
"No; he was trying some experiments in the city."
Geneviève took a useless precaution with respect to Maurice, since lover-like he was an egotist, and had merely bestowed upon the action of Morand that superficial attention which an amorous man accords to everything except the woman whom he loves.
To his glass of wine Morand added a crust of bread, which he hastily swallowed.
"And now," said he, "dear Citizen Maurice, I am quite ready; when you choose we will depart."
Maurice, who was stripping the decayed petals from one of the dead carnations he had plucked in passing, now offered his arm to Geneviève, saying,—
"Let us start."
On their way Maurice felt so happy that he could scarcely contain himself; he would have uttered cries of joy had he not restrained his emotion. What could he desire more? Not only had he acquired the certainty that she did not love Morand, but also the hope that he possessed her affection. The glorious sun shone upon the world, the arm of Geneviève was reposing within his own, while the public criers, shouting at the top of their voices the triumph of the Jacobins and the defeat of Brissot and his party, announced that the country was saved.