"Good-by for the present, dear love," said he; "in half an hour I shall be here."
Geneviève remained alone, occupied, as we have said, in preparations for their departure.
She accomplished her task in feverish haste. As long as she remained in Paris, the part she was acting appeared to her doubly culpable. Once out of France, once among strangers, it seemed that her crime—a crime rather of fatality than her own—would weigh the less heavily on her conscience.
She even hoped, isolated and in solitude, she might at last forget the existence of any other man than Maurice.
They would fly to England; everything was arranged. There they would hire a little cottage, standing alone, very retired, shut out from all eyes; they would change their names, and instead of two names would have one.
There they would have two servants who would be perfectly ignorant of their past. Fortunately, both Geneviève and Maurice spoke English.
Neither of them left anything to regret in France, save that mother whom one always regrets, even when she is only a step-mother,—one's country. Geneviève commenced, then, making preparations for their voyage, or rather flight.
She took singular pleasure in selecting from the rest those objects for which Maurice had evinced any predilection. The coat setting off his tall figure to advantage, the cravat and waistcoat best suited to his complexion, the books whose leaves he had most frequently turned.
She had already made her selection. Clothes, linen, and books, waiting to be packed, strewed the floor, the chairs, the sofa and the piano.