George Duroy had returned to all his old habits.
Installed at present in the little ground-floor suite of rooms in the
Rue de Constantinople, he lived soberly, like a man preparing a new
existence for himself.
Madame Forestier had not yet returned. She was lingering at Cannes. He
received a letter from her merely announcing her return about the middle
of April, without a word of allusion to their farewell. He was waiting,
his mind was thoroughly made up now to employ every means in order to
marry her, if she seemed to hesitate. But he had faith in his luck,
confidence in that power of seduction which he felt within him, a vague
and irresistible power which all women felt the influence of.
A short note informed him that the decisive hour was about to strike: "I
am in Paris. Come and see me.--Madeleine Forestier."
Nothing more. He received it by the nine o'clock post. He arrived at her
residence at three on the same day. She held out both hands to him
smiling with her pleasant smile, and they looked into one another's eyes
for a few seconds. Then she said: "How good you were to come to me there
under those terrible circumstances."
"I should have done anything you told me to," he replied.
And they sat down. She asked the news, inquired about the Walters, about
all the staff, about the paper. She had often thought about the paper.
"I miss that a great deal," she said, "really a very great deal. I had
become at heart a journalist. What would you, I love the profession?"
Then she paused. He thought he understood, he thought he divined in her
smile, in the tone of her voice, in her words themselves a kind of
invitation, and although he had promised to himself not to precipitate
matters, he stammered out: "Well, then--why--why should you not
resume--this occupation--under--under the name of Duroy?"
She suddenly became serious again, and placing her hand on his arm,
murmured: "Do not let us speak of that yet a while."
But he divined that she accepted, and falling at her knees began to
passionately kiss her hands, repeating: "Thanks, thanks; oh, how I love
you!"
She rose. He did so, too, and noted that she was very pale. Then he
understood that he had pleased her, for a long time past, perhaps, and
as they found themselves face to face, he clasped her to him and printed
a long, tender, and decorous kiss on her forehead. When she had freed
herself, slipping through his arms, she said in a serious tone: "Listen,
I have not yet made up my mind to anything. However, it may be--yes. But
you must promise me the most absolute secrecy till I give you leave to
speak."
He swore this, and left, his heart overflowing with joy.
He was from that time forward very discreet as regards the visits he
paid her, and did not ask for any more definite consent on her part, for
she had a way of speaking of the future, of saying "by-and-by," and of
shaping plans in which these two lives were blended, which answered him
better and more delicately than a formal acceptation.
Duroy worked hard and spent little, trying to save money so as not to be
without a penny at the date fixed for his marriage, and becoming as
close as he had been prodigal. The summer went by, and then the autumn,
without anyone suspecting anything, for they met very little, and only
in the most natural way in the world.
One evening, Madeleine, looking him straight in the eyes said: "You have
not yet announced our intentions to Madame de Marelle?"
"No, dear, having promised you to be secret, I have not opened my mouth
to a living soul."
"Well, it is about time to tell her. I will undertake to inform the
Walters. You will do so this week, will you not?"