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."