He woke late the next morning. Don Luis rang him up and told him that Siméon, after calling at the post-office, had gone down to the river and then to the station, where he met a fashionably-dressed woman, with her face hidden by a thick veil, and brought her back to the hotel. The two were lunching together in the room on the third floor.
At four o’clock Don Luis rang up again, to ask Patrice to join him at once in a little café at the end of the town, facing the Seine. Here Patrice saw Siméon on the quay. He was walking with his hands behind his back, like a man strolling without any definite object.
“Comforter, spectacles, the same get-up as usual,” said Patrice. “Not a thing about him changed. Watch him. He’s putting on an air of indifference, but you can bet that his eyes are looking up stream, in the direction from which the Belle Hélène is coming.”
“Yes, yes,” said Don Luis. “Here’s the lady.”
“Oh, that’s the one, is it?” said Patrice. “I’ve met her two or three times already in the street.”
A dust-cloak outlined her figure and shoulders, which were wide and rather well-developed. A veil fell around the brim of her felt hat. She gave Siméon a telegram to read. Then they talked for a moment, seemed to be taking their bearings, passed by the café and stopped a little lower down. Here Siméon wrote a few words on a sheet of note-paper and handed it to his companion. She left him and went back into the town. Siméon resumed his walk by the riverside.
“You must stay here, captain,” said Don Luis.
“But the enemy doesn’t seem to be on his guard,” protested Patrice. “He’s not turning round.”
“It’s better to be prudent, captain. What a pity that we can’t have a look at what Siméon wrote down!”
“I might . . .”