ill wait, we will
see, we will know one another better. Reflect, too, on your side. Do not
give way to impulse. But if I speak to you of this before even poor
Charles is lowered into the tomb, it is because it is necessary, after
what you have said to me, that you should thoroughly understand what
sort of woman I am, in order that you may no longer cherish the wish you
expressed to me, in case you are not of a--of a--disposition to
comprehend and bear with me. Understand me well. Marriage for me is not
a charm, but a partnership. I mean to be free, perfectly free as to my
ways, my acts, my going and coming. I could neither tolerate
supervision, nor jealousy, nor arguments as to my behavior. I should
undertake, be it understood, never to compromise the name of the man who
takes me as his wife, never to render him hateful and ridiculous. But
this man must also undertake to see in me an equal, an ally, and not an
inferior or an obedient and submissive wife. My notions, I know, are not
those of every one, but I shall not change them. There you are. I will
also add, do not answer me; it would be useless and unsuitable. We shall
see one another again, and shall perhaps speak of all this again later
on. Now, go for a stroll. I shall return to watch beside him. Till this
evening."

He printed a long kiss on her hand, and went away without uttering a
word. That evening they only saw one another at dinnertime. Then they
retired to their rooms, both exhausted with fatigue.

Charles Forestier was buried the next day, without any funeral display,
in the cemetery at Cannes. George Duroy wished to take the Paris
express, which passed through the town at half-past one.

Madame Forestier drove with him to the station. They walked quietly up
and down the platform pending the time for his departure, speaking of
trivial matters.

The train rolled into the station. The journalist took his seat, and
then got out again to have a few more moments' conversation with her,
suddenly seized as he was with sadness and a strong regret at leaving
her, as though he were about to lose her for ever.

A porter shouted, "Take your seats for Marseilles, Lyons, and Paris."
Duroy got in and leant out of the window to say a few more words. The
engine whistled, and the train began to move slowly on.

The young fellow, leaning out of the carriage, watched the woman
standing still on the platform and following him with her eyes.
Suddenly, as he was about t