This burning letter could, indeed, have but one reply--to tell René to come and see her there, and it was in his own home that she wanted to see him, in the little room he had described to her. She would appear before him in a state of distraction, and under pretence of saving him from suicide. The third letter would undoubtedly furnish her with that pretence, and she decided to await its coming, already enjoying in anticipation the delight of seeing René once more. Amidst the whirl of excitement that her sudden and unexpected appearance would cause the poet there would be no room for reflection. All the hateful preliminaries of a false step, impossible to discuss with a man so inexperienced as he, would be dispensed with. It was true there was the presence of the rest of the family to consider. Suzanne would not have been the depraved woman she was, even in this crisis of true passion, if this detail had not given her plans the charm of doubly forbidden fruit. She waited for that third letter with intense longing. The time slipped rapidly by. She dined out, went to the theatre, and paid calls, her mind entirely absorbed in that one thought. As luck would have it, Desforges, having no doubt been lectured by Doctor Noirot, had not asked for any appointments in the Rue du Mont-Thabor that week. She knew that this was merely a postponement. Even after becoming René's mistress she would still have to continue her relations with the man who supplied so many of her luxurious wants. This seemed to her as natural as the fact of being Paul's wife. 'What does that matter, since you know I love only you?' is what such a wife will say to her lover when he gets into one of those ridiculous fits of jealousy that so ill become a man in that position. And these women are never more sincere than in uttering that phrase. They know full well that love is totally different from duty, interest, or even pleasure. Though Suzanne saw nothing particularly shocking in the plural life she was leading, she was glad that the opportunity was afforded her of devoting herself entirely to her new passion for a day or two. In all this, however, she was still the courtesan, one of those creatures who, when they do fall in love, become real artists of sentiment, feeling as delicately on certain points as they are abominably wanton in others. 'What if he should really have taken it into his head to go away!' This was the thought that struck her when she at last received the much desired third letter, consisting of one long, heartrending farewell--without a word of reproach.