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 forever.
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 to lose sight of her, he put his hand to his mouth and threw a kiss towards her. She returned it with a discreet and hesitating gesture.