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diff --git a/old/1608-0.txt b/old/1608-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6f20cb5 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/1608-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,8609 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook of Camille (La Dame aux Camilias), by Alexandre Dumas, fils + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and +most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you +will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before +using this eBook. + +Title: Camille (La Dame aux Camilias) + +Author: Alexandre Dumas, fils + +Translator: Sir Edmond Gosse + +Release Date: January, 1999 [eBook #1608] +[Most recently updated: October 28, 2022] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +Produced by: Dianne Bean and David Widger + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CAMILLE (LA DAME AUX CAMILIAS) *** + + + + +Camille +(la Dame Aux Camilias) + +By Alexandre Dumas, fils + + + + +CONTENTS + + Chapter I + Chapter II + Chapter III + Chapter IV + Chapter V + Chapter VI + Chapter VII + Chapter VIII + Chapter IX + Chapter X + Chapter XI + Chapter XII + Chapter XIII + Chapter XIV + Chapter XV + Chapter XVI + Chapter XVII + Chapter XVIII + Chapter XIX + Chapter XX + Chapter XXI + Chapter XXII + Chapter XXIII + Chapter XXIV + Chapter XXV + Chapter XXVI + Chapter XXVII + + + + +Chapter I + + +In my opinion, it is impossible to create characters until one has +spent a long time in studying men, as it is impossible to speak a +language until it has been seriously acquired. Not being old enough to +invent, I content myself with narrating, and I beg the reader to assure +himself of the truth of a story in which all the characters, with the +exception of the heroine, are still alive. Eye-witnesses of the greater +part of the facts which I have collected are to be found in Paris, and +I might call upon them to confirm me if my testimony is not enough. +And, thanks to a particular circumstance, I alone can write these +things, for I alone am able to give the final details, without which it +would have been impossible to make the story at once interesting and +complete. + +This is how these details came to my knowledge. On the 12th of March, +1847, I saw in the Rue Lafitte a great yellow placard announcing a sale +of furniture and curiosities. The sale was to take place on account of +the death of the owner. The owner’s name was not mentioned, but the +sale was to be held at 9, Rue d’Antin, on the 16th, from 12 to 5. The +placard further announced that the rooms and furniture could be seen on +the 13th and 14th. + +I have always been very fond of curiosities, and I made up my mind not +to miss the occasion, if not of buying some, at all events of seeing +them. Next day I called at 9, Rue d’Antin. + +It was early in the day, and yet there were already a number of +visitors, both men and women, and the women, though they were dressed +in cashmere and velvet, and had their carriages waiting for them at the +door, gazed with astonishment and admiration at the luxury which they +saw before them. + +I was not long in discovering the reason of this astonishment and +admiration, for, having begun to examine things a little carefully, I +discovered without difficulty that I was in the house of a kept woman. +Now, if there is one thing which women in society would like to see +(and there were society women there), it is the home of those women +whose carriages splash their own carriages day by day, who, like them, +side by side with them, have their boxes at the Opera and at the +Italiens, and who parade in Paris the opulent insolence of their +beauty, their diamonds, and their scandal. + +This one was dead, so the most virtuous of women could enter even her +bedroom. Death had purified the air of this abode of splendid foulness, +and if more excuse were needed, they had the excuse that they had +merely come to a sale, they knew not whose. They had read the placards, +they wished to see what the placards had announced, and to make their +choice beforehand. What could be more natural? Yet, all the same, in +the midst of all these beautiful things, they could not help looking +about for some traces of this courtesan’s life, of which they had +heard, no doubt, strange enough stories. + +Unfortunately the mystery had vanished with the goddess, and, for all +their endeavours, they discovered only what was on sale since the +owner’s decease, and nothing of what had been on sale during her +lifetime. For the rest, there were plenty of things worth buying. The +furniture was superb; there were rosewood and buhl cabinets and tables, +Sevres and Chinese vases, Saxe statuettes, satin, velvet, lace; there +was nothing lacking. + +I sauntered through the rooms, following the inquisitive ladies of +distinction. They entered a room with Persian hangings, and I was just +going to enter in turn, when they came out again almost immediately, +smiling, and as if ashamed of their own curiosity. I was all the more +eager to see the room. It was the dressing-room, laid out with all the +articles of toilet, in which the dead woman’s extravagance seemed to be +seen at its height. + +On a large table against the wall, a table three feet in width and six +in length, glittered all the treasures of Aucoc and Odiot. It was a +magnificent collection, and there was not one of those thousand little +things so necessary to the toilet of a woman of the kind which was not +in gold or silver. Such a collection could only have been got together +little by little, and the same lover had certainly not begun and ended +it. + +Not being shocked at the sight of a kept woman’s dressing-room, I +amused myself with examining every detail, and I discovered that these +magnificently chiselled objects bore different initials and different +coronets. I looked at one after another, each recalling a separate +shame, and I said that God had been merciful to the poor child, in not +having left her to pay the ordinary penalty, but rather to die in the +midst of her beauty and luxury, before the coming of old age, the +courtesan’s first death. + +Is there anything sadder in the world than the old age of vice, +especially in woman? She preserves no dignity, she inspires no +interest. The everlasting repentance, not of the evil ways followed, +but of the plans that have miscarried, the money that has been spent in +vain, is as saddening a thing as one can well meet with. I knew an aged +woman who had once been “gay,” whose only link with the past was a +daughter almost as beautiful as she herself had been. This poor +creature to whom her mother had never said, “You are my child,” except +to bid her nourish her old age as she herself had nourished her youth, +was called Louise, and, being obedient to her mother, she abandoned +herself without volition, without passion, without pleasure, as she +would have worked at any other profession that might have been taught +her. + +The constant sight of dissipation, precocious dissipation, in addition +to her constant sickly state, had extinguished in her mind all the +knowledge of good and evil that God had perhaps given her, but that no +one had ever thought of developing. I shall always remember her, as she +passed along the boulevards almost every day at the same hour, +accompanied by her mother as assiduously as a real mother might have +accompanied her daughter. I was very young then, and ready to accept +for myself the easy morality of the age. I remember, however, the +contempt and disgust which awoke in me at the sight of this scandalous +chaperoning. Her face, too, was inexpressibly virginal in its +expression of innocence and of melancholy suffering. She was like a +figure of Resignation. + +One day the girl’s face was transfigured. In the midst of all the +debauches mapped out by her mother, it seemed to her as if God had left +over for her one happiness. And why indeed should God, who had made her +without strength, have left her without consolation, under the +sorrowful burden of her life? One day, then, she realized that she was +to have a child, and all that remained to her of chastity leaped for +joy. The soul has strange refuges. Louise ran to tell the good news to +her mother. It is a shameful thing to speak of, but we are not telling +tales of pleasant sins; we are telling of true facts, which it would be +better, no doubt, to pass over in silence, if we did not believe that +it is needful from time to time to reveal the martyrdom of those who +are condemned without hearing, scorned without judging; shameful it is, +but this mother answered the daughter that they had already scarce +enough for two, and would certainly not have enough for three; that +such children are useless, and a lying-in is so much time lost. + +Next day a midwife, of whom all we will say is that she was a friend of +the mother, visited Louise, who remained in bed for a few days, and +then got up paler and feebler than before. + +Three months afterward a man took pity on her and tried to heal her, +morally and physically; but the last shock had been too violent, and +Louise died of it. The mother still lives; how? God knows. + +This story returned to my mind while I looked at the silver toilet +things, and a certain space of time must have elapsed during these +reflections, for no one was left in the room but myself and an +attendant, who, standing near the door, was carefully watching me to +see that I did not pocket anything. + +I went up to the man, to whom I was causing so much anxiety. “Sir,” I +said, “can you tell me the name of the person who formerly lived here?” + +“Mademoiselle Marguerite Gautier.” + +I knew her by name and by sight. + +“What!” I said to the attendant; “Marguerite Gautier is dead?” + +“Yes, sir.” + +“When did she die?” + +“Three weeks ago, I believe.” + +“And why are the rooms on view?” + +“The creditors believe that it will send up the prices. People can see +beforehand the effect of the things; you see that induces them to buy.” + +“She was in debt, then?” + +“To any extent, sir.” + +“But the sale will cover it?” + +“And more too.” + +“Who will get what remains over?” + +“Her family.” + +“She had a family?” + +“It seems so.” + +“Thanks.” + +The attendant, reassured as to my intentions, touched his hat, and I +went out. + +“Poor girl!” I said to myself as I returned home; “she must have had a +sad death, for, in her world, one has friends only when one is +perfectly well.” And in spite of myself I began to feel melancholy over +the fate of Marguerite Gautier. + +It will seem absurd to many people, but I have an unbounded sympathy +for women of this kind, and I do not think it necessary to apologize +for such sympathy. + +One day, as I was going to the Prefecture for a passport, I saw in one +of the neighbouring streets a poor girl who was being marched along by +two policemen. I do not know what was the matter. All I know is that +she was weeping bitterly as she kissed an infant only a few months old, +from whom her arrest was to separate her. Since that day I have never +dared to despise a woman at first sight. + + + + +Chapter II + + +The sale was to take place on the 16th. A day’s interval had been left +between the visiting days and the sale, in order to give time for +taking down the hangings, curtains, etc. I had just returned from +abroad. It was natural that I had not heard of Marguerite’s death among +the pieces of news which one’s friends always tell on returning after +an absence. Marguerite was a pretty woman; but though the life of such +women makes sensation enough, their death makes very little. They are +suns which set as they rose, unobserved. Their death, when they die +young, is heard of by all their lovers at the same moment, for in Paris +almost all the lovers of a well-known woman are friends. A few +recollections are exchanged, and everybody’s life goes on as if the +incident had never occurred, without so much as a tear. + +Nowadays, at twenty-five, tears have become so rare a thing that they +are not to be squandered indiscriminately. It is the most that can be +expected if the parents who pay for being wept over are wept over in +return for the price they pay. + +As for me, though my initials did not occur on any of Marguerite’s +belongings, that instinctive indulgence, that natural pity that I have +already confessed, set me thinking over her death, more perhaps than it +was worth thinking over. I remembered having often met Marguerite in +the Bois, where she went regularly every day in a little blue coupé +drawn by two magnificent bays, and I had noticed in her a distinction +quite apart from other women of her kind, a distinction which was +enhanced by a really exceptional beauty. + +These unfortunate creatures whenever they go out are always accompanied +by somebody or other. As no man cares to make himself conspicuous by +being seen in their company, and as they are afraid of solitude, they +take with them either those who are not well enough off to have a +carriage, or one or another of those elegant, ancient ladies, whose +elegance is a little inexplicable, and to whom one can always go for +information in regard to the women whom they accompany. + +In Marguerite’s case it was quite different. She was always alone when +she drove in the Champs-Elysées, lying back in her carriage as much as +possible, dressed in furs in winter, and in summer wearing very simple +dresses; and though she often passed people whom she knew, her smile, +when she chose to smile, was seen only by them, and a duchess might +have smiled in just such a manner. She did not drive to and fro like +the others, from the Rond-Point to the end of the Champs-Elysées. She +drove straight to the Bois. There she left her carriage, walked for an +hour, returned to her carriage, and drove rapidly home. + +All these circumstances which I had so often witnessed came back to my +memory, and I regretted her death as one might regret the destruction +of a beautiful work of art. + +It was impossible to see more charm in beauty than in that of +Marguerite. Excessively tall and thin, she had in the fullest degree +the art of repairing this oversight of Nature by the mere arrangement +of the things she wore. Her cashmere reached to the ground, and showed +on each side the large flounces of a silk dress, and the heavy muff +which she held pressed against her bosom was surrounded by such +cunningly arranged folds that the eye, however exacting, could find no +fault with the contour of the lines. Her head, a marvel, was the object +of the most coquettish care. It was small, and her mother, as Musset +would say, seemed to have made it so in order to make it with care. + +Set, in an oval of indescribable grace, two black eyes, surmounted by +eyebrows of so pure a curve that it seemed as if painted; veil these +eyes with lovely lashes, which, when drooped, cast their shadow on the +rosy hue of the cheeks; trace a delicate, straight nose, the nostrils a +little open, in an ardent aspiration toward the life of the senses; +design a regular mouth, with lips parted graciously over teeth as white +as milk; colour the skin with the down of a peach that no hand has +touched, and you will have the general aspect of that charming +countenance. The hair, black as jet, waving naturally or not, was +parted on the forehead in two large folds and draped back over the +head, leaving in sight just the tip of the ears, in which there +glittered two diamonds, worth four to five thousand francs each. How it +was that her ardent life had left on Marguerite’s face the virginal, +almost childlike expression, which characterized it, is a problem which +we can but state, without attempting to solve it. + +Marguerite had a marvellous portrait of herself, by Vidal, the only man +whose pencil could do her justice. I had this portrait by me for a few +days after her death, and the likeness was so astonishing that it has +helped to refresh my memory in regard to some points which I might not +otherwise have remembered. + +Some among the details of this chapter did not reach me until later, +but I write them here so as not to be obliged to return to them when +the story itself has begun. + +Marguerite was always present at every first night, and passed every +evening either at the theatre or the ball. Whenever there was a new +piece she was certain to be seen, and she invariably had three things +with her on the ledge of her ground-floor box: her opera-glass, a bag +of sweets, and a bouquet of camellias. + +For twenty-five days of the month the camellias were white, and for +five they were red; no one ever knew the reason of this change of +colour, which I mention though I can not explain it; it was noticed +both by her friends and by the _habitués_ of the theatres to which she +most often went. She was never seen with any flowers but camellias. At +the florist’s, Madame Barjon’s, she had come to be called “the Lady of +the Camellias,” and the name stuck to her. + +Like all those who move in a certain set in Paris, I knew that +Marguerite had lived with some of the most fashionable young men in +society, that she spoke of it openly, and that they themselves boasted +of it; so that all seemed equally pleased with one another. +Nevertheless, for about three years, after a visit to Bagnères, she was +said to be living with an old duke, a foreigner, enormously rich, who +had tried to remove her as far as possible from her former life, and, +as it seemed, entirely to her own satisfaction. + +This is what I was told on the subject. In the spring of 1847 +Marguerite was so ill that the doctors ordered her to take the waters, +and she went to Bagnères. Among the invalids was the daughter of this +duke; she was not only suffering from the same complaint, but she was +so like Marguerite in appearance that they might have been taken for +sisters; the young duchess was in the last stage of consumption, and a +few days after Marguerite’s arrival she died. One morning, the duke, +who had remained at Bagnères to be near the soil that had buried a part +of his heart, caught sight of Marguerite at a turn of the road. He +seemed to see the shadow of his child, and going up to her, he took her +hands, embraced and wept over her, and without even asking her who she +was, begged her to let him love in her the living image of his dead +child. Marguerite, alone at Bagnères with her maid, and not being in +any fear of compromising herself, granted the duke’s request. Some +people who knew her, happening to be at Bagnères, took upon themselves +to explain Mademoiselle Gautier’s true position to the duke. It was a +blow to the old man, for the resemblance with his daughter was ended in +one direction, but it was too late. She had become a necessity to his +heart, his only pretext, his only excuse, for living. He made no +reproaches, he had indeed no right to do so, but he asked her if she +felt herself capable of changing her mode of life, offering her in +return for the sacrifice every compensation that she could desire. She +consented. + +It must be said that Marguerite was just then very ill. The past seemed +to her sensitive nature as if it were one of the main causes of her +illness, and a sort of superstition led her to hope that God would +restore to her both health and beauty in return for her repentance and +conversion. By the end of the summer, the waters, sleep, the natural +fatigue of long walks, had indeed more or less restored her health. The +duke accompanied her to Paris, where he continued to see her as he had +done at Bagnères. + +This liaison, whose motive and origin were quite unknown, caused a +great sensation, for the duke, already known for his immense fortune, +now became known for his prodigality. All this was set down to the +debauchery of a rich old man, and everything was believed except the +truth. The father’s sentiment for Marguerite had, in truth, so pure a +cause that anything but a communion of hearts would have seemed to him +a kind of incest, and he had never spoken to her a word which his +daughter might not have heard. + +Far be it from me to make out our heroine to be anything but what she +was. As long as she remained at Bagnères, the promise she had made to +the duke had not been hard to keep, and she had kept it; but, once back +in Paris, it seemed to her, accustomed to a life of dissipation, of +balls, of orgies, as if the solitude, only interrupted by the duke’s +stated visits, would kill her with boredom, and the hot breath of her +old life came back across her head and heart. + +We must add that Marguerite had returned more beautiful than she had +ever been; she was but twenty, and her malady, sleeping but not +subdued, continued to give her those feverish desires which are almost +always the result of diseases of the chest. + +It was a great grief to the duke when his friends, always on the +lookout for some scandal on the part of the woman with whom, it seemed +to them, he was compromising himself, came to tell him, indeed to prove +to him, that at times when she was sure of not seeing him she received +other visits, and that these visits were often prolonged till the +following day. On being questioned, Marguerite admitted everything to +the duke, and advised him, without _arrière-pensée_, to concern himself +with her no longer, for she felt incapable of carrying out what she had +undertaken, and she did not wish to go on accepting benefits from a man +whom she was deceiving. The duke did not return for a week; it was all +he could do, and on the eighth day he came to beg Marguerite to let him +still visit her, promising that he would take her as she was, so long +as he might see her, and swearing that he would never utter a reproach +against her, not though he were to die of it. + +This, then, was the state of things three months after Marguerite’s +return; that is to say, in November or December, 1842. + + + + +Chapter III + + +At one o’clock on the 16th I went to the Rue d’Antin. The voice of the +auctioneer could be heard from the outer door. The rooms were crowded +with people. There were all the celebrities of the most elegant +impropriety, furtively examined by certain great ladies who had again +seized the opportunity of the sale in order to be able to see, close at +hand, women whom they might never have another occasion of meeting, and +whom they envied perhaps in secret for their easy pleasures. The +Duchess of F. elbowed Mlle. A., one of the most melancholy examples of +our modern courtesan; the Marquis de T. hesitated over a piece of +furniture the price of which was being run high by Mme. D., the most +elegant and famous adulteress of our time; the Duke of Y., who in +Madrid is supposed to be ruining himself in Paris, and in Paris to be +ruining himself in Madrid, and who, as a matter of fact, never even +reaches the limit of his income, talked with Mme. M., one of our +wittiest story-tellers, who from time to time writes what she says and +signs what she writes, while at the same time he exchanged confidential +glances with Mme. de N., a fair ornament of the Champs-Elysées, almost +always dressed in pink or blue, and driving two big black horses which +Tony had sold her for 10,000 francs, and for which she had paid, after +her fashion; finally, Mlle. R., who makes by her mere talent twice what +the women of the world make by their dot and three times as much as the +others make by their amours, had come, in spite of the cold, to make +some purchases, and was not the least looked at among the crowd. + +We might cite the initials of many more of those who found themselves, +not without some mutual surprise, side by side in one room. But we fear +to weary the reader. We will only add that everyone was in the highest +spirits, and that many of those present had known the dead woman, and +seemed quite oblivious of the fact. There was a sound of loud laughter; +the auctioneers shouted at the top of their voices; the dealers who had +filled the benches in front of the auction table tried in vain to +obtain silence, in order to transact their business in peace. Never was +there a noisier or a more varied gathering. + +I slipped quietly into the midst of this tumult, sad to think of when +one remembered that the poor creature whose goods were being sold to +pay her debts had died in the next room. Having come rather to examine +than to buy, I watched the faces of the auctioneers, noticing how they +beamed with delight whenever anything reached a price beyond their +expectations. Honest creatures, who had speculated upon this woman’s +prostitution, who had gained their hundred per cent out of her, who had +plagued with their writs the last moments of her life, and who came now +after her death to gather in at once the fruits of their dishonourable +calculations and the interest on their shameful credit, How wise were +the ancients in having only one God for traders and robbers! + +Dresses, cashmeres, jewels, were sold with incredible rapidity. There +was nothing that I cared for, and I still waited. All at once I heard: +“A volume, beautifully bound, gilt-edged, entitled Manon Lescaut. There +is something written on the first page. Ten francs.” + +“Twelve,” said a voice after a longish silence. + +“Fifteen,” I said. + +Why? I did not know. Doubtless for the something written. + +“Fifteen,” repeated the auctioneer. + +“Thirty,” said the first bidder in a tone which seemed to defy further +competition. + +It had now become a struggle. “Thirty-five,” I cried in the same tone. + +“Forty.” + +“Fifty.” + +“Sixty.” + +“A hundred.” + +If I had wished to make a sensation I should certainly have succeeded, +for a profound silence had ensued, and people gazed at me as if to see +what sort of a person it was, who seemed to be so determined to possess +the volume. + +The accent which I had given to my last word seemed to convince my +adversary; he preferred to abandon a conflict which could only have +resulted in making me pay ten times its price for the volume, and, +bowing, he said very gracefully, though indeed a little late: + +“I give way, sir.” + +Nothing more being offered, the book was assigned to me. + +As I was afraid of some new fit of obstinacy, which my amour propre +might have sustained somewhat better than my purse, I wrote down my +name, had the book put on one side, and went out. I must have given +considerable food for reflection to the witnesses of this scene, who +would no doubt ask themselves what my purpose could have been in paying +a hundred francs for a book which I could have had anywhere for ten, +or, at the outside, fifteen. + +An hour after, I sent for my purchase. On the first page was written in +ink, in an elegant hand, an inscription on the part of the giver. It +consisted of these words: + +Manon to Marguerite. + +Humility. + +It was signed Armand Duval. + +What was the meaning of the word Humility? Was Manon to recognise in +Marguerite, in the opinion of M. Armand Duval, her superior in vice or +in affection? The second interpretation seemed the more probable, for +the first would have been an impertinent piece of plain speaking which +Marguerite, whatever her opinion of herself, would never have accepted. + +I went out again, and thought no more of the book until at night, when +I was going to bed. + +Manon Lescaut is a touching story. I know every detail of it, and yet +whenever I come across the volume the same sympathy always draws me to +it; I open it, and for the hundredth time I live over again with the +heroine of the Abbé Prévost. Now this heroine is so true to life that I +feel as if I had known her; and thus the sort of comparison between her +and Marguerite gave me an unusual inclination to read it, and my +indulgence passed into pity, almost into a kind of love for the poor +girl to whom I owed the volume. Manon died in the desert, it is true, +but in the arms of the man who loved her with the whole energy of his +soul; who, when she was dead, dug a grave for her, and watered it with +his tears, and buried his heart in it; while Marguerite, a sinner like +Manon, and perhaps converted like her, had died in a sumptuous bed (it +seemed, after what I had seen, the bed of her past), but in that desert +of the heart, a more barren, a vaster, a more pitiless desert than that +in which Manon had found her last resting-place. + +Marguerite, in fact, as I had found from some friends who knew of the +last circumstances of her life, had not a single real friend by her +bedside during the two months of her long and painful agony. + +Then from Manon and Marguerite my mind wandered to those whom I knew, +and whom I saw singing along the way which led to just such another +death. Poor souls! if it is not right to love them, is it not well to +pity them? You pity the blind man who has never seen the daylight, the +deaf who has never heard the harmonies of nature, the dumb who has +never found a voice for his soul, and, under a false cloak of shame, +you will not pity this blindness of heart, this deafness of soul, this +dumbness of conscience, which sets the poor afflicted creature beside +herself and makes her, in spite of herself, incapable of seeing what is +good, of hearing the Lord, and of speaking the pure language of love +and faith. + +Hugo has written Marion Delorme, Musset has written Bernerette, +Alexandre Dumas has written Fernande, the thinkers and poets of all +time have brought to the courtesan the offering of their pity, and at +times a great man has rehabilitated them with his love and even with +his name. If I insist on this point, it is because many among those who +have begun to read me will be ready to throw down a book in which they +will fear to find an apology for vice and prostitution; and the +author’s age will do something, no doubt, to increase this fear. Let me +undeceive those who think thus, and let them go on reading, if nothing +but such a fear hinders them. + +I am quite simply convinced of a certain principle, which is: For the +woman whose education has not taught her what is right, God almost +always opens two ways which lead thither the ways of sorrow and of +love. They are hard; those who walk in them walk with bleeding feet and +torn hands, but they also leave the trappings of vice upon the thorns +of the wayside, and reach the journey’s end in a nakedness which is not +shameful in the sight of the Lord. + +Those who meet these bold travellers ought to succour them, and to tell +all that they have met them, for in so doing they point out the way. It +is not a question of setting at the outset of life two sign-posts, one +bearing the inscription “The Right Way,” the other the inscription “The +Wrong Way,” and of saying to those who come there, “Choose.” One must +needs, like Christ, point out the ways which lead from the second road +to the first, to those who have been easily led astray; and it is +needful that the beginning of these ways should not be too painful nor +appear too impenetrable. + +Here is Christianity with its marvellous parable of the Prodigal Son to +teach us indulgence and pardon. Jesus was full of love for souls +wounded by the passions of men; he loved to bind up their wounds and to +find in those very wounds the balm which should heal them. Thus he said +to the Magdalen: “Much shall be forgiven thee because thou hast loved +much,” a sublimity of pardon which can only have called forth a sublime +faith. + +Why do we make ourselves more strict than Christ? Why, holding +obstinately to the opinions of the world, which hardens itself in order +that it may be thought strong, do we reject, as it rejects, souls +bleeding at wounds by which, like a sick man’s bad blood, the evil of +their past may be healed, if only a friendly hand is stretched out to +lave them and set them in the convalescence of the heart? + +It is to my own generation that I speak, to those for whom the theories +of M. de Voltaire happily exist no longer, to those who, like myself, +realize that humanity, for these last fifteen years, has been in one of +its most audacious moments of expansion. The science of good and evil +is acquired forever; faith is refashioned, respect for sacred things +has returned to us, and if the world has not all at once become good, +it has at least become better. The efforts of every intelligent man +tend in the same direction, and every strong will is harnessed to the +same principle: Be good, be young, be true! Evil is nothing but vanity, +let us have the pride of good, and above all let us never despair. Do +not let us despise the woman who is neither mother, sister, maid, nor +wife. Do not let us limit esteem to the family nor indulgence to +egoism. Since “there is more joy in heaven over one sinner that +repenteth than over ninety and nine just persons that need no +repentance,” let us give joy to heaven. Heaven will render it back to +us with usury. Let us leave on our way the alms of pardon for those +whom earthly desires have driven astray, whom a divine hope shall +perhaps save, and, as old women say when they offer you some homely +remedy of their own, if it does no good it will do no harm. + +Doubtless it must seem a bold thing to attempt to deduce these grand +results out of the meagre subject that I deal with; but I am one of +those who believe that all is in little. The child is small, and he +includes the man; the brain is narrow, and it harbours thought; the eye +is but a point, and it covers leagues. + + + + +Chapter IV + + +Two days after, the sale was ended. It had produced 150,000 francs. The +creditors divided among them two thirds, and the family, a sister and a +grand-nephew, received the remainder. + +The sister opened her eyes very wide when the lawyer wrote to her that +she had inherited 50,000 francs. The girl had not seen her sister for +six or seven years, and did not know what had become of her from the +moment when she had disappeared from home. She came up to Paris in +haste, and great was the astonishment of those who had known Marguerite +when they saw as her only heir a fine, fat country girl, who until then +had never left her village. She had made the fortune at a single +stroke, without even knowing the source of that fortune. She went back, +I heard afterward, to her countryside, greatly saddened by her sister’s +death, but with a sadness which was somewhat lightened by the +investment at four and a half per cent which she had been able to make. + +All these circumstances, often repeated in Paris, the mother city of +scandal, had begun to be forgotten, and I was even little by little +forgetting the part I had taken in them, when a new incident brought to +my knowledge the whole of Marguerite’s life, and acquainted me with +such pathetic details that I was taken with the idea of writing down +the story which I now write. + +The rooms, now emptied of all their furniture, had been to let for +three or four days when one morning there was a ring at my door. + +My servant, or, rather, my porter, who acted as my servant, went to the +door and brought me a card, saying that the person who had given it to +him wished to see me. + +I glanced at the card and there read these two words: Armand Duval. + +I tried to think where I had seen the name, and remembered the first +leaf of the copy of Manon Lescaut. What could the person who had given +the book to Marguerite want of me? I gave orders to ask him in at once. + +I saw a young man, blond, tall, pale, dressed in a travelling suit +which looked as if he had not changed it for some days, and had not +even taken the trouble to brush it on arriving at Paris, for it was +covered with dust. + +M. Duval was deeply agitated; he made no attempt to conceal his +agitation, and it was with tears in his eyes and a trembling voice that +he said to me: + +“Sir, I beg you to excuse my visit and my costume; but young people are +not very ceremonious with one another, and I was so anxious to see you +to-day that I have not even gone to the hotel to which I have sent my +luggage, and have rushed straight here, fearing that, after all, I +might miss you, early as it is.” + +I begged M. Duval to sit down by the fire; he did so, and, taking his +handkerchief from his pocket, hid his face in it for a moment. + +“You must be at a loss to understand,” he went on, sighing sadly, “for +what purpose an unknown visitor, at such an hour, in such a costume, +and in tears, can have come to see you. I have simply come to ask of +you a great service.” + +“Speak on, sir, I am entirely at your disposal.” + +“You were present at the sale of Marguerite Gautier?” + +At this word the emotion, which he had got the better of for an +instant, was too much for him, and he was obliged to cover his eyes +with his hand. + +“I must seem to you very absurd,” he added, “but pardon me, and believe +that I shall never forget the patience with which you have listened to +me.” + +“Sir,” I answered, “if the service which I can render you is able to +lessen your trouble a little, tell me at once what I can do for you, +and you will find me only too happy to oblige you.” + +M. Duval’s sorrow was sympathetic, and in spite of myself I felt the +desire of doing him a kindness. Thereupon he said to me: + +“You bought something at Marguerite’s sale?” + +“Yes, a book.” + +“Manon Lescaut?” + +“Precisely.” + +“Have you the book still?” + +“It is in my bedroom.” + +On hearing this, Armand Duval seemed to be relieved of a great weight, +and thanked me as if I had already rendered him a service merely by +keeping the book. + +I got up and went into my room to fetch the book, which I handed to +him. + +“That is it indeed,” he said, looking at the inscription on the first +page and turning over the leaves; “that is it in deed,” and two big +tears fell on the pages. “Well, sir,” said he, lifting his head, and no +longer trying to hide from me that he had wept and was even then on the +point of weeping, “do you value this book very greatly?” + +“Why?” + +“Because I have come to ask you to give it up to me.” + +“Pardon my curiosity, but was it you, then, who gave it to Marguerite +Gautier?” + +“It was!” + +“The book is yours, sir; take it back. I am happy to be able to hand it +over to you.” + +“But,” said M. Duval with some embarrassment, “the least I can do is to +give you in return the price which you paid for it.” + +“Allow me to offer it to you. The price of a single volume in a sale of +that kind is a mere nothing, and I do not remember how much I gave for +it.” + +“You gave one hundred francs.” + +“True,” I said, embarrassed in my turn, “how do you know?” + +“It is quite simple. I hoped to reach Paris in time for the sale, and I +only managed to get here this morning. I was absolutely resolved to +have something which had belonged to her, and I hastened to the +auctioneer and asked him to allow me to see the list of the things sold +and of the buyers’ names. I saw that this volume had been bought by +you, and I decided to ask you to give it up to me, though the price you +had set upon it made me fear that you might yourself have some souvenir +in connection with the possession of the book.” + +As he spoke, it was evident that he was afraid I had known Marguerite +as he had known her. I hastened to reassure him. + +“I knew Mlle. Gautier only by sight,” I said; “her death made on me the +impression that the death of a pretty woman must always make on a young +man who had liked seeing her. I wished to buy something at her sale, +and I bid higher and higher for this book out of mere obstinacy and to +annoy someone else, who was equally keen to obtain it, and who seemed +to defy me to the contest. I repeat, then, that the book is yours, and +once more I beg you to accept it; do not treat me as if I were an +auctioneer, and let it be the pledge between us of a longer and more +intimate acquaintance.” + +“Good,” said Armand, holding out his hand and pressing mine; “I accept, +and I shall be grateful to you all my life.” + +I was very anxious to question Armand on the subject of Marguerite, for +the inscription in the book, the young man’s hurried journey, his +desire to possess the volume, piqued my curiosity; but I feared if I +questioned my visitor that I might seem to have refused his money only +in order to have the right to pry into his affairs. + +It was as if he guessed my desire, for he said to me: + +“Have you read the volume?” + +“All through.” + +“What did you think of the two lines that I wrote in it?” + +“I realized at once that the woman to whom you had given the volume +must have been quite outside the ordinary category, for I could not +take those two lines as a mere empty compliment.” + +“You were right. That woman was an angel. See, read this letter.” And +he handed to me a paper which seemed to have been many times reread. + +I opened it, and this is what it contained: + +“MY DEAR ARMAND:—I have received your letter. You are still good, and I +thank God for it. Yes, my friend, I am ill, and with one of those +diseases that never relent; but the interest you still take in me makes +my suffering less. I shall not live long enough, I expect, to have the +happiness of pressing the hand which has written the kind letter I have +just received; the words of it would be enough to cure me, if anything +could cure me. I shall not see you, for I am quite near death, and you +are hundreds of leagues away. My poor friend! your Marguerite of old +times is sadly changed. It is better perhaps for you not to see her +again than to see her as she is. You ask if I forgive you; oh, with all +my heart, friend, for the way you hurt me was only a way of proving the +love you had for me. I have been in bed for a month, and I think so +much of your esteem that I write every day the journal of my life, from +the moment we left each other to the moment when I shall be able to +write no longer. If the interest you take in me is real, Armand, when +you come back go and see Julie Duprat. She will give you my journal. +You will find in it the reason and the excuse for what has passed +between us. Julie is very good to me; we often talk of you together. +She was there when your letter came, and we both cried over it. + +“If you had not sent me any word, I had told her to give you those +papers when you returned to France. Do not thank me for it. This daily +looking back on the only happy moments of my life does me an immense +amount of good, and if you will find in reading it some excuse for the +past. I, for my part, find a continual solace in it. I should like to +leave you something which would always remind you of me, but everything +here has been seized, and I have nothing of my own. + +“Do you understand, my friend? I am dying, and from my bed I can hear a +man walking to and fro in the drawing-room; my creditors have put him +there to see that nothing is taken away, and that nothing remains to me +in case I do not die. I hope they will wait till the end before they +begin to sell. + +“Oh, men have no pity! or rather, I am wrong, it is God who is just and +inflexible! + +“And now, dear love, you will come to my sale, and you will buy +something, for if I put aside the least thing for you, they might +accuse you of embezzling seized goods. + +“It is a sad life that I am leaving! + +“It would be good of God to let me see you again before I die. +According to all probability, good-bye, my friend. Pardon me if I do +not write a longer letter, but those who say they are going to cure me +wear me out with bloodletting, and my hand refuses to write any more. + +“MARGUERITE GAUTIER.” + +The last two words were scarcely legible. I returned the letter to +Armand, who had, no doubt, read it over again in his mind while I was +reading it on paper, for he said to me as he took it: + +“Who would think that a kept woman could have written that?” And, +overcome by recollections, he gazed for some time at the writing of the +letter, which he finally carried to his lips. + +“And when I think,” he went on, “that she died before I could see her, +and that I shall never see her again, when I think that she did for me +what no sister would ever have done, I can not forgive myself for +having left her to die like that. Dead! Dead and thinking of me, +writing and repeating my name, poor dear Marguerite!” + +And Armand, giving free outlet to his thoughts and his tears, held out +his hand to me, and continued: + +“People would think it childish enough if they saw me lament like this +over a dead woman such as she; no one will ever know what I made that +woman suffer, how cruel I have been to her! how good, how resigned she +was! I thought it was I who had to forgive her, and to-day I feel +unworthy of the forgiveness which she grants me. Oh, I would give ten +years of my life to weep at her feet for an hour!” + +It is always difficult to console a sorrow that is unknown to one, and +nevertheless I felt so lively a sympathy for the young man, he made me +so frankly the confidant of his distress, that I believed a word from +me would not be indifferent to him, and I said: + +“Have you no parents, no friends? Hope. Go and see them; they will +console you. As for me, I can only pity you.” + +“It is true,” he said, rising and walking to and fro in the room, “I am +wearying you. Pardon me, I did not reflect how little my sorrow must +mean to you, and that I am intruding upon you something which can not +and ought not to interest you at all.” + +“You mistake my meaning. I am entirely at your service; only I regret +my inability to calm your distress. If my society and that of my +friends can give you any distraction, if, in short, you have need of +me, no matter in what way, I hope you will realize how much pleasure it +will give me to do anything for you.” + +“Pardon, pardon,” said he; “sorrow sharpens the sensations. Let me stay +here for a few minutes longer, long enough to dry my eyes, so that the +idlers in the street may not look upon it as a curiosity to see a big +fellow like me crying. You have made me very happy by giving me this +book. I do not know how I can ever express my gratitude to you.” + +“By giving me a little of your friendship,” said I, “and by telling me +the cause of your suffering. One feels better while telling what one +suffers.” + +“You are right. But to-day I have too much need of tears; I can not +very well talk. One day I will tell you the whole story, and you will +see if I have reason for regretting the poor girl. And now,” he added, +rubbing his eyes for the last time, and looking at himself in the +glass, “say that you do not think me too absolutely idiotic, and allow +me to come back and see you another time.” + +He cast on me a gentle and amiable look. I was near embracing him. As +for him, his eyes again began to fill with tears; he saw that I +perceived it and turned away his head. + +“Come,” I said, “courage.” + +“Good-bye,” he said. + +And, making a desperate effort to restrain his tears, he rushed rather +than went out of the room. + +I lifted the curtain of my window, and saw him get into the cabriolet +which awaited him at the door; but scarcely was he seated before he +burst into tears and hid his face in his pocket-handkerchief. + + + + +Chapter V + + +A good while elapsed before I heard anything more of Armand, but, on +the other hand, I was constantly hearing of Marguerite. + +I do not know if you have noticed, if once the name of anybody who +might in the natural course of things have always remained unknown, or +at all events indifferent to you, should be mentioned before you, +immediately details begin to group themselves about the name, and you +find all your friends talking to you about something which they have +never mentioned to you before. You discover that this person was almost +touching you and has passed close to you many times in your life +without your noticing it; you find coincidences in the events which are +told you, a real affinity with certain events of your own existence. I +was not absolutely at that point in regard to Marguerite, for I had +seen and met her, I knew her by sight and by reputation; nevertheless, +since the moment of the sale, her name came to my ears so frequently, +and, owing to the circumstance that I have mentioned in the last +chapter, that name was associated with so profound a sorrow, that my +curiosity increased in proportion with my astonishment. The consequence +was that whenever I met friends to whom I had never breathed the name +of Marguerite, I always began by saying: + +“Did you ever know a certain Marguerite Gautier?” + +“The Lady of the Camellias?” + +“Exactly.” + +“Oh, very well!” + +The word was sometimes accompanied by a smile which could leave no +doubt as to its meaning. + +“Well, what sort of a girl was she?” + +“A good sort of girl.” + +“Is that all?” + +“Oh, yes; more intelligence and perhaps a little more heart than most.” + +“Do you know anything particular about her?” + +“She ruined Baron de G.” + +“No more than that?” + +“She was the mistress of the old Duke of...” + +“Was she really his mistress?” + +“So they say; at all events, he gave her a great deal of money.” + +The general outlines were always the same. Nevertheless I was anxious +to find out something about the relations between Marguerite and +Armand. Meeting one day a man who was constantly about with known +women, I asked him: “Did you know Marguerite Gautier?” + +The answer was the usual: “Very well.” + +“What sort of a girl was she?” + +“A fine, good girl. I was very sorry to hear of her death.” + +“Had she not a lover called Armand Duval?” + +“Tall and blond?” + +“Yes. + +“It is quite true.” + +“Who was this Armand?” + +“A fellow who squandered on her the little money he had, and then had +to leave her. They say he was quite wild about it.” + +“And she?” + +“They always say she was very much in love with him, but as girls like +that are in love. It is no good to ask them for what they can not +give.” + +“What has become of Armand?” + +“I don’t know. We knew him very little. He was with Marguerite for five +or six months in the country. When she came back, he had gone.” + +“And you have never seen him since?” + +“Never.” + +I, too, had not seen Armand again. I was beginning to ask myself if, +when he had come to see me, the recent news of Marguerite’s death had +not exaggerated his former love, and consequently his sorrow, and I +said to myself that perhaps he had already forgotten the dead woman, +and along with her his promise to come and see me again. This +supposition would have seemed probable enough in most instances, but in +Armand’s despair there had been an accent of real sincerity, and, going +from one extreme to another, I imagined that distress had brought on an +illness, and that my not seeing him was explained by the fact that he +was ill, perhaps dead. + +I was interested in the young man in spite of myself. Perhaps there was +some selfishness in this interest; perhaps I guessed at some pathetic +love story under all this sorrow; perhaps my desire to know all about +it had much to do with the anxiety which Armand’s silence caused me. +Since M. Duval did not return to see me, I decided to go and see him. A +pretext was not difficult to find; unluckily I did not know his +address, and no one among those whom I questioned could give it to me. + +I went to the Rue d’Antin; perhaps Marguerite’s porter would know where +Armand lived. There was a new porter; he knew as little about it as I. +I then asked in what cemetery Mlle. Gautier had been buried. It was the +Montmartre Cemetery. It was now the month of April; the weather was +fine, the graves were not likely to look as sad and desolate as they do +in winter; in short, it was warm enough for the living to think a +little of the dead, and pay them a visit. I went to the cemetery, +saying to myself: “One glance at Marguerite’s grave, and I shall know +if Armand’s sorrow still exists, and perhaps I may find out what has +become of him.” + +I entered the keeper’s lodge, and asked him if on the 22nd of February +a woman named Marguerite Gautier had not been buried in the Montmartre +Cemetery. He turned over the pages of a big book in which those who +enter this last resting-place are inscribed and numbered, and replied +that on the 22nd of February, at 12 o’clock, a woman of that name had +been buried. + +I asked him to show me the grave, for there is no finding one’s way +without a guide in this city of the dead, which has its streets like a +city of the living. The keeper called over a gardener, to whom he gave +the necessary instructions; the gardener interrupted him, saying: “I +know, I know.—It is not difficult to find that grave,” he added, +turning to me. + +“Why?” + +“Because it has very different flowers from the others.” + +“Is it you who look after it?” + +“Yes, sir; and I wish all relations took as much trouble about the dead +as the young man who gave me my orders.” + +After several turnings, the gardener stopped and said to me: “Here we +are.” + +I saw before me a square of flowers which one would never have taken +for a grave, if it had not been for a white marble slab bearing a name. + +The marble slab stood upright, an iron railing marked the limits of the +ground purchased, and the earth was covered with white camellias. “What +do you say to that?” said the gardener. + +“It is beautiful.” + +“And whenever a camellia fades, I have orders to replace it.” + +“Who gave you the order?” + +“A young gentleman, who cried the first time he came here; an old pal +of hers, I suppose, for they say she was a gay one. Very pretty, too, I +believe. Did you know her, sir?” “Yes.” + +“Like the other?” said the gardener, with a knowing smile. “No, I never +spoke to her.” + +“And you come here, too! It is very good of you, for those that come to +see the poor girl don’t exactly cumber the cemetery.” + +“Doesn’t anybody come?” + +“Nobody, except that young gentleman who came once.” + +“Only once?” + +“Yes, sir.” + +“He never came back again?” + +“No, but he will when he gets home.” + +“He is away somewhere?” + +“Yes.” + +“Do you know where he is?” + +“I believe he has gone to see Mlle. Gautier’s sister.” + +“What does he want there?” + +“He has gone to get her authority to have the corpse dug up again and +put somewhere else.” + +“Why won’t he let it remain here?” + +“You know, sir, people have queer notions about dead folk. We see +something of that every day. The ground here was only bought for five +years, and this young gentleman wants a perpetual lease and a bigger +plot of ground; it will be better in the new part.” + +“What do you call the new part?” + +“The new plots of ground that are for sale, there to the left. If the +cemetery had always been kept like it is now, there wouldn’t be the +like of it in the world; but there is still plenty to do before it will +be quite all it should be. And then people are so queer!” + +“What do you mean?” + +“I mean that there are people who carry their pride even here. Now, +this Demoiselle Gautier, it appears she lived a bit free, if you’ll +excuse my saying so. Poor lady, she’s dead now; there’s no more of her +left than of them that no one has a word to say against. We water them +every day. Well, when the relatives of the folk that are buried beside +her found out the sort of person she was, what do you think they said? +That they would try to keep her out from here, and that there ought to +be a piece of ground somewhere apart for these sort of women, like +there is for the poor. Did you ever hear of such a thing? I gave it to +them straight, I did: well-to-do folk who come to see their dead four +times a year, and bring their flowers themselves, and what flowers! and +look twice at the keep of them they pretend to cry over, and write on +their tombstones all about the tears they haven’t shed, and come and +make difficulties about their neighbours. You may believe me or not, +sir, I never knew the young lady; I don’t know what she did. Well, I’m +quite in love with the poor thing; I look after her well, and I let her +have her camellias at an honest price. She is the dead body that I like +the best. You see, sir, we are obliged to love the dead, for we are +kept so busy, we have hardly time to love anything else.” + +I looked at the man, and some of my readers will understand, without my +needing to explain it to them, the emotion which I felt on hearing him. +He observed it, no doubt, for he went on: + +“They tell me there were people who ruined themselves over that girl, +and lovers that worshipped her; well, when I think there isn’t one of +them that so much as buys her a flower now, that’s queer, sir, and sad. +And, after all, she isn’t so badly off, for she has her grave to +herself, and if there is only one who remembers her, he makes up for +the others. But we have other poor girls here, just like her and just +her age, and they are just thrown into a pauper’s grave, and it breaks +my heart when I hear their poor bodies drop into the earth. And not a +soul thinks about them any more, once they are dead! ’Tisn’t a merry +trade, ours, especially when we have a little heart left. What do you +expect? I can’t help it. I have a fine, strapping girl myself; she’s +just twenty, and when a girl of that age comes here I think of her, and +I don’t care if it’s a great lady or a vagabond, I can’t help feeling +it a bit. But I am taking up your time, sir, with my tales, and it +wasn’t to hear them you came here. I was told to show you Mlle. +Gautier’s grave; here you have it. Is there anything else I can do for +you?” + +“Do you know M. Armand Duval’s address?” I asked. + +“Yes; he lives at Rue de ——; at least, that’s where I always go to get +my money for the flowers you see there.” + +“Thanks, my good man.” + +I gave one more look at the grave covered with flowers, half longing to +penetrate the depths of the earth and see what the earth had made of +the fair creature that had been cast to it; then I walked sadly away. + +“Do you want to see M. Duval, sir?” said the gardener, who was walking +beside me. + +“Yes.” + +“Well, I am pretty sure he is not back yet, or he would have been here +already.” + +“You don’t think he has forgotten Marguerite?” + +“I am not only sure he hasn’t, but I would wager that he wants to +change her grave simply in order to have one more look at her.” + +“Why do you think that?” + +“The first word he said to me when he came to the cemetery was: ‘How +can I see her again?’ That can’t be done unless there is a change of +grave, and I told him all about the formalities that have to be +attended to in getting it done; for, you see, if you want to move a +body from one grave to another you must have it identified, and only +the family can give leave for it under the direction of a police +inspector. That is why M. Duval has gone to see Mlle. Gautier’s sister, +and you may be sure his first visit will be for me.” + +We had come to the cemetery gate. I thanked the gardener again, putting +a few coins into his hand, and made my way to the address he had given +me. + +Armand had not yet returned. I left word for him, begging him to come +and see me as soon as he arrived, or to send me word where I could find +him. + +Next day, in the morning, I received a letter from Duval, telling me of +his return, and asking me to call on him, as he was so worn out with +fatigue that it was impossible for him to go out. + + + + +Chapter VI + + +I found Armand in bed. On seeing me he held out a burning hand. “You +are feverish,” I said to him. “It is nothing, the fatigue of a rapid +journey; that is all.” “You have been to see Marguerite’s sister?” +“Yes; who told you?” “I knew it. Did you get what you wanted?” + +“Yes; but who told you of my journey, and of my reason for taking it?” + +“The gardener of the cemetery.” + +“You have seen the tomb?” + +I scarcely dared reply, for the tone in which the words were spoken +proved to me that the speaker was still possessed by the emotion which +I had witnessed before, and that every time his thoughts or speech +travelled back to that mournful subject emotion would still, for a long +time to come, prove stronger than his will. I contented myself with a +nod of the head. + +“He has looked after it well?” continued Armand. Two big tears rolled +down the cheeks of the sick man, and he turned away his head to hide +them from me. I pretended not to see them, and tried to change the +conversation. “You have been away three weeks,” I said. + +Armand passed his hand across his eyes and replied, “Exactly three +weeks.” + +“You had a long journey.” + +“Oh, I was not travelling all the time. I was ill for a fortnight or I +should have returned long ago; but I had scarcely got there when I took +this fever, and I was obliged to keep my room.” + +“And you started to come back before you were really well?” + +“If I had remained in the place for another week, I should have died +there.” + +“Well, now you are back again, you must take care of yourself; your +friends will come and look after you; myself, first of all, if you will +allow me.” + +“I shall get up in a couple of hours.” + +“It would be very unwise.” + +“I must.” + +“What have you to do in such a great hurry?” + +“I must go to the inspector of police.” + +“Why do you not get one of your friends to see after the matter? It is +likely to make you worse than you are now.” + +“It is my only chance of getting better. I must see her. Ever since I +heard of her death, especially since I saw her grave, I have not been +able to sleep. I can not realize that this woman, so young and so +beautiful when I left her, is really dead. I must convince myself of +it. I must see what God has done with a being that I have loved so +much, and perhaps the horror of the sight will cure me of my despair. +Will you accompany me, if it won’t be troubling you too much?” + +“What did her sister say about it?” + +“Nothing. She seemed greatly surprised that a stranger wanted to buy a +plot of ground and give Marguerite a new grave, and she immediately +signed the authorization that I asked her for.” + +“Believe me, it would be better to wait until you are quite well.” + +“Have no fear; I shall be quite composed. Besides, I should simply go +out of my mind if I were not to carry out a resolution which I have set +myself to carry out. I swear to you that I shall never be myself again +until I have seen Marguerite. It is perhaps the thirst of the fever, a +sleepless night’s dream, a moment’s delirium; but though I were to +become a Trappist, like M. de Rance’, after having seen, I will see.” + +“I understand,” I said to Armand, “and I am at your service. Have you +seen Julie Duprat?” + +“Yes, I saw her the day I returned, for the first time.” + +“Did she give you the papers that Marguerite had left for you?” + +Armand drew a roll of papers from under his pillow, and immediately put +them back. + +“I know all that is in these papers by heart,” he said. “For three +weeks I have read them ten times over every day. You shall read them, +too, but later on, when I am calmer, and can make you understand all +the love and tenderness hidden away in this confession. For the moment +I want you to do me a service.” + +“What is it?” + +“Your cab is below?” + +“Yes. + +“Well, will you take my passport and ask if there are any letters for +me at the poste restante? My father and sister must have written to me +at Paris, and I went away in such haste that I did not go and see +before leaving. When you come back we will go together to the inspector +of police, and arrange for to-morrow’s ceremony.” + +Armand handed me his passport, and I went to Rue Jean Jacques Rousseau. +There were two letters addressed to Duval. I took them and returned. +When I re-entered the room Armand was dressed and ready to go out. + +“Thanks,” he said, taking the letters. “Yes,” he added, after glancing +at the addresses, “they are from my father and sister. They must have +been quite at a loss to understand my silence.” + +He opened the letters, guessed at rather than read them, for each was +of four pages; and a moment after folded them up. “Come,” he said, “I +will answer tomorrow.” + +We went to the police station, and Armand handed in the permission +signed by Marguerite’s sister. He received in return a letter to the +keeper of the cemetery, and it was settled that the disinterment was to +take place next day, at ten o’clock, that I should call for him an hour +before, and that we should go to the cemetery together. + +I confess that I was curious to be present, and I did not sleep all +night. Judging from the thoughts which filled my brain, it must have +been a long night for Armand. When I entered his room at nine on the +following morning he was frightfully pale, but seemed calm. He smiled +and held out his hand. His candles were burned out; and before leaving +he took a very heavy letter addressed to his father, and no doubt +containing an account of that night’s impressions. + +Half an hour later we were at Montmartre. The police inspector was +there already. We walked slowly in the direction of Marguerite’s grave. +The inspector went in front; Armand and I followed a few steps behind. + +From time to time I felt my companion’s arm tremble convulsively, as if +he shivered from head to feet. I looked at him. He understood the look, +and smiled at me; we had not exchanged a word since leaving the house. + +Just before we reached the grave, Armand stopped to wipe his face, +which was covered with great drops of sweat. I took advantage of the +pause to draw in a long breath, for I, too, felt as if I had a weight +on my chest. + +What is the origin of that mournful pleasure which we find in sights of +this kind? When we reached the grave the gardener had removed all the +flower-pots, the iron railing had been taken away, and two men were +turning up the soil. + +Armand leaned against a tree and watched. All his life seemed to pass +before his eyes. Suddenly one of the two pickaxes struck against a +stone. At the sound Armand recoiled, as at an electric shock, and +seized my hand with such force as to give me pain. + +One of the grave-diggers took a shovel and began emptying out the +earth; then, when only the stones covering the coffin were left, he +threw them out one by one. + +I scrutinized Armand, for every moment I was afraid lest the emotions +which he was visibly repressing should prove too much for him; but he +still watched, his eyes fixed and wide open, like the eyes of a madman, +and a slight trembling of the cheeks and lips were the only signs of +the violent nervous crisis under which he was suffering. + +As for me, all I can say is that I regretted having come. + +When the coffin was uncovered the inspector said to the grave-digger: +“Open it.” They obeyed, as if it were the most natural thing in the +world. + +The coffin was of oak, and they began to unscrew the lid. The humidity +of the earth had rusted the screws, and it was not without some +difficulty that the coffin was opened. A painful odour arose in spite +of the aromatic plants with which it was covered. + +“O my God, my God!” murmured Armand, and turned paler than before. + +Even the grave-digger drew back. + +A great white shroud covered the corpse, closely outlining some of its +contours. This shroud was almost completely eaten away at one end, and +left one of the feet visible. + +I was nearly fainting, and at the moment of writing these lines I see +the whole scene over again in all its imposing reality. + +“Quick,” said the inspector. Thereupon one of the men put out his hand, +began to unsew the shroud, and taking hold of it by one end suddenly +laid bare the face of Marguerite. + +It was terrible to see, it is horrible to relate. The eyes were nothing +but two holes, the lips had disappeared, vanished, and the white teeth +were tightly set. The black hair, long and dry, was pressed tightly +about the forehead, and half veiled the green hollows of the cheeks; +and yet I recognised in this face the joyous white and rose face that I +had seen so often. + +Armand, unable to turn away his eyes, had put the handkerchief to his +mouth and bit it. + +For my part, it was as if a circle of iron tightened about my head, a +veil covered my eyes, a rumbling filled my ears, and all I could do was +to unstop a smelling bottle which I happened to have with me, and to +draw in long breaths of it. + +Through this bewilderment I heard the inspector say to Duval, “Do you +identify?” + +“Yes,” replied the young man in a dull voice. + +“Then fasten it up and take it away,” said the inspector. + +The grave-diggers put back the shroud over the face of the corpse, +fastened up the coffin, took hold of each end of it, and began to carry +it toward the place where they had been told to take it. + +Armand did not move. His eyes were fixed upon the empty grave; he was +as white as the corpse which we had just seen. He looked as if he had +been turned to stone. + +I saw what was coming as soon as the pain caused by the spectacle +should have abated and thus ceased to sustain him. I went up to the +inspector. “Is this gentleman’s presence still necessary?” I said, +pointing to Armand. + +“No,” he replied, “and I should advise you to take him away. He looks +ill.” + +“Come,” I said to Armand, taking him by the arm. + +“What?” he said, looking at me as if he did not recognise me. + +“It is all over,” I added. “You must come, my friend; you are quite +white; you are cold. These emotions will be too much for you.” + +“You are right. Let us go,” he answered mechanically, but without +moving a step. + +I took him by the arm and led him along. He let himself be guided like +a child, only from time to time murmuring, “Did you see her eyes?” and +he turned as if the vision had recalled her. + +Nevertheless, his steps became more irregular; he seemed to walk by a +series of jerks; his teeth chattered; his hands were cold; a violent +agitation ran through his body. I spoke to him; he did not answer. He +was just able to let himself be led along. A cab was waiting at the +gate. It was only just in time. Scarcely had he seated himself, when +the shivering became more violent, and he had an actual attack of +nerves, in the midst of which his fear of frightening me made him press +my hand and whisper: “It is nothing, nothing. I want to weep.” + +His chest laboured, his eyes were injected with blood, but no tears +came. I made him smell the salts which I had with me, and when we +reached his house only the shivering remained. + +With the help of his servant I put him to bed, lit a big fire in his +room, and hurried off to my doctor, to whom I told all that had +happened. He hastened with me. + +Armand was flushed and delirious; he stammered out disconnected words, +in which only the name of Marguerite could be distinctly heard. + +“Well?” I said to the doctor when he had examined the patient. + +“Well, he has neither more nor less than brain fever, and very lucky it +is for him, for I firmly believe (God forgive me!) that he would have +gone out of his mind. Fortunately, the physical malady will kill the +mental one, and in a month’s time he will be free from the one and +perhaps from the other.” + + + + +Chapter VII + + +Illnesses like Armand’s have one fortunate thing about them: they +either kill outright or are very soon overcome. A fortnight after the +events which I have just related Armand was convalescent, and we had +already become great friends. During the whole course of his illness I +had hardly left his side. + +Spring was profuse in its flowers, its leaves, its birds, its songs; +and my friend’s window opened gaily upon his garden, from which a +reviving breath of health seemed to come to him. The doctor had allowed +him to get up, and we often sat talking at the open window, at the hour +when the sun is at its height, from twelve to two. I was careful not to +refer to Marguerite, fearing lest the name should awaken sad +recollections hidden under the apparent calm of the invalid; but +Armand, on the contrary, seemed to delight in speaking of her, not as +formerly, with tears in his eyes, but with a sweet smile which +reassured me as to the state of his mind. + +I had noticed that ever since his last visit to the cemetery, and the +sight which had brought on so violent a crisis, sorrow seemed to have +been overcome by sickness, and Marguerite’s death no longer appeared to +him under its former aspect. A kind of consolation had sprung from the +certainty of which he was now fully persuaded, and in order to banish +the sombre picture which often presented itself to him, he returned +upon the happy recollections of his liaison with Marguerite, and seemed +resolved to think of nothing else. + +The body was too much weakened by the attack of fever, and even by the +process of its cure, to permit him any violent emotions, and the +universal joy of spring which wrapped him round carried his thoughts +instinctively to images of joy. He had always obstinately refused to +tell his family of the danger which he had been in, and when he was +well again his father did not even know that he had been ill. + +One evening we had sat at the window later than usual; the weather had +been superb, and the sun sank to sleep in a twilight dazzling with gold +and azure. Though we were in Paris, the verdure which surrounded us +seemed to shut us off from the world, and our conversation was only now +and again disturbed by the sound of a passing vehicle. + +“It was about this time of the year, on the evening of a day like this, +that I first met Marguerite,” said Armand to me, as if he were +listening to his own thoughts rather than to what I was saying. I did +not answer. Then turning toward me, he said: + +“I must tell you the whole story; you will make a book out of it; no +one will believe it, but it will perhaps be interesting to do.” + +“You will tell me all about it later on, my friend,” I said to him; +“you are not strong enough yet.” + +“It is a warm evening, I have eaten my ration of chicken,” he said to +me, smiling; “I have no fever, we have nothing to do, I will tell it to +you now.” + +“Since you really wish it, I will listen.” + +This is what he told me, and I have scarcely changed a word of the +touching story. + +Yes (Armand went on, letting his head sink back on the chair), yes, it +was just such an evening as this. I had spent the day in the country +with one of my friends, Gaston R—. We returned to Paris in the evening, +and not knowing what to do we went to the Variétés. We went out during +one of the _entr’actes_, and a tall woman passed us in the corridor, to +whom my friend bowed. + +“Whom are you bowing to?” I asked. + +“Marguerite Gautier,” he said. + +“She seems much changed, for I did not recognise her,” I said, with an +emotion that you will soon understand. + +“She has been ill; the poor girl won’t last long.” + +I remember the words as if they had been spoken to me yesterday. + +I must tell you, my friend, that for two years the sight of this girl +had made a strange impression on me whenever I came across her. Without +knowing why, I turned pale and my heart beat violently. I have a friend +who studies the occult sciences, and he would call what I experienced +“the affinity of fluids”; as for me, I only know that I was fated to +fall in love with Marguerite, and that I foresaw it. + +It is certainly the fact that she made a very definite impression upon +me, that many of my friends had noticed it and that they had been much +amused when they saw who it was that made this impression upon me. + +The first time I ever saw her was in the Place de la Bourse, outside +Susse’s; an open carriage was stationed there, and a woman dressed in +white got down from it. A murmur of admiration greeted her as she +entered the shop. As for me, I was rivetted to the spot from the moment +she went in till the moment when she came out again. I could see her +through the shop windows selecting what she had come to buy. I might +have gone in, but I dared not. I did not know who she was, and I was +afraid lest she should guess why I had come in and be offended. +Nevertheless, I did not think I should ever see her again. + +She was elegantly dressed; she wore a muslin dress with many flounces, +an Indian shawl embroidered at the corners with gold and silk flowers, +a straw hat, a single bracelet, and a heavy gold chain, such as was +just then beginning to be the fashion. + +She returned to her carriage and drove away. One of the shopmen stood +at the door looking after his elegant customer’s carriage. I went up to +him and asked him what was the lady’s name. + +“Mademoiselle Marguerite Gautier,” he replied. I dared not ask him for +her address, and went on my way. + +The recollection of this vision, for it was really a vision, would not +leave my mind like so many visions I had seen, and I looked everywhere +for this royally beautiful woman in white. + +A few days later there was a great performance at the Opera Comique. +The first person I saw in one of the boxes was Marguerite Gautier. + +The young man whom I was with recognised her immediately, for he said +to me, mentioning her name: “Look at that pretty girl.” + +At that moment Marguerite turned her opera-glass in our direction and, +seeing my friend, smiled and beckoned to him to come to her. + +“I will go and say ‘How do you do?’ to her,” he said, “and will be back +in a moment.” + +“I could not help saying ‘Happy man!’” + +“Why?” + +“To go and see that woman.” + +“Are you in love with her?” + +“No,” I said, flushing, for I really did not know what to say; “but I +should very much like to know her.” + +“Come with me. I will introduce you.” + +“Ask her if you may.” + +“Really, there is no need to be particular with her; come.” + +What he said troubled me. I feared to discover that Marguerite was not +worthy of the sentiment which I felt for her. + +In a book of Alphonse Karr entitled _Am Rauchen_, there is a man who +one evening follows a very elegant woman, with whom he had fallen in +love with at first sight on account of her beauty. Only to kiss her +hand he felt that he had the strength to undertake anything, the will +to conquer anything, the courage to achieve anything. He scarcely dares +glance at the trim ankle which she shows as she holds her dress out of +the mud. While he is dreaming of all that he would do to possess this +woman, she stops at the corner of the street and asks if he will come +home with her. He turns his head, crosses the street, and goes sadly +back to his own house. + +I recalled the story, and, having longed to suffer for this woman, I +was afraid that she would accept me too promptly and give me at once +what I fain would have purchased by long waiting or some great +sacrifice. We men are built like that, and it is very fortunate that +the imagination lends so much poetry to the senses, and that the +desires of the body make thus such concession to the dreams of the +soul. If anyone had said to me, You shall have this woman to-night and +be killed tomorrow, I would have accepted. If anyone had said to me, +you can be her lover for ten pounds, I would have refused. I would have +cried like a child who sees the castle he has been dreaming about +vanish away as he awakens from sleep. + +All the same, I wished to know her; it was my only means of making up +my mind about her. I therefore said to my friend that I insisted on +having her permission to be introduced to her, and I wandered to and +fro in the corridors, saying to myself that in a moment’s time she was +going to see me, and that I should not know which way to look. I tried +(sublime childishness of love!) to string together the words I should +say to her. + +A moment after my friend returned. “She is expecting us,” he said. + +“Is she alone?” I asked. + +“With another woman.” + +“There are no men?” + +“No.” + +“Come, then.” + +My friend went toward the door of the theatre. + +“That is not the way,” I said. + +“We must go and get some sweets. She asked me for some.” + +We went into a confectioner’s in the passage de l’Opera. I would have +bought the whole shop, and I was looking about to see what sweets to +choose, when my friend asked for a pound of raisins glaces. + +“Do you know if she likes them?” + +“She eats no other kind of sweets; everybody knows it. + +“Ah,” he went on when we had left the shop, “do you know what kind of +woman it is that I am going to introduce you to? Don’t imagine it is a +duchess. It is simply a kept woman, very much kept, my dear fellow; +don’t be shy, say anything that comes into your head.” + +“Yes, yes,” I stammered, and I followed him, saying to myself that I +should soon cure myself of my passion. + +When I entered the box Marguerite was in fits of laughter. I would +rather that she had been sad. My friend introduced me; Marguerite gave +me a little nod, and said, “And my sweets?” + +“Here they are.” + +She looked at me as she took them. I dropped my eyes and blushed. + +She leaned across to her neighbour and said something in her ear, at +which both laughed. Evidently I was the cause of their mirth, and my +embarrassment increased. At that time I had as mistress a very +affectionate and sentimental little person, whose sentiment and whose +melancholy letters amused me greatly. I realized the pain I must have +given her by what I now experienced, and for five minutes I loved her +as no woman was ever loved. + +Marguerite ate her raisins glaces without taking any more notice of me. +The friend who had introduced me did not wish to let me remain in so +ridiculous a position. + +“Marguerite,” he said, “you must not be surprised if M. Duval says +nothing: you overwhelm him to such a degree that he can not find a word +to say.” + +“I should say, on the contrary, that he has only come with you because +it would have bored you to come here by yourself.” + +“If that were true,” I said, “I should not have begged Ernest to ask +your permission to introduce me.” + +“Perhaps that was only in order to put off the fatal moment.” + +However little one may have known women like Marguerite, one can not +but know the delight they take in pretending to be witty and in teasing +the people whom they meet for the first time. It is no doubt a return +for the humiliations which they often have to submit to on the part of +those whom they see every day. + +To answer them properly, one requires a certain knack, and I had not +had the opportunity of acquiring it; besides, the idea that I had +formed of Marguerite accentuated the effects of her mockery. Nothing +that dame from her was indifferent to me. I rose to my feet, saying in +an altered voice, which I could not entirely control: + +“If that is what you think of me, madame, I have only to ask your +pardon for my indiscretion, and to take leave of you with the assurance +that it shall not occur again.” + +Thereupon I bowed and quitted the box. I had scarcely closed the door +when I heard a third peal of laughter. It would not have been well for +anybody who had elbowed me at that moment. + +I returned to my seat. The signal for raising the curtain was given. +Ernest came back to his place beside me. + +“What a way you behaved!” he said, as he sat down. “They will think you +are mad.” + +“What did Marguerite say after I had gone?” + +“She laughed, and said she had never seen anyone so funny. But don’t +look upon it as a lost chance; only do not do these women the honour of +taking them seriously. They do not know what politeness and ceremony +are. It is as if you were to offer perfumes to dogs—they would think it +smelled bad, and go and roll in the gutter.” + +“After all, what does it matter to me?” I said, affecting to speak in a +nonchalant way. “I shall never see this woman again, and if I liked her +before meeting her, it is quite different now that I know her.” + +“Bah! I don’t despair of seeing you one day at the back of her box, and +of hearing that you are ruining yourself for her. However, you are +right, she hasn’t been well brought up; but she would be a charming +mistress to have.” + +Happily, the curtain rose and my friend was silent. I could not +possibly tell you what they were acting. All that I remember is that +from time to time I raised my eyes to the box I had quitted so +abruptly, and that the faces of fresh visitors succeeded one another +all the time. + +I was far from having given up thinking about Marguerite. Another +feeling had taken possession of me. It seemed to me that I had her +insult and my absurdity to wipe out; I said to myself that if I spent +every penny I had, I would win her and win my right to the place I had +abandoned so quickly. + +Before the performance was over Marguerite and her friend left the box. +I rose from my seat. + +“Are you going?” said Ernest. + +“Yes.” + +“Why?” + +At that moment he saw that the box was empty. + +“Go, go,” he said, “and good luck, or rather better luck.” + +I went out. + +I heard the rustle of dresses, the sound of voices, on the staircase. I +stood aside, and, without being seen, saw the two women pass me, +accompanied by two young men. At the entrance to the theatre they were +met by a footman. + +“Tell the coachman to wait at the door of the Café Anglais,” said +Marguerite. “We will walk there.” + +A few minutes afterward I saw Marguerite from the street at a window of +one of the large rooms of the restaurant, pulling the camellias of her +bouquet to pieces, one by one. One of the two men was leaning over her +shoulder and whispering in her ear. I took up my position at the +Maison-d’or, in one of the first-floor rooms, and did not lose sight of +the window for an instant. At one in the morning Marguerite got into +her carriage with her three friends. I took a cab and followed them. +The carriage stopped at No. 9, Rue d’Antin. Marguerite got out and went +in alone. It was no doubt a mere chance, but the chance filled me with +delight. + +From that time forward, I often met Marguerite at the theatre or in the +Champs-Elysées. Always there was the same gaiety in her, the same +emotion in me. + +At last a fortnight passed without my meeting her. I met Gaston and +asked after her. + +“Poor girl, she is very ill,” he answered. + +“What is the matter?” + +“She is consumptive, and the sort of life she leads isn’t exactly the +thing to cure her. She has taken to her bed; she is dying.” + +The heart is a strange thing; I was almost glad at hearing it. + +Every day I went to ask after her, without leaving my name or my card. +I heard she was convalescent and had gone to Bagnères. + +Time went by, the impression, if not the memory, faded gradually from +my mind. I travelled; love affairs, habits, work, took the place of +other thoughts, and when I recalled this adventure I looked upon it as +one of those passions which one has when one is very young, and laughs +at soon afterward. + +For the rest, it was no credit to me to have got the better of this +recollection, for I had completely lost sight of Marguerite, and, as I +told you, when she passed me in the corridor of the Variétés, I did not +recognise her. She was veiled, it is true; but, veiled though she might +have been two years earlier, I should not have needed to see her in +order to recognise her: I should have known her intuitively. All the +same, my heart began to beat when I knew that it was she; and the two +years that had passed since I saw her, and what had seemed to be the +results of that separation, vanished in smoke at the mere touch of her +dress. + + + + +Chapter VIII + + +However (continued Armand after a pause), while I knew myself to be +still in love with her, I felt more sure of myself, and part of my +desire to speak to Marguerite again was a wish to make her see that I +was stronger than she. + +How many ways does the heart take, how many reasons does it invent for +itself, in order to arrive at what it wants! + +I could not remain in the corridor, and I returned to my place in the +stalls, looking hastily around to see what box she was in. She was in a +ground-floor box, quite alone. She had changed, as I have told you, and +no longer wore an indifferent smile on her lips. She had suffered; she +was still suffering. Though it was April, she was still wearing a +winter costume, all wrapped up in furs. + +I gazed at her so fixedly that my eyes attracted hers. She looked at me +for a few seconds, put up her opera-glass to see me better, and seemed +to think she recognised me, without being quite sure who I was, for +when she put down her glasses, a smile, that charming, feminine +salutation, flitted across her lips, as if to answer the bow which she +seemed to expect; but I did not respond, so as to have an advantage +over her, as if I had forgotten, while she remembered. Supposing +herself mistaken, she looked away. + +The curtain went up. I have often seen Marguerite at the theatre. I +never saw her pay the slightest attention to what was being acted. As +for me, the performance interested me equally little, and I paid no +attention to anything but her, though doing my utmost to keep her from +noticing it. + +Presently I saw her glancing across at the person who was in the +opposite box; on looking, I saw a woman with whom I was quite familiar. +She had once been a kept woman, and had tried to go on the stage, had +failed, and, relying on her acquaintance with fashionable people in +Paris, had gone into business and taken a milliner’s shop. I saw in her +a means of meeting with Marguerite, and profited by a moment in which +she looked my way to wave my hand to her. As I expected, she beckoned +to me to come to her box. + +Prudence Duvernoy (that was the milliner’s auspicious name) was one of +those fat women of forty with whom one requires very little diplomacy +to make them understand what one wants to know, especially when what +one wants to know is as simple as what I had to ask of her. + +I took advantage of a moment when she was smiling across at Marguerite +to ask her, “Whom are you looking at?” + +“Marguerite Gautier.” + +“You know her?” + +“Yes, I am her milliner, and she is a neighbour of mine.” + +“Do you live in the Rue d’Antin?” + +“No. 7. The window of her dressing-room looks on to the window of +mine.” + +“They say she is a charming girl.” + +“Don’t you know her?” + +“No, but I should like to.” + +“Shall I ask her to come over to our box?” + +“No, I would rather for you to introduce me to her.” + +“At her own house?” + +“Yes. + +“That is more difficult.” + +“Why?” + +“Because she is under the protection of a jealous old duke.” + +“‘Protection’ is charming.” + +“Yes, protection,” replied Prudence. “Poor old man, he would be greatly +embarrassed to offer her anything else.” + +Prudence then told me how Marguerite had made the acquaintance of the +duke at Bagnères. + +“That, then,” I continued, “is why she is alone here?” + +“Precisely.” + +“But who will see her home?” + +“He will.” + +“He will come for her?” + +“In a moment.” + +“And you, who is seeing you home?” + +“No one.” + +“May I offer myself?” + +“But you are with a friend, are you not?” + +“May we offer, then?” + +“Who is your friend?” + +“A charming fellow, very amusing. He will be delighted to make your +acquaintance.” + +“Well, all right; we will go after this piece is over, for I know the +last piece.” + +“With pleasure; I will go and tell my friend.” + +“Go, then. Ah,” added Prudence, as I was going, “there is the duke just +coming into Marguerite’s box.” + +I looked at him. A man of about seventy had sat down behind her, and +was giving her a bag of sweets, into which she dipped at once, smiling. +Then she held it out toward Prudence, with a gesture which seemed to +say, “Will you have some?” + +“No,” signalled Prudence. + +Marguerite drew back the bag, and, turning, began to talk with the +duke. + +It may sound childish to tell you all these details, but everything +relating to Marguerite is so fresh in my memory that I can not help +recalling them now. + +I went back to Gaston and told him of the arrangement I had made for +him and for me. He agreed, and we left our stalls to go round to Mme. +Duvernoy’s box. We had scarcely opened the door leading into the stalls +when we had to stand aside to allow Marguerite and the duke to pass. I +would have given ten years of my life to have been in the old man’s +place. + +When they were on the street he handed her into a phaeton, which he +drove himself, and they were whirled away by two superb horses. + +We returned to Prudence’s box, and when the play was over we took a cab +and drove to 7, Rue d’Antin. At the door, Prudence asked us to come up +and see her showrooms, which we had never seen, and of which she seemed +very proud. You can imagine how eagerly I accepted. It seemed to me as +if I was coming nearer and nearer to Marguerite. I soon turned the +conversation in her direction. + +“The old duke is at your neighbours,” I said to Prudence. + +“Oh, no; she is probably alone.” + +“But she must be dreadfully bored,” said Gaston. + +“We spend most of our evening together, or she calls to me when she +comes in. She never goes to bed before two in the morning. She can’t +sleep before that.” + +“Why?” + +“Because she suffers in the chest, and is almost always feverish.” + +“Hasn’t she any lovers?” I asked. + +“I never see anyone remain after I leave; I don’t say no one ever comes +when I am gone. Often in the evening I meet there a certain Comte de +N., who thinks he is making some headway by calling on her at eleven in +the evening, and by sending her jewels to any extent; but she can’t +stand him. She makes a mistake; he is very rich. It is in vain that I +say to her from time to time, ‘My dear child, there’s the man for you.’ +She, who generally listens to me, turns her back and replies that he is +too stupid. Stupid, indeed, he is; but it would be a position for her, +while this old duke might die any day. Old men are egoists; his family +are always reproaching him for his affection for Marguerite; there are +two reasons why he is likely to leave her nothing. I give her good +advice, and she only says it will be plenty of time to take on the +count when the duke is dead. It isn’t all fun,” continued Prudence, “to +live like that. I know very well it wouldn’t suit me, and I should soon +send the old man about his business. He is so dull; he calls her his +daughter; looks after her like a child; and is always in the way. I am +sure at this very moment one of his servants is prowling about in the +street to see who comes out, and especially who goes in.” + +“Ah, poor Marguerite!” said Gaston, sitting down to the piano and +playing a waltz. “I hadn’t a notion of it, but I did notice she hasn’t +been looking so gay lately.” + +“Hush,” said Prudence, listening. Gaston stopped. + +“She is calling me, I think.” + +We listened. A voice was calling, “Prudence!” + +“Come, now, you must go,” said Mme. Duvernoy. + +“Ah, that is your idea of hospitality,” said Gaston, laughing; “we +won’t go till we please.” + +“Why should we go?” + +“I am going over to Marguerite’s.” + +“We will wait here.” + +“You can’t.” + +“Then we will go with you.” + +“That still less.” + +“I know Marguerite,” said Gaston; “I can very well pay her a call.” + +“But Armand doesn’t know her.” + +“I will introduce him.” + +“Impossible.” + +We again heard Marguerite’s voice calling to Prudence, who rushed to +her dressing-room window. I followed with Gaston as she opened the +window. We hid ourselves so as not to be seen from outside. + +“I have been calling you for ten minutes,” said Marguerite from her +window, in almost an imperious tone of voice. + +“What do you want?” + +“I want you to come over at once.” + +“Why?” + +“Because the Comte de N. is still here, and he is boring me to death.” + +“I can’t now.” + +“What is hindering you?” + +“There are two young fellows here who won’t go.” + +“Tell them that you must go out.” + +“I have told them.” + +“Well, then, leave them in the house. They will soon go when they see +you have gone.” + +“They will turn everything upside down.” + +“But what do they want?” + +“They want to see you.” + +“What are they called?” + +“You know one, M. Gaston R.” + +“Ah, yes, I know him. And the other?” + +“M. Armand Duval; and you don’t know him.” + +“No, but bring them along. Anything is better than the count. I expect +you. Come at once.” + +Marguerite closed her window and Prudence hers. Marguerite, who had +remembered my face for a moment, did not remember my name. I would +rather have been remembered to my disadvantage than thus forgotten. + +“I knew,” said Gaston, “that she would be delighted to see us.” + +“Delighted isn’t the word,” replied Prudence, as she put on her hat and +shawl. “She will see you in order to get rid of the count. Try to be +more agreeable than he is, or (I know Marguerite) she will put it all +down to me.” + +We followed Prudence downstairs. I trembled; it seemed to me that this +visit was to have a great influence on my life. I was still more +agitated than on the evening when I was introduced in the box at the +Opera Comique. As we reached the door that you know, my heart beat so +violently that I was hardly able to think. + +We heard the sound of a piano. Prudence rang. The piano was silent. A +woman who looked more like a companion than a servant opened the door. +We went into the drawing-room, and from that to the boudoir, which was +then just as you have seen it since. A young man was leaning against +the mantel-piece. Marguerite, seated at the piano, let her fingers +wander over the notes, beginning scraps of music without finishing +them. The whole scene breathed boredom, the man embarrassed by the +consciousness of his nullity, the woman tired of her dismal visitor. At +the voice of Prudence, Marguerite rose, and coming toward us with a +look of gratitude to Mme. Duvernoy, said: + +“Come in, and welcome.” + + + + +Chapter IX + + +“Good-evening, my dear Gaston,” said Marguerite to my companion. “I am +very glad to see you. Why didn’t you come to see me in my box at the +Variétés?” + +“I was afraid it would be indiscreet.” + +“Friends,” and Marguerite lingered over the word, as if to intimate to +those who were present that in spite of the familiar way in which she +greeted him, Gaston was not and never had been anything more than a +friend, “friends are always welcome.” + +“Then, will you permit me to introduce M. Armand Duval?” + +“I had already authorized Prudence to do so.” + +“As far as that goes, madame,” I said, bowing, and succeeding in +getting more or less intelligible sounds out of my throat, “I have +already had the honour of being introduced to you.” + +Marguerite’s beautiful eyes seemed to be looking back in memory, but +she could not, or seemed not to, remember. + +“Madame,” I continued, “I am grateful to you for having forgotten the +occasion of my first introduction, for I was very absurd and must have +seemed to you very tiresome. It was at the Opera Comique, two years +ago; I was with Ernest de ——.” + +“Ah, I remember,” said Marguerite, with a smile. “It was not you who +were absurd; it was I who was mischievous, as I still am, but somewhat +less. You have forgiven me?” + +And she held out her hand, which I kissed. + +“It is true,” she went on; “you know I have the bad habit of trying to +embarrass people the first time I meet them. It is very stupid. My +doctor says it is because I am nervous and always ill; believe my +doctor.” + +“But you seem quite well.” + +“Oh! I have been very ill.” + +“I know.” + +“Who told you?” + +“Every one knew it; I often came to inquire after you, and I was happy +to hear of your convalescence.” + +“They never gave me your card.” + +“I did not leave it.” + +“Was it you, then, who called every day while I was ill, and would +never leave your name?” + +“Yes, it was I.” + +“Then you are more than indulgent, you are generous. You, count, +wouldn’t have done that,” said she, turning toward M. de N., after +giving me one of those looks in which women sum up their opinion of a +man. + +“I have only known you for two months,” replied the count. + +“And this gentleman only for five minutes. You always say something +ridiculous.” + +Women are pitiless toward those whom they do not care for. The count +reddened and bit his lips. + +I was sorry for him, for he seemed, like myself, to be in love, and the +bitter frankness of Marguerite must have made him very unhappy, +especially in the presence of two strangers. + +“You were playing the piano when we came in,” I said, in order to +change the conversation. “Won’t you be so good as to treat me as an old +acquaintance and go on?” + +“Oh,” said she, flinging herself on the sofa and motioning to us to sit +down, “Gaston knows what my music is like. It is all very well when I +am alone with the count, but I won’t inflict such a punishment on you.” + +“You show me that preference?” said M. de N., with a smile which he +tried to render delicately ironical. + +“Don’t reproach me for it. It is the only one.” It was fated that the +poor man was not to say a single word. He cast a really supplicating +glance at Marguerite. + +“Well, Prudence,” she went on, “have you done what I asked you to do?” + +“Yes. + +“All right. You will tell me about it later. We must talk over it; +don’t go before I can speak with you.” + +“We are doubtless intruders,” I said, “and now that we, or rather I, +have had a second introduction, to blot out the first, it is time for +Gaston and me to be going.” + +“Not in the least. I didn’t mean that for you. I want you to stay.” + +The count took a very elegant watch out of his pocket and looked at the +time. “I must be going to my club,” he said. Marguerite did not answer. +The count thereupon left his position by the fireplace and going up to +her, said: “Adieu, madame.” + +Marguerite rose. “Adieu, my dear count. Are you going already?” + +“Yes, I fear I am boring you.” + +“You are not boring me to-day more than any other day. When shall I be +seeing you?” + +“When you permit me.” + +“Good-bye, then.” + +It was cruel, you will admit. Fortunately, the count had excellent +manners and was very good-tempered. He merely kissed Marguerite’s hand, +which she held out to him carelessly enough, and, bowing to us, went +out. + +As he crossed the threshold, he cast a glance at Prudence. She shrugged +her shoulders, as much as to say: + +“What do you expect? I have done all I could.” + +“Nanine!” cried Marguerite. “Light M. le Comte to the door.” + +We heard the door open and shut. + +“At last,” cried Marguerite, coming back, “he has gone! That man gets +frightfully on my nerves!” + +“My dear child,” said Prudence, “you really treat him too badly, and he +is so good and kind to you. Look at this watch on the mantel-piece, +that he gave you: it must have cost him at least three thousand francs, +I am sure.” + +And Mme. Duvernoy began to turn it over, as it lay on the mantel-piece, +looking at it with covetous eyes. + +“My dear,” said Marguerite, sitting down to the piano, “when I put on +one side what he gives me and on the other what he says to me, it seems +to me that he buys his visits very cheap.” + +“The poor fellow is in love with you.” + +“If I had to listen to everybody who was in love with me, I shouldn’t +have time for my dinner.” + +And she began to run her fingers over the piano, and then, turning to +us, she said: + +“What will you take? I think I should like a little punch.” + +“And I could eat a little chicken,” said Prudence. “Suppose we have +supper?” + +“That’s it, let’s go and have supper,” said Gaston. + +“No, we will have supper here.” + +She rang, and Nanine appeared. + +“Send for some supper.” + +“What must I get?” + +“Whatever you like, but at once, at once.” + +Nanine went out. + +“That’s it,” said Marguerite, jumping like a child, “we’ll have supper. +How tiresome that idiot of a count is!” + +The more I saw her, the more she enchanted me. She was exquisitely +beautiful. Her slenderness was a charm. I was lost in contemplation. + +What was passing in my mind I should have some difficulty in +explaining. I was full of indulgence for her life, full of admiration +for her beauty. The proof of disinterestedness that she gave in not +accepting a rich and fashionable young man, ready to waste all his +money upon her, excused her in my eyes for all her faults in the past. + +There was a kind of candour in this woman. You could see she was still +in the virginity of vice. Her firm walk, her supple figure, her rosy, +open nostrils, her large eyes, slightly tinged with blue, indicated one +of those ardent natures which shed around them a sort of voluptuous +perfume, like Eastern vials, which, close them as tightly as you will, +still let some of their perfume escape. Finally, whether it was simple +nature or a breath of fever, there passed from time to time in the eyes +of this woman a glimmer of desire, giving promise of a very heaven for +one whom she should love. But those who had loved Marguerite were not +to be counted, nor those whom she had loved. + +In this girl there was at once the virgin whom a mere nothing had +turned into a courtesan, and the courtesan whom a mere nothing would +have turned into the most loving and the purest of virgins. Marguerite +had still pride and independence, two sentiments which, if they are +wounded, can be the equivalent of a sense of shame. I did not speak a +word; my soul seemed to have passed into my heart and my heart into my +eyes. + +“So,” said she all at once, “it was you who came to inquire after me +when I was ill?” + +“Yes.” + +“Do you know, it was quite splendid of you! How can I thank you for +it?” + +“By allowing me to come and see you from time to time.” + +“As often as you like, from five to six, and from eleven to twelve. +Now, Gaston, play the Invitation à la Valse.” + +“Why?” + +“To please me, first of all, and then because I never can manage to +play it myself.” + +“What part do you find difficult?” + +“The third part, the part in sharps.” + +Gaston rose and went to the piano, and began to play the wonderful +melody of Weber, the music of which stood open before him. + +Marguerite, resting one hand on the piano, followed every note on the +music, accompanying it in a low voice, and when Gaston had come to the +passage which she had mentioned to him, she sang out, running her +fingers along the top of the piano: + +“Do, re, mi, do, re, fa, mi, re; that is what I can not do. Over +again.” + +Gaston began over again, after which Marguerite said: + +“Now, let me try.” + +She took her place and began to play; but her rebellious fingers always +came to grief over one of the notes. + +“Isn’t it incredible,” she said, exactly like a child, “that I can not +succeed in playing that passage? Would you believe that I sometimes +spend two hours of the morning over it? And when I think that that +idiot of a count plays it without his music, and beautifully, I really +believe it is that that makes me so furious with him.” And she began +again, always with the same result. + +“The devil take Weber, music, and pianos!” she cried, throwing the +music to the other end of the room. “How can I play eight sharps one +after another?” She folded her arms and looked at us, stamping her +foot. The blood flew to her cheeks, and her lips half opened in a +slight cough. + +“Come, come,” said Prudence, who had taken off her hat and was +smoothing her hair before the glass, “you will work yourself into a +rage and do yourself harm. Better come and have supper; for my part, I +am dying of hunger.” + +Marguerite rang the bell, sat down to the piano again, and began to hum +over a very risky song, which she accompanied without difficulty. +Gaston knew the song, and they gave a sort of duet. + +“Don’t sing those beastly things,” I said to Marguerite, imploringly. + +“Oh, how proper you are!” she said, smiling and giving me her hand. “It +is not for myself, but for you.” + +Marguerite made a gesture as if to say, “Oh, it is long since that I +have done with propriety!” At that moment Nanine appeared. + +“Is supper ready?” asked Marguerite. “Yes, madame, in one moment.” + +“Apropos,” said Prudence to me, “you have not looked round; come, and I +will show you.” As you know, the drawing-room was a marvel. + +Marguerite went with us for a moment; then she called Gaston and went +into the dining-room with him to see if supper was ready. + +“Ah,” said Prudence, catching sight of a little Saxe figure on a +side-table, “I never knew you had this little gentleman.” + +“Which?” + +“A little shepherd holding a bird-cage.” + +“Take it, if you like it.” + +“I won’t deprive you of it.” + +“I was going to give it to my maid. I think it hideous; but if you like +it, take it.” + +Prudence only saw the present, not the way in which it was given. She +put the little figure on one side, and took me into the dressing-room, +where she showed me two miniatures hanging side by side, and said: + +“That is the Comte de G., who was very much in love with Marguerite; it +was he who brought her out. Do you know him?” + +“No. And this one?” I inquired, pointing to the other miniature. + +“That is the little Vicomte de L. He was obliged to disappear.” + +“Why?” + +“Because he was all but ruined. That’s one, if you like, who loved +Marguerite.” + +“And she loved him, too, no doubt?” + +“She is such a queer girl, one never knows. The night he went away she +went to the theatre as usual, and yet she had cried when he said +good-bye to her.” + +Just then Nanine appeared, to tell us that supper was served. + +When we entered the dining-room, Marguerite was leaning against the +wall, and Gaston, holding her hands, was speaking to her in a low +voice. + +“You are mad,” replied Marguerite. “You know quite well that I don’t +want you. It is no good at the end of two years to make love to a woman +like me. With us, it is at once, or never. Come, gentlemen, supper!” + +And, slipping away from Gaston, Marguerite made him sit on her right at +table, me on her left, then called to Nanine: + +“Before you sit down, tell them in the kitchen not to open to anybody +if there is a ring.” + +This order was given at one o’clock in the morning. + +We laughed, drank, and ate freely at this supper. In a short while +mirth had reached its last limit, and the words that seem funny to a +certain class of people, words that degrade the mouth that utters them, +were heard from time to time, amidst the applause of Nanine, of +Prudence, and of Marguerite. Gaston was thoroughly amused; he was a +very good sort of fellow, but somewhat spoiled by the habits of his +youth. For a moment I tried to forget myself, to force my heart and my +thoughts to become indifferent to the sight before me, and to take my +share of that gaiety which seemed like one of the courses of the meal. +But little by little I withdrew from the noise; my glass remained full, +and I felt almost sad as I saw this beautiful creature of twenty +drinking, talking like a porter, and laughing the more loudly the more +scandalous was the joke. + +Nevertheless, this hilarity, this way of talking and drinking, which +seemed to me in the others the mere results of bad company or of bad +habits, seemed in Marguerite a necessity of forgetting, a fever, a +nervous irritability. At every glass of champagne her cheeks would +flush with a feverish colour, and a cough, hardly perceptible at the +beginning of supper, became at last so violent that she was obliged to +lean her head on the back of her chair and hold her chest in her hands +every time that she coughed. I suffered at the thought of the injury to +so frail a constitution which must come from daily excesses like this. +At length, something which I had feared and foreseen happened. Toward +the end of supper Marguerite was seized by a more violent fit of +coughing than any she had had while I was there. It seemed as if her +chest were being torn in two. The poor girl turned crimson, closed her +eyes under the pain, and put her napkin to her lips. It was stained +with a drop of blood. She rose and ran into her dressing-room. + +“What is the matter with Marguerite?” asked Gaston. + +“She has been laughing too much, and she is spitting blood. Oh, it is +nothing; it happens to her every day. She will be back in a minute. +Leave her alone. She prefers it.” + +I could not stay still; and, to the consternation of Prudence and +Nanine, who called to me to come back, I followed Marguerite. + + + + +Chapter X + + +The room to which she had fled was lit only by a single candle. She lay +back on a great sofa, her dress undone, holding one hand on her heart, +and letting the other hang by her side. On the table was a basin half +full of water, and the water was stained with streaks of blood. + +Very pale, her mouth half open, Marguerite tried to recover breath. Now +and again her bosom was raised by a long sigh, which seemed to relieve +her a little, and for a few seconds she would seem to be quite +comfortable. + +I went up to her; she made no movement, and I sat down and took the +hand which was lying on the sofa. + +“Ah! it is you,” she said, with a smile. + +I must have looked greatly agitated, for she added: + +“Are you unwell, too?” + +“No, but you: do you still suffer?” + +“Very little;” and she wiped off with her handkerchief the tears which +the coughing had brought to her eyes; “I am used to it now.” + +“You are killing yourself, madame,” I said to her in a moved voice. “I +wish I were a friend, a relation of yours, that I might keep you from +doing yourself harm like this.” + +“Ah! it is really not worth your while to alarm yourself,” she replied +in a somewhat bitter tone; “see how much notice the others take of me! +They know too well that there is nothing to be done.” + +Thereupon she got up, and, taking the candle, put it on the +mantel-piece and looked at herself in the glass. + +“How pale I am!” she said, as she fastened her dress and passed her +fingers over her loosened hair. “Come, let us go back to supper. Are +you coming?” + +I sat still and did not move. + +She saw how deeply I had been affected by the whole scene, and, coming +up to me, held out her hand, saying: + +“Come now, let us go.” + +I took her hand, raised it to my lips, and in spite of myself two tears +fell upon it. + +“Why, what a child you are!” she said, sitting down by my side again. +“You are crying! What is the matter?” + +“I must seem very silly to you, but I am frightfully troubled by what I +have just seen.” + +“You are very good! What would you have of me? I can not sleep. I must +amuse myself a little. And then, girls like me, what does it matter, +one more or less? The doctors tell me that the blood I spit up comes +from my throat; I pretend to believe them; it is all I can do for +them.” + +“Listen, Marguerite,” I said, unable to contain myself any longer; “I +do not know what influence you are going to have over my life, but at +this present moment there is no one, not even my sister, in whom I feel +the interest which I feel in you. It has been just the same ever since +I saw you. Well, for Heaven’s sake, take care of yourself, and do not +live as you are living now.” + +“If I took care of myself I should die. All that supports me is the +feverish life I lead. Then, as for taking care of oneself, that is all +very well for women with families and friends; as for us, from the +moment we can no longer serve the vanity or the pleasure of our lovers, +they leave us, and long nights follow long days. I know it. I was in +bed for two months, and after three weeks no one came to see me.” + +“It is true I am nothing to you,” I went on, “but if you will let me, I +will look after you like a brother, I will never leave your side, and I +will cure you. Then, when you are strong again, you can go back to the +life you are leading, if you choose; but I am sure you will come to +prefer a quiet life, which will make you happier and keep your beauty +unspoiled.” + +“You think like that to-night because the wine has made you sad, but +you would never have the patience that you pretend to.” + +“Permit me to say, Marguerite, that you were ill for two months, and +that for two months I came to ask after you every day.” + +“It is true, but why did you not come up?” + +“Because I did not know you then.” + +“Need you have been so particular with a girl like me?” + +“One must always be particular with a woman; it is what I feel, at +least.” + +“So you would look after me?” + +“Yes.” + +“You would stay by me all day?” + +“Yes. + +“And even all night?” + +“As long as I did not weary you.” + +“And what do you call that?” + +“Devotion.” + +“And what does this devotion come from?” + +“The irresistible sympathy which I have for you.” + +“So you are in love with me? Say it straight out, it is much more +simple.” + +“It is possible; but if I am to say it to you one day, it is not +to-day.” + +“You will do better never to say it.” + +“Why?” + +“Because only one of two things can come of it.” + +“What?” + +“Either I shall not accept: then you will have a grudge against me; or +I shall accept: then you will have a sorry mistress; a woman who is +nervous, ill, sad, or gay with a gaiety sadder than grief, a woman who +spits blood and spends a hundred thousand francs a year. That is all +very well for a rich old man like the duke, but it is very bad for a +young man like you, and the proof of it is that all the young lovers I +have had have very soon left me.” I did not answer; I listened. This +frankness, which was almost a kind of confession, the sad life, of +which I caught some glimpse through the golden veil which covered it, +and whose reality the poor girl sought to escape in dissipation, drink, +and wakefulness, impressed me so deeply that I could not utter a single +word. + +“Come,” continued Marguerite, “we are talking mere childishness. Give +me your arm and let us go back to the dining-room. They won’t know what +we mean by our absence.” + +“Go in, if you like, but allow me to stay here.” + +“Why?” + +“Because your mirth hurts me.” + +“Well, I will be sad.” + +“Marguerite, let me say to you something which you have no doubt often +heard, so often that the habit of hearing it has made you believe it no +longer, but which is none the less real, and which I will never +repeat.” + +“And that is...?” she said, with the smile of a young mother listening +to some foolish notion of her child. + +“It is this, that ever since I have seen you, I know not why, you have +taken a place in my life; that, if I drive the thought of you out of my +mind, it always comes back; that when I met you to-day, after not +having seen you for two years, you made a deeper impression on my heart +and mind than ever; that, now that you have let me come to see you, now +that I know you, now that I know all that is strange in you, you have +become a necessity of my life, and you will drive me mad, not only if +you will not love me, but if you will not let me love you.” + +“But, foolish creature that you are, I shall say to you, like Mme. D., +‘You must be very rich, then!’ Why, you don’t know that I spend six or +seven thousand francs a month, and that I could not live without it; +you don’t know, my poor friend, that I should ruin you in no time, and +that your family would cast you off if you were to live with a woman +like me. Let us be friends, good friends, but no more. Come and see me, +we will laugh and talk, but don’t exaggerate what I am worth, for I am +worth very little. You have a good heart, you want someone to love you, +you are too young and too sensitive to live in a world like mine. Take +a married woman. You see, I speak to you frankly, like a friend.” + +“But what the devil are you doing there?” cried Prudence, who had come +in without our hearing her, and who now stood just inside the door, +with her hair half coming down and her dress undone. I recognised the +hand of Gaston. + +“We are talking sense,” said Marguerite; “leave us alone; we will be +back soon.” + +“Good, good! Talk, my children,” said Prudence, going out and closing +the door behind her, as if to further emphasize the tone in which she +had said these words. + +“Well, it is agreed,” continued Marguerite, when we were alone, “you +won’t fall in love with me?” + +“I will go away.” + +“So much as that?” + +I had gone too far to draw back; and I was really carried away. This +mingling of gaiety, sadness, candour, prostitution, her very malady, +which no doubt developed in her a sensitiveness to impressions, as well +as an irritability of nerves, all this made it clear to me that if from +the very beginning I did not completely dominate her light and +forgetful nature, she was lost to me. + +“Come, now, do you seriously mean what you say?” she said. + +“Seriously.” + +“But why didn’t you say it to me sooner?” + +“When could I have said it?” + +“The day after you had been introduced to me at the Opera Comique.” + +“I thought you would have received me very badly if I had come to see +you.” + +“Why?” + +“Because I had behaved so stupidly.” + +“That’s true. And yet you were already in love with me.” + +“Yes.” + +“And that didn’t hinder you from going to bed and sleeping quite +comfortably. One knows what that sort of love means.” + +“There you are mistaken. Do you know what I did that evening, after the +Opera Comique?” + +“No.” + +“I waited for you at the door of the Café Anglais. I followed the +carriage in which you and your three friends were, and when I saw you +were the only one to get down, and that you went in alone, I was very +happy.” + +Marguerite began to laugh. + +“What are you laughing at?” + +“Nothing.” + +“Tell me, I beg of you, or I shall think you are still laughing at me.” + +“You won’t be cross?” + +“What right have I to be cross?” + +“Well, there was a sufficient reason why I went in alone.” + +“What?” + +“Some one was waiting for me here.” + +If she had thrust a knife into me she would not have hurt me more. I +rose, and holding out my hand, “Goodbye,” said I. + +“I knew you would be cross,” she said; “men are frantic to know what is +certain to give them pain.” + +“But I assure you,” I added coldly, as if wishing to prove how +completely I was cured of my passion, “I assure you that I am not +cross. It was quite natural that someone should be waiting for you, +just as it is quite natural that I should go from here at three in the +morning.” + +“Have you, too, someone waiting for you?” + +“No, but I must go.” + +“Good-bye, then.” + +“You send me away?” + +“Not the least in the world.” + +“Why are you so unkind to me?” + +“How have I been unkind to you?” + +“In telling me that someone was waiting for you.” + +“I could not help laughing at the idea that you had been so happy to +see me come in alone when there was such a good reason for it.” + +“One finds pleasure in childish enough things, and it is too bad to +destroy such a pleasure when, by simply leaving it alone, one can make +somebody so happy.” + +“But what do you think I am? I am neither maid nor duchess. I didn’t +know you till to-day, and I am not responsible to you for my actions. +Supposing one day I should become your mistress, you are bound to know +that I have had other lovers besides you. If you make scenes of +jealousy like this before, what will it be after, if that after should +ever exist? I never met anyone like you.” + +“That is because no one has ever loved you as I love you.” + +“Frankly, then, you really love me?” + +“As much as it is possible to love, I think.” + +“And that has lasted since—?” + +“Since the day I saw you go into Susse’s, three years ago.” + +“Do you know, that is tremendously fine? Well, what am I to do in +return?” + +“Love me a little,” I said, my heart beating so that I could hardly +speak; for, in spite of the half-mocking smiles with which she had +accompanied the whole conversation, it seemed to me that Marguerite +began to share my agitation, and that the hour so long awaited was +drawing near. + +“Well, but the duke?” + +“What duke?” + +“My jealous old duke.” + +“He will know nothing.” + +“And if he should?” + +“He would forgive you.” + +“Ah, no, he would leave me, and what would become of me?” + +“You risk that for someone else.” + +“How do you know?” “By the order you gave not to admit anyone +to-night.” “It is true; but that is a serious friend.” + +“For whom you care nothing, as you have shut your door against him at +such an hour.” + +“It is not for you to reproach me, since it was in order to receive +you, you and your friend.” + +Little by little I had drawn nearer to Marguerite. I had put my arms +about her waist, and I felt her supple body weigh lightly on my clasped +hands. + +“If you knew how much I love you!” I said in a low voice. “Really +true?” + +“I swear it.” + +“Well, if you will promise to do everything I tell you, without a word, +without an opinion, without a question, perhaps I will say yes.” + +“I will do everything that you wish!” + +“But I forewarn you I must be free to do as I please, without giving +you the slightest details what I do. I have long wished for a young +lover, who should be young and not self-willed, loving without +distrust, loved without claiming the right to it. I have never found +one. Men, instead of being satisfied in obtaining for a long time what +they scarcely hoped to obtain once, exact from their mistresses a full +account of the present, the past, and even the future. As they get +accustomed to her, they want to rule her, and the more one gives them +the more exacting they become. If I decide now on taking a new lover, +he must have three very rare qualities: he must be confiding, +submissive, and discreet.” + +“Well, I will be all that you wish.” + +“We shall see.” + +“When shall we see?” + +“Later on.” + +“Why?” + +“Because,” said Marguerite, releasing herself from my arms, and, taking +from a great bunch of red camellias a single camellia, she placed it in +my buttonhole, “because one can not always carry out agreements the day +they are signed.” + +“And when shall I see you again?” I said, clasping her in my arms. + +“When this camellia changes colour.” + +“When will it change colour?” + +“To-morrow night between eleven and twelve. Are you satisfied?” + +“Need you ask me?” + +“Not a word of this either to your friend or to Prudence, or to anybody +whatever.” + +“I promise.” + +“Now, kiss me, and we will go back to the dining-room.” + +She held up her lips to me, smoothed her hair again, and we went out of +the room, she singing, and I almost beside myself. + +In the next room she stopped for a moment and said to me in a low +voice: + +“It must seem strange to you that I am ready to take you at a moment’s +notice. Shall I tell you why? It is,” she continued, taking my hand and +placing it against her heart so that I could feel how rapidly and +violently it palpitated; “it is because I shall not live as long as +others, and I have promised myself to live more quickly.” + +“Don’t speak to me like that, I entreat you.” + +“Oh, make yourself easy,” she continued, laughing; “however short a +time I have to live, I shall live longer than you will love me!” + +And she went singing into the dining-room. + +“Where is Nanine?” she said, seeing Gaston and Prudence alone. + +“She is asleep in your room, waiting till you are ready to go to bed,” +replied Prudence. + +“Poor thing, I am killing her! And now gentlemen, it is time to go.” + +Ten minutes after, Gaston and I left the house. Marguerite shook hands +with me and said good-bye. Prudence remained behind. + +“Well,” said Gaston, when we were in the street, “what do you think of +Marguerite?” + +“She is an angel, and I am madly in love with her.” “So I guessed; did +you tell her so?” + +“Yes.” + +“And did she promise to believe you?” + +“No.” + +“She is not like Prudence.” + +“Did she promise to?” + +“Better still, my dear fellow. You wouldn’t think it; but she is still +not half bad, poor old Duvernoy!” + + + + +Chapter XI + + +At this point Armand stopped. + +“Would you close the window for me?” he said. “I am beginning to feel +cold. Meanwhile, I will get into bed.” + +I closed the window. Armand, who was still very weak, took off his +dressing-gown and lay down in bed, resting his head for a few moments +on the pillow, like a man who is tired by much talking or disturbed by +painful memories. + +“Perhaps you have been talking too much,” I said to him. “Would you +rather for me to go and leave you to sleep? You can tell me the rest of +the story another day.” + +“Are you tired of listening to it?” + +“Quite the contrary.” + +“Then I will go on. If you left me alone, I should not sleep.” + +When I returned home (he continued, without needing to pause and +recollect himself, so fresh were all the details in his mind), I did +not go to bed, but began to reflect over the day’s adventure. The +meeting, the introduction, the promise of Marguerite, had followed one +another so rapidly, and so unexpectedly, that there were moments when +it seemed to me I had been dreaming. Nevertheless, it was not the first +time that a girl like Marguerite had promised herself to a man on the +morrow of the day on which he had asked for the promise. + +Though, indeed, I made this reflection, the first impression produced +on me by my future mistress was so strong that it still persisted. I +refused obstinately to see in her a woman like other women, and, with +the vanity so common to all men, I was ready to believe that she could +not but share the attraction which drew me to her. + +Yet, I had before me plenty of instances to the contrary, and I had +often heard that the affection of Marguerite was a thing to be had more +or less dear, according to the season. + +But, on the other hand, how was I to reconcile this reputation with her +constant refusal of the young count whom we had found at her house? You +may say that he was unattractive to her, and that, as she was +splendidly kept by the duke, she would be more likely to choose a man +who was attractive to her, if she were to take another lover. If so, +why did she not choose Gaston, who was rich, witty, and charming, and +why did she care for me, whom she had thought so ridiculous the first +time she had seen me? + +It is true that there are events of a moment which tell more than the +courtship of a year. Of those who were at the supper, I was the only +one who had been concerned at her leaving the table. I had followed +her, I had been so affected as to be unable to hide it from her, I had +wept as I kissed her hand. This circumstance, added to my daily visits +during the two months of her illness, might have shown her that I was +somewhat different from the other men she knew, and perhaps she had +said to herself that for a love which could thus manifest itself she +might well do what she had done so often that it had no more +consequence for her. + +All these suppositions, as you may see, were improbable enough; but +whatever might have been the reason of her consent, one thing was +certain, she had consented. + +Now, I was in love with Marguerite. I had nothing more to ask of her. +Nevertheless, though she was only a kept woman, I had so anticipated +for myself, perhaps to poetize it a little, a hopeless love, that the +nearer the moment approached when I should have nothing more to hope, +the more I doubted. I did not close my eyes all night. + +I scarcely knew myself. I was half demented. Now, I seemed to myself +not handsome or rich or elegant enough to possess such a woman, now I +was filled with vanity at the thought of it; then I began to fear lest +Marguerite had no more than a few days’ caprice for me, and I said to +myself that since we should soon have to part, it would be better not +to keep her appointment, but to write and tell her my fears and leave +her. From that I went on to unlimited hope, unbounded confidence. I +dreamed incredible dreams of the future; I said to myself that she +should owe to me her moral and physical recovery, that I should spend +my whole life with her, and that her love should make me happier than +all the maidenly loves in the world. + +But I can not repeat to you the thousand thoughts that rose from my +heart to my head, and that only faded away with the sleep that came to +me at daybreak. + +When I awoke it was two o’clock. The weather was superb. I don’t think +life ever seemed to me so beautiful and so full of possibilities. The +memories of the night before came to me without shadow or hindrance, +escorted gaily by the hopes of the night to come. From time to time my +heart leaped with love and joy in my breast. A sweet fever thrilled me. +I thought no more of the reasons which had filled my mind before I +slept. I saw only the result, I thought only of the hour when I was to +see Marguerite again. + +It was impossible to stay indoors. My room seemed too small to contain +my happiness. I needed the whole of nature to unbosom myself. + +I went out. Passing by the Rue d’Antin, I saw Marguerite’s coupé +waiting for her at the door. I went toward the Champs-Elysées. I loved +all the people whom I met. Love gives one a kind of goodness. + +After I had been walking for an hour from the Marly horses to the +Rond-Point, I saw Marguerite’s carriage in the distance; I divined +rather than recognised it. As it was turning the corner of the +Champs-Elysées it stopped, and a tall young man left a group of people +with whom he was talking and came up to her. They talked for a few +moments; the young man returned to his friends, the horses set out +again, and as I came near the group I recognised the one who had spoken +to Marguerite as the Comte de G., whose portrait I had seen and whom +Prudence had indicated to me as the man to whom Marguerite owed her +position. It was to him that she had closed her doors the night before; +I imagined that she had stopped her carriage in order to explain to him +why she had done so, and I hoped that at the same time she had found +some new pretext for not receiving him on the following night. + +How I spent the rest of the day I do not know; I walked, smoked, +talked, but what I said, whom I met, I had utterly forgotten by ten +o’clock in the evening. + +All I remember is that when I returned home, I spent three hours over +my toilet, and I looked at my watch and my clock a hundred times, which +unfortunately both pointed to the same hour. + +When it struck half past ten, I said to myself that it was time to go. + +I lived at that time in the Rue de Provence; I followed the Rue du +Mont-Blanc, crossed the Boulevard, went up the Rue Louis-le-Grand, the +Rue de Port-Mahon, and the Rue d’Antin. I looked up at Marguerite’s +windows. There was a light. I rang. I asked the porter if Mlle. Gautier +was at home. He replied that she never came in before eleven or a +quarter past eleven. I looked at my watch. I intended to come quite +slowly, and I had come in five minutes from the Rue de Provence to the +Rue d’Antin. + +I walked to and fro in the street; there are no shops, and at that hour +it is quite deserted. In half an hour’s time Marguerite arrived. She +looked around her as she got down from her coupé, as if she were +looking for some one. The carriage drove off; the stables were not at +the house. Just as Marguerite was going to ring, I went up to her and +said, “Good-evening.” + +“Ah, it is you,” she said, in a tone that by no means reassured me as +to her pleasure in seeing me. + +“Did you not promise me that I might come and see you to-day?” + +“Quite right. I had forgotten.” + +This word upset all the reflections I had had during the day. +Nevertheless, I was beginning to get used to her ways, and I did not +leave her, as I should certainly have done once. We entered. Nanine had +already opened the door. + +“Has Prudence come?” said Marguerite. + +“No, madame.” + +“Say that she is to be admitted as soon as she comes. But first put out +the lamp in the drawing-room, and if anyone comes, say that I have not +come back and shall not be coming back.” + +She was like a woman who is preoccupied with something, and perhaps +annoyed by an unwelcome guest. I did not know what to do or say. +Marguerite went toward her bedroom; I remained where I was. + +“Come,” she said. + +She took off her hat and her velvet cloak and threw them on the bed, +then let herself drop into a great armchair beside the fire, which she +kept till the very beginning of summer, and said to me as she fingered +her watch-chain: + +“Well, what news have you got for me?” + +“None, except that I ought not to have come to-night.” + +“Why?” + +“Because you seem vexed, and no doubt I am boring you.” + +“You are not boring me; only I am not well; I have been suffering all +day. I could not sleep, and I have a frightful headache.” + +“Shall I go away and let you go to bed?” + +“Oh, you can stay. If I want to go to bed I don’t mind your being +here.” + +At that moment there was a ring. + +“Who is coming now?” she said, with an impatient movement. + +A few minutes after there was another ring. + +“Isn’t there anyone to go to the door? I shall have to go.” She got up +and said to me, “Wait here.” + +She went through the rooms, and I heard her open the outer door. I +listened. + +The person whom she had admitted did not come farther than the +dining-room. At the first word I recognised the voice of the young +Comte de N. + +“How are you this evening?” he said. + +“Not well,” replied Marguerite drily. + +“Am I disturbing you?” + +“Perhaps. + +“How you receive me! What have I done, my dear Marguerite?” + +“My dear friend, you have done nothing. I am ill; I must go to bed, so +you will be good enough to go. It is sickening not to be able to return +at night without your making your appearance five minutes afterward. +What is it you want? For me to be your mistress? Well, I have already +told you a hundred times, No; you simply worry me, and you might as +well go somewhere else. I repeat to you to-day, for the last time, I +don’t want to have anything to do with you; that’s settled. Good-bye. +Here’s Nanine coming in; she can light you to the door. Good-night.” + +Without adding another word, or listening to what the young man +stammered out, Marguerite returned to the room and slammed the door. +Nanine entered a moment after. + +“Now understand,” said Marguerite, “you are always to say to that idiot +that I am not in, or that I will not see him. I am tired out with +seeing people who always want the same thing; who pay me for it, and +then think they are quit of me. If those who are going to go in for our +hateful business only knew what it really was they would sooner be +chambermaids. But no, vanity, the desire of having dresses and +carriages and diamonds carries us away; one believes what one hears, +for here, as elsewhere, there is such a thing as belief, and one uses +up one’s heart, one’s body, one’s beauty, little by little; one is +feared like a beast of prey, scorned like a pariah, surrounded by +people who always take more than they give; and one fine day one dies +like a dog in a ditch, after having ruined others and ruined one’s +self.” + +“Come, come, madame, be calm,” said Nanine; “your nerves are a bit +upset to-night.” + +“This dress worries me,” continued Marguerite, unhooking her bodice; +“give me a dressing-gown. Well, and Prudence?” + +“She has not come yet, but I will send her to you, madame, the moment +she comes.” + +“There’s one, now,” Marguerite went on, as she took off her dress and +put on a white dressing-gown, “there’s one who knows very well how to +find me when she is in want of me, and yet she can’t do me a service +decently. She knows I am waiting for an answer. She knows how anxious I +am, and I am sure she is going about on her own account, without giving +a thought to me.” + +“Perhaps she had to wait.” + +“Let us have some punch.” + +“It will do you no good, madame,” said Nanine. + +“So much the better. Bring some fruit, too, and a paté or a wing of +chicken; something or other, at once. I am hungry.” + +Need I tell you the impression which this scene made upon me, or can +you not imagine it? + +“You are going to have supper with me,” she said to me; “meanwhile, +take a book. I am going into my dressing-room for a moment.” + +She lit the candles of a candelabra, opened a door at the foot of the +bed, and disappeared. + +I began to think over this poor girl’s life, and my love for her was +mingled with a great pity. I walked to and fro in the room, thinking +over things, when Prudence entered. + +“Ah, you here?”’ she said, “where is Marguerite?” + +“In her dressing-room.” + +“I will wait. By the way, do you know she thinks you charming?” + +“No.” + +“She hasn’t told you?” + +“Not at all.” + +“How are you here?” + +“I have come to pay her a visit.” + +“At midnight?” + +“Why not?” + +“_Farceur!_” + +“She has received me, as a matter of fact, very badly.” + +“She will receive you better by and bye.” + +“Do you think so?” + +“I have some good news for her.” + +“No harm in that. So she has spoken to you about me?” + +“Last night, or rather to-night, when you and your friend went. By the +way, what is your friend called? Gaston R., his name is, isn’t it?” + +“Yes,” said I, not without smiling, as I thought of what Gaston had +confided to me, and saw that Prudence scarcely even knew his name. + +“He is quite nice, that fellow; what does he do?” + +“He has twenty-five thousand francs a year.” + +“Ah, indeed! Well, to return to you. Marguerite asked me all about you: +who you were, what you did, what mistresses you had had; in short, +everything that one could ask about a man of your age. I told her all I +knew, and added that you were a charming young man. That’s all.” + +“Thanks. Now tell me what it was she wanted to say to you last night.” + +“Nothing at all. It was only to get rid of the count; but I have really +something to see her about to-day, and I am bringing her an answer +now.” + +At this moment Marguerite reappeared from her dressing-room, wearing a +coquettish little nightcap with bunches of yellow ribbons, technically +known as “cabbages.” She looked ravishing. She had satin slippers on +her bare feet, and was in the act of polishing her nails. + +“Well,” she said, seeing Prudence, “have you seen the duke?” + +“Yes, indeed.” + +“And what did he say to you?” + +“He gave me—” + +“How much?” + +“Six thousand.” + +“Have you got it?” + +“Yes. + +“Did he seem put out?” + +“No.” + +“Poor man!” + +This “Poor man!” was said in a tone impossible to render. Marguerite +took the six notes of a thousand francs. + +“It was quite time,” she said. “My dear Prudence, are you in want of +any money?” + +“You know, my child, it is the 15th in a couple of days, so if you +could lend me three or four hundred francs, you would do me a real +service.” + +“Send over to-morrow; it is too late to get change now.” + +“Don’t forget.” + +“No fear. Will you have supper with us?” + +“No, Charles is waiting for me.” + +“You are still devoted to him?” + +“Crazy, my dear! I will see you to-morrow. Good-bye, Armand.” + +Mme. Duvernoy went out. + +Marguerite opened the drawer of a side-table and threw the bank-notes +into it. + +“Will you permit me to get into bed?” she said with a smile, as she +moved toward the bed. + +“Not only permit, but I beg of you.” + +She turned back the covering and got into bed. + +“Now,” said she, “come and sit down by me, and let’s have a talk.” + +Prudence was right: the answer that she had brought to Marguerite had +put her into a good humour. + +“Will you forgive me for my bad temper tonight?” she said, taking my +hand. + +“I am ready to forgive you as often as you like.” + +“And you love me?” + +“Madly.” + +“In spite of my bad disposition?” + +“In spite of all.” + +“You swear it?” + +“Yes,” I said in a whisper. + +Nanine entered, carrying plates, a cold chicken, a bottle of claret, +and some strawberries. + +“I haven’t had any punch made,” said Nanine; “claret is better for you. +Isn’t it, sir?” + +“Certainly,” I replied, still under the excitement of Marguerite’s last +words, my eyes fixed ardently upon her. + +“Good,” said she; “put it all on the little table, and draw it up to +the bed; we will help ourselves. This is the third night you have sat +up, and you must be in want of sleep. Go to bed. I don’t want anything +more.” + +“Shall I lock the door?” + +“I should think so! And above all, tell them not to admit anybody +before midday.” + + + + +Chapter XII + + +At five o’clock in the morning, as the light began to appear through +the curtains, Marguerite said to me: “Forgive me if I send you away; +but I must. The duke comes every morning; they will tell him, when he +comes, that I am asleep, and perhaps he will wait until I wake.” + +I took Marguerite’s head in my hands; her loosened hair streamed about +her; I gave her a last kiss, saying: “When shall I see you again?” + +“Listen,” she said; “take the little gilt key on the mantelpiece, open +that door; bring me back the key and go. In the course of the day you +shall have a letter, and my orders, for you know you are to obey +blindly.” + +“Yes; but if I should already ask for something?” + +“What?” + +“Let me have that key.” + +“What you ask is a thing I have never done for anyone.” + +“Well, do it for me, for I swear to you that I don’t love you as the +others have loved you.” + +“Well, keep it; but it only depends on me to make it useless to you, +after all.” + +“How?” + +“There are bolts on the door.” + +“Wretch!” + +“I will have them taken off.” + +“You love, then, a little?” + +“I don’t know how it is, but it seems to me as if I do! Now, go; I +can’t keep my eyes open.” + +I held her in my arms for a few seconds and then went. + +The streets were empty, the great city was still asleep, a sweet +freshness circulated in the streets that a few hours later would be +filled with the noise of men. It seemed to me as if this sleeping city +belonged to me; I searched my memory for the names of those whose +happiness I had once envied; and I could not recall one without finding +myself the happier. + +To be loved by a pure young girl, to be the first to reveal to her the +strange mystery of love, is indeed a great happiness, but it is the +simplest thing in the world. To take captive a heart which has had no +experience of attack, is to enter an unfortified and ungarrisoned city. +Education, family feeling, the sense of duty, the family, are strong +sentinels, but there are no sentinels so vigilant as not to be deceived +by a girl of sixteen to whom nature, by the voice of the man she loves, +gives the first counsels of love, all the more ardent because they seem +so pure. + +The more a girl believes in goodness, the more easily will she give +way, if not to her lover, at least to love, for being without mistrust +she is without force, and to win her love is a triumph that can be +gained by any young man of five-and-twenty. See how young girls are +watched and guarded! The walls of convents are not high enough, mothers +have no locks strong enough, religion has no duties constant enough, to +shut these charming birds in their cages, cages not even strewn with +flowers. Then how surely must they desire the world which is hidden +from them, how surely must they find it tempting, how surely must they +listen to the first voice which comes to tell its secrets through their +bars, and bless the hand which is the first to raise a corner of the +mysterious veil! + +But to be really loved by a courtesan: that is a victory of infinitely +greater difficulty. With them the body has worn out the soul, the +senses have burned up the heart, dissipation has blunted the feelings. +They have long known the words that we say to them, the means we use; +they have sold the love that they inspire. They love by profession, and +not by instinct. They are guarded better by their calculations than a +virgin by her mother and her convent; and they have invented the word +caprice for that unbartered love which they allow themselves from time +to time, for a rest, for an excuse, for a consolation, like usurers, +who cheat a thousand, and think they have bought their own redemption +by once lending a sovereign to a poor devil who is dying of hunger +without asking for interest or a receipt. + +Then, when God allows love to a courtesan, that love, which at first +seems like a pardon, becomes for her almost without penitence. When a +creature who has all her past to reproach herself with is taken all at +once by a profound, sincere, irresistible love, of which she had never +felt herself capable; when she has confessed her love, how absolutely +the man whom she loves dominates her! How strong he feels with his +cruel right to say: You do no more for love than you have done for +money. They know not what proof to give. A child, says the fable, +having often amused himself by crying “Help! a wolf!” in order to +disturb the labourers in the field, was one day devoured by a Wolf, +because those whom he had so often deceived no longer believed in his +cries for help. It is the same with these unhappy women when they love +seriously. They have lied so often that no one will believe them, and +in the midst of their remorse they are devoured by their love. + +Hence those great devotions, those austere retreats from the world, of +which some of them have given an example. + +But when the man who inspires this redeeming love is great enough in +soul to receive it without remembering the past, when he gives himself +up to it, when, in short, he loves as he is loved, this man drains at +one draught all earthly emotions, and after such a love his heart will +be closed to every other. + +I did not make these reflections on the morning when I returned home. +They could but have been the presentiment of what was to happen to me, +and, despite my love for Marguerite, I did not foresee such +consequences. I make these reflections to-day. Now that all is +irrevocably ended, they a rise naturally out of what has taken place. + +But to return to the first day of my liaison. When I reached home I was +in a state of mad gaiety. As I thought of how the barriers which my +imagination had placed between Marguerite and myself had disappeared, +of how she was now mine; of the place I now had in her thoughts, of the +key to her room which I had in my pocket, and of my right to use this +key, I was satisfied with life, proud of myself, and I loved God +because he had let such things be. + +One day a young man is passing in the street, he brushes against a +woman, looks at her, turns, goes on his way. He does not know the +woman, and she has pleasures, griefs, loves, in which he has no part. +He does not exist for her, and perhaps, if he spoke to her, she would +only laugh at him, as Marguerite had laughed at me. Weeks, months, +years pass, and all at once, when they have each followed their fate +along a different path, the logic of chance brings them face to face. +The woman becomes the man’s mistress and loves him. How? why? Their two +existences are henceforth one; they have scarcely begun to know one +another when it seems as if they had known one another always, and all +that had gone before is wiped out from the memory of the two lovers. It +is curious, one must admit. + +As for me, I no longer remembered how I had lived before that night. My +whole being was exalted into joy at the memory of the words we had +exchanged during that first night. Either Marguerite was very clever in +deception, or she had conceived for me one of those sudden passions +which are revealed in the first kiss, and which die, often enough, as +suddenly as they were born. + +The more I reflected the more I said to myself that Marguerite had no +reason for feigning a love which she did not feel, and I said to myself +also that women have two ways of loving, one of which may arise from +the other: they love with the heart or with the senses. Often a woman +takes a lover in obedience to the mere will of the senses, and learns +without expecting it the mystery of immaterial love, and lives +henceforth only through her heart; often a girl who has sought in +marriage only the union of two pure affections receives the sudden +revelation of physical love, that energetic conclusion of the purest +impressions of the soul. + +In the midst of these thoughts I fell asleep; I was awakened by a +letter from Marguerite containing these words: + +“Here are my orders: To-night at the Vaudeville. + +“Come during the third _entr’acte_.” + +I put the letter into a drawer, so that I might always have it at hand +in case I doubted its reality, as I did from time to time. + +She did not tell me to come to see her during the day, and I dared not +go; but I had so great a desire to see her before the evening that I +went to the Champs-Elysées, where I again saw her pass and repass, as I +had on the previous day. + +At seven o’clock I was at the Vaudeville. Never had I gone to a theatre +so early. The boxes filled one after another. Only one remained empty, +the stage box. At the beginning of the third act I heard the door of +the box, on which my eyes had been almost constantly fixed, open, and +Marguerite appeared. She came to the front at once, looked around the +stalls, saw me, and thanked me with a look. + +That night she was marvellously beautiful. Was I the cause of this +coquetry? Did she love me enough to believe that the more beautiful she +looked the happier I should be? I did not know, but if that had been +her intention she certainly succeeded, for when she appeared all heads +turned, and the actor who was then on the stage looked to see who had +produced such an effect on the audience by her mere presence there. + +And I had the key of this woman’s room, and in three or four hours she +would again be mine! + +People blame those who let themselves be ruined by actresses and kept +women; what astonishes me is that twenty times greater follies are not +committed for them. One must have lived that life, as I have, to know +how much the little vanities which they afford their lovers every day +help to fasten deeper into the heart, since we have no other word for +it, the love which he has for them. + +Prudence next took her place in the box, and a man, whom I recognised +as the Comte de G., seated himself at the back. As I saw him, a cold +shiver went through my heart. + +Doubtless Marguerite perceived the impression made on me by the +presence of this man, for she smiled to me again, and, turning her back +to the count, appeared to be very attentive to the play. At the third +_entr’acte_ she turned and said two words: the count left the box, and +Marguerite beckoned to me to come to her. + +“Good-evening,” she said as I entered, holding out her hand. + +“Good-evening,” I replied to both Marguerite and Prudence. + +“Sit down.” + +“But I am taking someone’s place. Isn’t the Comte de G. coming back?” + +“Yes; I sent him to fetch some sweets, so that we could talk by +ourselves for a moment. Mme. Duvernoy is in on the secret.” + +“Yes, my children,” said she; “have no fear. I shall say nothing.” + +“What is the matter with you to-night?” said Marguerite, rising and +coming to the back of the box and kissing me on the forehead. + +“I am not very well.” + +“You should go to bed,” she replied, with that ironical air which went +so well with her delicate and witty face. + +“Where?” + +“At home.” + +“You know that I shouldn’t be able to sleep there.” + +“Well, then, it won’t do for you to come and be pettish here because +you have seen a man in my box.” + +“It is not for that reason.” + +“Yes, it is. I know; and you are wrong, so let us say no more about it. +You will go back with Prudence after the theatre, and you will stay +there till I call. Do you understand?” + +“Yes.” + +How could I disobey? + +“You still love me?” + +“Can you ask?” + +“You have thought of me?” + +“All day long.” + +“Do you know that I am really afraid that I shall get very fond of you? +Ask Prudence.” + +“Ah,” said she, “it is amazing!” + +“Now, you must go back to your seat. The count will be coming back, and +there is nothing to be gained by his finding you here.” + +“Because you don’t like seeing him.” + +“No; only if you had told me that you wanted to come to the Vaudeville +to-night I could have got this box for you as well as he.” + +“Unfortunately, he got it for me without my asking him, and he asked me +to go with him; you know well enough that I couldn’t refuse. All I +could do was to write and tell you where I was going, so that you could +see me, and because I wanted to see you myself; but since this is the +way you thank me, I shall profit by the lesson.” + +“I was wrong; forgive me.” + +“Well and good; and now go back nicely to your place, and, above all, +no more jealousy.” + +She kissed me again, and I left the box. In the passage I met the count +coming back. I returned to my seat. + +After all, the presence of M. de G. in Marguerite’s box was the most +natural thing in the world. He had been her lover, he sent her a box, +he accompanied her to the theatre; it was all quite natural, and if I +was to have a mistress like Marguerite I should have to get used to her +ways. + +Nonetheless, I was very unhappy all the rest of the evening, and went +away very sadly after having seen Prudence, the count, and Marguerite +get into the carriage, which was waiting for them at the door. + +However, a quarter of an hour later I was at Prudence’s. She had only +just got in. + + + + +Chapter XIII + + +“You have come almost as quickly as we,” said Prudence. + +“Yes,” I answered mechanically. “Where is Marguerite?” + +“At home.” + +“Alone?” + +“With M. de G.” + +I walked to and fro in the room. + +“Well, what is the matter?” + +“Do you think it amuses me to wait here till M. de G. leaves +Marguerite’s?” + +“How unreasonable you are! Don’t you see that Marguerite can’t turn the +count out of doors? M. de G. has been with her for a long time; he has +always given her a lot of money; he still does. Marguerite spends more +than a hundred thousand francs a year; she has heaps of debts. The duke +gives her all that she asks for, but she does not always venture to ask +him for all that she is in want of. It would never do for her to +quarrel with the count, who is worth to her at least ten thousand +francs a year. Marguerite is very fond of you, my dear fellow, but your +liaison with her, in her interests and in yours, ought not to be +serious. You with your seven or eight thousand francs a year, what +could you do toward supplying all the luxuries which a girl like that +is in need of? It would not be enough to keep her carriage. Take +Marguerite for what she is, for a good, bright, pretty girl; be her +lover for a month, two months; give her flowers, sweets, boxes at the +theatre; but don’t get any other ideas into your head, and don’t make +absurd scenes of jealousy. You know whom you have to do with; +Marguerite isn’t a saint. She likes you, you are very fond of her; let +the rest alone. You amaze me when I see you so touchy; you have the +most charming mistress in Paris. She receives you in the greatest +style, she is covered with diamonds, she needn’t cost you a penny, +unless you like, and you are not satisfied. My dear fellow, you ask too +much!” + +“You are right, but I can’t help it; the idea that that man is her +lover hurts me horribly.” + +“In the first place,” replied Prudence; “is he still her lover? He is a +man who is useful to her, nothing more. She has closed her doors to him +for two days; he came this morning—she could not but accept the box and +let him accompany her. He saw her home; he has gone in for a moment, he +is not staying, because you are waiting here. All that, it seems to me, +is quite natural. Besides, you don’t mind the duke.” + +“Yes; but he is an old man, and I am sure that Marguerite is not his +mistress. Then, it is all very well to accept one liaison, but not two. +Such easiness in the matter is very like calculation, and puts the man +who consents to it, even out of love, very much in the category of +those who, in a lower stage of society, make a trade of their +connivance, and a profit of their trade.” + +“Ah, my dear fellow, how old-fashioned you are! How many of the richest +and most fashionable men of the best families I have seen quite ready +to do what I advise you to do, and without an effort, without shame, +without remorse, Why, one sees it every day. How do you suppose the +kept women in Paris could live in the style they do, if they had not +three or four lovers at once? No single fortune, however large, could +suffice for the expenses of a woman like Marguerite. A fortune of five +hundred thousand francs a year is, in France, an enormous fortune; +well, my dear friend, five hundred thousand francs a year would still +be too little, and for this reason: a man with such an income has a +large house, horses, servants, carriages; he shoots, has friends, often +he is married, he has children, he races, gambles, travels, and what +not. All these habits are so much a part of his position that he can +not forego them without appearing to have lost all his money, and +without causing scandal. Taking it all round, with five hundred +thousand francs a year he can not give a woman more than forty or fifty +thousand francs in the year, and that is already a good deal. Well, +other lovers make up for the rest of her expenses. With Marguerite, it +is still more convenient; she has chanced by a miracle on an old man +worth ten millions, whose wife and daughter are dead; who has only some +nephews, themselves rich, and who gives her all she wants without +asking anything in return. But she can not ask him for more than +seventy thousand francs a year; and I am sure that if she did ask for +more, despite his health and the affection he has for her he would not +give it to her. + +“All the young men of twenty or thirty thousand francs a year at Paris, +that is to say, men who have only just enough to live on in the society +in which they mix, know perfectly well, when they are the lovers of a +woman like Marguerite, that she could not so much as pay for the rooms +she lives in and the servants who wait upon her with what they give +her. They do not say to her that they know it; they pretend not to see +anything, and when they have had enough of it they go their way. If +they have the vanity to wish to pay for everything they get ruined, +like the fools they are, and go and get killed in Africa, after leaving +a hundred thousand francs of debt in Paris. Do you think a woman is +grateful to them for it? Far from it. She declares that she has +sacrificed her position for them, and that while she was with them she +was losing money. These details seem to you shocking? Well, they are +true. You are a very nice fellow; I like you very much. I have lived +with these women for twenty years; I know what they are worth, and I +don’t want to see you take the caprice that a pretty girl has for you +too seriously. + +“Then, besides that,” continued Prudence; “admit that Marguerite loves +you enough to give up the count or the duke, in case one of them were +to discover your liaison and to tell her to choose between him and you, +the sacrifice that she would make for you would be enormous, you can +not deny it. What equal sacrifice could you make for her, on your part, +and when you had got tired of her, what could you do to make up for +what you had taken from her? Nothing. You would have cut her off from +the world in which her fortune and her future were to be found; she +would have given you her best years, and she would be forgotten. Either +you would be an ordinary man, and, casting her past in her teeth, you +would leave her, telling her that you were only doing like her other +lovers, and you would abandon her to certain misery; or you would be an +honest man, and, feeling bound to keep her by you, you would bring +inevitable trouble upon yourself, for a liaison which is excusable in a +young man, is no longer excusable in a man of middle age. It becomes an +obstacle to every thing; it allows neither family nor ambition, man’s +second and last loves. Believe me, then, my friend, take things for +what they are worth, and do not give a kept woman the right to call +herself your creditor, no matter in what.” + +It was well argued, with a logic of which I should have thought +Prudence incapable. I had nothing to reply, except that she was right; +I took her hand and thanked her for her counsels. + +“Come, come,” said she, “put these foolish theories to flight, and +laugh over them. Life is pleasant, my dear fellow; it all depends on +the colour of the glass through which one sees it. Ask your friend +Gaston; there’s a man who seems to me to understand love as I +understand it. All that you need think of, unless you are quite a fool, +is that close by there is a beautiful girl who is waiting impatiently +for the man who is with her to go, thinking of you, keeping the whole +night for you, and who loves you, I am certain. Now, come to the window +with me, and let us watch for the count to go; he won’t be long in +leaving the coast clear.” + +Prudence opened the window, and we leaned side by side over the +balcony. She watched the few passers, I reflected. All that she had +said buzzed in my head, and I could not help feeling that she was +right; but the genuine love which I had for Marguerite had some +difficulty in accommodating itself to such a belief. I sighed from time +to time, at which Prudence turned, and shrugged her shoulders like a +physician who has given up his patient. + +“How one realizes the shortness of life,” I said to myself, “by the +rapidity of sensations! I have only known Marguerite for two days, she +has only been my mistress since yesterday, and she has already so +completely absorbed my thoughts, my heart, and my life that the visit +of the Comte de G. is a misfortune for me.” + +At last the count came out, got into his carriage and disappeared. +Prudence closed the window. At the same instant Marguerite called to +us: + +“Come at once,” she said; “they are laying the table, and we’ll have +supper.” + +When I entered, Marguerite ran to me, threw her arms around my neck and +kissed me with all her might. + +“Are we still sulky?” she said to me. + +“No, it is all over,” replied Prudence. “I have given him a talking to, +and he has promised to be reasonable.” + +“Well and good.” + +In spite of myself I glanced at the bed; it was not unmade. As for +Marguerite, she was already in her white dressing-gown. We sat down to +table. + +Charm, sweetness, spontaneity, Marguerite had them all, and I was +forced from time to time to admit that I had no right to ask of her +anything else; that many people would be very happy to be in my place; +and that, like Virgil’s shepherd, I had only to enjoy the pleasures +that a god, or rather a goddess, set before me. + +I tried to put in practice the theories of Prudence, and to be as gay +as my two companions; but what was natural in them was on my part an +effort, and the nervous laughter, whose source they did not detect, was +nearer to tears than to mirth. + +At last the supper was over and I was alone with Marguerite. She sat +down as usual on the hearthrug before the fire and gazed sadly into the +flames. What was she thinking of? I know not. As for me, I looked at +her with a mingling of love and terror, as I thought of all that I was +ready to suffer for her sake. + +“Do you know what I am thinking of?” + +“No.” + +“Of a plan that has come into my head.” + +“And what is this plan?” + +“I can’t tell you yet, but I can tell you what the result would be. The +result would be that in a month I should be free, I should have no more +debts, and we could go and spend the summer in the country.” + +“And you can’t tell me by what means?” + +“No, only love me as I love you, and all will succeed.” + +“And have you made this plan all by yourself?” + +“Yes.” + +“And you will carry it out all by yourself?” + +“I alone shall have the trouble of it,” said Marguerite, with a smile +which I shall never forget, “but we shall both partake its benefits.” + +I could not help flushing at the word benefits; I thought of Manon +Lescaut squandering with Desgrieux the money of M. de B. + +I replied in a hard voice, rising from my seat: + +“You must permit me, my dear Marguerite, to share only the benefits of +those enterprises which I have conceived and carried out myself.” + +“What does that mean?” + +“It means that I have a strong suspicion that M. de G. is to be your +associate in this pretty plan, of which I can accept neither the cost +nor the benefits.” + +“What a child you are! I thought you loved me. I was mistaken; all +right.” + +She rose, opened the piano and began to play the “Invitation à la +Valse”, as far as the famous passage in the major which always stopped +her. Was it through force of habit, or was it to remind me of the day +when we first met? All I know is that the melody brought back that +recollection, and, coming up to her, I took her head between my hands +and kissed her. “You forgive me?” I said. + +“You see I do,” she answered; “but observe that we are only at our +second day, and already I have had to forgive you something. Is this +how you keep your promise of blind obedience?” + +“What can I do, Marguerite? I love you too much and I am jealous of the +least of your thoughts. What you proposed to me just now made me +frantic with delight, but the mystery in its carrying out hurts me +dreadfully.” + +“Come, let us reason it out,” she said, taking both my hands and +looking at me with a charming smile which it was impossible to resist, +“You love me, do you not? and you would gladly spend two or three +months alone with me in the country? I too should be glad of this +_solitude à deux_, and not only glad of it, but my health requires it. +I can not leave Paris for such a length of time without putting my +affairs in order, and the affairs of a woman like me are always in +great confusion; well, I have found a way to reconcile everything, my +money affairs and my love for you; yes, for you, don’t laugh; I am +silly enough to love you! And here you are taking lordly airs and +talking big words. Child, thrice child, only remember that I love you, +and don’t let anything disturb you. Now, is it agreed?” + +“I agree to all you wish, as you know.” + +“Then, in less than a month’s time we shall be in some village, walking +by the river side, and drinking milk. Does it seem strange that +Marguerite Gautier should speak to you like that? The fact is, my +friend, that when this Paris life, which seems to make me so happy, +doesn’t burn me, it wearies me, and then I have sudden aspirations +toward a calmer existence which might recall my childhood. One has +always had a childhood, whatever one becomes. Don’t be alarmed; I am +not going to tell you that I am the daughter of a colonel on half-pay, +and that I was brought up at Saint-Denis. I am a poor country girl, and +six years ago I could not write my own name. You are relieved, aren’t +you? Why is it you are the first whom I have ever asked to share the +joy of this desire of mine? I suppose because I feel that you love me +for myself and not for yourself, while all the others have only loved +me for themselves. + +“I have often been in the country, but never as I should like to go +there. I count on you for this easy happiness; do not be unkind, let me +have it. Say this to yourself: ‘She will never live to be old, and I +should some day be sorry for not having done for her the first thing +she asked of me, such an easy thing to do!’” + +What could I reply to such words, especially with the memory of a first +night of love, and in the expectation of a second? + +An hour later I held Marguerite in my arms, and, if she had asked me to +commit a crime, I would have obeyed her. + +At six in the morning I left her, and before leaving her I said: “Till +to-night!” She kissed me more warmly than ever, but said nothing. + +During the day I received a note containing these words: + +“DEAR CHILD: I am not very well, and the doctor has ordered quiet. I +shall go to bed early to-night and shall not see you. But, to make up, +I shall expect you to-morrow at twelve. I love you.” + +My first thought was: She is deceiving me! + +A cold sweat broke out on my forehead, for I already loved this woman +too much not to be overwhelmed by the suspicion. And yet, I was bound +to expect such a thing almost any day with Marguerite, and it had +happened to me often enough with my other mistresses, without my taking +much notice of it. What was the meaning of the hold which this woman +had taken upon my life? + +Then it occurred to me, since I had the key, to go and see her as +usual. In this way I should soon know the truth, and if I found a man +there I would strike him in the face. + +Meanwhile I went to the Champs-Elysées. I waited there four hours. She +did not appear. At night I went into all the theatres where she was +accustomed to go. She was in none of them. + +At eleven o’clock I went to the Rue d’Antin. There was no light in +Marguerite’s windows. All the same, I rang. The porter asked me where I +was going. + +“To Mlle. Gautier’s,” I said. + +“She has not come in.” + +“I will go up and wait for her.” + +“There is no one there.” + +Evidently I could get in, since I had the key, but, fearing foolish +scandal, I went away. Only I did not return home; I could not leave the +street, and I never took my eyes off Marguerite’s house. It seemed to +me that there was still something to be found out, or at least that my +suspicions were about to be confirmed. + +About midnight a carriage that I knew well stopped before No. 9. The +Comte de G. got down and entered the house, after sending away the +carriage. For a moment I hoped that the same answer would be given to +him as to me, and that I should see him come out; but at four o’clock +in the morning I was still awaiting him. + +I have suffered deeply during these last three weeks, but that is +nothing, I think, in comparison with what I suffered that night. + + + + +Chapter XIV + + +When I reached home I began to cry like a child. There is no man to +whom a woman has not been unfaithful, once at least, and who will not +know what I suffered. + +I said to myself, under the weight of these feverish resolutions which +one always feels as if one had the force to carry out, that I must +break with my amour at once, and I waited impatiently for daylight in +order to set out forthwith to rejoin my father and my sister, of whose +love at least I was certain, and certain that that love would never be +betrayed. + +However, I did not wish to go away without letting Marguerite know why +I went. Only a man who really cares no more for his mistress leaves her +without writing to her. I made and remade twenty letters in my head. I +had had to do with a woman like all other women of the kind. I had been +poetizing too much. She had treated me like a school-boy, she had used +in deceiving me a trick which was insultingly simple. My self-esteem +got the upper hand. I must leave this woman without giving her the +satisfaction of knowing that she had made me suffer, and this is what I +wrote to her in my most elegant handwriting and with tears of rage and +sorrow in my eyes: + +“MY DEAR MARGUERITE: I hope that your indisposition yesterday was not +serious. I came, at eleven at night, to ask after you, and was told +that you had not come in. M. de G. was more fortunate, for he presented +himself shortly afterward, and at four in the morning he had not left. + +“Forgive me for the few tedious hours that I have given you, and be +assured that I shall never forget the happy moments which I owe to you. + +“I should have called to-day to ask after you, but I intend going back +to my father’s. + +“Good-bye, my dear Marguerite. I am not rich enough to love you as I +would nor poor enough to love you as you would. Let us then forget, you +a name which must be indifferent enough to you, I a happiness which has +become impossible. + +“I send back your key, which I have never used, and which might be +useful to you, if you are often ill as you were yesterday.” + +As you will see, I was unable to end my letter without a touch of +impertinent irony, which proved how much in love I still was. + +I read and reread this letter ten times over; then the thought of the +pain it would give to Marguerite calmed me a little. I tried to +persuade myself of the feelings which it professed; and when my servant +came to my room at eight o’clock, I gave it to him and told him to take +it at once. + +“Shall I wait for an answer?” asked Joseph (my servant, like all +servants, was called Joseph). + +“If they ask whether there is a reply, you will say that you don’t +know, and wait.” + +I buoyed myself up with the hope that she would reply. Poor, feeble +creatures that we are! All the time that my servant was away I was in a +state of extreme agitation. At one moment I would recall how Marguerite +had given herself to me, and ask myself by what right I wrote her an +impertinent letter, when she could reply that it was not M. de G. who +supplanted me, but I who had supplanted M. de G.: a mode of reasoning +which permits many women to have many lovers. At another moment I would +recall her promises, and endeavour to convince myself that my letter +was only too gentle, and that there were not expressions forcible +enough to punish a woman who laughed at a love like mine. Then I said +to myself that I should have done better not to have written to her, +but to have gone to see her, and that then I should have had the +pleasure of seeing the tears that she would shed. Finally, I asked +myself what she would reply to me; already prepared to believe whatever +excuse she made. + +Joseph returned. + +“Well?” I said to him. + +“Sir,” said he, “madame was not up, and still asleep, but as soon as +she rings the letter will be taken to her, and if there is any reply it +will be sent.” + +She was asleep! + +Twenty times I was on the point of sending to get the letter back, but +every time I said to myself: “Perhaps she will have got it already, and +it would look as if I have repented of sending it.” + +As the hour at which it seemed likely that she would reply came nearer, +I regretted more and more that I had written. The clock struck, ten, +eleven, twelve. At twelve I was on the point of keeping the appointment +as if nothing had happened. In the end I could see no way out of the +circle of fire which closed upon me. + +Then I began to believe, with the superstition which people have when +they are waiting, that if I went out for a little while, I should find +an answer when I got back. I went out under the pretext of going to +lunch. + +Instead of lunching at the Café Foy, at the corner of the Boulevard, as +I usually did, I preferred to go to the Palais Royal and so pass +through the Rue d’Antin. Every time that I saw a woman at a distance, I +fancied it was Nanine bringing me an answer. I passed through the Rue +d’Antin without even coming across a commissionaire. I went to Very’s +in the Palais Royal. The waiter gave me something to eat, or rather +served up to me whatever he liked, for I ate nothing. In spite of +myself, my eyes were constantly fixed on the clock. I returned home, +certain that I should find a letter from Marguerite. + +The porter had received nothing, but I still hoped in my servant. He +had seen no one since I went out. + +If Marguerite had been going to answer me she would have answered long +before. + +Then I began to regret the terms of my letter; I should have said +absolutely nothing, and that would undoubtedly have aroused her +suspicions, for, finding that I did not keep my appointment, she would +have inquired the reason of my absence, and only then I should have +given it to her. Thus, she would have had to exculpate herself, and +what I wanted was for her to exculpate herself. I already realized that +I should have believed whatever reasons she had given me, and anything +was better than not to see her again. + +At last I began to believe that she would come to see me herself; but +hour followed hour, and she did not come. + +Decidedly Marguerite was not like other women, for there are few who +would have received such a letter as I had just written without +answering it at all. + +At five, I hastened to the Champs-Elysées. “If I meet her,” I thought, +“I will put on an indifferent air, and she will be convinced that I no +longer think about her.” + +As I turned the corner of the Rue Royale, I saw her pass in her +carriage. The meeting was so sudden that I turned pale. I do not know +if she saw my emotion; as for me, I was so agitated that I saw nothing +but the carriage. + +I did not go any farther in the direction of the Champs-Elysées. I +looked at the advertisements of the theatres, for I had still a chance +of seeing her. There was a first night at the Palais Royal. Marguerite +was sure to be there. I was at the theatre by seven. The boxes filled +one after another, but Marguerite was not there. I left the Palais +Royal and went to all the theatres where she was most often to be seen: +to the Vaudeville, the Variétés, the Opera Comique. She was nowhere. + +Either my letter had troubled her too much for her to care to go to the +theatre, or she feared to come across me, and so wished to avoid an +explanation. So my vanity was whispering to me on the boulevards, when +I met Gaston, who asked me where I had been. + +“At the Palais Royal.” + +“And I at the Opera,” said he; “I expected to see you there.” + +“Why?” + +“Because Marguerite was there.” + +“Ah, she was there?” + +“Yes. + +“Alone?” + +“No; with another woman.” + +“That all?” + +“The Comte de G. came to her box for an instant; but she went off with +the duke. I expected to see you every moment, for there was a stall at +my side which remained empty the whole evening, and I was sure you had +taken it.” + +“But why should I go where Marguerite goes?” + +“Because you are her lover, surely!” + +“Who told you that?” + +“Prudence, whom I met yesterday. I give you my congratulations, my dear +fellow; she is a charming mistress, and it isn’t everybody who has the +chance. Stick to her; she will do you credit.” + +These simple reflections of Gaston showed me how absurd had been my +susceptibilities. If I had only met him the night before and he had +spoken to me like that, I should certainly not have written the foolish +letter which I had written. + +I was on the point of calling on Prudence, and of sending her to tell +Marguerite that I wanted to speak to her; but I feared that she would +revenge herself on me by saying that she could not see me, and I +returned home, after passing through the Rue d’Antin. Again I asked my +porter if there was a letter for me. Nothing! She is waiting to see if +I shall take some fresh step, and if I retract my letter of to-day, I +said to myself as I went to bed; but, seeing that I do not write, she +will write to me to-morrow. + +That night, more than ever, I reproached myself for what I had done. I +was alone, unable to sleep, devoured by restlessness and jealousy, when +by simply letting things take their natural course I should have been +with Marguerite, hearing the delicious words which I had heard only +twice, and which made my ears burn in my solitude. + +The most frightful part of the situation was that my judgment was +against me; as a matter of fact, everything went to prove that +Marguerite loved me. First, her proposal to spend the summer with me in +the country, then the certainty that there was no reason why she should +be my mistress, since my income was insufficient for her needs and even +for her caprices. There could not then have been on her part anything +but the hope of finding in me a sincere affection, able to give her +rest from the mercenary loves in whose midst she lived; and on the very +second day I had destroyed this hope, and paid by impertinent irony for +the love which I had accepted during two nights. What I had done was +therefore not merely ridiculous, it was indelicate. I had not even paid +the woman, that I might have some right to find fault with her; +withdrawing after two days, was I not like a parasite of love, afraid +of having to pay the bill of the banquet? What! I had only known +Marguerite for thirty-six hours; I had been her lover for only +twenty-four; and instead of being too happy that she should grant me +all that she did, I wanted to have her all to myself, and to make her +sever at one stroke all her past relations which were the revenue of +her future. What had I to reproach in her? Nothing. She had written to +say she was unwell, when she might have said to me quite crudely, with +the hideous frankness of certain women, that she had to see a lover; +and, instead of believing her letter, instead of going to any street in +Paris except the Rue d’Antin, instead of spending the evening with my +friends, and presenting myself next day at the appointed hour, I was +acting the Othello, spying upon her, and thinking to punish her by +seeing her no more. But, on the contrary, she ought to be enchanted at +this separation. She ought to find me supremely foolish, and her +silence was not even that of rancour; it was contempt. + +I might have made Marguerite a present which would leave no doubt as to +my generosity and permit me to feel properly quits of her, as of a kept +woman, but I should have felt that I was offending by the least +appearance of trafficking, if not the love which she had for me, at all +events the love which I had for her, and since this love was so pure +that it could admit no division, it could not pay by a present, however +generous, the happiness that it had received, however short that +happiness had been. + +That is what I said to myself all night long, and what I was every +moment prepared to go and say to Marguerite. When the day dawned I was +still sleepless. I was in a fever. I could think of nothing but +Marguerite. + +As you can imagine, it was time to take a decided step, and finish +either with the woman or with one’s scruples, if, that is, she would +still be willing to see me. But you know well, one is always slow in +taking a decided step; so, unable to remain within doors and not daring +to call on Marguerite, I made one attempt in her direction, an attempt +that I could always look upon as a mere chance if it succeeded. + +It was nine o’clock, and I went at once to call upon Prudence, who +asked to what she owed this early visit. I dared not tell her frankly +what brought me. I replied that I had gone out early in order to +reserve a place in the diligence for C., where my father lived. + +“You are fortunate,” she said, “in being able to get away from Paris in +this fine weather.” + +I looked at Prudence, asking myself whether she was laughing at me, but +her face was quite serious. + +“Shall you go and say good-bye to Marguerite?” she continued, as +seriously as before. + +“No.” + +“You are quite right.” + +“You think so?” + +“Naturally. Since you have broken with her, why should you see her +again?” + +“You know it is broken off?” + +“She showed me your letter.” + +“What did she say about it?” + +“She said: ‘My dear Prudence, your _protégé_ is not polite; one thinks +such letters, one does not write them.”’ + +“In what tone did she say that?” + +“Laughingly,” and she added: “He has had supper with me twice, and +hasn’t even called.” + +That, then, was the effect produced by my letter and my jealousy. I was +cruelly humiliated in the vanity of my affection. + +“What did she do last night?” + +“She went to the opera.” + +“I know. And afterward?” + +“She had supper at home.” + +“Alone?” + +“With the Comte de G., I believe.” + +So my breaking with her had not changed one of her habits. It is for +such reasons as this that certain people say to you: Don’t have +anything more to do with the woman; she cares nothing about you. + +“Well, I am very glad to find that Marguerite does not put herself out +for me,” I said with a forced smile. + +“She has very good reason not to. You have done what you were bound to +do. You have been more reasonable than she, for she was really in love +with you; she did nothing but talk of you. I don’t know what she would +not have been capable of doing.” + +“Why hasn’t she answered me, if she was in love with me?” + +“Because she realizes she was mistaken in letting herself love you. +Women sometimes allow you to be unfaithful to their love; they never +allow you to wound their self-esteem; and one always wounds the +self-esteem of a woman when, two days after one has become her lover, +one leaves her, no matter for what reason. I know Marguerite; she would +die sooner than reply.” + +“What can I do, then?” + +“Nothing. She will forget you, you will forget her, and neither will +have any reproach to make against the other.” + +“But if I write and ask her forgiveness?” + +“Don’t do that, for she would forgive you.” + +I could have flung my arms round Prudence’s neck. + +A quarter of an hour later I was once more in my own quarters, and I +wrote to Marguerite: + +“Some one, who repents of a letter that he wrote yesterday and who will +leave Paris to-morrow if you do not forgive him, wishes to know at what +hour he might lay his repentance at your feet. + +“When can he find you alone? for, you know, confessions must be made +without witnesses.” + +I folded this kind of madrigal in prose, and sent it by Joseph, who +handed it to Marguerite herself; she replied that she would send the +answer later. + +I only went out to have a hasty dinner, and at eleven in the evening no +reply had come. I made up my mind to endure it no longer, and to set +out next day. In consequence of this resolution, and convinced that I +should not sleep if I went to bed, I began to pack up my things. + + + + +Chapter XV + + +It was hardly an hour after Joseph and I had begun preparing for my +departure, when there was a violent ring at the door. + +“Shall I go to the door?” said Joseph. + +“Go,” I said, asking myself who it could be at such an hour, and not +daring to believe that it was Marguerite. + +“Sir,” said Joseph coming back to me, “it is two ladies.” + +“It is we, Armand,” cried a voice that I recognised as that of +Prudence. + +I came out of my room. Prudence was standing looking around the place; +Marguerite, seated on the sofa, was meditating. I went to her, knelt +down, took her two hands, and, deeply moved, said to her, “Pardon.” + +She kissed me on the forehead, and said: + +“This is the third time that I have forgiven you.” + +“I should have gone away to-morrow.” + +“How can my visit change your plans? I have not come to hinder you from +leaving Paris. I have come because I had no time to answer you during +the day, and I did not wish to let you think that I was angry with you. +Prudence didn’t want me to come; she said that I might be in the way.” + +“You in the way, Marguerite! But how?” + +“Well, you might have had a woman here,” said Prudence, “and it would +hardly have been amusing for her to see two more arrive.” + +During this remark Marguerite looked at me attentively. + +“My dear Prudence,” I answered, “you do not know what you are saying.” + +“What a nice place you’ve got!” Prudence went on. “May we see the +bedroom?” + +“Yes.” + +Prudence went into the bedroom, not so much to see it as to make up for +the foolish thing which she had just said, and to leave Marguerite and +me alone. + +“Why did you bring Prudence?” I asked her. + +“Because she was at the theatre with me, and because when I leave here +I want to have someone to see me home.” + +“Could not I do?” + +“Yes, but, besides not wishing to put you out, I was sure that if you +came as far as my door you would want to come up, and as I could not +let you, I did not wish to let you go away blaming me for saying ‘No.’” + +“And why could you not let me come up?” + +“Because I am watched, and the least suspicion might do me the greatest +harm.” + +“Is that really the only reason?” + +“If there were any other, I would tell you; for we are not to have any +secrets from one another now.” + +“Come, Marguerite, I am not going to take a roundabout way of saying +what I really want to say. Honestly, do you care for me a little?” + +“A great deal.” + +“Then why did you deceive me?” + +“My friend, if I were the Duchess So and So, if I had two hundred +thousand francs a year, and if I were your mistress and had another +lover, you would have the right to ask me; but I am Mlle. Marguerite +Gautier, I am forty thousand francs in debt, I have not a penny of my +own, and I spend a hundred thousand francs a year. Your question +becomes unnecessary and my answer useless.” + +“You are right,” I said, letting my head sink on her knees; “but I love +you madly.” + +“Well, my friend, you must either love me a little less or understand +me a little better. Your letter gave me a great deal of pain. If I had +been free, first of all I would not have seen the count the day before +yesterday, or, if I had, I should have come and asked your forgiveness +as you ask me now, and in future I should have had no other lover but +you. I fancied for a moment that I might give myself that happiness for +six months; you would not have it; you insisted on knowing the means. +Well, good heavens, the means were easy enough to guess! In employing +them I was making a greater sacrifice for you than you imagine. I might +have said to you, ‘I want twenty thousand francs’; you were in love +with me and you would have found them, at the risk of reproaching me +for it later on. I preferred to owe you nothing; you did not understand +the scruple, for such it was. Those of us who are like me, when we have +any heart at all, we give a meaning and a development to words and +things unknown to other women; I repeat, then, that on the part of +Marguerite Gautier the means which she used to pay her debts without +asking you for the money necessary for it, was a scruple by which you +ought to profit, without saying anything. If you had only met me +to-day, you would be too delighted with what I promised you, and you +would not question me as to what I did the day before yesterday. We are +sometimes obliged to buy the satisfaction of our souls at the expense +of our bodies, and we suffer still more, when, afterward, that +satisfaction is denied us.” + +I listened, and I gazed at Marguerite with admiration. When I thought +that this marvellous creature, whose feet I had once longed to kiss, +was willing to let me take my place in her thoughts, my part in her +life, and that I was not yet content with what she gave me, I asked if +man’s desire has indeed limits when, satisfied as promptly as mine had +been, it reached after something further. + +“Truly,” she continued, “we poor creatures of chance have fantastic +desires and inconceivable loves. We give ourselves now for one thing, +now for another. There are men who ruin themselves without obtaining +the least thing from us; there are others who obtain us for a bouquet +of flowers. Our hearts have their caprices; it is their one distraction +and their one excuse. I gave myself to you sooner than I ever did to +any man, I swear to you; and do you know why? Because when you saw me +spitting blood you took my hand; because you wept; because you are the +only human being who has ever pitied me. I am going to say a mad thing +to you: I once had a little dog who looked at me with a sad look when I +coughed; that is the only creature I ever loved. When he died I cried +more than when my mother died. It is true that for twelve years of her +life she used to beat me. Well, I loved you all at once, as much as my +dog. If men knew what they can have for a tear, they would be better +loved and we should be less ruinous to them. + +“Your letter undeceived me; it showed me that you lacked the +intelligence of the heart; it did you more harm with me than anything +you could possibly have done. It was jealousy certainly, but ironical +and impertinent jealousy. I was already feeling sad when I received +your letter. I was looking forward to seeing you at twelve, to having +lunch with you, and wiping out, by seeing you, a thought which was with +me incessantly, and which, before I knew you, I had no difficulty in +tolerating. + +“Then,” continued Marguerite, “you were the only person before whom it +seemed to me, from the first, that I could think and speak freely. All +those who come about women like me have an interest in calculating +their slightest words, in thinking of the consequences of their most +insignificant actions. Naturally we have no friends. We have selfish +lovers who spend their fortunes, not on us, as they say, but on their +own vanity. For these people we have to be merry when they are merry, +well when they want to sup, sceptics like themselves. We are not +allowed to have hearts, under penalty of being hooted down and of +ruining our credit. + +“We no longer belong to ourselves. We are no longer beings, but things. +We stand first in their self-esteem, last in their esteem. We have +women who call themselves our friends, but they are friends like +Prudence, women who were once kept and who have still the costly tastes +that their age does not allow them to gratify. Then they become our +friends, or rather our guests at table. Their friendship is carried to +the point of servility, never to that of disinterestedness. Never do +they give you advice which is not lucrative. It means little enough to +them that we should have ten lovers extra, as long as they get dresses +or a bracelet out of them, and that they can drive in our carriage from +time to time or come to our box at the theatre. They have our last +night’s bouquets, and they borrow our shawls. They never render us a +service, however slight, without seeing that they are paid twice its +value. You yourself saw when Prudence brought me the six thousand +francs that I had asked her to get from the duke, how she borrowed five +hundred francs, which she will never pay me back, or which she will pay +me in hats, which will never be taken out of their boxes. + +“We can not, then, have, or rather I can not have more than one +possible kind of happiness, and this is, sad as I sometimes am, +suffering as I always am, to find a man superior enough not to ask +questions about my life, and to be the lover of my impressions rather +than of my body. Such a man I found in the duke; but the duke is old, +and old age neither protects nor consoles. I thought I could accept the +life which he offered me; but what would you have? I was dying of +ennui, and if one is bound to be consumed, it is as well to throw +oneself into the flames as to be asphyxiated with charcoal. + +“Then I met you, young, ardent, happy, and I tried to make you the man +I had longed for in my noisy solitude. What I loved in you was not the +man who was, but the man who was going to be. You do not accept the +position, you reject it as unworthy of you; you are an ordinary lover. +Do like the others; pay me, and say no more about it.” + +Marguerite, tired out with this long confession, threw herself back on +the sofa, and to stifle a slight cough put up her handkerchief to her +lips, and from that to her eyes. + +“Pardon, pardon,” I murmured. “I understood it all, but I wanted to +have it from your own lips, my beloved Marguerite. Forget the rest and +remember only one thing: that we belong to one another, that we are +young, and that we love. Marguerite, do with me as you will; I am your +slave, your dog, but in the name of heaven tear up the letter which I +wrote to you and do not make me leave you to-morrow; it would kill me.” + +Marguerite drew the letter from her bosom, and handing it to me with a +smile of infinite sweetness, said: + +“Here it is. I have brought it back.” + +I tore the letter into fragments and kissed with tears the hand that +gave it to me. + +At this moment Prudence reappeared. + +“Look here, Prudence; do you know what he wants?” said Marguerite. + +“He wants you to forgive him.” + +“Precisely.” + +“And you do?” + +“One has to; but he wants more than that.” + +“What, then?” + +“He wants to have supper with us.” + +“And do you consent?” + +“What do you think?” + +“I think that you are two children who haven’t an atom of sense between +you; but I also think that I am very hungry, and that the sooner you +consent the sooner we shall have supper.” + +“Come,” said Marguerite, “there is room for the three of us in my +carriage.” + +“By the way,” she added, turning to me, “Nanine will be gone to bed. +You must open the door; take my key, and try not to lose it again.” + +I embraced Marguerite until she was almost stifled. + +Thereupon Joseph entered. + +“Sir,” he said, with the air of a man who is very well satisfied with +himself, “the luggage is packed.” + +“All of it?” + +“Yes, sir.” + +“Well, then, unpack it again; I am not going.” + + + + +Chapter XVI + + +I might have told you of the beginning of this liaison in a few lines, +but I wanted you to see every step by which we came, I to agree to +whatever Marguerite wished, Marguerite to be unable to live apart from +me. + +It was the day after the evening when she came to see me that I sent +her Manon Lescaut. + +From that time, seeing that I could not change my mistress’s life, I +changed my own. I wished above all not to leave myself time to think +over the position I had accepted, for, in spite of myself, it was a +great distress to me. Thus my life, generally so calm, assumed all at +once an appearance of noise and disorder. Never believe, however +disinterested the love of a kept woman may be, that it will cost one +nothing. Nothing is so expensive as their caprices, flowers, boxes at +the theatre, suppers, days in the country, which one can never refuse +to one’s mistress. + +As I have told you, I had little money. My father was, and still is, +_receveur général_ at C. He has a great reputation there for loyalty, +thanks to which he was able to find the security which he needed in +order to attain this position. + +It is worth forty thousand francs a year, and during the ten years that +he has had it, he has paid off the security and put aside a dowry for +my sister. My father is the most honourable man in the world. When my +mother died, she left six thousand francs a year, which he divided +between my sister and myself on the very day when he received his +appointment; then, when I was twenty-one, he added to this little +income an annual allowance of five thousand francs, assuring me that +with eight thousand francs a year I might live very happily at Paris, +if, in addition to this, I would make a position for myself either in +law or medicine. I came to Paris, studied law, was called to the bar, +and, like many other young men, put my diploma in my pocket, and let +myself drift, as one so easily does in Paris. + +My expenses were very moderate; only I used up my year’s income in +eight months, and spent the four summer months with my father, which +practically gave me twelve thousand francs a year, and, in addition, +the reputation of a good son. For the rest, not a penny of debt. + +This, then, was my position when I made the acquaintance of Marguerite. +You can well understand that, in spite of myself, my expenses soon +increased. Marguerite’s nature was very capricious, and, like so many +women, she never regarded as a serious expense those thousand and one +distractions which made up her life. So, wishing to spend as much time +with me as possible, she would write to me in the morning that she +would dine with me, not at home, but at some restaurant in Paris or in +the country. I would call for her, and we would dine and go on to the +theatre, often having supper as well; and by the end of the evening I +had spent four or five louis, which came to two or three thousand +francs a month, which reduced my year to three months and a half, and +made it necessary for me either to go into debt or to leave Marguerite. +I would have consented to anything except the latter. + +Forgive me if I give you all these details, but you will see that they +were the cause of what was to follow. What I tell you is a true and +simple story, and I leave to it all the naivete of its details and all +the simplicity of its developments. + +I realized then that as nothing in the world would make me forget my +mistress, it was needful for me to find some way of meeting the +expenses into which she drew me. Then, too, my love for her had so +disturbing an influence upon me that every moment I spent away from +Marguerite was like a year, and that I felt the need of consuming these +moments in the fire of some sort of passion, and of living them so +swiftly as not to know that I was living them. + +I began by borrowing five or six thousand francs on my little capital, +and with this I took to gambling. Since gambling houses were destroyed +gambling goes on everywhere. Formerly, when one went to Frascati, one +had the chance of making a fortune; one played against money, and if +one lost, there was always the consolation of saying that one might +have gained; whereas now, except in the clubs, where there is still a +certain rigour in regard to payments, one is almost certain, the moment +one gains a considerable sum, not to receive it. You will readily +understand why. Gambling is only likely to be carried on by young +people very much in need of money and not possessing the fortune +necessary for supporting the life they lead; they gamble, then, and +with this result; or else they gain, and then those who lose serve to +pay for their horses and mistresses, which is very disagreeable. Debts +are contracted, acquaintances begun about a green table end by quarrels +in which life or honour comes to grief; and though one may be an honest +man, one finds oneself ruined by very honest men, whose only defect is +that they have not two hundred thousand francs a year. + +I need not tell you of those who cheat at play, and of how one hears +one fine day of their hasty disappearance and tardy condemnation. + +I flung myself into this rapid, noisy, and volcanic life, which had +formerly terrified me when I thought of it, and which had become for me +the necessary complement of my love for Marguerite. What else could I +have done? + +The nights that I did not spend in the Rue d’Antin, if I had spent them +alone in my own room, I could not have slept. Jealousy would have kept +me awake, and inflamed my blood and my thoughts; while gambling gave a +new turn to the fever which would otherwise have preyed upon my heart, +and fixed it upon a passion which laid hold on me in spite of myself, +until the hour struck when I might go to my mistress. Then, and by this +I knew the violence of my love, I left the table without a moment’s +hesitation, whether I was winning or losing, pitying those whom I left +behind because they would not, like me, find their real happiness in +leaving it. For the most of them, gambling was a necessity; for me, it +was a remedy. Free of Marguerite, I should have been free of gambling. + +Thus, in the midst of all that, I preserved a considerable amount of +self-possession; I lost only what I was able to pay, and gained only +what I should have been able to lose. + +For the rest, chance was on my side. I made no debts, and I spent three +times as much money as when I did not gamble. It was impossible to +resist an existence which gave me an easy means of satisfying the +thousand caprices of Marguerite. As for her, she continued to love me +as much, or even more than ever. + +As I told you, I began by being allowed to stay only from midnight to +six o’clock, then I was asked sometimes to a box in the theatre, then +she sometimes came to dine with me. One morning I did not go till +eight, and there came a day when I did not go till twelve. + +But, sooner than the moral metamorphosis, a physical metamorphosis came +about in Marguerite. I had taken her cure in hand, and the poor girl, +seeing my aim, obeyed me in order to prove her gratitude. I had +succeeded without effort or trouble in almost isolating her from her +former habits. My doctor, whom I had made her meet, had told me that +only rest and calm could preserve her health, so that in place of +supper and sleepless nights, I succeeded in substituting a hygienic +regime and regular sleep. In spite of herself, Marguerite got +accustomed to this new existence, whose salutary effects she already +realized. She began to spend some of her evenings at home, or, if the +weather was fine, she wrapped herself in a shawl, put on a veil, and we +went on foot, like two children, in the dim alleys of the +Champs-Elysées. She would come in tired, take a light supper, and go to +bed after a little music or reading, which she had never been used to +do. The cough, which every time that I heard it seemed to go through my +chest, had almost completely disappeared. + +At the end of six weeks the count was entirely given up, and only the +duke obliged me to conceal my liaison with Marguerite, and even he was +sent away when I was there, under the pretext that she was asleep and +had given orders that she was not to be awakened. + +The habit or the need of seeing me which Marguerite had now contracted +had this good result: that it forced me to leave the gaming-table just +at the moment when an adroit gambler would have left it. Settling one +thing against another, I found myself in possession of some ten +thousand francs, which seemed to me an inexhaustible capital. + +The time of the year when I was accustomed to join my father and sister +had now arrived, and I did not go; both of them wrote to me frequently, +begging me to come. To these letters I replied as best I could, always +repeating that I was quite well and that I was not in need of money, +two things which, I thought, would console my father for my delay in +paying him my annual visit. + +Just then, one fine day in summer, Marguerite was awakened by the +sunlight pouring into her room, and, jumping out of bed, asked me if I +would take her into the country for the whole day. + +We sent for Prudence, and all three set off, after Marguerite had given +Nanine orders to tell the duke that she had taken advantage of the fine +day to go into the country with Mme. Duvernoy. + +Besides the presence of Mme. Duvernoy being needful on account of the +old duke, Prudence was one of those women who seem made on purpose for +days in the country. With her unchanging good-humour and her eternal +appetite, she never left a dull moment to those whom she was with, and +was perfectly happy in ordering eggs, cherries, milk, stewed rabbit, +and all the rest of the traditional lunch in the country. + +We had now only to decide where we should go. It was once more Prudence +who settled the difficulty. + +“Do you want to go to the real country?” she asked. + +“Yes.” + +“Well, let us go to Bougival, at the Point du Jour, at Widow Arnould’s. +Armand, order an open carriage.” + +An hour and a half later we were at Widow Arnould’s. + +Perhaps you know the inn, which is a hotel on week days and a tea +garden on Sundays. There is a magnificent view from the garden, which +is at the height of an ordinary first floor. On the left the Aqueduct +of Marly closes in the horizon, on the right one looks across bill +after hill; the river, almost without current at that spot, unrolls +itself like a large white watered ribbon between the plain of the +Gabillons and the island of Croissy, lulled eternally by the trembling +of its high poplars and the murmur of its willows. Beyond, distinct in +the sunlight, rise little white houses, with red roofs, and +manufactories, which, at that distance, put an admirable finish to the +landscape. Beyond that, Paris in the mist! As Prudence had told us, it +was the real country, and, I must add, it was a real lunch. + +It is not only out of gratitude for the happiness I owe it, but +Bougival, in spite of its horrible name, is one of the prettiest places +that it is possible to imagine. I have travelled a good deal, and seen +much grander things, but none more charming than this little village +gaily seated at the foot of the hill which protects it. + +Mme. Arnould asked us if we would take a boat, and Marguerite and +Prudence accepted joyously. + +People have always associated the country with love, and they have done +well; nothing affords so fine a frame for the woman whom one loves as +the blue sky, the odours, the flowers, the breeze, the shining solitude +of fields, or woods. However much one loves a woman, whatever +confidence one may have in her, whatever certainty her past may offer +us as to her future, one is always more or less jealous. If you have +been in love, you must have felt the need of isolating from this world +the being in whom you would live wholly. It seems as if, however +indifferent she may be to her surroundings, the woman whom one loves +loses something of her perfume and of her unity at the contact of men +and things. As for me, I experienced that more than most. Mine was not +an ordinary love; I was as much in love as an ordinary creature could +be, but with Marguerite Gautier; that is to say, that at Paris, at +every step, I might elbow the man who had already been her lover or who +was about to, while in the country, surrounded by people whom we had +never seen and who had no concern with us, alone with nature in the +spring-time of the year, that annual pardon, and shut off from the +noise of the city, I could hide my love, and love without shame or +fear. + +The courtesan disappeared little by little. I had by me a young and +beautiful woman, whom I loved, and who loved me, and who was called +Marguerite; the past had no more reality and the future no more clouds. +The sun shone upon my mistress as it might have shone upon the purest +bride. We walked together in those charming spots which seemed to have +been made on purpose to recall the verses of Lamartine or to sing the +melodies of Scudo. Marguerite was dressed in white, she leaned on my +arm, saying over to me again under the starry sky the words she had +said to me the day before, and far off the world went on its way, +without darkening with its shadow the radiant picture of our youth and +love. + +That was the dream that the hot sun brought to me that day through the +leaves of the trees, as, lying on the grass of the island on which we +had landed, I let my thought wander, free from the human links that had +bound it, gathering to itself every hope that came in its way. + +Add to this that from the place where I was I could see on the shore a +charming little house of two stories, with a semicircular railing; +through the railing, in front of the house, a green lawn, smooth as +velvet, and behind the house a little wood full of mysterious retreats, +where the moss must efface each morning the pathway that had been made +the day before. Climbing flowers clung about the doorway of this +uninhabited house, mounting as high as the first story. + +I looked at the house so long that I began by thinking of it as mine, +so perfectly did it embody the dream that I was dreaming; I saw +Marguerite and myself there, by day in the little wood that covered the +hillside, in the evening seated on the grass, and I asked myself if +earthly creatures had ever been so happy as we should be. + +“What a pretty house!” Marguerite said to me, as she followed the +direction of my gaze and perhaps of my thought. + +“Where?” asked Prudence. + +“Yonder,” and Marguerite pointed to the house in question. + +“Ah, delicious!” replied Prudence. “Do you like it?” + +“Very much.” + +“Well, tell the duke to take it for you; he would do so, I am sure. +I’ll see about it if you like.” + +Marguerite looked at me, as if to ask me what I thought. My dream +vanished at the last words of Prudence, and brought me back to reality +so brutally that I was still stunned with the fall. + +“Yes, yes, an excellent idea,” I stammered, not knowing what I was +saying. + +“Well, I will arrange that,” said Marguerite, freeing my hand, and +interpreting my words according to her own desire. “Let us go and see +if it is to let.” + +The house was empty, and to let for two thousand francs. + +“Would you be happy here?” she said to me. + +“Am I sure of coming here?” + +“And for whom else should I bury myself here, if not for you?” + +“Well, then, Marguerite, let me take it myself.” + +“You are mad; not only is it unnecessary, but it would be dangerous. +You know perfectly well that I have no right to accept it save from one +man. Let me alone, big baby, and say nothing.” + +“That means,” said Prudence, “that when I have two days free I will +come and spend them with you.” + +We left the house, and started on our return to Paris, talking over the +new plan. I held Marguerite in my arms, and as I got down from the +carriage, I had already begun to look upon her arrangement with less +critical eyes. + + + + +Chapter XVII + + +Next day Marguerite sent me away very early, saying that the duke was +coming at an early hour, and promising to write to me the moment he +went, and to make an appointment for the evening. In the course of the +day I received this note: + +“I am going to Bougival with the duke; be at Prudence’s to-night at +eight.” + +At the appointed hour Marguerite came to me at Mme. Duvernoy’s. “Well, +it is all settled,” she said, as she entered. “The house is taken?” +asked Prudence. “Yes; he agreed at once.” + +I did not know the duke, but I felt ashamed of deceiving him. + +“But that is not all,” continued Marguerite. + +“What else is there?” + +“I have been seeing about a place for Armand to stay.” + +“In the same house?” asked Prudence, laughing. + +“No, at Point du Jour, where we had dinner, the duke and I. While he +was admiring the view, I asked Mme. Arnould (she is called Mme. +Arnould, isn’t she?) if there were any suitable rooms, and she showed +me just the very thing: salon, anteroom, and bed-room, at sixty francs +a month; the whole place furnished in a way to divert a hypochondriac. +I took it. Was I right?” I flung my arms around her neck and kissed +her. + +“It will be charming,” she continued. “You have the key of the little +door, and I have promised the duke the key of the front door, which he +will not take, because he will come during the day when he comes. I +think, between ourselves, that he is enchanted with a caprice which +will keep me out of Paris for a time, and so silence the objections of +his family. However, he has asked me how I, loving Paris as I do, could +make up my mind to bury myself in the country. I told him that I was +ill, and that I wanted rest. He seemed to have some difficulty in +believing me. The poor old man is always on the watch. We must take +every precaution, my dear Armand, for he will have me watched while I +am there; and it isn’t only the question of his taking a house for me, +but he has my debts to pay, and unluckily I have plenty. Does all that +suit you?” + +“Yes,” I answered, trying to quiet the scruples which this way of +living awoke in me from time to time. + +“We went all over the house, and we shall have everything perfect. The +duke is going to look after every single thing. Ah, my dear,” she +added, kissing me, “you’re in luck; it’s a millionaire who makes your +bed for you.” + +“And when shall you move into the house?” inquired Prudence. + +“As soon as possible.” + +“Will you take your horses and carriage?” + +“I shall take the whole house, and you can look after my place while I +am away.” + +A week later Marguerite was settled in her country house, and I was +installed at Point du Jour. + +Then began an existence which I shall have some difficulty in +describing to you. At first Marguerite could not break entirely with +her former habits, and, as the house was always _en fête_, all the +women whom she knew came to see her. For a whole month there was not a +day when Marguerite had not eight or ten people to meals. Prudence, on +her side, brought down all the people she knew, and did the honours of +the house as if the house belonged to her. + +The duke’s money paid for all that, as you may imagine; but from time +to time Prudence came to me, asking for a note for a thousand francs, +professedly on behalf of Marguerite. You know I had won some money at +gambling; I therefore immediately handed over to Prudence what she +asked for Marguerite, and fearing lest she should require more than I +possessed, I borrowed at Paris a sum equal to that which I had already +borrowed and paid back. I was then once more in possession of some ten +thousand francs, without reckoning my allowance. However, Marguerite’s +pleasure in seeing her friends was a little moderated when she saw the +expense which that pleasure entailed, and especially the necessity she +was sometimes in of asking me for money. The duke, who had taken the +house in order that Marguerite might rest there, no longer visited it, +fearing to find himself in the midst of a large and merry company, by +whom he did not wish to be seen. This came about through his having +once arrived to dine _tête-à-tête_ with Marguerite, and having fallen +upon a party of fifteen, who were still at lunch at an hour when he was +prepared to sit down to dinner. He had unsuspectingly opened the +dining-room door, and had been greeted by a burst of laughter, and had +had to retire precipitately before the impertinent mirth of the women +who were assembled there. + +Marguerite rose from table, and joined the duke in the next room, where +she tried, as far as possible, to induce him to forget the incident, +but the old man, wounded in his dignity, bore her a grudge for it, and +could not forgive her. He said to her, somewhat cruelly, that he was +tired of paying for the follies of a woman who could not even have him +treated with respect under his own roof, and he went away in great +indignation. + +Since that day he had never been heard of. + +In vain Marguerite dismissed her guests, changed her way of life; the +duke was not to be heard of. I was the gainer in so, far that my +mistress now belonged to me more completely, and my dream was at length +realized. Marguerite could not be without me. Not caring what the +result might be, she publicly proclaimed our liaison, and I had come to +live entirely at her house. The servants addressed me officially as +their master. + +Prudence had strictly sermonized Marguerite in regard to her new manner +of life; but she had replied that she loved me, that she could not live +without me, and that, happen what might, she would not sacrifice the +pleasure of having me constantly with her, adding that those who were +not satisfied with this arrangement were free to stay away. So much I +had heard one day when Prudence had said to Marguerite that she had +something very important to tell her, and I had listened at the door of +the room into which they had shut themselves. + +Not long after, Prudence returned again. I was at the other end of the +garden when she arrived, and she did not see me. I had no doubt, from +the way in which Marguerite came to meet her, that another similar +conversation was going to take place, and I was anxious to hear what it +was about. The two women shut themselves into a boudoir, and I put +myself within hearing. + +“Well?” said Marguerite. + +“Well, I have seen the duke.” + +“What did he say?” + +“That he would gladly forgive you in regard to the scene which took +place, but that he has learned that you are publicly living with M. +Armand Duval, and that he will never forgive that. ‘Let Marguerite +leave the young man,’ he said to me, ‘and, as in the past, I will give +her all that she requires; if not, let her ask nothing more from me.’” + +“And you replied?” + +“That I would report his decision to you, and I promised him that I +would bring you into a more reasonable frame of mind. Only think, my +dear child, of the position that you are losing, and that Armand can +never give you. He loves you with all his soul, but he has no fortune +capable of supplying your needs, and he will be bound to leave you one +day, when it will be too late and when the duke will refuse to do any +more for you. Would you like me to speak to Armand?” + +Marguerite seemed to be thinking, for she answered nothing. My heart +beat violently while I waited for her reply. + +“No,” she answered, “I will not leave Armand, and I will not conceal +the fact that I am living with him. It is folly no doubt, but I love +him. What would you have me do? And then, now that he has got +accustomed to be always with me, he would suffer too cruelly if he had +to leave me so much as an hour a day. Besides, I have not such a long +time to live that I need make myself miserable in order to please an +old man whose very sight makes me feel old. Let him keep his money; I +will do without it.” + +“But what will you do?” + +“I don’t in the least know.” + +Prudence was no doubt going to make some reply, but I entered suddenly +and flung myself at Marguerite’s feet, covering her hands with tears in +my joy at being thus loved. + +“My life is yours, Marguerite; you need this man no longer. Am I not +here? Shall I ever leave you, and can I ever repay you for the +happiness that you give me? No more barriers, my Marguerite; we love; +what matters all the rest?” + +“Oh yes, I love you, my Armand,” she murmured, putting her two arms +around my neck. “I love you as I never thought I should ever love. We +will be happy; we will live quietly, and I will say good-bye forever to +the life for which I now blush. You won’t ever reproach me for the +past? Tell me!” + +Tears choked my voice. I could only reply by clasping Marguerite to my +heart. + +“Well,” said she, turning to Prudence, and speaking in a broken voice, +“you can report this scene to the duke, and you can add that we have no +longer need of him.” + +From that day forth the duke was never referred to. Marguerite was no +longer the same woman that I had known. She avoided everything that +might recall to me the life which she had been leading when I first met +her. Never did wife or sister surround husband or brother with such +loving care as she had for me. Her nature was morbidly open to all +impressions and accessible to all sentiments. She had broken equally +with her friends and with her ways, with her words and with her +extravagances. Any one who had seen us leaving the house to go on the +river in the charming little boat which I had bought would never have +believed that the woman dressed in white, wearing a straw hat, and +carrying on her arm a little silk pelisse to protect her against the +damp of the river, was that Marguerite Gautier who, only four months +ago, had been the talk of the town for the luxury and scandal of her +existence. + +Alas, we made haste to be happy, as if we knew that we were not to be +happy long. + +For two months we had not even been to Paris. No one came to see us, +except Prudence and Julie Duprat, of whom I have spoken to you, and to +whom Marguerite was afterward to give the touching narrative that I +have there. + +I passed whole days at the feet of my mistress. We opened the windows +upon the garden, and, as we watched the summer ripening in its flowers +and under the shadow of the trees, we breathed together that true life +which neither Marguerite nor I had ever known before. + +Her delight in the smallest things was like that of a child. There were +days when she ran in the garden, like a child of ten, after a butterfly +or a dragon-fly. This courtesan who had cost more money in bouquets +than would have kept a whole family in comfort, would sometimes sit on +the grass for an hour, examining the simple flower whose name she bore. + +It was at this time that she read Manon Lescaut, over and over again. I +found her several times making notes in the book, and she always +declared that when a woman loves, she can not do as Manon did. + +The duke wrote to her two or three times. She recognised the writing +and gave me the letters without reading them. Sometimes the terms of +these letters brought tears to my eyes. He had imagined that by closing +his purse to Marguerite, he would bring her back to him; but when he +had perceived the uselessness of these means, he could hold out no +longer; he wrote and asked that he might see her again, as before, no +matter on what conditions. + +I read these urgent and repeated letters, and tore them in pieces, +without telling Marguerite what they contained and without advising her +to see the old man again, though I was half inclined to, so much did I +pity him, but I was afraid lest, if I so advised her she should think +that I wished the duke, not merely to come and see her again, but to +take over the expenses of the house; I feared, above all, that she +might think me capable of shirking the responsibilities of every +consequence to which her love for me might lead her. + +It thus came about that the duke, receiving no reply, ceased to write, +and that Marguerite and I continued to live together without giving a +thought to the future. + + + + +Chapter XVIII + + +It would be difficult to give you all the details of our new life. It +was made up of a series of little childish events, charming for us but +insignificant to anyone else. You know what it is to be in love with a +woman, you know how it cuts short the days, and with what loving +listlessness one drifts into the morrow. You know that forgetfulness of +everything which comes of a violent confident, reciprocated love. Every +being who is not the beloved one seems a useless being in creation. One +regrets having cast scraps of one’s heart to other women, and one can +not believe in the possibility of ever pressing another hand than that +which one holds between one’s hands. The mind admits neither work nor +remembrance; nothing, in short, which can distract it from the one +thought in which it is ceaselessly absorbed. Every day one discovers in +one’s mistress a new charm and unknown delights. Existence itself is +but the unceasing accomplishment of an unchanging desire; the soul is +but the vestal charged to feed the sacred fire of love. + +We often went at night-time to sit in the little wood above the house; +there we listened to the cheerful harmonies of evening, both of us +thinking of the coming hours which should leave us to one another till +the dawn of day. At other times we did not get up all day; we did not +even let the sunlight enter our room. + +The curtains were hermetically closed, and for a moment the external +world did not exist for us. Nanine alone had the right to open our +door, but only to bring in our meals and even these we took without +getting up, interrupting them with laughter and gaiety. To that +succeeded a brief sleep, for, disappearing into the depths of our love, +we were like two divers who only come to the surface to take breath. + +Nevertheless, I surprised moments of sadness, even tears, in +Marguerite; I asked her the cause of her trouble, and she answered: + +“Our love is not like other loves, my Armand. You love me as if I had +never belonged to another, and I tremble lest later on, repenting of +your love, and accusing me of my past, you should let me fall back into +that life from which you have taken me. I think that now that I have +tasted of another life, I should die if I went back to the old one. +Tell me that you will never leave me!” + +“I swear it!” + +At these words she looked at me as if to read in my eyes whether my +oath was sincere; then flung herself into my arms, and, hiding her head +in my bosom, said to me: “You don’t know how much I love you!” + +One evening, seated on the balcony outside the window, we looked at the +moon which seemed to rise with difficulty out of its bed of clouds, and +we listened to the wind violently rustling the trees; we held each +other’s hands, and for a whole quarter of an hour we had not spoken, +when Marguerite said to me: + +“Winter is at hand. Would you like for us to go abroad?” + +“Where?” + +“To Italy.” + +“You are tired of here?” + +“I am afraid of the winter; I am particularly afraid of your return to +Paris.” + +“Why?” + +“For many reasons.” + +And she went on abruptly, without giving me her reasons for fears: + +“Will you go abroad? I will sell all that I have; we will go and live +there, and there will be nothing left of what I was; no one will know +who I am. Will you?” + +“By all means, if you like, Marguerite, let us travel,” I said. “But +where is the necessity of selling things which you will be glad of when +we return? I have not a large enough fortune to accept such a +sacrifice; but I have enough for us to be able to travel splendidly for +five or six months, if that will amuse you the least in the world.” + +“After all, no,” she said, leaving the window and going to sit down on +the sofa at the other end of the room. “Why should we spend money +abroad? I cost you enough already, here.” + +“You reproach me, Marguerite; it isn’t generous.” + +“Forgive me, my friend,” she said, giving me her hand. “This thunder +weather gets on my nerves; I do not say what I intend to say.” + +And after embracing me she fell into a long reverie. + +Scenes of this kind often took place, and though I could not discover +their cause, I could not fail to see in Marguerite signs of disquietude +in regard to the future. She could not doubt my love, which increased +day by day, and yet I often found her sad, without being able to get +any explanation of the reason, except some physical cause. Fearing that +so monotonous a life was beginning to weary her, I proposed returning +to Paris; but she always refused, assuring me that she could not be so +happy anywhere as in the country. + +Prudence now came but rarely; but she often wrote letters which I never +asked to see, though, every time they came, they seemed to preoccupy +Marguerite deeply. I did not know what to think. + +One day Marguerite was in her room. I entered. She was writing. “To +whom are you writing?” I asked. “To Prudence. Do you want to see what I +am writing?” + +I had a horror of anything that might look like suspicion, and I +answered that I had no desire to know what she was writing; and yet I +was certain that letter would have explained to me the cause of her +sadness. + +Next day the weather was splendid.’ Marguerite proposed to me to take +the boat and go as far as the island of Croissy. She seemed very +cheerful; when we got back it was five o’clock. + +“Mme. Duvernoy has been here,” said Nanine, as she saw us enter. “She +has gone again?” asked Marguerite. + +“Yes, madame, in the carriage; she said it was arranged.” + +“Quite right,” said Marguerite sharply. “Serve the dinner.” + +Two days afterward there came a letter from Prudence, and for a +fortnight Marguerite seemed to have got rid of her mysterious gloom, +for which she constantly asked my forgiveness, now that it no longer +existed. Still, the carriage did not return. + +“How is it that Prudence does not send you back your carriage?” I asked +one day. + +“One of the horses is ill, and there are some repairs to be done. It is +better to have that done while we are here, and don’t need a carriage, +than to wait till we get back to Paris.” + +Prudence came two days afterward, and confirmed what Marguerite had +said. The two women went for a walk in the garden, and when I joined +them they changed the conversation. That night, as she was going, +Prudence complained of the cold and asked Marguerite to lend her a +shawl. + +So a month passed, and all the time Marguerite was more joyous and more +affectionate than she ever had been. Nevertheless, the carriage did not +return, the shawl had not been sent back, and I began to be anxious in +spite of myself, and as I knew in which drawer Marguerite put +Prudence’s letters, I took advantage of a moment when she was at the +other end of the garden, went to the drawer, and tried to open it; in +vain, for it was locked. When I opened the drawer in which the trinkets +and diamonds were usually kept, these opened without resistance, but +the jewel cases had disappeared, along with their contents no doubt. + +A sharp fear penetrated my heart. I might indeed ask Marguerite for the +truth in regard to these disappearances, but it was certain that she +would not confess it. + +“My good Marguerite,” I said to her, “I am going to ask your permission +to go to Paris. They do not know my address, and I expect there are +letters from my father waiting for me. I have no doubt he is concerned; +I ought to answer him.” + +“Go, my friend,” she said; “but be back early.” I went straight to +Prudence. + +“Come,” said I, without beating about the bush, “tell me frankly, where +are Marguerite’s horses?” + +“Sold.” + +“The shawl?” + +“Sold.” + +“The diamonds?” + +“Pawned.” + +“And who has sold and pawned them?” + +“Why did you not tell me?” + +“Because Marguerite made me promise not to.” + +“And why did you not ask me for money?” + +“Because she wouldn’t let me.” + +“And where has this money gone?” + +“In payments.” + +“Is she much in debt?” + +“Thirty thousand francs, or thereabouts. Ah, my dear fellow, didn’t I +tell you? You wouldn’t believe me; now you are convinced. The +upholsterer whom the duke had agreed to settle with was shown out of +the house when he presented himself, and the duke wrote next day to say +that he would answer for nothing in regard to Mlle. Gautier. This man +wanted his money; he was given part payment out of the few thousand +francs that I got from you; then some kind souls warned him that his +debtor had been abandoned by the duke and was living with a penniless +young man; the other creditors were told the same; they asked for their +money, and seized some of the goods. Marguerite wanted to sell +everything, but it was too late, and besides I should have opposed it. +But it was necessary to pay, and in order not to ask you for money, she +sold her horses and her shawls, and pawned her jewels. Would you like +to see the receipts and the pawn tickets?” + +And Prudence opened the drawer and showed me the papers. + +“Ah, you think,” she continued, with the insistence of a woman who can +say, I was right after all, “ah, you think it is enough to be in love, +and to go into the country and lead a dreamy, pastoral life. No, my +friend, no. By the side of that ideal life, there is a material life, +and the purest resolutions are held to earth by threads which seem +slight enough, but which are of iron, not easily to be broken. If +Marguerite has not been unfaithful to you twenty times, it is because +she has an exceptional nature. It is not my fault for not advising her +to, for I couldn’t bear to see the poor girl stripping herself of +everything. She wouldn’t; she replied that she loved you, and she +wouldn’t be unfaithful to you for anything in the world. All that is +very pretty, very poetical, but one can’t pay one’s creditors in that +coin, and now she can’t free herself from debt, unless she can raise +thirty thousand francs.” + +“All right, I will provide that amount.” + +“You will borrow it?” + +“Good heavens! Why, yes!” + +“A fine thing that will be to do; you will fall out with your father, +cripple your resources, and one doesn’t find thirty thousand francs +from one day to another. Believe me, my dear Armand, I know women +better than you do; do not commit this folly; you will be sorry for it +one day. Be reasonable. I don’t advise you to leave Marguerite, but +live with her as you did at the beginning. Let her find the means to +get out of this difficulty. The duke will come back in a little while. +The Comte de N., if she would take him, he told me yesterday even, +would pay all her debts, and give her four or five thousand francs a +month. He has two hundred thousand a year. It would be a position for +her, while you will certainly be obliged to leave her. Don’t wait till +you are ruined, especially as the Comte de N. is a fool, and nothing +would prevent your still being Marguerite’s lover. She would cry a +little at the beginning, but she would come to accustom herself to it, +and you would thank me one day for what you had done. Imagine that +Marguerite is married, and deceive the husband; that is all. I have +already told you all this once, only at that time it was merely advice, +and now it is almost a necessity.” + +What Prudence said was cruelly true. + +“This is how it is,” she went on, putting away the papers she had just +shown me; “women like Marguerite always foresee that someone will love +them, never that they will love; otherwise they would put aside money, +and at thirty they could afford the luxury of having a lover for +nothing. If I had only known once what I know now! In short, say +nothing to Marguerite, and bring her back to Paris. You have lived with +her alone for four or five months; that is quite enough. Shut your eyes +now; that is all that anyone asks of you. At the end of a fortnight she +will take the Comte de N., and she will save up during the winter, and +next summer you will begin over again. That is how things are done, my +dear fellow!” + +And Prudence appeared to be enchanted with her advice, which I refused +indignantly. + +Not only my love and my dignity would not let me act thus, but I was +certain that, feeling as she did now, Marguerite would die rather than +accept another lover. + +“Enough joking,” I said to Prudence; “tell me exactly how much +Marguerite is in need of.” + +“I have told you: thirty thousand francs.” + +“And when does she require this sum?” + +“Before the end of two months.” + +“She shall have it.” + +Prudence shrugged her shoulders. + +“I will give it to you,” I continued, “but you must swear to me that +you will not tell Marguerite that I have given it to you.” + +“Don’t be afraid.” + +“And if she sends you anything else to sell or pawn, let me know.” + +“There is no danger. She has nothing left.” + +I went straight to my own house to see if there were any letters from +my father. There were four. + + + + +Chapter XIX + + +In his first three letters my father inquired the cause of my silence; +in the last he allowed me to see that he had heard of my change of +life, and informed me that he was about to come and see me. + +I have always had a great respect and a sincere affection for my +father. I replied that I had been travelling for a short time, and +begged him to let me know beforehand what day he would arrive, so that +I could be there to meet him. + +I gave my servant my address in the country, telling him to bring me +the first letter that came with the postmark of C., then I returned to +Bougival. + +Marguerite was waiting for me at the garden gate. She looked at me +anxiously. Throwing her arms round my neck, she said to me: “Have you +seen Prudence?” + +“No.” + +“You were a long time in Paris.” + +“I found letters from my father to which I had to reply.” + +A few minutes afterward Nanine entered, all out of breath. Marguerite +rose and talked with her in whispers. When Nanine had gone out +Marguerite sat down by me again and said, taking my hand: + +“Why did you deceive me? You went to see Prudence.” + +“Who told you?” + +“Nanine.” + +“And how did she know?” + +“She followed you.” + +“You told her to follow me?” + +“Yes. I thought that you must have had a very strong motive for going +to Paris, after not leaving me for four months. I was afraid that +something might happen to you, or that you were perhaps going to see +another woman.” + +“Child!” + +“Now I am relieved. I know what you have done, but I don’t yet know +what you have been told.” + +I showed Marguerite my father’s letters. + +“That is not what I am asking you about. What I want to know is why you +went to see Prudence.” + +“To see her.” + +“That’s a lie, my friend.” + +“Well, I went to ask her if the horse was any better, and if she wanted +your shawl and your jewels any longer.” + +Marguerite blushed, but did not answer. + +“And,” I continued, “I learned what you had done with your horses, +shawls, and jewels.” + +“And you are vexed?” + +“I am vexed that it never occurred to you to ask me for what you were +in want of.” + +“In a liaison like ours, if the woman has any sense of dignity at all, +she ought to make every possible sacrifice rather than ask her lover +for money and so give a venal character to her love. You love me, I am +sure, but you do not know on how slight a thread depends the love one +has for a woman like me. Who knows? Perhaps some day when you were +bored or worried you would fancy you saw a carefully concerted plan in +our liaison. Prudence is a chatterbox. What need had I of the horses? +It was an economy to sell them. I don’t use them and I don’t spend +anything on their keep; if you love me, I ask nothing more, and you +will love me just as much without horses, or shawls, or diamonds.” + +All that was said so naturally that the tears came to my eyes as I +listened. + +“But, my good Marguerite,” I replied, pressing her hands lovingly, “you +knew that one day I should discover the sacrifice you had made, and +that the moment I discovered it I should allow it no longer.” + +“But why?” + +“Because, my dear child, I can not allow your affection for me to +deprive you of even a trinket. I too should not like you to be able, in +a moment when you were bored or worried, to think that if you were +living with somebody else those moments would not exist; and to repent, +if only for a minute, of living with me. In a few days your horses, +your diamonds, and your shawls shall be returned to you. They are as +necessary to you as air is to life, and it may be absurd, but I like +you better showy than simple.” + +“Then you no longer love me.” + +“Foolish creature!” + +“If you loved me, you would let me love you my own way; on the +contrary, you persist in only seeing in me a woman to whom luxury is +indispensable, and whom you think you are always obliged to pay. You +are ashamed to accept the proof of my love. In spite of yourself, you +think of leaving me some day, and you want to put your +disinterestedness beyond risk of suspicion. You are right, my friend, +but I had better hopes.” + +And Marguerite made a motion to rise; I held her, and said to her: + +“I want you to be happy and to have nothing to reproach me for, that is +all.” + +“And we are going to be separated!” + +“Why, Marguerite, who can separate us?” I cried. + +“You, who will not let me take you on your own level, but insist on +taking me on mine; you, who wish me to keep the luxury in the midst of +which I have lived, and so keep the moral distance which separates us; +you, who do not believe that my affection is sufficiently disinterested +to share with me what you have, though we could live happily enough on +it together, and would rather ruin yourself, because you are still +bound by a foolish prejudice. Do you really think that I could compare +a carriage and diamonds with your love? Do you think that my real +happiness lies in the trifles that mean so much when one has nothing to +love, but which become trifling indeed when one has? You will pay my +debts, realize your estate, and then keep me? How long will that last? +Two or three months, and then it will be too late to live the life I +propose, for then you will have to take everything from me, and that is +what a man of honour can not do; while now you have eight or ten +thousand francs a year, on which we should be able to live. I will sell +the rest of what I do not want, and with this alone I will make two +thousand francs a year. We will take a nice little flat in which we can +both live. In the summer we will go into the country, not to a house +like this, but to a house just big enough for two people. You are +independent, I am free, we are young; in heaven’s name, Armand, do not +drive me back into the life I had to lead once!” + +I could not answer. Tears of gratitude and love filled my eyes, and I +flung myself into Marguerite’s arms. + +“I wanted,” she continued, “to arrange everything without telling you, +pay all my debts, and take a new flat. In October we should have been +back in Paris, and all would have come out; but since Prudence has told +you all, you will have to agree beforehand, instead of agreeing +afterward. Do you love me enough for that?” + +It was impossible to resist such devotion. I kissed her hands ardently, +and said: + +“I will do whatever you wish.” + +It was agreed that we should do as she had planned. Thereupon, she went +wild with delight; danced, sang, amused herself with calling up +pictures of her new flat in all its simplicity, and began to consult me +as to its position and arrangement. I saw how happy and proud she was +of this resolution, which seemed as if it would bring us into closer +and closer relationship, and I resolved to do my own share. In an +instant I decided the whole course of my life. I put my affairs in +order, and made over to Marguerite the income which had come to me from +my mother, and which seemed little enough in return for the sacrifice +which I was accepting. There remained the five thousand francs a year +from my father; and, whatever happened, I had always enough to live on. +I did not tell Marguerite what I had done, certain as I was that she +would refuse the gift. This income came from a mortgage of sixty +thousand francs on a house that I had never even seen. All that I knew +was that every three months my father’s solicitor, an old friend of the +family, handed over to me seven hundred and fifty francs in return for +my receipt. + +The day when Marguerite and I came to Paris to look for a flat, I went +to this solicitor and asked him what had to be done in order to make +over this income to another person. The good man imagined I was ruined, +and questioned me as to the cause of my decision. As I knew that I +should be obliged, sooner or later, to say in whose favour I made this +transfer, I thought it best to tell him the truth at once. He made none +of the objections that his position as friend and solicitor authorized +him to make, and assured me that he would arrange the whole affair in +the best way possible. Naturally, I begged him to employ the greatest +discretion in regard to my father, and on leaving him I rejoined +Marguerite, who was waiting for me at Julie Duprat’s, where she had +gone in preference to going to listen to the moralizings of Prudence. + +We began to look out for flats. All those that we saw seemed to +Marguerite too dear, and to me too simple. However, we finally found, +in one of the quietest parts of Paris, a little house, isolated from +the main part of the building. Behind this little house was a charming +garden, surrounded by walls high enough to screen us from our +neighbours, and low enough not to shut off our own view. It was better +than our expectations. + +While I went to give notice at my own flat, Marguerite went to see a +business agent, who, she told me, had already done for one of her +friends exactly what she wanted him to do for her. She came on to the +Rue de Provence in a state of great delight. The man had promised to +pay all her debts, to give her a receipt for the amount, and to hand +over to her twenty thousand francs, in return for the whole of her +furniture. You have seen by the amount taken at the sale that this +honest man would have gained thirty thousand francs out of his client. + +We went back joyously to Bougival, talking over our projects for the +future, which, thanks to our heedlessness, and especially to our love, +we saw in the rosiest light. + +A week later, as we were having lunch, Nanine came to tell us that my +servant was asking for me. “Let him come in,” I said. + +“Sir,” said he, “your father has arrived in Paris, and begs you to +return at once to your rooms, where he is waiting for you.” + +This piece of news was the most natural thing in the world, yet, as we +heard it, Marguerite and I looked at one another. We foresaw trouble. +Before she had spoken a word, I replied to her thought, and, taking her +hand, I said, “Fear nothing.” + +“Come back as soon as possible,” whispered Marguerite, embracing me; “I +will wait for you at the window.” + +I sent on Joseph to tell my father that I was on my way. Two hours +later I was at the Rue de Provence. + + + + +Chapter XX + + +My father was seated in my room in his dressing-gown; he was writing, +and I saw at once, by the way in which he raised his eyes to me when I +came in, that there was going to be a serious discussion. I went up to +him, all the same, as if I had seen nothing in his face, embraced him, +and said: + +“When did you come, father?” + +“Last night.” + +“Did you come straight here, as usual?” + +“Yes.” + +“I am very sorry not to have been here to receive you.” + +I expected that the sermon which my father’s cold face threatened would +begin at once; but he said nothing, sealed the letter which he had just +written, and gave it to Joseph to post. + +When we were alone, my father rose, and leaning against the +mantel-piece, said to me: + +“My dear Armand, we have serious matters to discuss.” + +“I am listening, father.” + +“You promise me to be frank?” + +“Am I not accustomed to be so?” + +“Is it not true that you are living with a woman called Marguerite +Gautier?” + +“Yes.” + +“Do you know what this woman was?” + +“A kept woman.” + +“And it is for her that you have forgotten to come and see your sister +and me this year?” + +“Yes, father, I admit it.” + +“You are very much in love with this woman?” + +“You see it, father, since she has made me fail in duty toward you, for +which I humbly ask your forgiveness to-day.” + +My father, no doubt, was not expecting such categorical answers, for he +seemed to reflect a moment, and then said to me: + +“You have, of course, realized that you can not always live like that?” + +“I fear so, father, but I have not realized it.” + +“But you must realize,” continued my father, in a dryer tone, “that I, +at all events, should not permit it.” + +“I have said to myself that as long as I did nothing contrary to the +respect which I owe to the traditional probity of the family I could +live as I am living, and this has reassured me somewhat in regard to +the fears I have had.” + +Passions are formidable enemies to sentiment. I was prepared for every +struggle, even with my father, in order that I might keep Marguerite. + +“Then, the moment is come when you must live otherwise.” + +“Why, father?” + +“Because you are doing things which outrage the respect that you +imagine you have for your family.” + +“I don’t follow your meaning.” + +“I will explain it to you. Have a mistress if you will; pay her as a +man of honour is bound to pay the woman whom he keeps, by all means; +but that you should come to forget the most sacred things for her, that +you should let the report of your scandalous life reach my quiet +countryside, and set a blot on the honourable name that I have given +you, it can not, it shall not be.” + +“Permit me to tell you, father, that those who have given you +information about me have been ill-informed. I am the lover of Mlle. +Gautier; I live with her; it is the most natural thing in the world. I +do not give Mlle. Gautier the name you have given me; I spend on her +account what my means allow me to spend; I have no debts; and, in +short, I am not in a position which authorizes a father to say to his +son what you have just said to me.” + +“A father is always authorized to rescue his son out of evil paths. You +have not done any harm yet, but you will do it.” + +“Father!” + +“Sir, I know more of life than you do. There are no entirely pure +sentiments except in perfectly chaste women. Every Manon can have her +own Des Grieux, and times are changed. It would be useless for the +world to grow older if it did not correct its ways. You will leave your +mistress.” + +“I am very sorry to disobey you, father, but it is impossible.” + +“I will compel you to do so.” + +“Unfortunately, father, there no longer exists a Sainte Marguerite to +which courtesans can be sent, and, even if there were, I would follow +Mlle. Gautier if you succeeded in having her sent there. What would you +have? Perhaps am in the wrong, but I can only be happy as long as I am +the lover of this woman.” + +“Come, Armand, open your eyes. Recognise that it is your father who +speaks to you, your father who has always loved you, and who only +desires your happiness. Is it honourable for you to live like husband +and wife with a woman whom everybody has had?” + +“What does it matter, father, if no one will any more? What does it +matter, if this woman loves me, if her whole life is changed through +the love which she has for me and the love which I have for her? What +does it matter, if she has become a different woman?” + +“Do you think, then, sir, that the mission of a man of honour is to go +about converting lost women? Do you think that God has given such a +grotesque aim to life, and that the heart should have any room for +enthusiasm of that kind? What will be the end of this marvellous cure, +and what will you think of what you are saying to-day by the time you +are forty? You will laugh at this love of yours, if you can still +laugh, and if it has not left too serious a trace in your past. What +would you be now if your father had had your ideas and had given up his +life to every impulse of this kind, instead of rooting himself firmly +in convictions of honour and steadfastness? Think it over, Armand, and +do not talk any more such absurdities. Come, leave this woman; your +father entreats you.” + +I answered nothing. + +“Armand,” continued my father, “in the name of your sainted mother, +abandon this life, which you will forget more easily than you think. +You are tied to it by an impossible theory. You are twenty-four; think +of the future. You can not always love this woman, who also can not +always love you. You both exaggerate your love. You put an end to your +whole career. One step further, and you will no longer be able to leave +the path you have chosen, and you will suffer all your life for what +you have done in your youth. Leave Paris. Come and stay for a month or +two with your sister and me. Rest in our quiet family affection will +soon heal you of this fever, for it is nothing else. Meanwhile, your +mistress will console herself; she will take another lover; and when +you see what it is for which you have all but broken with your father, +and all but lost his love, you will tell me that I have done well to +come and seek you out, and you will thank me for it. Come, you will go +with me, Armand, will you not?” I felt that my father would be right if +it had been any other woman, but I was convinced that he was wrong with +regard to Marguerite. Nevertheless, the tone in which he said these +last words was so kind, so appealing, that I dared not answer. + +“Well?” said he in a trembling voice. + +“Well, father, I can promise nothing,” I said at last; “what you ask of +me is beyond my power. Believe me,” I continued, seeing him make an +impatient movement, “you exaggerate the effects of this liaison. +Marguerite is a different kind of a woman from what you think. This +love, far from leading me astray, is capable, on the contrary, of +setting me in the right direction. Love always makes a man better, no +matter what woman inspires it. If you knew Marguerite, you would +understand that I am in no danger. She is as noble as the noblest of +women. There is as much disinterestedness in her as there is cupidity +in others.” + +“All of which does not prevent her from accepting the whole of your +fortune, for the sixty thousand francs which come to you from your +mother, and which you are giving her, are, understand me well, your +whole fortune.” + +My father had probably kept this peroration and this threat for the +last stroke. I was firmer before these threats than before his +entreaties. + +“Who told you that I was handing this sum to her?” I asked. + +“My solicitor. Could an honest man carry out such a procedure without +warning me? Well, it is to prevent you from ruining yourself for a +prostitute that I am now in Paris. Your mother, when she died, left you +enough to live on respectably, and not to squander on your mistresses.” + +“I swear to you, father, that Marguerite knew nothing of this +transfer.” + +“Why, then, do you make it?” + +“Because Marguerite, the woman you calumniate, and whom you wish me to +abandon, is sacrificing all that she possesses in order to live with +me.” + +“And you accept this sacrifice? What sort of a man are you, sir, to +allow Mlle. Gautier to sacrifice anything for you? Come, enough of +this. You will leave this woman. Just now I begged you; now I command +you. I will have no such scandalous doings in my family. Pack up your +things and get ready to come with me.” + +“Pardon me, father,” I said, “but I shall not come.” + +“And why?” + +“Because I am at an age when no one any longer obeys a command.” + +My father turned pale at my answer. + +“Very well, sir,” he said, “I know what remains to be done.” + +He rang and Joseph appeared. + +“Have my things taken to the Hotel de Paris,” he said to my servant. +And thereupon he went to his room and finished dressing. When he +returned, I went up to him. + +“Promise me, father,” I said, “that you will do nothing to give +Marguerite pain?” + +My father stopped, looked at me disdainfully, and contented himself +with saying, “I believe you are mad.” After this he went out, shutting +the door violently after him. + +I went downstairs, took a cab, and returned to Bougival. + +Marguerite was waiting for me at the window. + + + + +Chapter XXI + + +“At last you have come,” she said, throwing her arms round my neck. +“But how pale you are!” + +I told her of the scene with my father. + +“My God! I was afraid of it,” she said. “When Joseph came to tell you +of your father’s arrival I trembled as if he had brought news of some +misfortune. My poor friend, I am the cause of all your distress. You +will be better off, perhaps, if you leave me and do not quarrel with +your father on my account. He knows that you are sure to have a +mistress, and he ought to be thankful that it is I, since I love you +and do not want more of you than your position allows. Did you tell him +how we had arranged our future?” + +“Yes; that is what annoyed him the most, for he saw how much we really +love one another.” + +“What are we to do, then?” + +“Hold together, my good Marguerite, and let the storm pass over.” + +“Will it pass?” + +“It will have to.” + +“But your father will not stop there.” + +“What do you suppose he can do?” + +“How do I know? Everything that a father can do to make his son obey +him. He will remind you of my past life, and will perhaps do me the +honour of inventing some new story, so that you may give me up.” + +“You know that I love you.” + +“Yes, but what I know, too, is that, sooner or later, you will have to +obey your father, and perhaps you will end by believing him.” + +“No, Marguerite. It is I who will make him believe me. Some of his +friends have been telling him tales which have made him angry; but he +is good and just, he will change his first impression; and then, after +all, what does it matter to me?” + +“Do not say that, Armand. I would rather anything should happen than +that you should quarrel with your family; wait till after to-day, and +to-morrow go back to Paris. Your father, too, will have thought it over +on his side, and perhaps you will both come to a better understanding. +Do not go against his principles, pretend to make some concessions to +what he wants; seem not to care so very much about me, and he will let +things remain as they are. Hope, my friend, and be sure of one thing, +that whatever happens, Marguerite will always be yours.” + +“You swear it?” + +“Do I need to swear it?” + +How sweet it is to let oneself be persuaded by the voice that one +loves! Marguerite and I spent the whole day in talking over our +projects for the future, as if we felt the need of realizing them as +quickly as possible. At every moment we awaited some event, but the day +passed without bringing us any new tidings. + +Next day I left at ten o’clock, and reached the hotel about twelve. My +father had gone out. + +I went to my own rooms, hoping that he had perhaps gone there. No one +had called. I went to the solicitor’s. No one was there. I went back to +the hotel, and waited till six. M. Duval did not return, and I went +back to Bougival. + +I found Marguerite not waiting for me, as she had been the day before, +but sitting by the fire, which the weather still made necessary. She +was so absorbed in her thoughts that I came close to her chair without +her hearing me. When I put my lips to her forehead she started as if +the kiss had suddenly awakened her. + +“You frightened me,” she said. “And your father?” + +“I have not seen him. I do not know what it means. He was not at his +hotel, nor anywhere where there was a chance of my finding him.” + +“Well, you must try again to-morrow.” + +“I am very much inclined to wait till he sends for me. I think I have +done all that can be expected of me.” + +“No, my friend, it is not enough; you must call on your father again, +and you must call to-morrow.” + +“Why to-morrow rather than any other day?” + +“Because,” said Marguerite, and it seemed to me that she blushed +slightly at this question, “because it will show that you are the more +keen about it, and he will forgive us the sooner.” + +For the remainder of the day Marguerite was sad and preoccupied. I had +to repeat twice over everything I said to her to obtain an answer. She +ascribed this preoccupation to her anxiety in regard to the events +which had happened during the last two days. I spent the night in +reassuring her, and she sent me away in the morning with an insistent +disquietude that I could not explain to myself. + +Again my father was absent, but he had left this letter for me: + +“If you call again to-day, wait for me till four. If I am not in by +four, come and dine with me to-morrow. I must see you.” + +I waited till the hour he had named, but he did not appear. I returned +to Bougival. + +The night before I had found Marguerite sad; that night I found her +feverish and agitated. On seeing me, she flung her arms around my neck, +but she cried for a long time in my arms. I questioned her as to this +sudden distress, which alarmed me by its violence. She gave me no +positive reason, but put me off with those evasions which a woman +resorts to when she will not tell the truth. + +When she was a little calmed down, I told her the result of my visit, +and I showed her my father’s letter, from which, I said, we might augur +well. At the sight of the letter and on hearing my comment, her tears +began to flow so copiously that I feared an attack of nerves, and, +calling Nanine, I put her to bed, where she wept without a word, but +held my hands and kissed them every moment. + +I asked Nanine if, during my absence, her mistress had received any +letter or visit which could account for the state in which I found her, +but Nanine replied that no one had called and nothing had been sent. + +Something, however, had occurred since the day before, something which +troubled me the more because Marguerite concealed it from me. + +In the evening she seemed a little calmer, and, making me sit at the +foot of the bed, she told me many times how much she loved me. She +smiled at me, but with an effort, for in spite of herself her eyes were +veiled with tears. + +I used every means to make her confess the real cause of her distress, +but she persisted in giving me nothing but vague reasons, as I have +told you. At last she fell asleep in my arms, but it was the sleep +which tires rather than rests the body. From time to time she uttered a +cry, started up, and, after assuring herself that I was beside her, +made me swear that I would always love her. + +I could make nothing of these intermittent paroxysms of distress, which +went on till morning. Then Marguerite fell into a kind of stupor. She +had not slept for two nights. + +Her rest was of short duration, for toward eleven she awoke, and, +seeing that I was up, she looked about her, crying: + +“Are you going already?” + +“No,” said I, holding her hands; “but I wanted to let you sleep on. It +is still early.” + +“What time are you going to Paris?” + +“At four.” + +“So soon? But you will stay with me till then?” + +“Of course. Do I not always?” + +“I am so glad! Shall we have lunch?” she went on absentmindedly. + +“If you like.” + +“And then you will be nice to me till the very moment you go?” + +“Yes; and I will come back as soon as I can.” + +“You will come back?” she said, looking at me with haggard eyes. + +“Naturally.” + +“Oh, yes, you will come back to-night. I shall wait for you, as I +always do, and you will love me, and we shall be happy, as we have been +ever since we have known each other.” + +All these words were said in such a strained voice, they seemed to hide +so persistent and so sorrowful a thought, that I trembled every moment +lest Marguerite should become delirious. + +“Listen,” I said. “You are ill. I can not leave you like this. I will +write and tell my father not to expect me.” + +“No, no,” she cried hastily, “don’t do that. Your father will accuse me +of hindering you again from going to see him when he wants to see you; +no, no, you must go, you must! Besides, I am not ill. I am quite well. +I had a bad dream and am not yet fully awake.” + +From that moment Marguerite tried to seem more cheerful. There were no +more tears. + +When the hour came for me to go, I embraced her and asked her if she +would come with me as far as the train; I hoped that the walk would +distract her and that the air would do her good. I wanted especially to +be with her as long as possible. + +She agreed, put on her cloak and took Nanine with her, so as not to +return alone. Twenty times I was on the point of not going. But the +hope of a speedy return, and the fear of offending my father still +more, sustained me, and I took my place in the train. + +“Till this evening!” I said to Marguerite, as I left her. She did not +reply. + +Once already she had not replied to the same words, and the Comte de +G., you will remember, had spent the night with her; but that time was +so far away that it seemed to have been effaced from my memory, and if +I had any fear, it was certainly not of Marguerite being unfaithful to +me. Reaching Paris, I hastened off to see Prudence, intending to ask +her to go and keep Marguerite company, in the hope that her mirth and +liveliness would distract her. I entered without being announced, and +found Prudence at her toilet. + +“Ah!” she said, anxiously; “is Marguerite with you?” + +“No.” + +“How is she?” + +“She is not well.” + +“Is she not coming?” + +“Did you expect her?” + +Madame Duvernoy reddened, and replied, with a certain constraint: + +“I only meant that since you are at Paris, is she not coming to join +you?” + +“No.” + +I looked at Prudence; she cast down her eyes, and I read in her face +the fear of seeing my visit prolonged. + +“I even came to ask you, my dear Prudence, if you have nothing to do +this evening, to go and see Marguerite; you will be company for her, +and you can stay the night. I never saw her as she was to-day, and I am +afraid she is going to be ill.” + +“I am dining in town,” replied Prudence, “and I can’t go and see +Marguerite this evening. I will see her tomorrow.” + +I took leave of Mme. Duvernoy, who seemed almost as preoccupied as +Marguerite, and went on to my father’s; his first glance seemed to +study me attentively. He held out his hand. + +“Your two visits have given me pleasure, Armand,” he said; “they make +me hope that you have thought over things on your side as I have on +mine.” + +“May I ask you, father, what was the result of your reflection?” + +“The result, my dear boy, is that I have exaggerated the importance of +the reports that had been made to me, and that I have made up my mind +to be less severe with you.” + +“What are you saying, father?” I cried joyously. + +“I say, my dear child, that every young man must have his mistress, and +that, from the fresh information I have had, I would rather see you the +lover of Mlle. Gautier than of anyone else.” + +“My dear father, how happy you make me!” + +We talked in this manner for some moments, and then sat down to table. +My father was charming all dinner time. + +I was in a hurry to get back to Bougival to tell Marguerite about this +fortunate change, and I looked at the clock every moment. + +“You are watching the time,” said my father, “and you are impatient to +leave me. O young people, how you always sacrifice sincere to doubtful +affections!” + +“Do not say that, father; Marguerite loves me, I am sure of it.” + +My father did not answer; he seemed to say neither yes nor no. + +He was very insistent that I should spend the whole evening with him +and not go till the morning; but Marguerite had not been well when I +left her. I told him of it, and begged his permission to go back to her +early, promising to come again on the morrow. + +The weather was fine; he walked with me as far as the station. Never +had I been so happy. The future appeared as I had long desired to see +it. I had never loved my father as I loved him at that moment. + +Just as I was leaving him, he once more begged me to stay. I refused. + +“You are really very much in love with her?” he asked. + +“Madly.” + +“Go, then,” and he passed his hand across his forehead as if to chase a +thought, then opened his mouth as if to say something; but he only +pressed my hand, and left me hurriedly, saying: + +“Till to-morrow, then!” + + + + +Chapter XXII + + +It seemed to me as if the train did not move. I reached Bougival at +eleven. + +Not a window in the house was lighted up, and when I rang no one +answered the bell. It was the first time that such a thing had occurred +to me. At last the gardener came. I entered. Nanine met me with a +light. I went to Marguerite’s room. + +“Where is madame?” + +“Gone to Paris,” replied Nanine. + +“To Paris!” + +“Yes, sir.” + +“When?” + +“An hour after you.” + +“She left no word for me?” + +“Nothing.” + +Nanine left me. + +Perhaps she had some suspicion or other, I thought, and went to Paris +to make sure that my visit to my father was not an excuse for a day +off. Perhaps Prudence wrote to her about something important. I said to +myself when I was alone; but I saw Prudence; she said nothing to make +me suppose that she had written to Marguerite. + +All at once I remembered Mme. Duvernoy’s question, “Isn’t she coming +to-day?” when I had said that Marguerite was ill. I remembered at the +same time how embarrassed Prudence had appeared when I looked at her +after this remark, which seemed to indicate an appointment. I +remembered, too, Marguerite’s tears all day long, which my father’s +kind reception had rather put out of my mind. From this moment all the +incidents grouped themselves about my first suspicion, and fixed it so +firmly in my mind that everything served to confirm it, even my +father’s kindness. + +Marguerite had almost insisted on my going to Paris; she had pretended +to be calmer when I had proposed staying with her. Had I fallen into +some trap? Was Marguerite deceiving me? Had she counted on being back +in time for me not to perceive her absence, and had she been detained +by chance? Why had she said nothing to Nanine, or why had she not +written? What was the meaning of those tears, this absence, this +mystery? + +That is what I asked myself in affright, as I stood in the vacant room, +gazing at the clock, which pointed to midnight, and seemed to say to me +that it was too late to hope for my mistress’s return. Yet, after all +the arrangements we had just made, after the sacrifices that had been +offered and accepted, was it likely that she was deceiving me? No. I +tried to get rid of my first supposition. + +Probably she had found a purchaser for her furniture, and she had gone +to Paris to conclude the bargain. She did not wish to tell me +beforehand, for she knew that, though I had consented to it, the sale, +so necessary to our future happiness, was painful to me, and she feared +to wound my self-respect in speaking to me about it. She would rather +not see me till the whole thing was done, and that was evidently why +Prudence was expecting her when she let out the secret. Marguerite +could not finish the whole business to-day, and was staying the night +with Prudence, or perhaps she would come even now, for she must know +how anxious I should be, and would not wish to leave me in that +condition. But, if so, why those tears? No doubt, despite her love for +me, the poor girl could not make up her mind to give up all the luxury +in which she had lived until now, and for which she had been so envied, +without crying over it. I was quite ready to forgive her for such +regrets. I waited for her impatiently, that I might say to her, as I +covered her with kisses, that I had guessed the reason of her +mysterious absence. + +Nevertheless, the night went on, and Marguerite did not return. + +My anxiety tightened its circle little by little, and began to oppress +my head and heart. Perhaps something had happened to her. Perhaps she +was injured, ill, dead. Perhaps a messenger would arrive with the news +of some dreadful accident. Perhaps the daylight would find me with the +same uncertainty and with the same fears. + +The idea that Marguerite was perhaps unfaithful to me at the very +moment when I waited for her in terror at her absence did not return to +my mind. There must be some cause, independent of her will, to keep her +away from me, and the more I thought, the more convinced I was that +this cause could only be some mishap or other. O vanity of man, coming +back to us in every form! + +One o’clock struck. I said to myself that I would wait another hour, +but that at two o’clock, if Marguerite had not returned, I would set +out for Paris. Meanwhile I looked about for a book, for I dared not +think. Manon Lescaut was open on the table. It seemed to me that here +and there the pages were wet as if with tears. I turned the leaves over +and then closed the book, for the letters seemed to me void of meaning +through the veil of my doubts. + +Time went slowly. The sky was covered with clouds. An autumn rain +lashed the windows. The empty bed seemed at moments to assume the +aspect of a tomb. I was afraid. + +I opened the door. I listened, and heard nothing but the voice of the +wind in the trees. Not a vehicle was to be seen on the road. The half +hour sounded sadly from the church tower. + +I began to fear lest someone should enter. It seemed to me that only a +disaster could come at that hour and under that sombre sky. + +Two o’clock struck. I still waited a little. Only the sound of the bell +troubled the silence with its monotonous and rhythmical stroke. + +At last I left the room, where every object had assumed that melancholy +aspect which the restless solitude of the heart gives to all its +surroundings. + +In the next room I found Nanine sleeping over her work. At the sound of +the door, she awoke and asked if her mistress had come in. + +“No; but if she comes in, tell her that I was so anxious that I had to +go to Paris.” + +“At this hour?” + +“Yes. + +“But how? You won’t find a carriage.” + +“I will walk.” + +“But it is raining.” + +“No matter.” + +“But madame will be coming back, or if she doesn’t come it will be time +enough in the morning to go and see what has kept her. You will be +murdered on the way.” + +“There is no danger, my dear Nanine; I will see you to-morrow.” + +The good girl went and got me a cloak, put it over my shoulders, and +offered to wake up Mme. Arnould to see if a vehicle could be obtained; +but I would hear of nothing, convinced as I was that I should lose, in +a perhaps fruitless inquiry, more time than I should take to cover half +the road. Besides, I felt the need of air and physical fatigue in order +to cool down the over-excitement which possessed me. + +I took the key of the flat in the Rue d’Antin, and after saying +good-bye to Nanine, who came with me as far as the gate, I set out. + +At first I began to run, but the earth was muddy with rain, and I +fatigued myself doubly. At the end of half an hour I was obliged to +stop, and I was drenched with sweat. I recovered my breath and went on. +The night was so dark that at every step I feared to dash myself +against one of the trees on the roadside, which rose up sharply before +me like great phantoms rushing upon me. + +I overtook one or two wagons, which I soon left behind. A carriage was +going at full gallop toward Bougival. As it passed me the hope came to +me that Marguerite was in it. I stopped and cried out, “Marguerite! +Marguerite!” But no one answered and the carriage continued its course. +I watched it fade away in the distance, and then started on my way +again. I took two hours to reach the Barrière de l’Étoile. The sight of +Paris restored my strength, and I ran the whole length of the alley I +had so often walked. + +That night no one was passing; it was like going through the midst of a +dead city. The dawn began to break. When I reached the Rue d’Antin the +great city stirred a little before quite awakening. Five o’clock struck +at the church of Saint Roch at the moment when I entered Marguerite’s +house. I called out my name to the porter, who had had from me enough +twenty-franc pieces to know that I had the right to call on Mlle. +Gautier at five in the morning. I passed without difficulty. I might +have asked if Marguerite was at home, but he might have said “No,” and +I preferred to remain in doubt two minutes longer, for, as long as I +doubted, there was still hope. + +I listened at the door, trying to discover a sound, a movement. +Nothing. The silence of the country seemed to be continued here. I +opened the door and entered. All the curtains were hermetically closed. +I drew those of the dining-room and went toward the bed-room and pushed +open the door. I sprang at the curtain cord and drew it violently. The +curtain opened, a faint light made its way in. I rushed to the bed. It +was empty. + +I opened the doors one after another. I visited every room. No one. It +was enough to drive one mad. + +I went into the dressing-room, opened the window, and called Prudence +several times. Mme. Duvernoy’s window remained closed. + +I went downstairs to the porter and asked him if Mlle. Gautier had come +home during the day. + +“Yes,” answered the man; “with Mme. Duvernoy.” + +“She left no word for me?” + +“No.” + +“Do you know what they did afterward?” + +“They went away in a carriage.” + +“What sort of a carriage?” + +“A private carriage.” + +What could it all mean? + +I rang at the next door. + +“Where are you going, sir?” asked the porter, when he had opened to me. + +“To Mme. Duvernoy’s.” + +“She has not come back.” + +“You are sure?” + +“Yes, sir; here’s a letter even, which was brought for her last night +and which I have not yet given her.” + +And the porter showed me a letter which I glanced at mechanically. I +recognised Marguerite’s writing. I took the letter. It was addressed, +“To Mme. Duvernoy, to forward to M. Duval.” + +“This letter is for me,” I said to the porter, as I showed him the +address. + +“You are M. Duval?” he replied. + +“Yes. + +“Ah! I remember. You often came to see Mme. Duvernoy.” + +When I was in the street I broke the seal of the letter. If a +thunder-bolt had fallen at my feet I should have been less startled +than I was by what I read. + +“By the time you read this letter, Armand, I shall be the mistress of +another man. All is over between us. + +“Go back to your father, my friend, and to your sister, and there, by +the side of a pure young girl, ignorant of all our miseries, you will +soon forget what you would have suffered through that lost creature who +is called Marguerite Gautier, whom you have loved for an instant, and +who owes to you the only happy moments of a life which, she hopes, will +not be very long now.” + +When I had read the last word, I thought I should have gone mad. For a +moment I was really afraid of falling in the street. A cloud passed +before my eyes and my blood beat in my temples. At last I came to +myself a little. I looked about me, and was astonished to see the life +of others continue without pausing at my distress. + +I was not strong enough to endure the blow alone. Then I remembered +that my father was in the same city, that I might be with him in ten +minutes, and that, whatever might be the cause of my sorrow, he would +share it. + +I ran like a madman, like a thief, to the Hotel de Paris; I found the +key in the door of my father’s room; I entered. He was reading. He +showed so little astonishment at seeing me, that it was as if he was +expecting me. I flung myself into his arms without saying a word. I +gave him Marguerite’s letter, and, falling on my knees beside his bed, +I wept hot tears. + + + + +Chapter XXIII + + +When the current of life had resumed its course, I could not believe +that the day which I saw dawning would not be like those which had +preceded it. There were moments when I fancied that some circumstance, +which I could not recollect, had obliged me to spend the night away +from Marguerite, but that, if I returned to Bougival, I should find her +again as anxious as I had been, and that she would ask me what had +detained me away from her so long. + +When one’s existence has contracted a habit, such as that of this love, +it seems impossible that the habit should be broken without at the same +time breaking all the other springs of life. I was forced from time to +time to reread Marguerite’s letter, in order to convince myself that I +had not been dreaming. + +My body, succumbing to the moral shock, was incapable of movement. +Anxiety, the night walk, and the morning’s news had prostrated me. My +father profited by this total prostration of all my faculties to demand +of me a formal promise to accompany him. I promised all that he asked, +for I was incapable of sustaining a discussion, and I needed some +affection to help me to live, after what had happened. I was too +thankful that my father was willing to console me under such a +calamity. + +All that I remember is that on that day, about five o’clock, he took me +with him in a post-chaise. Without a word to me, he had had my luggage +packed and put up behind the chaise with his own, and so he carried me +off. I did not realize what I was doing until the town had disappeared +and the solitude of the road recalled to me the emptiness of my heart. +Then my tears again began to flow. + +My father had realized that words, even from him, would do nothing to +console me, and he let me weep without saying a word, only sometimes +pressing my hand, as if to remind me that I had a friend at my side. + +At night I slept a little. I dreamed of Marguerite. + +I woke with a start, not recalling why I was in the carriage. Then the +truth came back upon me, and I let my head sink on my breast. I dared +not say anything to my father. I was afraid he would say, “You see I +was right when I declared that this woman did not love you.” But he did +not use his advantage, and we reached C. without his having said +anything to me except to speak of matters quite apart from the event +which had occasioned my leaving Paris. + +When I embraced my sister, I remembered what Marguerite had said about +her in her letter, and I saw at once how little my sister, good as she +was, would be able to make me forget my mistress. + +Shooting had begun, and my father thought that it would be a +distraction for me. He got up shooting parties with friends and +neighbours. I went without either reluctance or enthusiasm, with that +sort of apathy into which I had sunk since my departure. + +We were beating about for game and I was given my post. I put down my +unloaded gun at my side, and meditated. I watched the clouds pass. I +let my thought wander over the solitary plains, and from time to time I +heard someone call to me and point to a hare not ten paces off. None of +these details escaped my father, and he was not deceived by my exterior +calm. He was well aware that, broken as I now was, I should some day +experience a terrible reaction, which might be dangerous, and, without +seeming to make any effort to console me, he did his utmost to distract +my thoughts. + +My sister, naturally, knew nothing of what had happened, and she could +not understand how it was that I, who had formerly been so +lighthearted, had suddenly become so sad and dreamy. + +Sometimes, surprising in the midst of my sadness my father’s anxious +scrutiny, I pressed his hand as if to ask him tacitly to forgive me for +the pain which, in spite of myself, I was giving him. + +Thus a month passed, but at the end of that time I could endure it no +longer. The memory of Marguerite pursued me unceasingly. I had loved, I +still loved this woman so much that I could not suddenly become +indifferent to her. I had to love or to hate her. Above all, whatever I +felt for her, I had to see her again, and at once. This desire +possessed my mind, and with all the violence of a will which had begun +to reassert itself in a body so long inert. + +It was not enough for me to see Marguerite in a month, a week. I had to +see her the very next day after the day when the thought had occurred +to me; and I went to my father and told him that I had been called to +Paris on business, but that I should return promptly. No doubt he +guessed the reason of my departure, for he insisted that I should stay, +but, seeing that if I did not carry out my intention the consequences, +in the state in which I was, might be fatal, he embraced me, and begged +me, almost, with tears, to return without delay. + +I did not sleep on the way to Paris. Once there, what was I going to +do? I did not know; I only knew that it must be something connected +with Marguerite. I went to my rooms to change my clothes, and, as the +weather was fine and it was still early, I made my way to the +Champs-Elysées. At the end of half an hour I saw Marguerite’s carriage, +at some distance, coming from the Rond-Point to the Place de la +Concorde. She had repurchased her horses, for the carriage was just as +I was accustomed to see it, but she was not in it. Scarcely had I +noticed this fact, when looking around me, I saw Marguerite on foot, +accompanied by a woman whom I had never seen. + +As she passed me she turned pale, and a nervous smile tightened about +her lips. For my part, my heart beat violently in my breast; but I +succeeded in giving a cold expression to my face, as I bowed coldly to +my former mistress, who just then reached her carriage, into which she +got with her friend. + +I knew Marguerite: this unexpected meeting must certainly have upset +her. No doubt she had heard that I had gone away, and had thus been +reassured as to the consequences of our rupture; but, seeing me again +in Paris, finding herself face to face with me, pale as I was, she must +have realized that I had not returned without purpose, and she must +have asked herself what that purpose was. + +If I had seen Marguerite unhappy, if, in revenging myself upon her, I +could have come to her aid, I should perhaps have forgiven her, and +certainly I should have never dreamt of doing her an injury. But I +found her apparently happy, someone else had restored to her the luxury +which I could not give her; her breaking with me seemed to assume a +character of the basest self-interest; I was lowered in my own esteem +as well as in my love. I resolved that she should pay for what I had +suffered. + +I could not be indifferent to what she did, consequently what would +hurt her the most would be my indifference; it was, therefore, this +sentiment which I must affect, not only in her eyes, but in the eyes of +others. + +I tried to put on a smiling countenance, and I went to call on +Prudence. The maid announced me, and I had to wait a few minutes in the +drawing-room. At last Mme. Duvernoy appeared and asked me into her +boudoir; as I seated myself I heard the drawing-room door open, a light +footstep made the floor creak and the front door was closed violently. + +“I am disturbing you,” I said to Prudence. + +“Not in the least. Marguerite was there. When she heard you announced, +she made her escape; it was she who has just gone out.” + +“Is she afraid of me now?” + +“No, but she is afraid that you would not wish to see her.” + +“But why?” I said, drawing my breath with difficulty, for I was choked +with emotion. “The poor girl left me for her carriage, her furniture, +and her diamonds; she did quite right, and I don’t bear her any grudge. +I met her to-day,” I continued carelessly. + +“Where?” asked Prudence, looking at me and seeming to ask herself if +this was the same man whom she had known so madly in love. + +“In the Champs-Elysées. She was with another woman, very pretty. Who is +she?” + +“What was she like?” + +“Blonde, slender, with side curls; blue eyes; very elegant.” + +“Ah! It was Olympe; she is really very pretty.” + +“Whom does she live with?” + +“With nobody; with anybody.” + +“Where does she live?” + +“Rue Tronchet, No.—. Do you want to make love to her?” + +“One never knows.” + +“And Marguerite?” + +“I should hardly tell you the truth if I said I think no more about +her; but I am one of those with whom everything depends on the way in +which one breaks with them. Now Marguerite ended with me so lightly +that I realize I was a great fool to have been as much in love with her +as I was, for I was really very much in love with that girl.” + +You can imagine the way in which I said that; the sweat broke out on my +forehead. + +“She was very fond of you, you know, and she still is; the proof is, +that after meeting you to-day, she came straight to tell me about it. +When she got here she was all of a tremble; I thought she was going to +faint.” + +“Well, what did she say?” + +“She said, ‘He is sure to come here,’ and she begged me to ask you to +forgive her.” + +“I have forgiven her, you may tell her. She was a good girl; but, after +all, like the others, and I ought to have expected what happened. I am +even grateful to her, for I see now what would have happened if I had +lived with her altogether. It was ridiculous.” + +“She will be very glad to find that you take it so well. It was quite +time she left you, my dear fellow. The rascal of an agent to whom she +had offered to sell her furniture went around to her creditors to find +out how much she owed; they took fright, and in two days she would have +been sold up.” + +“And now it is all paid?” + +“More or less.” + +“And who has supplied the money?” + +“The Comte de N. Ah, my dear friend, there are men made on purpose for +such occasions. To cut a long story short he gave her twenty thousand +francs, but he has had his way at last. He knows quite well that +Marguerite is not in love with him; but he is very nice with her all +the same. As you have seen, he has repurchased her horses, he has taken +her jewels out of pawn, and he gives her as much money as the duke used +to give her; if she likes to live quietly, he will stay with her a long +time.” + +“And what is she doing? Is she living in Paris altogether?” + +“She would never go back to Bougival after you went. I had to go myself +and see after all her things, and yours, too. I made a package of them +and you can send here for them. You will find everything, except a +little case with your initials. Marguerite wanted to keep it. If you +really want it, I will ask her for it.” + +“Let her keep it,” I stammered, for I felt the tears rise from my heart +to my eyes at the recollection of the village where I had been so +happy, and at the thought that Marguerite cared to keep something which +had belonged to me and would recall me to her. If she had entered at +that moment my thoughts of vengeance would have disappeared, and I +should have fallen at her feet. + +“For the rest,” continued Prudence, “I never saw her as she is now; she +hardly takes any sleep, she goes to all the balls, she goes to suppers, +she even drinks. The other day, after a supper, she had to stay in bed +for a week; and when the doctor let her get up, she began again at the +risk of her life. Shall you go and see her?” + +“What is the good? I came to see you, because you have always been +charming to me, and I knew you before I ever knew Marguerite. I owe it +to you that I have been her lover, and also, don’t I, that I am her +lover no longer?” + +“Well, I did all I could to get her away from you, and I believe you +will be thankful to me later on.” + +“I owe you a double gratitude,” I added, rising, for I was disgusted +with the woman, seeing her take every word I said to her as if it were +serious. + +“You are going?” + +“Yes.” + +I had learned enough. + +“When shall I be seeing you?” + +“Soon. Good-bye.” + +“Good-bye.” + +Prudence saw me to the door, and I went back to my own rooms with tears +of rage in my eyes and a desire for vengeance in my heart. + +So Marguerite was no different from the others; so the steadfast love +that she had had for me could not resist the desire of returning to her +former life, and the need of having a carriage and plunging into +dissipation. So I said to myself, as I lay awake at night though if I +had reflected as calmly as I professed to I should have seen in this +new and turbulent life of Marguerite the attempt to silence a constant +thought, a ceaseless memory. Unfortunately, evil passion had the upper +hand, and I only sought for some means of avenging myself on the poor +creature. Oh, how petty and vile is man when he is wounded in one of +his narrow passions! + +This Olympe whom I had seen was, if not a friend of Marguerite, at all +events the woman with whom she was most often seen since her return to +Paris. She was going to give a ball, and, as I took it for granted that +Marguerite would be there, I tried to get an invitation and succeeded. + +When, full of my sorrowful emotions, I arrived at the ball, it was +already very animated. They were dancing, shouting even, and in one of +the quadrilles I perceived Marguerite dancing with the Comte de N., who +seemed proud of showing her off, as if he said to everybody: “This +woman is mine.” + +I leaned against the mantel-piece just opposite Marguerite and watched +her dancing. Her face changed the moment she caught sight of me. I +saluted her casually with a glance of the eyes and a wave of the hand. + +When I reflected that after the ball she would go home, not with me but +with that rich fool, when I thought of what would follow their return, +the blood rose to my face, and I felt the need of doing something to +trouble their relations. + +After the _contredanse_ I went up to the mistress of the house, who +displayed for the benefit of her guests a dazzling bosom and +magnificent shoulders. She was beautiful, and, from the point of view +of figure, more beautiful than Marguerite. I realized this fact still +more clearly from certain glances which Marguerite bestowed upon her +while I was talking with her. The man who was the lover of such a woman +might well be as proud as M. de N., and she was beautiful enough to +inspire a passion not less great than that which Marguerite had +inspired in me. At that moment she had no lover. It would not be +difficult to become so; it depended only on showing enough money to +attract her attention. + +I made up my mind. That woman should be my mistress. I began by dancing +with her. Half an hour afterward, Marguerite, pale as death, put on her +pelisse and left the ball. + + + + +Chapter XXIV + + +It was something already, but it was not enough. I saw the hold which I +had upon this woman, and I took a cowardly advantage of it. + +When I think that she is dead now, I ask myself if God will ever +forgive me for the wrong I did her. + +After the supper, which was noisy as could be, there was gambling. I +sat by the side of Olympe and put down my money so recklessly that she +could not but notice me. In an instant I had gained one hundred and +fifty or two hundred louis, which I spread out before me on the table, +and on which she fastened her eyes greedily. + +I was the only one not completely absorbed by the game, and able to pay +her some attention. All the rest of the night I gained, and it was I +who gave her money to play, for she had lost all she had before her and +probably all she had in the house. + +At five in the morning, the guests departed. I had gained three hundred +louis. + +All the players were already on their way downstairs; I was the only +one who had remained behind, and as I did not know any of them, no one +noticed it. Olympe herself was lighting the way, and I was going to +follow the others, when, turning back, I said to her: + +“I must speak to you.” + +“To-morrow,” she said. + +“No, now.” + +“What have you to say?” + +“You will see.” + +And I went back into the room. + +“You have lost,” I said. + +“Yes. + +“All that you had in the house?” + +She hesitated. + +“Be frank.” + +“Well, it is true.” + +“I have won three hundred louis. Here they are, if you will let me stay +here to-night.” + +And I threw the gold on the table. + +“And why this proposition?” + +“Because I am in love with you, of course.” + +“No, but because you love Marguerite, and you want to have your revenge +upon her by becoming my lover. You don’t deceive a woman like me, my +dear friend; unluckily, I am still too young and too good-looking to +accept the part that you offer me.” + +“So you refuse?” + +“Yes. + +“Would you rather take me for nothing? It is I who wouldn’t accept +then. Think it over, my dear Olympe; if I had sent someone to offer you +these three hundred louis on my behalf, on the conditions I attach to +them, you would have accepted. I preferred to speak to you myself. +Accept without inquiring into my reasons; say to yourself that you are +beautiful, and that there is nothing surprising in my being in love +with you.” + +Marguerite was a woman in the same position as Olympe, and yet I should +never have dared say to her the first time I met her what I had said to +the other woman. I loved Marguerite. I saw in her instincts which were +lacking in the other, and at the very moment in which I made my +bargain, I felt a disgust toward the woman with whom I was making it. + +She accepted, of course, in the end, and at midday I left her house as +her lover; but I quitted her without a recollection of the caresses and +of the words of love which she had felt bound to shower upon me in +return for the six thousand francs which I left with her. And yet there +were men who had ruined themselves for that woman. + +From that day I inflicted on Marguerite a continual persecution. Olympe +and she gave up seeing one another, as you might imagine. I gave my new +mistress a carriage and jewels. I gambled, I committed every +extravagance which could be expected of a man in love with such a woman +as Olympe. The report of my new infatuation was immediately spread +abroad. + +Prudence herself was taken in, and finally thought that I had +completely forgotten Marguerite. Marguerite herself, whether she +guessed my motive or was deceived like everybody else, preserved a +perfect dignity in response to the insults which I heaped upon her +daily. Only, she seemed to suffer, for whenever I met her she was more +and more pale, more and more sad. My love for her, carried to the point +at which it was transformed into hatred, rejoiced at the sight of her +daily sorrow. Often, when my cruelty toward her became infamous, +Marguerite lifted upon me such appealing eyes that I blushed for the +part I was playing, and was ready to implore her forgiveness. + +But my repentance was only of a moment’s duration, and Olympe, who had +finally put aside all self-respect, and discovered that by annoying +Marguerite she could get from me whatever she wanted, constantly +stirred up my resentment against her, and insulted her whenever she +found an opportunity, with the cowardly persistence of a woman licensed +by the authority of a man. + +At last Marguerite gave up going to balls or theatres, for fear of +meeting Olympe and me. Then direct impertinences gave way to anonymous +letters, and there was not a shameful thing which I did not encourage +my mistress to relate and which I did not myself relate in reference to +Marguerite. + +To reach such a point I must have been literally mad. I was like a man +drunk upon bad wine, who falls into one of those nervous exaltations in +which the hand is capable of committing a crime without the head +knowing anything about it. In the midst of it all I endured a +martyrdom. The not disdainful calm, the not contemptuous dignity with +which Marguerite responded to all my attacks, and which raised her +above me in my own eyes, enraged me still more against her. + +One evening Olympe had gone somewhere or other, and had met Marguerite, +who for once had not spared the foolish creature, so that she had had +to retire in confusion. Olympe returned in a fury, and Marguerite +fainted and had to be carried out. Olympe related to me what had +happened, declared that Marguerite, seeing her alone, had revenged +herself upon her because she was my mistress, and that I must write and +tell her to respect the woman whom I loved, whether I was present or +absent. + +I need not tell you that I consented, and that I put into the letter +which I sent to her address the same day, everything bitter, shameful, +and cruel that I could think of. + +This time the blow was more than the unhappy creature could endure +without replying. I felt sure that an answer would come, and I resolved +not to go out all day. About two there was a ring, and Prudence +entered. + +I tried to assume an indifferent air as I asked her what had brought +her; but that day Mme. Duvernoy was not in a laughing humour, and in a +really moved voice she said to me that since my return, that is to say +for about three weeks, I had left no occasion untried which could give +pain to Marguerite, that she was completely upset by it, and that the +scene of last night and my angry letter of the morning had forced her +to take to her bed. In short, without making any reproach, Marguerite +sent to ask me for a little pity, since she had no longer the moral or +physical strength to endure what I was making her suffer. + +“That Mlle. Gautier,” I said to Prudence, “should turn me out of her +own house is quite reasonable, but that she should insult the woman +whom I love, under the pretence that this woman is my mistress, is a +thing I will never permit.” + +“My friend,” said Prudence, “you are under the influence of a woman who +has neither heart nor sense; you are in love with her, it is true, but +that is not a reason for torturing a woman who can not defend herself.” + +“Let Mlle. Gautier send me her Comte de N. and the sides will be +equal.” + +“You know very well that she will not do that. So, my dear Armand, let +her alone. If you saw her you would be ashamed of the way in which you +are treating her. She is white, she coughs—she won’t last long now.” + +And Prudence held out her hand to me, adding: + +“Come and see her; it will make her very happy.” + +“I have no desire to meet M. de N.” + +“M. de N. is never there. She can not endure him.” + +“If Marguerite wishes to see me, she knows where I live; let her come +to see me, but, for my part, I will never put foot in the Rue d’Antin.” + +“Will you receive her well?” + +“Certainly.” + +“Well, I am sure that she will come.” + +“Let her come.” + +“Shall you be out to-day?” + +“I shall be at home all the evening.” + +“I will tell her.” + +And Prudence left me. + +I did not even write to tell Olympe not to expect me. I never troubled +much about her, scarcely going to see her one night a week. She +consoled herself, I believe, with an actor from some theatre or other. + +I went out for dinner and came back almost immediately. I had a fire +lit in my room and I told Joseph he could go out. + +I can give you no idea of the different impressions which agitated me +during the hour in which I waited; but when, toward nine o’clock, I +heard a ring, they thronged together into one such emotion, that, as I +opened the door, I was obliged to lean against the wall to keep myself +from falling. + +Fortunately the anteroom was in half darkness, and the change in my +countenance was less visible. Marguerite entered. + +She was dressed in black and veiled. I could scarcely recognise her +face through the veil. She went into the drawing-room and raised her +veil. She was pale as marble. + +“I am here, Armand,” she said; “you wished to see me and I have come.” + +And letting her head fall on her hands, she burst into tears. + +I went up to her. + +“What is the matter?” I said to her in a low voice. + +She pressed my hand without a word, for tears still veiled her voice. +But after a few minutes, recovering herself a little, she said to me: + +“You have been very unkind to me, Armand, and I have done nothing to +you.” + +“Nothing?” I answered, with a bitter smile. + +“Nothing but what circumstances forced me to do.” + +I do not know if you have ever in your life experienced, or if you will +ever experience, what I felt at the sight of Marguerite. + +The last time she had come to see me she had sat in the same place +where she was now sitting; only, since then, she had been the mistress +of another man, other kisses than mine had touched her lips, toward +which, in spite of myself, my own reached out, and yet I felt that I +loved this woman as much, more perhaps, than I had ever loved her. + +It was difficult for me to begin the conversation on the subject which +brought her. Marguerite no doubt realized it, for she went on: + +“I have come to trouble you, Armand, for I have two things to ask: +pardon for what I said yesterday to Mlle. Olympe, and pity for what you +are perhaps still ready to do to me. Intentionally or not, since your +return you have given me so much pain that I should be incapable now of +enduring a fourth part of what I have endured till now. You will have +pity on me, won’t you? And you will understand that a man who is not +heartless has other nobler things to do than to take his revenge upon a +sick and sad woman like me. See, take my hand. I am in a fever. I left +my bed to come to you, and ask, not for your friendship, but for your +indifference.” + +I took Marguerite’s hand. It was burning, and the poor woman shivered +under her fur cloak. + +I rolled the arm-chair in which she was sitting up to the fire. + +“Do you think, then, that I did not suffer,” said I, “on that night +when, after waiting for you in the country, I came to look for you in +Paris, and found nothing but the letter which nearly drove me mad? How +could you have deceived me, Marguerite, when I loved you so much? + +“Do not speak of that, Armand; I did not come to speak of that. I +wanted to see you only not an enemy, and I wanted to take your hand +once more. You have a mistress; she is young, pretty, you love her they +say. Be happy with her and forget me.” + +“And you. You are happy, no doubt?” + +“Have I the face of a happy woman, Armand? Do not mock my sorrow, you, +who know better than anyone what its cause and its depth are.” + +“It only depended on you not to have been unhappy at all, if you are as +you say.” + +“No, my friend; circumstances were stronger than my will. I obeyed, not +the instincts of a light woman, as you seem to say, but a serious +necessity, and reasons which you will know one day, and which will make +you forgive me.” + +“Why do you not tell me those reasons to-day?” + +“Because they would not bring about an impossible reunion between us, +and they would separate you perhaps from those from whom you must not +be separated.” + +“Who do you mean?” + +“I can not tell you.” + +“Then you are lying to me.” + +Marguerite rose and went toward the door. I could not behold this +silent and expressive sorrow without being touched, when I compared in +my mind this pale and weeping woman with the madcap who had made fun of +me at the Opera Comique. + +“You shall not go,” I said, putting myself in front of the door. + +“Why?” + +“Because, in spite of what you have done to me, I love you always, and +I want you to stay here.” + +“To turn me out to-morrow? No; it is impossible. Our destinies are +separate; do not try to reunite them. You will despise me perhaps, +while now you can only hate me.” + +“No, Marguerite,” I cried, feeling all my love and all my desire +reawaken at the contact of this woman. “No, I will forget everything, +and we will be happy as we promised one another that we would be.” + +Marguerite shook her head doubtfully, and said: + +“Am I not your slave, your dog? Do with me what you will. Take me; I am +yours.” + +And throwing off her cloak and hat, she flung them on the sofa, and +began hurriedly to undo the front of her dress, for, by one of those +reactions so frequent in her malady, the blood rushed to her head and +stifled her. A hard, dry cough followed. + +“Tell my coachman,” she said, “to go back with the carriage.” + +I went down myself and sent him away. When I returned Marguerite was +lying in front of the fire, and her teeth chattered with the cold. + +I took her in my arms. I undressed her, without her making a movement, +and carried her, icy cold, to the bed. Then I sat beside her and tried +to warm her with my caresses. She did not speak a word, but smiled at +me. + +It was a strange night. All Marguerite’s life seemed to have passed +into the kisses with which she covered me, and I loved her so much that +in my transports of feverish love I asked myself whether I should not +kill her, so that she might never belong to another. + +A month of love like that, and there would have remained only the +corpse of heart or body. + +The dawn found us both awake. Marguerite was livid white. She did not +speak a word. From time to time, big tears rolled from her eyes, and +stayed upon her cheeks, shining like diamonds. Her thin arms opened, +from time to time, to hold me fast, and fell back helplessly upon the +bed. + +For a moment it seemed to me as if I could forget all that had passed +since I had left Bougival, and I said to Marguerite: + +“Shall we go away and leave Paris?” + +“No, no!” she said, almost with affright; “we should be too unhappy. I +can do no more to make you happy, but while there is a breath of life +in me, I will be the slave of your fancies. At whatever hour of the day +or night you will, come, and I will be yours; but do not link your +future any more with mine, you would be too unhappy and you would make +me too unhappy. I shall still be pretty for a while; make the most of +it, but ask nothing more.” + +When she had gone, I was frightened at the solitude in which she left +me. Two hours afterward I was still sitting on the side of the bed, +looking at the pillow which kept the imprint of her form, and asking +myself what was to become of me, between my love and my jealousy. + +At five o’clock, without knowing what I was going to do, I went to the +Rue d’Antin. + +Nanine opened to me. + +“Madame can not receive you,” she said in an embarrassed way. + +“Why?” + +“Because M. le Comte de N. is there, and he has given orders to let no +one in.” + +“Quite so,” I stammered; “I forgot.” + +I went home like a drunken man, and do you know what I did during the +moment of jealous delirium which was long enough for the shameful thing +I was going to do? I said to myself that the woman was laughing at me; +I saw her alone with the count, saying over to him the same words that +she had said to me in the night, and taking a five-hundred-franc note I +sent it to her with these words: + +“You went away so suddenly that I forgot to pay you. Here is the price +of your night.” + +Then when the letter was sent I went out as if to free myself from the +instantaneous remorse of this infamous action. + +I went to see Olympe, whom I found trying on dresses, and when we were +alone she sang obscene songs to amuse me. She was the very type of the +shameless, heartless, senseless courtesan, for me at least, for perhaps +some men might have dreamed of her as I dreamed of Marguerite. She +asked me for money. I gave it to her, and, free then to go, I returned +home. + +Marguerite had not answered. + +I need not tell you in what state of agitation I spent the next day. At +half past nine a messenger brought me an envelope containing my letter +and the five-hundred-franc note, not a word more. + +“Who gave you this?” I asked the man. + +“A lady who was starting with her maid in the next mail for Boulogne, +and who told me not to take it until the coach was out of the +courtyard.” + +I rushed to the Rue d’Antin. + +“Madame left for England at six o’clock,” said the porter. + +There was nothing to hold me in Paris any longer, neither hate nor +love. I was exhausted by this series of shocks. One of my friends was +setting out on a tour in the East. I told my father I should like to +accompany him; my father gave me drafts and letters of introduction, +and eight or ten days afterward I embarked at Marseilles. + +It was at Alexandria that I learned from an _attaché_ at the embassy, +whom I had sometimes seen at Marguerite’s, that the poor girl was +seriously ill. + +I then wrote her the letter which she answered in the way you know; I +received it at Toulon. + +I started at once, and you know the rest. + +Now you have only to read a few sheets which Julie Duprat gave me; they +are the best commentary on what I have just told you. + + + + +Chapter XXV + + +Armand, tired by this long narrative, often interrupted by his tears, +put his two hands over his forehead and closed his eyes to think, or to +try to sleep, after giving me the pages written by the hand of +Marguerite. A few minutes after, a more rapid breathing told me that +Armand slept, but that light sleep which the least sound banishes. + +This is what I read; I copy it without adding or omitting a syllable: + +To-day is the 15th December. I have been ill three or four days. This +morning I stayed in bed. The weather is dark, I am sad; there is no one +by me. I think of you, Armand. And you, where are you, while I write +these lines? Far from Paris, far, far, they tell me, and perhaps you +have already forgotten Marguerite. Well, be happy; I owe you the only +happy moments in my life. + +I can not help wanting to explain all my conduct to you, and I have +written you a letter; but, written by a girl like me, such a letter +might seem to be a lie, unless death had sanctified it by its +authority, and, instead of a letter, it were a confession. + +To-day I am ill; I may die of this illness, for I have always had the +presentiment that I shall die young. My mother died of consumption, and +the way I have always lived could but increase the only heritage she +ever left me. But I do not want to die without clearing up for you +everything about me; that is, if, when you come back, you will still +trouble yourself about the poor girl whom you loved before you went +away. + +This is what the letter contained; I shall like writing it over again, +so as to give myself another proof of my own justification. + +You remember, Armand, how the arrival of your father surprised us at +Bougival; you remember the involuntary fright that his arrival caused +me, and the scene which took place between you and him, which you told +me of in the evening. + +Next day, when you were at Paris, waiting for your father, and he did +not return, a man came to the door and handed in a letter from M. +Duval. + +His letter, which I inclose with this, begged me, in the most serious +terms, to keep you away on the following day, on some excuse or other, +and to see your father, who wished to speak to me, and asked me +particularly not to say anything to you about it. + +You know how I insisted on your returning to Paris next day. + +You had only been gone an hour when your father presented himself. I +won’t say what impression his severe face made upon me. Your father had +the old theory that a courtesan is a being without heart or reason, a +sort of machine for coining gold, always ready, like the machine, to +bruise the hand that gives her everything, and to tear in pieces, +without pity or discernment, those who set her in motion. + +Your father had written me a very polite letter, in order that I might +consent to see him; he did not present himself quite as he had written. +His manner at first was so stiff, insolent, and even threatening, that +I had to make him understand that I was in my own house, and that I had +no need to render him an account of my life, except because of the +sincere affection which I had for his son. + +M. Duval calmed down a little, but still went on to say that he could +not any longer allow his son to ruin himself over me; that I was +beautiful, it was true, but, however beautiful I might be, I ought not +to make use of my beauty to spoil the future of a young man by such +expenditure as I was causing. + +At that there was only one thing to do, to show him the proof that +since I was your mistress I had spared no sacrifice to be faithful to +you without asking for more money than you had to give me. I showed him +the pawn tickets, the receipts of the people to whom I had sold what I +could not pawn; I told him of my resolve to part with my furniture in +order to pay my debts, and live with you without being a too heavy +expense. I told him of our happiness, of how you had shown me the +possibility of a quieter and happier life, and he ended by giving in to +the evidence, offering me his hand, and asking pardon for the way in +which he had at first approached me. + +Then he said to me: + +“So, madame, it is not by remonstrances or by threats, but by +entreaties, that I must endeavour to obtain from you a greater +sacrifice than you have yet made for my son.” + +I trembled at this beginning. + +Your father came over to me, took both my hands, and continued in an +affectionate voice: + +“My child, do not take what I have to say to you amiss; only remember +that there are sometimes in life cruel necessities for the heart, but +that they must be submitted to. You are good, your soul has generosity +unknown to many women who perhaps despise you, and are less worthy than +you. But remember that there is not only the mistress, but the family; +that besides love there are duties; that to the age of passion succeeds +the age when man, if he is to be respected, must plant himself solidly +in a serious position. My son has no fortune, and yet he is ready to +abandon to you the legacy of his mother. If he accepted from you the +sacrifice which you are on the point of making, his honour and dignity +would require him to give you, in exchange for it, this income, which +would always put you out of danger of adversity. But he can not accept +this sacrifice, because the world, which does not know you, would give +a wrong interpretation to this acceptance, and such an interpretation +must not tarnish the name which we bear. No one would consider whether +Armand loves you, whether you love him, whether this mutual love means +happiness to him and redemption to you; they would see only one thing, +that Armand Duval allowed a kept woman (forgive me, my child, for what +I am forced to say to you) to sell all she had for him. Then the day of +reproaches and regrets would arrive, be sure, for you or for others, +and you would both bear a chain that you could not sever. What would +you do then? Your youth would be lost, my son’s future destroyed; and +I, his father, should receive from only one of my children the +recompense that I look for from both. + +“You are young, beautiful, life will console you; you are noble, and +the memory of a good deed will redeem you from many past deeds. During +the six months that he has known you Armand has forgotten me. I wrote +to him four times, and he has never once replied. I might have died and +he not known it! + +“Whatever may be your resolution of living otherwise than as you have +lived, Armand, who loves you, will never consent to the seclusion to +which his modest fortune would condemn you, and to which your beauty +does not entitle you. Who knows what he would do then! He has gambled, +I know; without telling you of it, I know also, but, in a moment of +madness, he might have lost part of what I have saved, during many +years, for my daughter’s portion, for him, and for the repose of my old +age. What might have happened may yet happen. + +“Are you sure, besides, that the life which you are giving up for him +will never again come to attract you? Are you sure, you who have loved +him, that you will never love another? Would you not-suffer on seeing +the hindrances set by your love to your lover’s life, hindrances for +which you would be powerless to console him, if, with age, thoughts of +ambition should succeed to dreams of love? Think over all that, madame. +You love Armand; prove it to him by the sole means which remains to you +of yet proving it to him, by sacrificing your love to his future. No +misfortune has yet arrived, but one will arrive, and perhaps a greater +one than those which I foresee. Armand might become jealous of a man +who has loved you; he might provoke him, fight, be killed. Think, then, +what you would suffer in the presence of a father who should call on +you to render an account for the life of his son! + +“Finally, my dear child, let me tell you all, for I have not yet told +you all, let me tell you what has brought me to Paris. I have a +daughter, as I have told you, young, beautiful, pure as an angel. She +loves, and she, too, has made this love the dream of her life. I wrote +all that to Armand, but, absorbed in you, he made no reply. Well, my +daughter is about to marry. She is to marry the man whom she loves; she +enters an honourable family, which requires that mine has to be no less +honourable. The family of the man who is to become my son-in-law has +learned what manner of life Armand is leading in Paris, and has +declared to me that the marriage must be broken off if Armand continues +this life. The future of a child who has done nothing against you, and +who has the right of looking forward to a happy future, is in your +hands. Have you the right, have you the strength, to shatter it? In the +name of your love and of your repentance, Marguerite, grant me the +happiness of my child.” + +I wept silently, my friend, at all these reflections which I had so +often made, and which, in the mouth of your father, took a yet more +serious reality. I said to myself all that your father dared not say to +me, though it had come to his lips twenty times: that I was, after all, +only a kept woman, and that whatever excuse I gave for our liaison, it +would always look like calculation on my part; that my past life left +me no right to dream of such a future, and that I was accepting +responsibilities for which my habits and reputation were far from +giving any guarantee. In short, I loved you, Armand. + +The paternal way in which M. Duval had spoken to me; the pure memories +that he awakened in me; the respect of this old man, which I would +gain; yours, which I was sure of gaining later on: all that called up +in my heart thoughts which raised me in my own eyes with a sort of holy +pride, unknown till then. When I thought that one day this old man, who +was now imploring me for the future of his son, would bid his daughter +mingle my name with her prayers, as the name of a mysterious friend, I +seemed to become transformed, and I felt a pride in myself. + +The exaltation of the moment perhaps exaggerated the truth of these +impressions, but that was what I felt, friend, and these new feelings +silenced the memory of the happy days I had spent with you. + +“Tell me, sir,” I said to your father, wiping away my tears, “do you +believe that I love your son?” + +“Yes,” said M. Duval. + +“With a disinterested love?” + +“Yes. + +“Do you believe that I had made this love the hope, the dream, the +forgiveness—of my life?” + +“Implicitly.” + +“Well, sir, embrace me once, as you would embrace your daughter, and I +swear to you that that kiss, the only chaste kiss I have ever had, will +make me strong against my love, and that within a week your son will be +once more at your side, perhaps unhappy for a time, but cured forever.” + +“You are a noble child,” replied your father, kissing me on the +forehead, “and you are making an attempt for which God will reward you; +but I greatly fear that you will have no influence upon my son.” + +“Oh, be at rest, sir; he will hate me.” + +I had to set up between us, as much for me as for you, an +insurmountable barrier. + +I wrote to Prudence to say that I accepted the proposition of the Comte +de N., and that she was to tell him that I would sup with her and him. +I sealed the letter, and, without telling him what it contained, asked +your father to have it forwarded to its address on reaching Paris. + +He inquired of me what it contained. + +“Your son’s welfare,” I answered. + +Your father embraced me once more. I felt two grateful tears on my +forehead, like the baptism of my past faults, and at the moment when I +consented to give myself up to another man I glowed with pride at the +thought of what I was redeeming by this new fault. + +It was quite natural, Armand. You told me that your father was the most +honest man in the world. + +M. Duval returned to his carriage, and set out for Paris. + +I was only a woman, and when I saw you again I could not help weeping, +but I did not give way. + +Did I do right? That is what I ask myself to-day, as I lie ill in my +bed, that I shall never leave, perhaps, until I am dead. + +You are witness of what I felt as the hour of our separation +approached; your father was no longer there to support me, and there +was a moment when I was on the point of confessing everything to you, +so terrified was I at the idea that you were going to hate and despise +me. + +One thing which you will not believe, perhaps, Armand, is that I prayed +God to give me strength; and what proves that he accepted my sacrifice +is that he gave me the strength for which I prayed. + +At supper I still had need of aid, for I could not think of what I was +going to do, so much did I fear that my courage would fail me. Who +would ever have said that I, Marguerite Gautier, would have suffered so +at the mere thought of a new lover? I drank for forgetfulness, and when +I woke next day I was beside the count. + +That is the whole truth, friend. Judge me and pardon me, as I have +pardoned you for all the wrong that you have done me since that day. + + + + +Chapter XXVI + + +What followed that fatal night you know as well as I; but what you can +not know, what you can not suspect, is what I have suffered since our +separation. + +I heard that your father had taken you away with him, but I felt sure +that you could not live away from me for long, and when I met you in +the Champs-Elysées, I was a little upset, but by no means surprised. + +Then began that series of days; each of them brought me a fresh insult +from you. I received them all with a kind of joy, for, besides proving +to me that you still loved me, it seemed to me as if the more you +persecuted me the more I should be raised in your eyes when you came to +know the truth. + +Do not wonder at my joy in martyrdom, Armand; your love for me had +opened my heart to noble enthusiasm. + +Still, I was not so strong as that quite at once. + +Between the time of the sacrifice made for you and the time of your +return a long while elapsed, during which I was obliged to have +recourse to physical means in order not to go mad, and in order to be +blinded and deafened in the whirl of life into which I flung myself. +Prudence has told you (has she not?) how I went to all the fêtes and +balls and orgies. I had a sort of hope that I should kill myself by all +these excesses, and I think it will not be long before this hope is +realized. My health naturally got worse and worse, and when I sent Mme. +Duvernoy to ask you for pity I was utterly worn out, body and soul. + +I will not remind you, Armand, of the return you made for the last +proof of love that I gave you, and of the outrage by which you drove +away a dying woman, who could not resist your voice when you asked her +for a night of love, and who, like a fool, thought for one instant that +she might again unite the past with the present. You had the right to +do what you did, Armand; people have not always put so high a price on +a night of mine! + +I left everything after that. Olympe has taken my place with the Comte +de N., and has told him, I hear, the reasons for my leaving him. The +Comte de G. was at London. He is one of those men who give just enough +importance to making love to women like me for it to be an agreeable +pastime, and who are thus able to remain friends with women, not hating +them because they have never been jealous of them, and he is, too, one +of those grand seigneurs who open only a part of their hearts to us, +but the whole of their purses. It was of him that I immediately +thought. I joined him in London. He received me as kindly as possible, +but he was the lover there of a woman in society, and he feared to +compromise himself if he were seen with me. He introduced me to his +friends, who gave a supper in my honour, after which one of them took +me home with him. + +What else was there for me to do, my friend? If I had killed myself it +would have burdened your life, which ought to be happy, with a needless +remorse; and then, what is the good of killing oneself when one is so +near dying already? + +I became a body without a soul, a thing without a thought; I lived for +some time in that automatic way; then I returned to Paris, and asked +after you; I heard then that you were gone on a long voyage. There was +nothing left to hold me to life. My existence became what it had been +two years before I knew you. I tried to win back the duke, but I had +offended him too deeply. Old men are not patient, no doubt because they +realize that they are not eternal. I got weaker every day. I was pale +and sad and thinner than ever. Men who buy love examine the goods +before taking them. At Paris there were women in better health, and not +so thin as I was; I was rather forgotten. That is all the past up to +yesterday. + +Now I am seriously ill. I have written to the duke to ask him for +money, for I have none, and the creditors have returned, and come to me +with their bills with pitiless perseverance. Will the duke answer? Why +are you not in Paris, Armand? You would come and see me, and your +visits would do me good. + +December 20. + +The weather is horrible; it is snowing, and I am alone. I have been in +such a fever for the last three days that I could not write you a word. +No news, my friend; every day I hope vaguely for a letter from you, but +it does not come, and no doubt it will never come. Only men are strong +enough not to forgive. The duke has not answered. + +Prudence is pawning my things again. + +I have been spitting blood all the time. Oh, you would be sorry for me +if you could see me. You are indeed happy to be under a warm sky, and +not, like me, with a whole winter of ice on your chest. To-day I got up +for a little while, and looked out through the curtains of my window, +and watched the life of Paris passing below, the life with which I have +now nothing more to do. I saw the faces of some people I knew, passing +rapidly, joyous and careless. Not one lifted his eyes to my window. +However, a few young men have come to inquire for me. Once before I was +ill, and you, though you did not know me, though you had had nothing +from me but an impertinence the day I met you first, you came to +inquire after me every day. We spent six months together. I had all the +love for you that a woman’s heart can hold and give, and you are far +away, you are cursing me, and there is not a word of consolation from +you. But it is only chance that has made you leave me, I am sure, for +if you were at Paris, you would not leave my bedside. + +December 25. + +My doctor tells me I must not write every day. And indeed my memories +only increase my fever, but yesterday I received a letter which did me +good, more because of what it said than by the material help which it +contained. I can write to you, then, to-day. This letter is from your +father, and this is what it says: + +“MADAME: I have just learned that you are ill. If I were at Paris I +would come and ask after you myself; if my son were here I would send +him; but I can not leave C., and Armand is six or seven hundred leagues +from here; permit me, then, simply to write to you, madame, to tell you +how pained I am to hear of your illness, and believe in my sincere +wishes for your speedy recovery. + +“One of my good friends, M. H., will call on you; will you kindly +receive him? I have intrusted him with a commission, the result of +which I await impatiently. + +“Believe me, madame, + +“Yours most faithfully.” + +This is the letter he sent me. Your father has a noble heart; love him +well, my friend, for there are few men so worthy of being loved. This +paper signed by his name has done me more good than all the +prescriptions of our great doctor. + +This morning M. H. called. He seemed much embarrassed by the delicate +mission which M. Duval had intrusted to him. As a matter of fact, he +came to bring me three thousand francs from your father. I wanted to +refuse at first, but M. H. told me that my refusal would annoy M. +Duval, who had authorized him to give me this sum now, and later on +whatever I might need. I accepted it, for, coming from your father, it +could not be exactly taking alms. If I am dead when you come back, show +your father what I have written for him, and tell him that in writing +these lines the poor woman to whom he was kind enough to write so +consoling a letter wept tears of gratitude and prayed God for him. + +January 4. + +I have passed some terrible days. I never knew the body could suffer +so. Oh, my past life! I pay double for it now. + +There has been someone to watch by me every night; I can not breathe. +What remains of my poor existence is shared between being delirious and +coughing. + +The dining-room is full of sweets and all sorts of presents that my +friends have brought. Some of them, I dare say, are hoping that I shall +be their mistress later on. If they could see what sickness has made of +me, they would go away in terror. + +Prudence is giving her New Year’s presents with those I have received. + +There is a thaw, and the doctor says that I may go out in a few days if +the fine weather continues. + +January 8. + +I went out yesterday in my carriage. The weather was lovely. The +Champs-Elysées was full of people. It was like the first smile of +spring. Everything about me had a festal air. I never knew before that +a ray of sunshine could contain so much joy, sweetness, and +consolation. + +I met almost all the people I knew, all happy, all absorbed in their +pleasures. How many happy people don’t even know that they are happy! +Olympe passed me in an elegant carriage that M. de N. has given her. +She tried to insult me by her look. She little knows how far I am from +such things now. A nice fellow, whom I have known for a long time, +asked me if I would have supper with him and one of his friends, who, +he said, was very anxious to make my acquaintance. I smiled sadly and +gave him my hand, burning with fever. I never saw such an astonished +countenance. + +I came in at four, and had quite an appetite for my dinner. Going out +has done me good. If I were only going to get well! How the sight of +the life and happiness of others gives a desire of life to those who, +only the night before, in the solitude of their soul and in the shadow +of their sick-room, only wanted to die soon! + +January 10. + +The hope of getting better was only a dream. I am back in bed again, +covered with plasters which burn me. If I were to offer the body that +people paid so dear for once, how much would they give, I wonder, +to-day? + +We must have done something very wicked before we were born, or else we +must be going to be very happy indeed when we are dead, for God to let +this life have all the tortures of expiation and all the sorrows of an +ordeal. + +January 12. + +I am always ill. + +The Comte de N. sent me some money yesterday. I did not keep it. I +won’t take anything from that man. It is through him that you are not +here. + +Oh, that good time at Bougival! Where is it now? + +If I come out of this room alive I will make a pilgrimage to the house +we lived in together, but I will never leave it until I am dead. + +Who knows if I shall write to you to-morrow? + +January 25. + +I have not slept for eleven nights. I am suffocated. I imagine every +moment that I am going to die. The doctor has forbidden me to touch a +pen. Julie Duprat, who is looking after me, lets me write these few +lines to you. Will you not come back before I die? Is it all over +between us forever? It seems to me as if I should get well if you came. +What would be the good of getting well? + +January 28. + +This morning I was awakened by a great noise. Julie, who slept in my +room, ran into the dining-room. I heard men’s voices, and hers +protesting against them in vain. She came back crying. + +They had come to seize my things. I told her to let what they call +justice have its way. The bailiff came into my room with his hat on. He +opened the drawers, wrote down what he saw, and did not even seem to be +aware that there was a dying woman in the bed that fortunately the +charity of the law leaves me. + +He said, indeed, before going, that I could appeal within nine days, +but he left a man behind to keep watch. My God! what is to become of +me? This scene has made me worse than I was before. Prudence wanted to +go and ask your father’s friend for money, but I would not let her. + +I received your letter this morning. I was in need of it. Will my +answer reach you in time? Will you ever see me again? This is a happy +day, and it has made me forget all the days I have passed for the last +six weeks. I seem as if I am better, in spite of the feeling of sadness +under the impression of which I replied to you. + +After all, no one is unhappy always. + +When I think that it may happen to me not to die, for you to come back, +for me to see the spring again, for you still to love me, and for us to +begin over again our last year’s life! + +Fool that I am! I can scarcely hold the pen with which I write to you +of this wild dream of my heart. + +Whatever happens, I loved you well, Armand, and I would have died long +ago if I had not had the memory of your love to help me and a sort of +vague hope of seeing you beside me again. + +February 4. + +The Comte de G. has returned. His mistress has been unfaithful to him. +He is very sad; he was very fond of her. He came to tell me all about +it. The poor fellow is in rather a bad way as to money; all the same, +he has paid my bailiff and sent away the man. + +I talked to him about you, and he promised to tell you about me. I +forgot that I had been his mistress, and he tried to make me forget it, +too. He is a good friend. + +The duke sent yesterday to inquire after me, and this morning he came +to see me. I do not know how the old man still keeps alive. He remained +with me three hours and did not say twenty words. Two big tears fell +from his eyes when he saw how pale I was. The memory of his daughter’s +death made him weep, no doubt. He will have seen her die twice. His +back was bowed, his head bent toward the ground, his lips drooping, his +eyes vacant. Age and sorrow weigh with a double weight on his worn-out +body. He did not reproach me. It looked as if he rejoiced secretly to +see the ravages that disease had made in me. He seemed proud of being +still on his feet, while I, who am still young, was broken down by +suffering. + +The bad weather has returned. No one comes to see me. Julie watches by +me as much as she can. Prudence, to whom I can no longer give as much +as I used to, begins to make excuses for not coming. + +Now that I am so near death, in spite of what the doctors tell me, for +I have several, which proves that I am getting worse, I am almost sorry +that I listened to your father; if I had known that I should only be +taking a year of your future, I could not have resisted the longing to +spend that year with you, and, at least, I should have died with a +friend to hold my hand. It is true that if we had lived together this +year, I should not have died so soon. + +God’s will be done! + +February 5. + +Oh, come, come, Armand! I suffer horribly; I am going to die, O God! I +was so miserable yesterday that I wanted to spend the evening, which +seemed as if it were going to be as long as the last, anywhere but at +home. The duke came in the morning. It seems to me as if the sight of +this old man, whom death has forgotten, makes me die faster. + +Despite the burning fever which devoured me, I made them dress me and +take me to the Vaudeville. Julie put on some rouge for me, without +which I should have looked like a corpse. I had the box where I gave +you our first rendezvous. All the time I had my eyes fixed on the stall +where you sat that day, though a sort of country fellow sat there, +laughing loudly at all the foolish things that the actors said. I was +half dead when they brought me home. I coughed and spat blood all the +night. To-day I can not speak, I can scarcely move my arm. My God! My +God! I am going to die! I have been expecting it, but I can not get +used to the thought of suffering more than I suffer now, and if— + +After this the few characters traced by Marguerite were indecipherable, +and what followed was written by Julie Duprat. + +February 18. + +MONSIEUR ARMAND: + +Since the day that Marguerite insisted on going to the theatre she has +got worse and worse. She has completely lost her voice, and now the use +of her limbs. + +What our poor friend suffers is impossible to say. I am not used to +emotions of this kind, and I am in a state of constant fright. + +How I wish you were here! She is almost always delirious; but delirious +or lucid, it is always your name that she pronounces, when she can +speak a word. + +The doctor tells me that she is not here for long. Since she got so ill +the old duke has not returned. He told the doctor that the sight was +too much for him. + +Mme. Duvernoy is not behaving well. This woman, who thought she could +get more money out of Marguerite, at whose expense she was living +almost completely, has contracted liabilities which she can not meet, +and seeing that her neighbour is no longer of use to her, she does not +even come to see her. Everybody is abandoning her. M. de G., prosecuted +for his debts, has had to return to London. On leaving, he sent us more +money; he has done all he could, but they have returned to seize the +things, and the creditors are only waiting for her to die in order to +sell everything. + +I wanted to use my last resources to put a stop to it, but the bailiff +told me it was no use, and that there are other seizures to follow. +Since she must die, it is better to let everything go than to save it +for her family, whom she has never cared to see, and who have never +cared for her. You can not conceive in the midst of what gilded misery +the poor thing is dying. Yesterday we had absolutely no money. Plate, +jewels, shawls, everything is in pawn; the rest is sold or seized. +Marguerite is still conscious of what goes on around her, and she +suffers in body, mind, and heart. Big tears trickle down her cheeks, so +thin and pale that you would never recognise the face of her whom you +loved so much, if you could see her. She has made me promise to write +to you when she can no longer write, and I write before her. She turns +her eyes toward me, but she no longer sees me; her eyes are already +veiled by the coming of death; yet she smiles, and all her thoughts, +all her soul are yours, I am sure. + +Every time the door opens her eyes brighten, and she thinks you are +going to come in; then, when she sees that it is not you, her face +resumes its sorrowful expression, a cold sweat breaks out over it, and +her cheek-bones flush. + +February 19, midnight. + +What a sad day we have had to-day, poor M. Armand! This morning +Marguerite was stifling; the doctor bled her, and her voice has +returned to her a while. The doctor begged her to see a priest. She +said “Yes,” and he went himself to fetch an abbe’ from Saint Roch. + +Meanwhile Marguerite called me up to her bed, asked me to open a +cupboard, and pointed out a cap and a long chemise covered with lace, +and said in a feeble voice: + +“I shall die as soon as I have confessed. Then you will dress me in +these things; it is the whim of a dying woman.” + +Then she embraced me with tears and added: + +“I can speak, but I am stifled when I speak; I am stifling. Air!” + +I burst into tears, opened the window, and a few minutes afterward the +priest entered. I went up to him; when he knew where he was, he seemed +afraid of being badly received. + +“Come in boldly, father,” I said to him. + +He stayed a very short time in the room, and when he came out he said +to me: + +“She lived a sinner, and she will die a Christian.” + +A few minutes afterward he returned with a choir boy bearing a +crucifix, and a sacristan who went before them ringing the bell to +announce that God was coming to the dying one. + +They went all three into the bed-room where so many strange words have +been said, but was now a sort of holy tabernacle. + +I fell on my knees. I do not know how long the impression of what I saw +will last, but I do not think that, till my turn comes, any human thing +can make so deep an impression on me. + +The priest anointed with holy oil the feet and hands and forehead of +the dying woman, repeated a short prayer, and Marguerite was ready to +set out for the heaven to which I doubt not she will go, if God has +seen the ordeal of her life and the sanctity of her death. + +Since then she has not said a word or made a movement. Twenty times I +should have thought her dead if I had not heard her breathing +painfully. + +February 20, 5 P.M. + +All is over. + +Marguerite fell into her last agony at about two o’clock. Never did a +martyr suffer such torture, to judge by the cries she uttered. Two or +three times she sat upright in the bed, as if she would hold on to her +life, which was escaping toward God. + +Two or three times also she said your name; then all was silent, and +she fell back on the bed exhausted. Silent tears flowed from her eyes, +and she was dead. + +Then I went up to her; I called her, and as she did not answer I closed +her eyes and kissed her on the forehead. + +Poor, dear Marguerite, I wish I were a holy woman that my kiss might +recommend you to God. + +Then I dressed her as she had asked me to do. I went to find a priest +at Saint Roch, I burned two candles for her, and I prayed in the church +for an hour. + +I gave the money she left to the poor. + +I do not know much about religion, but I think that God will know that +my tears were genuine, my prayers fervent, my alms-giving sincere, and +that he will have pity on her who, dying young and beautiful, has only +had me to close her eyes and put her in her shroud. + +February 22. + +The burial took place to-day. Many of Marguerite’s friends came to the +church. Some of them wept with sincerity. When the funeral started on +the way to Montmartre only two men followed it: the Comte de G., who +came from London on purpose, and the duke, who was supported by two +footmen. + +I write you these details from her house, in the midst of my tears and +under the lamp which burns sadly beside a dinner which I can not touch, +as you can imagine, but which Nanine has got for me, for I have eaten +nothing for twenty-four hours. + +My life can not retain these sad impressions for long, for my life is +not my own any more than Marguerite’s was hers; that is why I give you +all these details on the very spot where they occurred, in the fear, if +a long time elapsed between them and your return, that I might not be +able to give them to you with all their melancholy exactitude. + + + + +Chapter XXVII + + +“You have read it?” said Armand, when I had finished the manuscript. + +“I understand what you must have suffered, my friend, if all that I +read is true.” + +“My father confirmed it in a letter.” + +We talked for some time over the sad destiny which had been +accomplished, and I went home to rest a little. + +Armand, still sad, but a little relieved by the narration of his story, +soon recovered, and we went together to pay a visit to Prudence and to +Julie Duprat. + +Prudence had become bankrupt. She told us that Marguerite was the cause +of it; that during her illness she had lent her a lot of money in the +form of promissory notes, which she could not pay, Marguerite having +died without having returned her the money, and without having given +her a receipt with which she could present herself as a creditor. + +By the help of this fable, which Mme. Duvernoy repeated everywhere in +order to account for her money difficulties, she extracted a note for a +thousand francs from Armand, who did not believe it, but who pretended +to, out of respect for all those in whose company Marguerite had lived. + +Then we called on Julie Duprat, who told us the sad incident which she +had witnessed, shedding real tears at the remembrance of her friend. + +Lastly, we went to Marguerite’s grave, on which the first rays of the +April sun were bringing the first leaves into bud. + +One duty remained to Armand—to return to his father. He wished me to +accompany him. + +We arrived at C., where I saw M. Duval, such as I had imagined him from +the portrait his son had made of him, tall, dignified, kindly. + +He welcomed Armand with tears of joy, and clasped my hand +affectionately. I was not long in seeing that the paternal sentiment +was that which dominated all others in his mind. + +His daughter, named Blanche, had that transparence of eyes, that +serenity of the mouth, which indicates a soul that conceives only holy +thoughts and lips that repeat only pious words. She welcomed her +brother’s return with smiles, not knowing, in the purity of her youth, +that far away a courtesan had sacrificed her own happiness at the mere +invocation of her name. + +I remained for some time in their happy family, full of indulgent care +for one who brought them the convalescence of his heart. + +I returned to Paris, where I wrote this story just as it had been told +me. It has only one merit, which will perhaps be denied it; that is, +that it is true. + +I do not draw from this story the conclusion that all women like +Marguerite are capable of doing all that she did—far from it; but I +have discovered that one of them experienced a serious love in the +course of her life, that she suffered for it, and that she died of it. +I have told the reader all that I learned. It was my duty. + +I am not the apostle of vice, but I would gladly be the echo of noble +sorrow wherever I bear its voice in prayer. + +The story of Marguerite is an exception, I repeat; had it not been an +exception, it would not have been worth the trouble of writing it. + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CAMILLE (LA DAME AUX CAMILIAS) *** + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the +United States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part +of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm +concept and trademark. 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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online +at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you +are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the +country where you are located before using this eBook. +</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: Camille (La Dame aux Camilias)</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Alexandre Dumas, fils</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Translator: Sir Edmond Gosse</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: January, 1999 [eBook #1608]<br /> +[Most recently updated: October 28, 2022]</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: Dianne Bean and David Widger</div> +<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CAMILLE (LA DAME AUX CAMILIAS) ***</div> + +<h1>Camille<br /> +(la Dame Aux Camilias)</h1> + +<h2 class="no-break">By Alexandre Dumas, fils</h2> + +<hr /> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>CONTENTS</h2> +<table summary="" style=""> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2HCH0001">Chapter I</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2HCH0002">Chapter II</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2HCH0003">Chapter III</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2HCH0004">Chapter IV</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2HCH0005">Chapter V</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2HCH0006">Chapter VI</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2HCH0007">Chapter VII</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2HCH0008">Chapter VIII</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2HCH0009">Chapter IX</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2HCH0010">Chapter X</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2HCH0011">Chapter XI</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2HCH0012">Chapter XII</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2HCH0013">Chapter XIII</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2HCH0014">Chapter XIV</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2HCH0015">Chapter XV</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2HCH0016">Chapter XVI</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2HCH0017">Chapter XVII</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2HCH0018">Chapter XVIII</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2HCH0019">Chapter XIX</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2HCH0020">Chapter XX</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2HCH0021">Chapter XXI</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2HCH0022">Chapter XXII</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2HCH0023">Chapter XXIII</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2HCH0024">Chapter XXIV</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2HCH0025">Chapter XXV</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2HCH0026">Chapter XXVI</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2HCH0027">Chapter XXVII</a></td> +</tr> + +</table> + +<hr /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0001"></a> +Chapter I</h2> + +<p> +In my opinion, it is impossible to create characters until one has spent a long +time in studying men, as it is impossible to speak a language until it has been +seriously acquired. Not being old enough to invent, I content myself with +narrating, and I beg the reader to assure himself of the truth of a story in +which all the characters, with the exception of the heroine, are still alive. +Eye-witnesses of the greater part of the facts which I have collected are to be +found in Paris, and I might call upon them to confirm me if my testimony is not +enough. And, thanks to a particular circumstance, I alone can write these +things, for I alone am able to give the final details, without which it would +have been impossible to make the story at once interesting and complete. +</p> + +<p> +This is how these details came to my knowledge. On the 12th of March, 1847, I +saw in the Rue Lafitte a great yellow placard announcing a sale of furniture +and curiosities. The sale was to take place on account of the death of the +owner. The owner’s name was not mentioned, but the sale was to be held at 9, +Rue d’Antin, on the 16th, from 12 to 5. The placard further announced that the +rooms and furniture could be seen on the 13th and 14th. +</p> + +<p> +I have always been very fond of curiosities, and I made up my mind not to miss +the occasion, if not of buying some, at all events of seeing them. Next day I +called at 9, Rue d’Antin. +</p> + +<p> +It was early in the day, and yet there were already a number of visitors, both +men and women, and the women, though they were dressed in cashmere and velvet, +and had their carriages waiting for them at the door, gazed with astonishment +and admiration at the luxury which they saw before them. +</p> + +<p> +I was not long in discovering the reason of this astonishment and admiration, +for, having begun to examine things a little carefully, I discovered without +difficulty that I was in the house of a kept woman. Now, if there is one thing +which women in society would like to see (and there were society women there), +it is the home of those women whose carriages splash their own carriages day by +day, who, like them, side by side with them, have their boxes at the Opera and +at the Italiens, and who parade in Paris the opulent insolence of their beauty, +their diamonds, and their scandal. +</p> + +<p> +This one was dead, so the most virtuous of women could enter even her bedroom. +Death had purified the air of this abode of splendid foulness, and if more +excuse were needed, they had the excuse that they had merely come to a sale, +they knew not whose. They had read the placards, they wished to see what the +placards had announced, and to make their choice beforehand. What could be more +natural? Yet, all the same, in the midst of all these beautiful things, they +could not help looking about for some traces of this courtesan’s life, of which +they had heard, no doubt, strange enough stories. +</p> + +<p> +Unfortunately the mystery had vanished with the goddess, and, for all their +endeavours, they discovered only what was on sale since the owner’s decease, +and nothing of what had been on sale during her lifetime. For the rest, there +were plenty of things worth buying. The furniture was superb; there were +rosewood and buhl cabinets and tables, Sevres and Chinese vases, Saxe +statuettes, satin, velvet, lace; there was nothing lacking. +</p> + +<p> +I sauntered through the rooms, following the inquisitive ladies of distinction. +They entered a room with Persian hangings, and I was just going to enter in +turn, when they came out again almost immediately, smiling, and as if ashamed +of their own curiosity. I was all the more eager to see the room. It was the +dressing-room, laid out with all the articles of toilet, in which the dead +woman’s extravagance seemed to be seen at its height. +</p> + +<p> +On a large table against the wall, a table three feet in width and six in +length, glittered all the treasures of Aucoc and Odiot. It was a magnificent +collection, and there was not one of those thousand little things so necessary +to the toilet of a woman of the kind which was not in gold or silver. Such a +collection could only have been got together little by little, and the same +lover had certainly not begun and ended it. +</p> + +<p> +Not being shocked at the sight of a kept woman’s dressing-room, I amused myself +with examining every detail, and I discovered that these magnificently +chiselled objects bore different initials and different coronets. I looked at +one after another, each recalling a separate shame, and I said that God had +been merciful to the poor child, in not having left her to pay the ordinary +penalty, but rather to die in the midst of her beauty and luxury, before the +coming of old age, the courtesan’s first death. +</p> + +<p> +Is there anything sadder in the world than the old age of vice, especially in +woman? She preserves no dignity, she inspires no interest. The everlasting +repentance, not of the evil ways followed, but of the plans that have +miscarried, the money that has been spent in vain, is as saddening a thing as +one can well meet with. I knew an aged woman who had once been “gay,” whose +only link with the past was a daughter almost as beautiful as she herself had +been. This poor creature to whom her mother had never said, “You are my child,” +except to bid her nourish her old age as she herself had nourished her youth, +was called Louise, and, being obedient to her mother, she abandoned herself +without volition, without passion, without pleasure, as she would have worked +at any other profession that might have been taught her. +</p> + +<p> +The constant sight of dissipation, precocious dissipation, in addition to her +constant sickly state, had extinguished in her mind all the knowledge of good +and evil that God had perhaps given her, but that no one had ever thought of +developing. I shall always remember her, as she passed along the boulevards +almost every day at the same hour, accompanied by her mother as assiduously as +a real mother might have accompanied her daughter. I was very young then, and +ready to accept for myself the easy morality of the age. I remember, however, +the contempt and disgust which awoke in me at the sight of this scandalous +chaperoning. Her face, too, was inexpressibly virginal in its expression of +innocence and of melancholy suffering. She was like a figure of Resignation. +</p> + +<p> +One day the girl’s face was transfigured. In the midst of all the debauches +mapped out by her mother, it seemed to her as if God had left over for her one +happiness. And why indeed should God, who had made her without strength, have +left her without consolation, under the sorrowful burden of her life? One day, +then, she realized that she was to have a child, and all that remained to her +of chastity leaped for joy. The soul has strange refuges. Louise ran to tell +the good news to her mother. It is a shameful thing to speak of, but we are not +telling tales of pleasant sins; we are telling of true facts, which it would be +better, no doubt, to pass over in silence, if we did not believe that it is +needful from time to time to reveal the martyrdom of those who are condemned +without hearing, scorned without judging; shameful it is, but this mother +answered the daughter that they had already scarce enough for two, and would +certainly not have enough for three; that such children are useless, and a +lying-in is so much time lost. +</p> + +<p> +Next day a midwife, of whom all we will say is that she was a friend of the +mother, visited Louise, who remained in bed for a few days, and then got up +paler and feebler than before. +</p> + +<p> +Three months afterward a man took pity on her and tried to heal her, morally +and physically; but the last shock had been too violent, and Louise died of it. +The mother still lives; how? God knows. +</p> + +<p> +This story returned to my mind while I looked at the silver toilet things, and +a certain space of time must have elapsed during these reflections, for no one +was left in the room but myself and an attendant, who, standing near the door, +was carefully watching me to see that I did not pocket anything. +</p> + +<p> +I went up to the man, to whom I was causing so much anxiety. “Sir,” I said, +“can you tell me the name of the person who formerly lived here?” +</p> + +<p> +“Mademoiselle Marguerite Gautier.” +</p> + +<p> +I knew her by name and by sight. +</p> + +<p> +“What!” I said to the attendant; “Marguerite Gautier is dead?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“When did she die?” +</p> + +<p> +“Three weeks ago, I believe.” +</p> + +<p> +“And why are the rooms on view?” +</p> + +<p> +“The creditors believe that it will send up the prices. People can see +beforehand the effect of the things; you see that induces them to buy.” +</p> + +<p> +“She was in debt, then?” +</p> + +<p> +“To any extent, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“But the sale will cover it?” +</p> + +<p> +“And more too.” +</p> + +<p> +“Who will get what remains over?” +</p> + +<p> +“Her family.” +</p> + +<p> +“She had a family?” +</p> + +<p> +“It seems so.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thanks.” +</p> + +<p> +The attendant, reassured as to my intentions, touched his hat, and I went out. +</p> + +<p> +“Poor girl!” I said to myself as I returned home; “she must have had a sad +death, for, in her world, one has friends only when one is perfectly well.” And +in spite of myself I began to feel melancholy over the fate of Marguerite +Gautier. +</p> + +<p> +It will seem absurd to many people, but I have an unbounded sympathy for women +of this kind, and I do not think it necessary to apologize for such sympathy. +</p> + +<p> +One day, as I was going to the Prefecture for a passport, I saw in one of the +neighbouring streets a poor girl who was being marched along by two policemen. +I do not know what was the matter. All I know is that she was weeping bitterly +as she kissed an infant only a few months old, from whom her arrest was to +separate her. Since that day I have never dared to despise a woman at first +sight. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0002"></a> +Chapter II</h2> + +<p> +The sale was to take place on the 16th. A day’s interval had been left between +the visiting days and the sale, in order to give time for taking down the +hangings, curtains, etc. I had just returned from abroad. It was natural that I +had not heard of Marguerite’s death among the pieces of news which one’s +friends always tell on returning after an absence. Marguerite was a pretty +woman; but though the life of such women makes sensation enough, their death +makes very little. They are suns which set as they rose, unobserved. Their +death, when they die young, is heard of by all their lovers at the same moment, +for in Paris almost all the lovers of a well-known woman are friends. A few +recollections are exchanged, and everybody’s life goes on as if the incident +had never occurred, without so much as a tear. +</p> + +<p> +Nowadays, at twenty-five, tears have become so rare a thing that they are not +to be squandered indiscriminately. It is the most that can be expected if the +parents who pay for being wept over are wept over in return for the price they +pay. +</p> + +<p> +As for me, though my initials did not occur on any of Marguerite’s belongings, +that instinctive indulgence, that natural pity that I have already confessed, +set me thinking over her death, more perhaps than it was worth thinking over. I +remembered having often met Marguerite in the Bois, where she went regularly +every day in a little blue coupé drawn by two magnificent bays, and I had +noticed in her a distinction quite apart from other women of her kind, a +distinction which was enhanced by a really exceptional beauty. +</p> + +<p> +These unfortunate creatures whenever they go out are always accompanied by +somebody or other. As no man cares to make himself conspicuous by being seen in +their company, and as they are afraid of solitude, they take with them either +those who are not well enough off to have a carriage, or one or another of +those elegant, ancient ladies, whose elegance is a little inexplicable, and to +whom one can always go for information in regard to the women whom they +accompany. +</p> + +<p> +In Marguerite’s case it was quite different. She was always alone when she +drove in the Champs-Elysées, lying back in her carriage as much as possible, +dressed in furs in winter, and in summer wearing very simple dresses; and +though she often passed people whom she knew, her smile, when she chose to +smile, was seen only by them, and a duchess might have smiled in just such a +manner. She did not drive to and fro like the others, from the Rond-Point to +the end of the Champs-Elysées. She drove straight to the Bois. There she left +her carriage, walked for an hour, returned to her carriage, and drove rapidly +home. +</p> + +<p> +All these circumstances which I had so often witnessed came back to my memory, +and I regretted her death as one might regret the destruction of a beautiful +work of art. +</p> + +<p> +It was impossible to see more charm in beauty than in that of Marguerite. +Excessively tall and thin, she had in the fullest degree the art of repairing +this oversight of Nature by the mere arrangement of the things she wore. Her +cashmere reached to the ground, and showed on each side the large flounces of a +silk dress, and the heavy muff which she held pressed against her bosom was +surrounded by such cunningly arranged folds that the eye, however exacting, +could find no fault with the contour of the lines. Her head, a marvel, was the +object of the most coquettish care. It was small, and her mother, as Musset +would say, seemed to have made it so in order to make it with care. +</p> + +<p> +Set, in an oval of indescribable grace, two black eyes, surmounted by eyebrows +of so pure a curve that it seemed as if painted; veil these eyes with lovely +lashes, which, when drooped, cast their shadow on the rosy hue of the cheeks; +trace a delicate, straight nose, the nostrils a little open, in an ardent +aspiration toward the life of the senses; design a regular mouth, with lips +parted graciously over teeth as white as milk; colour the skin with the down of +a peach that no hand has touched, and you will have the general aspect of that +charming countenance. The hair, black as jet, waving naturally or not, was +parted on the forehead in two large folds and draped back over the head, +leaving in sight just the tip of the ears, in which there glittered two +diamonds, worth four to five thousand francs each. How it was that her ardent +life had left on Marguerite’s face the virginal, almost childlike expression, +which characterized it, is a problem which we can but state, without attempting +to solve it. +</p> + +<p> +Marguerite had a marvellous portrait of herself, by Vidal, the only man whose +pencil could do her justice. I had this portrait by me for a few days after her +death, and the likeness was so astonishing that it has helped to refresh my +memory in regard to some points which I might not otherwise have remembered. +</p> + +<p> +Some among the details of this chapter did not reach me until later, but I +write them here so as not to be obliged to return to them when the story itself +has begun. +</p> + +<p> +Marguerite was always present at every first night, and passed every evening +either at the theatre or the ball. Whenever there was a new piece she was +certain to be seen, and she invariably had three things with her on the ledge +of her ground-floor box: her opera-glass, a bag of sweets, and a bouquet of +camellias. +</p> + +<p> +For twenty-five days of the month the camellias were white, and for five they +were red; no one ever knew the reason of this change of colour, which I mention +though I can not explain it; it was noticed both by her friends and by the +<i>habitués</i> of the theatres to which she most often went. She was never +seen with any flowers but camellias. At the florist’s, Madame Barjon’s, she had +come to be called “the Lady of the Camellias,” and the name stuck to her. +</p> + +<p> +Like all those who move in a certain set in Paris, I knew that Marguerite had +lived with some of the most fashionable young men in society, that she spoke of +it openly, and that they themselves boasted of it; so that all seemed equally +pleased with one another. Nevertheless, for about three years, after a visit to +Bagnères, she was said to be living with an old duke, a foreigner, enormously +rich, who had tried to remove her as far as possible from her former life, and, +as it seemed, entirely to her own satisfaction. +</p> + +<p> +This is what I was told on the subject. In the spring of 1847 Marguerite was so +ill that the doctors ordered her to take the waters, and she went to Bagnères. +Among the invalids was the daughter of this duke; she was not only suffering +from the same complaint, but she was so like Marguerite in appearance that they +might have been taken for sisters; the young duchess was in the last stage of +consumption, and a few days after Marguerite’s arrival she died. One morning, +the duke, who had remained at Bagnères to be near the soil that had buried a +part of his heart, caught sight of Marguerite at a turn of the road. He seemed +to see the shadow of his child, and going up to her, he took her hands, +embraced and wept over her, and without even asking her who she was, begged her +to let him love in her the living image of his dead child. Marguerite, alone at +Bagnères with her maid, and not being in any fear of compromising herself, +granted the duke’s request. Some people who knew her, happening to be at +Bagnères, took upon themselves to explain Mademoiselle Gautier’s true position +to the duke. It was a blow to the old man, for the resemblance with his +daughter was ended in one direction, but it was too late. She had become a +necessity to his heart, his only pretext, his only excuse, for living. He made +no reproaches, he had indeed no right to do so, but he asked her if she felt +herself capable of changing her mode of life, offering her in return for the +sacrifice every compensation that she could desire. She consented. +</p> + +<p> +It must be said that Marguerite was just then very ill. The past seemed to her +sensitive nature as if it were one of the main causes of her illness, and a +sort of superstition led her to hope that God would restore to her both health +and beauty in return for her repentance and conversion. By the end of the +summer, the waters, sleep, the natural fatigue of long walks, had indeed more +or less restored her health. The duke accompanied her to Paris, where he +continued to see her as he had done at Bagnères. +</p> + +<p> +This liaison, whose motive and origin were quite unknown, caused a great +sensation, for the duke, already known for his immense fortune, now became +known for his prodigality. All this was set down to the debauchery of a rich +old man, and everything was believed except the truth. The father’s sentiment +for Marguerite had, in truth, so pure a cause that anything but a communion of +hearts would have seemed to him a kind of incest, and he had never spoken to +her a word which his daughter might not have heard. +</p> + +<p> +Far be it from me to make out our heroine to be anything but what she was. As +long as she remained at Bagnères, the promise she had made to the duke had not +been hard to keep, and she had kept it; but, once back in Paris, it seemed to +her, accustomed to a life of dissipation, of balls, of orgies, as if the +solitude, only interrupted by the duke’s stated visits, would kill her with +boredom, and the hot breath of her old life came back across her head and +heart. +</p> + +<p> +We must add that Marguerite had returned more beautiful than she had ever been; +she was but twenty, and her malady, sleeping but not subdued, continued to give +her those feverish desires which are almost always the result of diseases of +the chest. +</p> + +<p> +It was a great grief to the duke when his friends, always on the lookout for +some scandal on the part of the woman with whom, it seemed to them, he was +compromising himself, came to tell him, indeed to prove to him, that at times +when she was sure of not seeing him she received other visits, and that these +visits were often prolonged till the following day. On being questioned, +Marguerite admitted everything to the duke, and advised him, without +<i>arrière-pensée</i>, to concern himself with her no longer, for she felt +incapable of carrying out what she had undertaken, and she did not wish to go +on accepting benefits from a man whom she was deceiving. The duke did not +return for a week; it was all he could do, and on the eighth day he came to beg +Marguerite to let him still visit her, promising that he would take her as she +was, so long as he might see her, and swearing that he would never utter a +reproach against her, not though he were to die of it. +</p> + +<p> +This, then, was the state of things three months after Marguerite’s return; +that is to say, in November or December, 1842. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0003"></a> +Chapter III</h2> + +<p> +At one o’clock on the 16th I went to the Rue d’Antin. The voice of the +auctioneer could be heard from the outer door. The rooms were crowded with +people. There were all the celebrities of the most elegant impropriety, +furtively examined by certain great ladies who had again seized the opportunity +of the sale in order to be able to see, close at hand, women whom they might +never have another occasion of meeting, and whom they envied perhaps in secret +for their easy pleasures. The Duchess of F. elbowed Mlle. A., one of the most +melancholy examples of our modern courtesan; the Marquis de T. hesitated over a +piece of furniture the price of which was being run high by Mme. D., the most +elegant and famous adulteress of our time; the Duke of Y., who in Madrid is +supposed to be ruining himself in Paris, and in Paris to be ruining himself in +Madrid, and who, as a matter of fact, never even reaches the limit of his +income, talked with Mme. M., one of our wittiest story-tellers, who from time +to time writes what she says and signs what she writes, while at the same time +he exchanged confidential glances with Mme. de N., a fair ornament of the +Champs-Elysées, almost always dressed in pink or blue, and driving two big +black horses which Tony had sold her for 10,000 francs, and for which she had +paid, after her fashion; finally, Mlle. R., who makes by her mere talent twice +what the women of the world make by their dot and three times as much as the +others make by their amours, had come, in spite of the cold, to make some +purchases, and was not the least looked at among the crowd. +</p> + +<p> +We might cite the initials of many more of those who found themselves, not +without some mutual surprise, side by side in one room. But we fear to weary +the reader. We will only add that everyone was in the highest spirits, and that +many of those present had known the dead woman, and seemed quite oblivious of +the fact. There was a sound of loud laughter; the auctioneers shouted at the +top of their voices; the dealers who had filled the benches in front of the +auction table tried in vain to obtain silence, in order to transact their +business in peace. Never was there a noisier or a more varied gathering. +</p> + +<p> +I slipped quietly into the midst of this tumult, sad to think of when one +remembered that the poor creature whose goods were being sold to pay her debts +had died in the next room. Having come rather to examine than to buy, I watched +the faces of the auctioneers, noticing how they beamed with delight whenever +anything reached a price beyond their expectations. Honest creatures, who had +speculated upon this woman’s prostitution, who had gained their hundred per +cent out of her, who had plagued with their writs the last moments of her life, +and who came now after her death to gather in at once the fruits of their +dishonourable calculations and the interest on their shameful credit, How wise +were the ancients in having only one God for traders and robbers! +</p> + +<p> +Dresses, cashmeres, jewels, were sold with incredible rapidity. There was +nothing that I cared for, and I still waited. All at once I heard: “A volume, +beautifully bound, gilt-edged, entitled Manon Lescaut. There is something +written on the first page. Ten francs.” +</p> + +<p> +“Twelve,” said a voice after a longish silence. +</p> + +<p> +“Fifteen,” I said. +</p> + +<p> +Why? I did not know. Doubtless for the something written. +</p> + +<p> +“Fifteen,” repeated the auctioneer. +</p> + +<p> +“Thirty,” said the first bidder in a tone which seemed to defy further +competition. +</p> + +<p> +It had now become a struggle. “Thirty-five,” I cried in the same tone. +</p> + +<p> +“Forty.” +</p> + +<p> +“Fifty.” +</p> + +<p> +“Sixty.” +</p> + +<p> +“A hundred.” +</p> + +<p> +If I had wished to make a sensation I should certainly have succeeded, for a +profound silence had ensued, and people gazed at me as if to see what sort of a +person it was, who seemed to be so determined to possess the volume. +</p> + +<p> +The accent which I had given to my last word seemed to convince my adversary; +he preferred to abandon a conflict which could only have resulted in making me +pay ten times its price for the volume, and, bowing, he said very gracefully, +though indeed a little late: +</p> + +<p> +“I give way, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +Nothing more being offered, the book was assigned to me. +</p> + +<p> +As I was afraid of some new fit of obstinacy, which my amour propre might have +sustained somewhat better than my purse, I wrote down my name, had the book put +on one side, and went out. I must have given considerable food for reflection +to the witnesses of this scene, who would no doubt ask themselves what my +purpose could have been in paying a hundred francs for a book which I could +have had anywhere for ten, or, at the outside, fifteen. +</p> + +<p> +An hour after, I sent for my purchase. On the first page was written in ink, in +an elegant hand, an inscription on the part of the giver. It consisted of these +words: +</p> + +<p> +Manon to Marguerite. +</p> + +<p> +Humility. +</p> + +<p> +It was signed Armand Duval. +</p> + +<p> +What was the meaning of the word Humility? Was Manon to recognise in +Marguerite, in the opinion of M. Armand Duval, her superior in vice or in +affection? The second interpretation seemed the more probable, for the first +would have been an impertinent piece of plain speaking which Marguerite, +whatever her opinion of herself, would never have accepted. +</p> + +<p> +I went out again, and thought no more of the book until at night, when I was +going to bed. +</p> + +<p> +Manon Lescaut is a touching story. I know every detail of it, and yet whenever +I come across the volume the same sympathy always draws me to it; I open it, +and for the hundredth time I live over again with the heroine of the Abbé +Prévost. Now this heroine is so true to life that I feel as if I had known her; +and thus the sort of comparison between her and Marguerite gave me an unusual +inclination to read it, and my indulgence passed into pity, almost into a kind +of love for the poor girl to whom I owed the volume. Manon died in the desert, +it is true, but in the arms of the man who loved her with the whole energy of +his soul; who, when she was dead, dug a grave for her, and watered it with his +tears, and buried his heart in it; while Marguerite, a sinner like Manon, and +perhaps converted like her, had died in a sumptuous bed (it seemed, after what +I had seen, the bed of her past), but in that desert of the heart, a more +barren, a vaster, a more pitiless desert than that in which Manon had found her +last resting-place. +</p> + +<p> +Marguerite, in fact, as I had found from some friends who knew of the last +circumstances of her life, had not a single real friend by her bedside during +the two months of her long and painful agony. +</p> + +<p> +Then from Manon and Marguerite my mind wandered to those whom I knew, and whom +I saw singing along the way which led to just such another death. Poor souls! +if it is not right to love them, is it not well to pity them? You pity the +blind man who has never seen the daylight, the deaf who has never heard the +harmonies of nature, the dumb who has never found a voice for his soul, and, +under a false cloak of shame, you will not pity this blindness of heart, this +deafness of soul, this dumbness of conscience, which sets the poor afflicted +creature beside herself and makes her, in spite of herself, incapable of seeing +what is good, of hearing the Lord, and of speaking the pure language of love +and faith. +</p> + +<p> +Hugo has written Marion Delorme, Musset has written Bernerette, Alexandre Dumas +has written Fernande, the thinkers and poets of all time have brought to the +courtesan the offering of their pity, and at times a great man has +rehabilitated them with his love and even with his name. If I insist on this +point, it is because many among those who have begun to read me will be ready +to throw down a book in which they will fear to find an apology for vice and +prostitution; and the author’s age will do something, no doubt, to increase +this fear. Let me undeceive those who think thus, and let them go on reading, +if nothing but such a fear hinders them. +</p> + +<p> +I am quite simply convinced of a certain principle, which is: For the woman +whose education has not taught her what is right, God almost always opens two +ways which lead thither the ways of sorrow and of love. They are hard; those +who walk in them walk with bleeding feet and torn hands, but they also leave +the trappings of vice upon the thorns of the wayside, and reach the journey’s +end in a nakedness which is not shameful in the sight of the Lord. +</p> + +<p> +Those who meet these bold travellers ought to succour them, and to tell all +that they have met them, for in so doing they point out the way. It is not a +question of setting at the outset of life two sign-posts, one bearing the +inscription “The Right Way,” the other the inscription “The Wrong Way,” and of +saying to those who come there, “Choose.” One must needs, like Christ, point +out the ways which lead from the second road to the first, to those who have +been easily led astray; and it is needful that the beginning of these ways +should not be too painful nor appear too impenetrable. +</p> + +<p> +Here is Christianity with its marvellous parable of the Prodigal Son to teach +us indulgence and pardon. Jesus was full of love for souls wounded by the +passions of men; he loved to bind up their wounds and to find in those very +wounds the balm which should heal them. Thus he said to the Magdalen: “Much +shall be forgiven thee because thou hast loved much,” a sublimity of pardon +which can only have called forth a sublime faith. +</p> + +<p> +Why do we make ourselves more strict than Christ? Why, holding obstinately to +the opinions of the world, which hardens itself in order that it may be thought +strong, do we reject, as it rejects, souls bleeding at wounds by which, like a +sick man’s bad blood, the evil of their past may be healed, if only a friendly +hand is stretched out to lave them and set them in the convalescence of the +heart? +</p> + +<p> +It is to my own generation that I speak, to those for whom the theories of M. +de Voltaire happily exist no longer, to those who, like myself, realize that +humanity, for these last fifteen years, has been in one of its most audacious +moments of expansion. The science of good and evil is acquired forever; faith +is refashioned, respect for sacred things has returned to us, and if the world +has not all at once become good, it has at least become better. The efforts of +every intelligent man tend in the same direction, and every strong will is +harnessed to the same principle: Be good, be young, be true! Evil is nothing +but vanity, let us have the pride of good, and above all let us never despair. +Do not let us despise the woman who is neither mother, sister, maid, nor wife. +Do not let us limit esteem to the family nor indulgence to egoism. Since “there +is more joy in heaven over one sinner that repenteth than over ninety and nine +just persons that need no repentance,” let us give joy to heaven. Heaven will +render it back to us with usury. Let us leave on our way the alms of pardon for +those whom earthly desires have driven astray, whom a divine hope shall perhaps +save, and, as old women say when they offer you some homely remedy of their +own, if it does no good it will do no harm. +</p> + +<p> +Doubtless it must seem a bold thing to attempt to deduce these grand results +out of the meagre subject that I deal with; but I am one of those who believe +that all is in little. The child is small, and he includes the man; the brain +is narrow, and it harbours thought; the eye is but a point, and it covers +leagues. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0004"></a> +Chapter IV</h2> + +<p> +Two days after, the sale was ended. It had produced 150,000 francs. The +creditors divided among them two thirds, and the family, a sister and a +grand-nephew, received the remainder. +</p> + +<p> +The sister opened her eyes very wide when the lawyer wrote to her that she had +inherited 50,000 francs. The girl had not seen her sister for six or seven +years, and did not know what had become of her from the moment when she had +disappeared from home. She came up to Paris in haste, and great was the +astonishment of those who had known Marguerite when they saw as her only heir a +fine, fat country girl, who until then had never left her village. She had made +the fortune at a single stroke, without even knowing the source of that +fortune. She went back, I heard afterward, to her countryside, greatly saddened +by her sister’s death, but with a sadness which was somewhat lightened by the +investment at four and a half per cent which she had been able to make. +</p> + +<p> +All these circumstances, often repeated in Paris, the mother city of scandal, +had begun to be forgotten, and I was even little by little forgetting the part +I had taken in them, when a new incident brought to my knowledge the whole of +Marguerite’s life, and acquainted me with such pathetic details that I was +taken with the idea of writing down the story which I now write. +</p> + +<p> +The rooms, now emptied of all their furniture, had been to let for three or +four days when one morning there was a ring at my door. +</p> + +<p> +My servant, or, rather, my porter, who acted as my servant, went to the door +and brought me a card, saying that the person who had given it to him wished to +see me. +</p> + +<p> +I glanced at the card and there read these two words: Armand Duval. +</p> + +<p> +I tried to think where I had seen the name, and remembered the first leaf of +the copy of Manon Lescaut. What could the person who had given the book to +Marguerite want of me? I gave orders to ask him in at once. +</p> + +<p> +I saw a young man, blond, tall, pale, dressed in a travelling suit which looked +as if he had not changed it for some days, and had not even taken the trouble +to brush it on arriving at Paris, for it was covered with dust. +</p> + +<p> +M. Duval was deeply agitated; he made no attempt to conceal his agitation, and +it was with tears in his eyes and a trembling voice that he said to me: +</p> + +<p> +“Sir, I beg you to excuse my visit and my costume; but young people are not +very ceremonious with one another, and I was so anxious to see you to-day that +I have not even gone to the hotel to which I have sent my luggage, and have +rushed straight here, fearing that, after all, I might miss you, early as it +is.” +</p> + +<p> +I begged M. Duval to sit down by the fire; he did so, and, taking his +handkerchief from his pocket, hid his face in it for a moment. +</p> + +<p> +“You must be at a loss to understand,” he went on, sighing sadly, “for what +purpose an unknown visitor, at such an hour, in such a costume, and in tears, +can have come to see you. I have simply come to ask of you a great service.” +</p> + +<p> +“Speak on, sir, I am entirely at your disposal.” +</p> + +<p> +“You were present at the sale of Marguerite Gautier?” +</p> + +<p> +At this word the emotion, which he had got the better of for an instant, was +too much for him, and he was obliged to cover his eyes with his hand. +</p> + +<p> +“I must seem to you very absurd,” he added, “but pardon me, and believe that I +shall never forget the patience with which you have listened to me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Sir,” I answered, “if the service which I can render you is able to lessen +your trouble a little, tell me at once what I can do for you, and you will find +me only too happy to oblige you.” +</p> + +<p> +M. Duval’s sorrow was sympathetic, and in spite of myself I felt the desire of +doing him a kindness. Thereupon he said to me: +</p> + +<p> +“You bought something at Marguerite’s sale?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, a book.” +</p> + +<p> +“Manon Lescaut?” +</p> + +<p> +“Precisely.” +</p> + +<p> +“Have you the book still?” +</p> + +<p> +“It is in my bedroom.” +</p> + +<p> +On hearing this, Armand Duval seemed to be relieved of a great weight, and +thanked me as if I had already rendered him a service merely by keeping the +book. +</p> + +<p> +I got up and went into my room to fetch the book, which I handed to him. +</p> + +<p> +“That is it indeed,” he said, looking at the inscription on the first page and +turning over the leaves; “that is it in deed,” and two big tears fell on the +pages. “Well, sir,” said he, lifting his head, and no longer trying to hide +from me that he had wept and was even then on the point of weeping, “do you +value this book very greatly?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because I have come to ask you to give it up to me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Pardon my curiosity, but was it you, then, who gave it to Marguerite Gautier?” +</p> + +<p> +“It was!” +</p> + +<p> +“The book is yours, sir; take it back. I am happy to be able to hand it over to +you.” +</p> + +<p> +“But,” said M. Duval with some embarrassment, “the least I can do is to give +you in return the price which you paid for it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Allow me to offer it to you. The price of a single volume in a sale of that +kind is a mere nothing, and I do not remember how much I gave for it.” +</p> + +<p> +“You gave one hundred francs.” +</p> + +<p> +“True,” I said, embarrassed in my turn, “how do you know?” +</p> + +<p> +“It is quite simple. I hoped to reach Paris in time for the sale, and I only +managed to get here this morning. I was absolutely resolved to have something +which had belonged to her, and I hastened to the auctioneer and asked him to +allow me to see the list of the things sold and of the buyers’ names. I saw +that this volume had been bought by you, and I decided to ask you to give it up +to me, though the price you had set upon it made me fear that you might +yourself have some souvenir in connection with the possession of the book.” +</p> + +<p> +As he spoke, it was evident that he was afraid I had known Marguerite as he had +known her. I hastened to reassure him. +</p> + +<p> +“I knew Mlle. Gautier only by sight,” I said; “her death made on me the +impression that the death of a pretty woman must always make on a young man who +had liked seeing her. I wished to buy something at her sale, and I bid higher +and higher for this book out of mere obstinacy and to annoy someone else, who +was equally keen to obtain it, and who seemed to defy me to the contest. I +repeat, then, that the book is yours, and once more I beg you to accept it; do +not treat me as if I were an auctioneer, and let it be the pledge between us of +a longer and more intimate acquaintance.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good,” said Armand, holding out his hand and pressing mine; “I accept, and I +shall be grateful to you all my life.” +</p> + +<p> +I was very anxious to question Armand on the subject of Marguerite, for the +inscription in the book, the young man’s hurried journey, his desire to possess +the volume, piqued my curiosity; but I feared if I questioned my visitor that I +might seem to have refused his money only in order to have the right to pry +into his affairs. +</p> + +<p> +It was as if he guessed my desire, for he said to me: +</p> + +<p> +“Have you read the volume?” +</p> + +<p> +“All through.” +</p> + +<p> +“What did you think of the two lines that I wrote in it?” +</p> + +<p> +“I realized at once that the woman to whom you had given the volume must have +been quite outside the ordinary category, for I could not take those two lines +as a mere empty compliment.” +</p> + +<p> +“You were right. That woman was an angel. See, read this letter.” And he handed +to me a paper which seemed to have been many times reread. +</p> + +<p> +I opened it, and this is what it contained: +</p> + +<p> +“MY DEAR ARMAND:—I have received your letter. You are still good, and I +thank God for it. Yes, my friend, I am ill, and with one of those diseases that +never relent; but the interest you still take in me makes my suffering less. I +shall not live long enough, I expect, to have the happiness of pressing the +hand which has written the kind letter I have just received; the words of it +would be enough to cure me, if anything could cure me. I shall not see you, for +I am quite near death, and you are hundreds of leagues away. My poor friend! +your Marguerite of old times is sadly changed. It is better perhaps for you not +to see her again than to see her as she is. You ask if I forgive you; oh, with +all my heart, friend, for the way you hurt me was only a way of proving the +love you had for me. I have been in bed for a month, and I think so much of +your esteem that I write every day the journal of my life, from the moment we +left each other to the moment when I shall be able to write no longer. If the +interest you take in me is real, Armand, when you come back go and see Julie +Duprat. She will give you my journal. You will find in it the reason and the +excuse for what has passed between us. Julie is very good to me; we often talk +of you together. She was there when your letter came, and we both cried over +it. +</p> + +<p> +“If you had not sent me any word, I had told her to give you those papers when +you returned to France. Do not thank me for it. This daily looking back on the +only happy moments of my life does me an immense amount of good, and if you +will find in reading it some excuse for the past. I, for my part, find a +continual solace in it. I should like to leave you something which would always +remind you of me, but everything here has been seized, and I have nothing of my +own. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you understand, my friend? I am dying, and from my bed I can hear a man +walking to and fro in the drawing-room; my creditors have put him there to see +that nothing is taken away, and that nothing remains to me in case I do not +die. I hope they will wait till the end before they begin to sell. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, men have no pity! or rather, I am wrong, it is God who is just and +inflexible! +</p> + +<p> +“And now, dear love, you will come to my sale, and you will buy something, for +if I put aside the least thing for you, they might accuse you of embezzling +seized goods. +</p> + +<p> +“It is a sad life that I am leaving! +</p> + +<p> +“It would be good of God to let me see you again before I die. According to all +probability, good-bye, my friend. Pardon me if I do not write a longer letter, +but those who say they are going to cure me wear me out with bloodletting, and +my hand refuses to write any more. +</p> + +<p> +“MARGUERITE GAUTIER.” +</p> + +<p> +The last two words were scarcely legible. I returned the letter to Armand, who +had, no doubt, read it over again in his mind while I was reading it on paper, +for he said to me as he took it: +</p> + +<p> +“Who would think that a kept woman could have written that?” And, overcome by +recollections, he gazed for some time at the writing of the letter, which he +finally carried to his lips. +</p> + +<p> +“And when I think,” he went on, “that she died before I could see her, and that +I shall never see her again, when I think that she did for me what no sister +would ever have done, I can not forgive myself for having left her to die like +that. Dead! Dead and thinking of me, writing and repeating my name, poor dear +Marguerite!” +</p> + +<p> +And Armand, giving free outlet to his thoughts and his tears, held out his hand +to me, and continued: +</p> + +<p> +“People would think it childish enough if they saw me lament like this over a +dead woman such as she; no one will ever know what I made that woman suffer, +how cruel I have been to her! how good, how resigned she was! I thought it was +I who had to forgive her, and to-day I feel unworthy of the forgiveness which +she grants me. Oh, I would give ten years of my life to weep at her feet for an +hour!” +</p> + +<p> +It is always difficult to console a sorrow that is unknown to one, and +nevertheless I felt so lively a sympathy for the young man, he made me so +frankly the confidant of his distress, that I believed a word from me would not +be indifferent to him, and I said: +</p> + +<p> +“Have you no parents, no friends? Hope. Go and see them; they will console you. +As for me, I can only pity you.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is true,” he said, rising and walking to and fro in the room, “I am +wearying you. Pardon me, I did not reflect how little my sorrow must mean to +you, and that I am intruding upon you something which can not and ought not to +interest you at all.” +</p> + +<p> +“You mistake my meaning. I am entirely at your service; only I regret my +inability to calm your distress. If my society and that of my friends can give +you any distraction, if, in short, you have need of me, no matter in what way, +I hope you will realize how much pleasure it will give me to do anything for +you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Pardon, pardon,” said he; “sorrow sharpens the sensations. Let me stay here +for a few minutes longer, long enough to dry my eyes, so that the idlers in the +street may not look upon it as a curiosity to see a big fellow like me crying. +You have made me very happy by giving me this book. I do not know how I can +ever express my gratitude to you.” +</p> + +<p> +“By giving me a little of your friendship,” said I, “and by telling me the +cause of your suffering. One feels better while telling what one suffers.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are right. But to-day I have too much need of tears; I can not very well +talk. One day I will tell you the whole story, and you will see if I have +reason for regretting the poor girl. And now,” he added, rubbing his eyes for +the last time, and looking at himself in the glass, “say that you do not think +me too absolutely idiotic, and allow me to come back and see you another time.” +</p> + +<p> +He cast on me a gentle and amiable look. I was near embracing him. As for him, +his eyes again began to fill with tears; he saw that I perceived it and turned +away his head. +</p> + +<p> +“Come,” I said, “courage.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good-bye,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +And, making a desperate effort to restrain his tears, he rushed rather than +went out of the room. +</p> + +<p> +I lifted the curtain of my window, and saw him get into the cabriolet which +awaited him at the door; but scarcely was he seated before he burst into tears +and hid his face in his pocket-handkerchief. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0005"></a> +Chapter V</h2> + +<p> +A good while elapsed before I heard anything more of Armand, but, on the other +hand, I was constantly hearing of Marguerite. +</p> + +<p> +I do not know if you have noticed, if once the name of anybody who might in the +natural course of things have always remained unknown, or at all events +indifferent to you, should be mentioned before you, immediately details begin +to group themselves about the name, and you find all your friends talking to +you about something which they have never mentioned to you before. You discover +that this person was almost touching you and has passed close to you many times +in your life without your noticing it; you find coincidences in the events +which are told you, a real affinity with certain events of your own existence. +I was not absolutely at that point in regard to Marguerite, for I had seen and +met her, I knew her by sight and by reputation; nevertheless, since the moment +of the sale, her name came to my ears so frequently, and, owing to the +circumstance that I have mentioned in the last chapter, that name was +associated with so profound a sorrow, that my curiosity increased in proportion +with my astonishment. The consequence was that whenever I met friends to whom I +had never breathed the name of Marguerite, I always began by saying: +</p> + +<p> +“Did you ever know a certain Marguerite Gautier?” +</p> + +<p> +“The Lady of the Camellias?” +</p> + +<p> +“Exactly.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, very well!” +</p> + +<p> +The word was sometimes accompanied by a smile which could leave no doubt as to +its meaning. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, what sort of a girl was she?” +</p> + +<p> +“A good sort of girl.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is that all?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, yes; more intelligence and perhaps a little more heart than most.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you know anything particular about her?” +</p> + +<p> +“She ruined Baron de G.” +</p> + +<p> +“No more than that?” +</p> + +<p> +“She was the mistress of the old Duke of...” +</p> + +<p> +“Was she really his mistress?” +</p> + +<p> +“So they say; at all events, he gave her a great deal of money.” +</p> + +<p> +The general outlines were always the same. Nevertheless I was anxious to find +out something about the relations between Marguerite and Armand. Meeting one +day a man who was constantly about with known women, I asked him: “Did you know +Marguerite Gautier?” +</p> + +<p> +The answer was the usual: “Very well.” +</p> + +<p> +“What sort of a girl was she?” +</p> + +<p> +“A fine, good girl. I was very sorry to hear of her death.” +</p> + +<p> +“Had she not a lover called Armand Duval?” +</p> + +<p> +“Tall and blond?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. +</p> + +<p> +“It is quite true.” +</p> + +<p> +“Who was this Armand?” +</p> + +<p> +“A fellow who squandered on her the little money he had, and then had to leave +her. They say he was quite wild about it.” +</p> + +<p> +“And she?” +</p> + +<p> +“They always say she was very much in love with him, but as girls like that are +in love. It is no good to ask them for what they can not give.” +</p> + +<p> +“What has become of Armand?” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know. We knew him very little. He was with Marguerite for five or six +months in the country. When she came back, he had gone.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you have never seen him since?” +</p> + +<p> +“Never.” +</p> + +<p> +I, too, had not seen Armand again. I was beginning to ask myself if, when he +had come to see me, the recent news of Marguerite’s death had not exaggerated +his former love, and consequently his sorrow, and I said to myself that perhaps +he had already forgotten the dead woman, and along with her his promise to come +and see me again. This supposition would have seemed probable enough in most +instances, but in Armand’s despair there had been an accent of real sincerity, +and, going from one extreme to another, I imagined that distress had brought on +an illness, and that my not seeing him was explained by the fact that he was +ill, perhaps dead. +</p> + +<p> +I was interested in the young man in spite of myself. Perhaps there was some +selfishness in this interest; perhaps I guessed at some pathetic love story +under all this sorrow; perhaps my desire to know all about it had much to do +with the anxiety which Armand’s silence caused me. Since M. Duval did not +return to see me, I decided to go and see him. A pretext was not difficult to +find; unluckily I did not know his address, and no one among those whom I +questioned could give it to me. +</p> + +<p> +I went to the Rue d’Antin; perhaps Marguerite’s porter would know where Armand +lived. There was a new porter; he knew as little about it as I. I then asked in +what cemetery Mlle. Gautier had been buried. It was the Montmartre Cemetery. It +was now the month of April; the weather was fine, the graves were not likely to +look as sad and desolate as they do in winter; in short, it was warm enough for +the living to think a little of the dead, and pay them a visit. I went to the +cemetery, saying to myself: “One glance at Marguerite’s grave, and I shall know +if Armand’s sorrow still exists, and perhaps I may find out what has become of +him.” +</p> + +<p> +I entered the keeper’s lodge, and asked him if on the 22nd of February a woman +named Marguerite Gautier had not been buried in the Montmartre Cemetery. He +turned over the pages of a big book in which those who enter this last +resting-place are inscribed and numbered, and replied that on the 22nd of +February, at 12 o’clock, a woman of that name had been buried. +</p> + +<p> +I asked him to show me the grave, for there is no finding one’s way without a +guide in this city of the dead, which has its streets like a city of the +living. The keeper called over a gardener, to whom he gave the necessary +instructions; the gardener interrupted him, saying: “I know, I know.—It +is not difficult to find that grave,” he added, turning to me. +</p> + +<p> +“Why?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because it has very different flowers from the others.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is it you who look after it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir; and I wish all relations took as much trouble about the dead as the +young man who gave me my orders.” +</p> + +<p> +After several turnings, the gardener stopped and said to me: “Here we are.” +</p> + +<p> +I saw before me a square of flowers which one would never have taken for a +grave, if it had not been for a white marble slab bearing a name. +</p> + +<p> +The marble slab stood upright, an iron railing marked the limits of the ground +purchased, and the earth was covered with white camellias. “What do you say to +that?” said the gardener. +</p> + +<p> +“It is beautiful.” +</p> + +<p> +“And whenever a camellia fades, I have orders to replace it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Who gave you the order?” +</p> + +<p> +“A young gentleman, who cried the first time he came here; an old pal of hers, +I suppose, for they say she was a gay one. Very pretty, too, I believe. Did you +know her, sir?” “Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“Like the other?” said the gardener, with a knowing smile. “No, I never spoke +to her.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you come here, too! It is very good of you, for those that come to see the +poor girl don’t exactly cumber the cemetery.” +</p> + +<p> +“Doesn’t anybody come?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nobody, except that young gentleman who came once.” +</p> + +<p> +“Only once?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“He never came back again?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, but he will when he gets home.” +</p> + +<p> +“He is away somewhere?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you know where he is?” +</p> + +<p> +“I believe he has gone to see Mlle. Gautier’s sister.” +</p> + +<p> +“What does he want there?” +</p> + +<p> +“He has gone to get her authority to have the corpse dug up again and put +somewhere else.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why won’t he let it remain here?” +</p> + +<p> +“You know, sir, people have queer notions about dead folk. We see something of +that every day. The ground here was only bought for five years, and this young +gentleman wants a perpetual lease and a bigger plot of ground; it will be +better in the new part.” +</p> + +<p> +“What do you call the new part?” +</p> + +<p> +“The new plots of ground that are for sale, there to the left. If the cemetery +had always been kept like it is now, there wouldn’t be the like of it in the +world; but there is still plenty to do before it will be quite all it should +be. And then people are so queer!” +</p> + +<p> +“What do you mean?” +</p> + +<p> +“I mean that there are people who carry their pride even here. Now, this +Demoiselle Gautier, it appears she lived a bit free, if you’ll excuse my saying +so. Poor lady, she’s dead now; there’s no more of her left than of them that no +one has a word to say against. We water them every day. Well, when the +relatives of the folk that are buried beside her found out the sort of person +she was, what do you think they said? That they would try to keep her out from +here, and that there ought to be a piece of ground somewhere apart for these +sort of women, like there is for the poor. Did you ever hear of such a thing? I +gave it to them straight, I did: well-to-do folk who come to see their dead +four times a year, and bring their flowers themselves, and what flowers! and +look twice at the keep of them they pretend to cry over, and write on their +tombstones all about the tears they haven’t shed, and come and make +difficulties about their neighbours. You may believe me or not, sir, I never +knew the young lady; I don’t know what she did. Well, I’m quite in love with +the poor thing; I look after her well, and I let her have her camellias at an +honest price. She is the dead body that I like the best. You see, sir, we are +obliged to love the dead, for we are kept so busy, we have hardly time to love +anything else.” +</p> + +<p> +I looked at the man, and some of my readers will understand, without my needing +to explain it to them, the emotion which I felt on hearing him. He observed it, +no doubt, for he went on: +</p> + +<p> +“They tell me there were people who ruined themselves over that girl, and +lovers that worshipped her; well, when I think there isn’t one of them that so +much as buys her a flower now, that’s queer, sir, and sad. And, after all, she +isn’t so badly off, for she has her grave to herself, and if there is only one +who remembers her, he makes up for the others. But we have other poor girls +here, just like her and just her age, and they are just thrown into a pauper’s +grave, and it breaks my heart when I hear their poor bodies drop into the +earth. And not a soul thinks about them any more, once they are dead! ’Tisn’t a +merry trade, ours, especially when we have a little heart left. What do you +expect? I can’t help it. I have a fine, strapping girl myself; she’s just +twenty, and when a girl of that age comes here I think of her, and I don’t care +if it’s a great lady or a vagabond, I can’t help feeling it a bit. But I am +taking up your time, sir, with my tales, and it wasn’t to hear them you came +here. I was told to show you Mlle. Gautier’s grave; here you have it. Is there +anything else I can do for you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you know M. Armand Duval’s address?” I asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes; he lives at Rue de ——; at least, that’s where I always go to +get my money for the flowers you see there.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thanks, my good man.” +</p> + +<p> +I gave one more look at the grave covered with flowers, half longing to +penetrate the depths of the earth and see what the earth had made of the fair +creature that had been cast to it; then I walked sadly away. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you want to see M. Duval, sir?” said the gardener, who was walking beside +me. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I am pretty sure he is not back yet, or he would have been here +already.” +</p> + +<p> +“You don’t think he has forgotten Marguerite?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am not only sure he hasn’t, but I would wager that he wants to change her +grave simply in order to have one more look at her.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why do you think that?” +</p> + +<p> +“The first word he said to me when he came to the cemetery was: ‘How can I see +her again?’ That can’t be done unless there is a change of grave, and I told +him all about the formalities that have to be attended to in getting it done; +for, you see, if you want to move a body from one grave to another you must +have it identified, and only the family can give leave for it under the +direction of a police inspector. That is why M. Duval has gone to see Mlle. +Gautier’s sister, and you may be sure his first visit will be for me.” +</p> + +<p> +We had come to the cemetery gate. I thanked the gardener again, putting a few +coins into his hand, and made my way to the address he had given me. +</p> + +<p> +Armand had not yet returned. I left word for him, begging him to come and see +me as soon as he arrived, or to send me word where I could find him. +</p> + +<p> +Next day, in the morning, I received a letter from Duval, telling me of his +return, and asking me to call on him, as he was so worn out with fatigue that +it was impossible for him to go out. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0006"></a> +Chapter VI</h2> + +<p> +I found Armand in bed. On seeing me he held out a burning hand. “You are +feverish,” I said to him. “It is nothing, the fatigue of a rapid journey; that +is all.” “You have been to see Marguerite’s sister?” “Yes; who told you?” “I +knew it. Did you get what you wanted?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes; but who told you of my journey, and of my reason for taking it?” +</p> + +<p> +“The gardener of the cemetery.” +</p> + +<p> +“You have seen the tomb?” +</p> + +<p> +I scarcely dared reply, for the tone in which the words were spoken proved to +me that the speaker was still possessed by the emotion which I had witnessed +before, and that every time his thoughts or speech travelled back to that +mournful subject emotion would still, for a long time to come, prove stronger +than his will. I contented myself with a nod of the head. +</p> + +<p> +“He has looked after it well?” continued Armand. Two big tears rolled down the +cheeks of the sick man, and he turned away his head to hide them from me. I +pretended not to see them, and tried to change the conversation. “You have been +away three weeks,” I said. +</p> + +<p> +Armand passed his hand across his eyes and replied, “Exactly three weeks.” +</p> + +<p> +“You had a long journey.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I was not travelling all the time. I was ill for a fortnight or I should +have returned long ago; but I had scarcely got there when I took this fever, +and I was obliged to keep my room.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you started to come back before you were really well?” +</p> + +<p> +“If I had remained in the place for another week, I should have died there.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, now you are back again, you must take care of yourself; your friends +will come and look after you; myself, first of all, if you will allow me.” +</p> + +<p> +“I shall get up in a couple of hours.” +</p> + +<p> +“It would be very unwise.” +</p> + +<p> +“I must.” +</p> + +<p> +“What have you to do in such a great hurry?” +</p> + +<p> +“I must go to the inspector of police.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why do you not get one of your friends to see after the matter? It is likely +to make you worse than you are now.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is my only chance of getting better. I must see her. Ever since I heard of +her death, especially since I saw her grave, I have not been able to sleep. I +can not realize that this woman, so young and so beautiful when I left her, is +really dead. I must convince myself of it. I must see what God has done with a +being that I have loved so much, and perhaps the horror of the sight will cure +me of my despair. Will you accompany me, if it won’t be troubling you too +much?” +</p> + +<p> +“What did her sister say about it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing. She seemed greatly surprised that a stranger wanted to buy a plot of +ground and give Marguerite a new grave, and she immediately signed the +authorization that I asked her for.” +</p> + +<p> +“Believe me, it would be better to wait until you are quite well.” +</p> + +<p> +“Have no fear; I shall be quite composed. Besides, I should simply go out of my +mind if I were not to carry out a resolution which I have set myself to carry +out. I swear to you that I shall never be myself again until I have seen +Marguerite. It is perhaps the thirst of the fever, a sleepless night’s dream, a +moment’s delirium; but though I were to become a Trappist, like M. de Rance’, +after having seen, I will see.” +</p> + +<p> +“I understand,” I said to Armand, “and I am at your service. Have you seen +Julie Duprat?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I saw her the day I returned, for the first time.” +</p> + +<p> +“Did she give you the papers that Marguerite had left for you?” +</p> + +<p> +Armand drew a roll of papers from under his pillow, and immediately put them +back. +</p> + +<p> +“I know all that is in these papers by heart,” he said. “For three weeks I have +read them ten times over every day. You shall read them, too, but later on, +when I am calmer, and can make you understand all the love and tenderness +hidden away in this confession. For the moment I want you to do me a service.” +</p> + +<p> +“What is it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Your cab is below?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, will you take my passport and ask if there are any letters for me at the +poste restante? My father and sister must have written to me at Paris, and I +went away in such haste that I did not go and see before leaving. When you come +back we will go together to the inspector of police, and arrange for +to-morrow’s ceremony.” +</p> + +<p> +Armand handed me his passport, and I went to Rue Jean Jacques Rousseau. There +were two letters addressed to Duval. I took them and returned. When I +re-entered the room Armand was dressed and ready to go out. +</p> + +<p> +“Thanks,” he said, taking the letters. “Yes,” he added, after glancing at the +addresses, “they are from my father and sister. They must have been quite at a +loss to understand my silence.” +</p> + +<p> +He opened the letters, guessed at rather than read them, for each was of four +pages; and a moment after folded them up. “Come,” he said, “I will answer +tomorrow.” +</p> + +<p> +We went to the police station, and Armand handed in the permission signed by +Marguerite’s sister. He received in return a letter to the keeper of the +cemetery, and it was settled that the disinterment was to take place next day, +at ten o’clock, that I should call for him an hour before, and that we should +go to the cemetery together. +</p> + +<p> +I confess that I was curious to be present, and I did not sleep all night. +Judging from the thoughts which filled my brain, it must have been a long night +for Armand. When I entered his room at nine on the following morning he was +frightfully pale, but seemed calm. He smiled and held out his hand. His candles +were burned out; and before leaving he took a very heavy letter addressed to +his father, and no doubt containing an account of that night’s impressions. +</p> + +<p> +Half an hour later we were at Montmartre. The police inspector was there +already. We walked slowly in the direction of Marguerite’s grave. The inspector +went in front; Armand and I followed a few steps behind. +</p> + +<p> +From time to time I felt my companion’s arm tremble convulsively, as if he +shivered from head to feet. I looked at him. He understood the look, and smiled +at me; we had not exchanged a word since leaving the house. +</p> + +<p> +Just before we reached the grave, Armand stopped to wipe his face, which was +covered with great drops of sweat. I took advantage of the pause to draw in a +long breath, for I, too, felt as if I had a weight on my chest. +</p> + +<p> +What is the origin of that mournful pleasure which we find in sights of this +kind? When we reached the grave the gardener had removed all the flower-pots, +the iron railing had been taken away, and two men were turning up the soil. +</p> + +<p> +Armand leaned against a tree and watched. All his life seemed to pass before +his eyes. Suddenly one of the two pickaxes struck against a stone. At the sound +Armand recoiled, as at an electric shock, and seized my hand with such force as +to give me pain. +</p> + +<p> +One of the grave-diggers took a shovel and began emptying out the earth; then, +when only the stones covering the coffin were left, he threw them out one by +one. +</p> + +<p> +I scrutinized Armand, for every moment I was afraid lest the emotions which he +was visibly repressing should prove too much for him; but he still watched, his +eyes fixed and wide open, like the eyes of a madman, and a slight trembling of +the cheeks and lips were the only signs of the violent nervous crisis under +which he was suffering. +</p> + +<p> +As for me, all I can say is that I regretted having come. +</p> + +<p> +When the coffin was uncovered the inspector said to the grave-digger: “Open +it.” They obeyed, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. +</p> + +<p> +The coffin was of oak, and they began to unscrew the lid. The humidity of the +earth had rusted the screws, and it was not without some difficulty that the +coffin was opened. A painful odour arose in spite of the aromatic plants with +which it was covered. +</p> + +<p> +“O my God, my God!” murmured Armand, and turned paler than before. +</p> + +<p> +Even the grave-digger drew back. +</p> + +<p> +A great white shroud covered the corpse, closely outlining some of its +contours. This shroud was almost completely eaten away at one end, and left one +of the feet visible. +</p> + +<p> +I was nearly fainting, and at the moment of writing these lines I see the whole +scene over again in all its imposing reality. +</p> + +<p> +“Quick,” said the inspector. Thereupon one of the men put out his hand, began +to unsew the shroud, and taking hold of it by one end suddenly laid bare the +face of Marguerite. +</p> + +<p> +It was terrible to see, it is horrible to relate. The eyes were nothing but two +holes, the lips had disappeared, vanished, and the white teeth were tightly +set. The black hair, long and dry, was pressed tightly about the forehead, and +half veiled the green hollows of the cheeks; and yet I recognised in this face +the joyous white and rose face that I had seen so often. +</p> + +<p> +Armand, unable to turn away his eyes, had put the handkerchief to his mouth and +bit it. +</p> + +<p> +For my part, it was as if a circle of iron tightened about my head, a veil +covered my eyes, a rumbling filled my ears, and all I could do was to unstop a +smelling bottle which I happened to have with me, and to draw in long breaths +of it. +</p> + +<p> +Through this bewilderment I heard the inspector say to Duval, “Do you +identify?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” replied the young man in a dull voice. +</p> + +<p> +“Then fasten it up and take it away,” said the inspector. +</p> + +<p> +The grave-diggers put back the shroud over the face of the corpse, fastened up +the coffin, took hold of each end of it, and began to carry it toward the place +where they had been told to take it. +</p> + +<p> +Armand did not move. His eyes were fixed upon the empty grave; he was as white +as the corpse which we had just seen. He looked as if he had been turned to +stone. +</p> + +<p> +I saw what was coming as soon as the pain caused by the spectacle should have +abated and thus ceased to sustain him. I went up to the inspector. “Is this +gentleman’s presence still necessary?” I said, pointing to Armand. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” he replied, “and I should advise you to take him away. He looks ill.” +</p> + +<p> +“Come,” I said to Armand, taking him by the arm. +</p> + +<p> +“What?” he said, looking at me as if he did not recognise me. +</p> + +<p> +“It is all over,” I added. “You must come, my friend; you are quite white; you +are cold. These emotions will be too much for you.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are right. Let us go,” he answered mechanically, but without moving a +step. +</p> + +<p> +I took him by the arm and led him along. He let himself be guided like a child, +only from time to time murmuring, “Did you see her eyes?” and he turned as if +the vision had recalled her. +</p> + +<p> +Nevertheless, his steps became more irregular; he seemed to walk by a series of +jerks; his teeth chattered; his hands were cold; a violent agitation ran +through his body. I spoke to him; he did not answer. He was just able to let +himself be led along. A cab was waiting at the gate. It was only just in time. +Scarcely had he seated himself, when the shivering became more violent, and he +had an actual attack of nerves, in the midst of which his fear of frightening +me made him press my hand and whisper: “It is nothing, nothing. I want to +weep.” +</p> + +<p> +His chest laboured, his eyes were injected with blood, but no tears came. I +made him smell the salts which I had with me, and when we reached his house +only the shivering remained. +</p> + +<p> +With the help of his servant I put him to bed, lit a big fire in his room, and +hurried off to my doctor, to whom I told all that had happened. He hastened +with me. +</p> + +<p> +Armand was flushed and delirious; he stammered out disconnected words, in which +only the name of Marguerite could be distinctly heard. +</p> + +<p> +“Well?” I said to the doctor when he had examined the patient. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, he has neither more nor less than brain fever, and very lucky it is for +him, for I firmly believe (God forgive me!) that he would have gone out of his +mind. Fortunately, the physical malady will kill the mental one, and in a +month’s time he will be free from the one and perhaps from the other.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0007"></a> +Chapter VII</h2> + +<p> +Illnesses like Armand’s have one fortunate thing about them: they either kill +outright or are very soon overcome. A fortnight after the events which I have +just related Armand was convalescent, and we had already become great friends. +During the whole course of his illness I had hardly left his side. +</p> + +<p> +Spring was profuse in its flowers, its leaves, its birds, its songs; and my +friend’s window opened gaily upon his garden, from which a reviving breath of +health seemed to come to him. The doctor had allowed him to get up, and we +often sat talking at the open window, at the hour when the sun is at its +height, from twelve to two. I was careful not to refer to Marguerite, fearing +lest the name should awaken sad recollections hidden under the apparent calm of +the invalid; but Armand, on the contrary, seemed to delight in speaking of her, +not as formerly, with tears in his eyes, but with a sweet smile which reassured +me as to the state of his mind. +</p> + +<p> +I had noticed that ever since his last visit to the cemetery, and the sight +which had brought on so violent a crisis, sorrow seemed to have been overcome +by sickness, and Marguerite’s death no longer appeared to him under its former +aspect. A kind of consolation had sprung from the certainty of which he was now +fully persuaded, and in order to banish the sombre picture which often +presented itself to him, he returned upon the happy recollections of his +liaison with Marguerite, and seemed resolved to think of nothing else. +</p> + +<p> +The body was too much weakened by the attack of fever, and even by the process +of its cure, to permit him any violent emotions, and the universal joy of +spring which wrapped him round carried his thoughts instinctively to images of +joy. He had always obstinately refused to tell his family of the danger which +he had been in, and when he was well again his father did not even know that he +had been ill. +</p> + +<p> +One evening we had sat at the window later than usual; the weather had been +superb, and the sun sank to sleep in a twilight dazzling with gold and azure. +Though we were in Paris, the verdure which surrounded us seemed to shut us off +from the world, and our conversation was only now and again disturbed by the +sound of a passing vehicle. +</p> + +<p> +“It was about this time of the year, on the evening of a day like this, that I +first met Marguerite,” said Armand to me, as if he were listening to his own +thoughts rather than to what I was saying. I did not answer. Then turning +toward me, he said: +</p> + +<p> +“I must tell you the whole story; you will make a book out of it; no one will +believe it, but it will perhaps be interesting to do.” +</p> + +<p> +“You will tell me all about it later on, my friend,” I said to him; “you are +not strong enough yet.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is a warm evening, I have eaten my ration of chicken,” he said to me, +smiling; “I have no fever, we have nothing to do, I will tell it to you now.” +</p> + +<p> +“Since you really wish it, I will listen.” +</p> + +<p> +This is what he told me, and I have scarcely changed a word of the touching +story. +</p> + +<p> +Yes (Armand went on, letting his head sink back on the chair), yes, it was just +such an evening as this. I had spent the day in the country with one of my +friends, Gaston R—. We returned to Paris in the evening, and not knowing +what to do we went to the Variétés. We went out during one of the +<i>entr’actes</i>, and a tall woman passed us in the corridor, to whom my +friend bowed. +</p> + +<p> +“Whom are you bowing to?” I asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Marguerite Gautier,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“She seems much changed, for I did not recognise her,” I said, with an emotion +that you will soon understand. +</p> + +<p> +“She has been ill; the poor girl won’t last long.” +</p> + +<p> +I remember the words as if they had been spoken to me yesterday. +</p> + +<p> +I must tell you, my friend, that for two years the sight of this girl had made +a strange impression on me whenever I came across her. Without knowing why, I +turned pale and my heart beat violently. I have a friend who studies the occult +sciences, and he would call what I experienced “the affinity of fluids”; as for +me, I only know that I was fated to fall in love with Marguerite, and that I +foresaw it. +</p> + +<p> +It is certainly the fact that she made a very definite impression upon me, that +many of my friends had noticed it and that they had been much amused when they +saw who it was that made this impression upon me. +</p> + +<p> +The first time I ever saw her was in the Place de la Bourse, outside Susse’s; +an open carriage was stationed there, and a woman dressed in white got down +from it. A murmur of admiration greeted her as she entered the shop. As for me, +I was rivetted to the spot from the moment she went in till the moment when she +came out again. I could see her through the shop windows selecting what she had +come to buy. I might have gone in, but I dared not. I did not know who she was, +and I was afraid lest she should guess why I had come in and be offended. +Nevertheless, I did not think I should ever see her again. +</p> + +<p> +She was elegantly dressed; she wore a muslin dress with many flounces, an +Indian shawl embroidered at the corners with gold and silk flowers, a straw +hat, a single bracelet, and a heavy gold chain, such as was just then beginning +to be the fashion. +</p> + +<p> +She returned to her carriage and drove away. One of the shopmen stood at the +door looking after his elegant customer’s carriage. I went up to him and asked +him what was the lady’s name. +</p> + +<p> +“Mademoiselle Marguerite Gautier,” he replied. I dared not ask him for her +address, and went on my way. +</p> + +<p> +The recollection of this vision, for it was really a vision, would not leave my +mind like so many visions I had seen, and I looked everywhere for this royally +beautiful woman in white. +</p> + +<p> +A few days later there was a great performance at the Opera Comique. The first +person I saw in one of the boxes was Marguerite Gautier. +</p> + +<p> +The young man whom I was with recognised her immediately, for he said to me, +mentioning her name: “Look at that pretty girl.” +</p> + +<p> +At that moment Marguerite turned her opera-glass in our direction and, seeing +my friend, smiled and beckoned to him to come to her. +</p> + +<p> +“I will go and say ‘How do you do?’ to her,” he said, “and will be back in a +moment.” +</p> + +<p> +“I could not help saying ‘Happy man!’” +</p> + +<p> +“Why?” +</p> + +<p> +“To go and see that woman.” +</p> + +<p> +“Are you in love with her?” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” I said, flushing, for I really did not know what to say; “but I should +very much like to know her.” +</p> + +<p> +“Come with me. I will introduce you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ask her if you may.” +</p> + +<p> +“Really, there is no need to be particular with her; come.” +</p> + +<p> +What he said troubled me. I feared to discover that Marguerite was not worthy +of the sentiment which I felt for her. +</p> + +<p> +In a book of Alphonse Karr entitled <i>Am Rauchen</i>, there is a man who one +evening follows a very elegant woman, with whom he had fallen in love with at +first sight on account of her beauty. Only to kiss her hand he felt that he had +the strength to undertake anything, the will to conquer anything, the courage +to achieve anything. He scarcely dares glance at the trim ankle which she shows +as she holds her dress out of the mud. While he is dreaming of all that he +would do to possess this woman, she stops at the corner of the street and asks +if he will come home with her. He turns his head, crosses the street, and goes +sadly back to his own house. +</p> + +<p> +I recalled the story, and, having longed to suffer for this woman, I was afraid +that she would accept me too promptly and give me at once what I fain would +have purchased by long waiting or some great sacrifice. We men are built like +that, and it is very fortunate that the imagination lends so much poetry to the +senses, and that the desires of the body make thus such concession to the +dreams of the soul. If anyone had said to me, You shall have this woman +to-night and be killed tomorrow, I would have accepted. If anyone had said to +me, you can be her lover for ten pounds, I would have refused. I would have +cried like a child who sees the castle he has been dreaming about vanish away +as he awakens from sleep. +</p> + +<p> +All the same, I wished to know her; it was my only means of making up my mind +about her. I therefore said to my friend that I insisted on having her +permission to be introduced to her, and I wandered to and fro in the corridors, +saying to myself that in a moment’s time she was going to see me, and that I +should not know which way to look. I tried (sublime childishness of love!) to +string together the words I should say to her. +</p> + +<p> +A moment after my friend returned. “She is expecting us,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“Is she alone?” I asked. +</p> + +<p> +“With another woman.” +</p> + +<p> +“There are no men?” +</p> + +<p> +“No.” +</p> + +<p> +“Come, then.” +</p> + +<p> +My friend went toward the door of the theatre. +</p> + +<p> +“That is not the way,” I said. +</p> + +<p> +“We must go and get some sweets. She asked me for some.” +</p> + +<p> +We went into a confectioner’s in the passage de l’Opera. I would have bought +the whole shop, and I was looking about to see what sweets to choose, when my +friend asked for a pound of raisins glaces. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you know if she likes them?” +</p> + +<p> +“She eats no other kind of sweets; everybody knows it. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah,” he went on when we had left the shop, “do you know what kind of woman it +is that I am going to introduce you to? Don’t imagine it is a duchess. It is +simply a kept woman, very much kept, my dear fellow; don’t be shy, say anything +that comes into your head.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, yes,” I stammered, and I followed him, saying to myself that I should +soon cure myself of my passion. +</p> + +<p> +When I entered the box Marguerite was in fits of laughter. I would rather that +she had been sad. My friend introduced me; Marguerite gave me a little nod, and +said, “And my sweets?” +</p> + +<p> +“Here they are.” +</p> + +<p> +She looked at me as she took them. I dropped my eyes and blushed. +</p> + +<p> +She leaned across to her neighbour and said something in her ear, at which both +laughed. Evidently I was the cause of their mirth, and my embarrassment +increased. At that time I had as mistress a very affectionate and sentimental +little person, whose sentiment and whose melancholy letters amused me greatly. +I realized the pain I must have given her by what I now experienced, and for +five minutes I loved her as no woman was ever loved. +</p> + +<p> +Marguerite ate her raisins glaces without taking any more notice of me. The +friend who had introduced me did not wish to let me remain in so ridiculous a +position. +</p> + +<p> +“Marguerite,” he said, “you must not be surprised if M. Duval says nothing: you +overwhelm him to such a degree that he can not find a word to say.” +</p> + +<p> +“I should say, on the contrary, that he has only come with you because it would +have bored you to come here by yourself.” +</p> + +<p> +“If that were true,” I said, “I should not have begged Ernest to ask your +permission to introduce me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps that was only in order to put off the fatal moment.” +</p> + +<p> +However little one may have known women like Marguerite, one can not but know +the delight they take in pretending to be witty and in teasing the people whom +they meet for the first time. It is no doubt a return for the humiliations +which they often have to submit to on the part of those whom they see every +day. +</p> + +<p> +To answer them properly, one requires a certain knack, and I had not had the +opportunity of acquiring it; besides, the idea that I had formed of Marguerite +accentuated the effects of her mockery. Nothing that dame from her was +indifferent to me. I rose to my feet, saying in an altered voice, which I could +not entirely control: +</p> + +<p> +“If that is what you think of me, madame, I have only to ask your pardon for my +indiscretion, and to take leave of you with the assurance that it shall not +occur again.” +</p> + +<p> +Thereupon I bowed and quitted the box. I had scarcely closed the door when I +heard a third peal of laughter. It would not have been well for anybody who had +elbowed me at that moment. +</p> + +<p> +I returned to my seat. The signal for raising the curtain was given. Ernest +came back to his place beside me. +</p> + +<p> +“What a way you behaved!” he said, as he sat down. “They will think you are +mad.” +</p> + +<p> +“What did Marguerite say after I had gone?” +</p> + +<p> +“She laughed, and said she had never seen anyone so funny. But don’t look upon +it as a lost chance; only do not do these women the honour of taking them +seriously. They do not know what politeness and ceremony are. It is as if you +were to offer perfumes to dogs—they would think it smelled bad, and go +and roll in the gutter.” +</p> + +<p> +“After all, what does it matter to me?” I said, affecting to speak in a +nonchalant way. “I shall never see this woman again, and if I liked her before +meeting her, it is quite different now that I know her.” +</p> + +<p> +“Bah! I don’t despair of seeing you one day at the back of her box, and of +hearing that you are ruining yourself for her. However, you are right, she +hasn’t been well brought up; but she would be a charming mistress to have.” +</p> + +<p> +Happily, the curtain rose and my friend was silent. I could not possibly tell +you what they were acting. All that I remember is that from time to time I +raised my eyes to the box I had quitted so abruptly, and that the faces of +fresh visitors succeeded one another all the time. +</p> + +<p> +I was far from having given up thinking about Marguerite. Another feeling had +taken possession of me. It seemed to me that I had her insult and my absurdity +to wipe out; I said to myself that if I spent every penny I had, I would win +her and win my right to the place I had abandoned so quickly. +</p> + +<p> +Before the performance was over Marguerite and her friend left the box. I rose +from my seat. +</p> + +<p> +“Are you going?” said Ernest. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why?” +</p> + +<p> +At that moment he saw that the box was empty. +</p> + +<p> +“Go, go,” he said, “and good luck, or rather better luck.” +</p> + +<p> +I went out. +</p> + +<p> +I heard the rustle of dresses, the sound of voices, on the staircase. I stood +aside, and, without being seen, saw the two women pass me, accompanied by two +young men. At the entrance to the theatre they were met by a footman. +</p> + +<p> +“Tell the coachman to wait at the door of the Café Anglais,” said Marguerite. +“We will walk there.” +</p> + +<p> +A few minutes afterward I saw Marguerite from the street at a window of one of +the large rooms of the restaurant, pulling the camellias of her bouquet to +pieces, one by one. One of the two men was leaning over her shoulder and +whispering in her ear. I took up my position at the Maison-d’or, in one of the +first-floor rooms, and did not lose sight of the window for an instant. At one +in the morning Marguerite got into her carriage with her three friends. I took +a cab and followed them. The carriage stopped at No. 9, Rue d’Antin. Marguerite +got out and went in alone. It was no doubt a mere chance, but the chance filled +me with delight. +</p> + +<p> +From that time forward, I often met Marguerite at the theatre or in the +Champs-Elysées. Always there was the same gaiety in her, the same emotion in +me. +</p> + +<p> +At last a fortnight passed without my meeting her. I met Gaston and asked after +her. +</p> + +<p> +“Poor girl, she is very ill,” he answered. +</p> + +<p> +“What is the matter?” +</p> + +<p> +“She is consumptive, and the sort of life she leads isn’t exactly the thing to +cure her. She has taken to her bed; she is dying.” +</p> + +<p> +The heart is a strange thing; I was almost glad at hearing it. +</p> + +<p> +Every day I went to ask after her, without leaving my name or my card. I heard +she was convalescent and had gone to Bagnères. +</p> + +<p> +Time went by, the impression, if not the memory, faded gradually from my mind. +I travelled; love affairs, habits, work, took the place of other thoughts, and +when I recalled this adventure I looked upon it as one of those passions which +one has when one is very young, and laughs at soon afterward. +</p> + +<p> +For the rest, it was no credit to me to have got the better of this +recollection, for I had completely lost sight of Marguerite, and, as I told +you, when she passed me in the corridor of the Variétés, I did not recognise +her. She was veiled, it is true; but, veiled though she might have been two +years earlier, I should not have needed to see her in order to recognise her: I +should have known her intuitively. All the same, my heart began to beat when I +knew that it was she; and the two years that had passed since I saw her, and +what had seemed to be the results of that separation, vanished in smoke at the +mere touch of her dress. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0008"></a> +Chapter VIII</h2> + +<p> +However (continued Armand after a pause), while I knew myself to be still in +love with her, I felt more sure of myself, and part of my desire to speak to +Marguerite again was a wish to make her see that I was stronger than she. +</p> + +<p> +How many ways does the heart take, how many reasons does it invent for itself, +in order to arrive at what it wants! +</p> + +<p> +I could not remain in the corridor, and I returned to my place in the stalls, +looking hastily around to see what box she was in. She was in a ground-floor +box, quite alone. She had changed, as I have told you, and no longer wore an +indifferent smile on her lips. She had suffered; she was still suffering. +Though it was April, she was still wearing a winter costume, all wrapped up in +furs. +</p> + +<p> +I gazed at her so fixedly that my eyes attracted hers. She looked at me for a +few seconds, put up her opera-glass to see me better, and seemed to think she +recognised me, without being quite sure who I was, for when she put down her +glasses, a smile, that charming, feminine salutation, flitted across her lips, +as if to answer the bow which she seemed to expect; but I did not respond, so +as to have an advantage over her, as if I had forgotten, while she remembered. +Supposing herself mistaken, she looked away. +</p> + +<p> +The curtain went up. I have often seen Marguerite at the theatre. I never saw +her pay the slightest attention to what was being acted. As for me, the +performance interested me equally little, and I paid no attention to anything +but her, though doing my utmost to keep her from noticing it. +</p> + +<p> +Presently I saw her glancing across at the person who was in the opposite box; +on looking, I saw a woman with whom I was quite familiar. She had once been a +kept woman, and had tried to go on the stage, had failed, and, relying on her +acquaintance with fashionable people in Paris, had gone into business and taken +a milliner’s shop. I saw in her a means of meeting with Marguerite, and +profited by a moment in which she looked my way to wave my hand to her. As I +expected, she beckoned to me to come to her box. +</p> + +<p> +Prudence Duvernoy (that was the milliner’s auspicious name) was one of those +fat women of forty with whom one requires very little diplomacy to make them +understand what one wants to know, especially when what one wants to know is as +simple as what I had to ask of her. +</p> + +<p> +I took advantage of a moment when she was smiling across at Marguerite to ask +her, “Whom are you looking at?” +</p> + +<p> +“Marguerite Gautier.” +</p> + +<p> +“You know her?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I am her milliner, and she is a neighbour of mine.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you live in the Rue d’Antin?” +</p> + +<p> +“No. 7. The window of her dressing-room looks on to the window of mine.” +</p> + +<p> +“They say she is a charming girl.” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t you know her?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, but I should like to.” +</p> + +<p> +“Shall I ask her to come over to our box?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, I would rather for you to introduce me to her.” +</p> + +<p> +“At her own house?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. +</p> + +<p> +“That is more difficult.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because she is under the protection of a jealous old duke.” +</p> + +<p> +“‘Protection’ is charming.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, protection,” replied Prudence. “Poor old man, he would be greatly +embarrassed to offer her anything else.” +</p> + +<p> +Prudence then told me how Marguerite had made the acquaintance of the duke at +Bagnères. +</p> + +<p> +“That, then,” I continued, “is why she is alone here?” +</p> + +<p> +“Precisely.” +</p> + +<p> +“But who will see her home?” +</p> + +<p> +“He will.” +</p> + +<p> +“He will come for her?” +</p> + +<p> +“In a moment.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you, who is seeing you home?” +</p> + +<p> +“No one.” +</p> + +<p> +“May I offer myself?” +</p> + +<p> +“But you are with a friend, are you not?” +</p> + +<p> +“May we offer, then?” +</p> + +<p> +“Who is your friend?” +</p> + +<p> +“A charming fellow, very amusing. He will be delighted to make your +acquaintance.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, all right; we will go after this piece is over, for I know the last +piece.” +</p> + +<p> +“With pleasure; I will go and tell my friend.” +</p> + +<p> +“Go, then. Ah,” added Prudence, as I was going, “there is the duke just coming +into Marguerite’s box.” +</p> + +<p> +I looked at him. A man of about seventy had sat down behind her, and was giving +her a bag of sweets, into which she dipped at once, smiling. Then she held it +out toward Prudence, with a gesture which seemed to say, “Will you have some?” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” signalled Prudence. +</p> + +<p> +Marguerite drew back the bag, and, turning, began to talk with the duke. +</p> + +<p> +It may sound childish to tell you all these details, but everything relating to +Marguerite is so fresh in my memory that I can not help recalling them now. +</p> + +<p> +I went back to Gaston and told him of the arrangement I had made for him and +for me. He agreed, and we left our stalls to go round to Mme. Duvernoy’s box. +We had scarcely opened the door leading into the stalls when we had to stand +aside to allow Marguerite and the duke to pass. I would have given ten years of +my life to have been in the old man’s place. +</p> + +<p> +When they were on the street he handed her into a phaeton, which he drove +himself, and they were whirled away by two superb horses. +</p> + +<p> +We returned to Prudence’s box, and when the play was over we took a cab and +drove to 7, Rue d’Antin. At the door, Prudence asked us to come up and see her +showrooms, which we had never seen, and of which she seemed very proud. You can +imagine how eagerly I accepted. It seemed to me as if I was coming nearer and +nearer to Marguerite. I soon turned the conversation in her direction. +</p> + +<p> +“The old duke is at your neighbours,” I said to Prudence. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, no; she is probably alone.” +</p> + +<p> +“But she must be dreadfully bored,” said Gaston. +</p> + +<p> +“We spend most of our evening together, or she calls to me when she comes in. +She never goes to bed before two in the morning. She can’t sleep before that.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because she suffers in the chest, and is almost always feverish.” +</p> + +<p> +“Hasn’t she any lovers?” I asked. +</p> + +<p> +“I never see anyone remain after I leave; I don’t say no one ever comes when I +am gone. Often in the evening I meet there a certain Comte de N., who thinks he +is making some headway by calling on her at eleven in the evening, and by +sending her jewels to any extent; but she can’t stand him. She makes a mistake; +he is very rich. It is in vain that I say to her from time to time, ‘My dear +child, there’s the man for you.’ She, who generally listens to me, turns her +back and replies that he is too stupid. Stupid, indeed, he is; but it would be +a position for her, while this old duke might die any day. Old men are egoists; +his family are always reproaching him for his affection for Marguerite; there +are two reasons why he is likely to leave her nothing. I give her good advice, +and she only says it will be plenty of time to take on the count when the duke +is dead. It isn’t all fun,” continued Prudence, “to live like that. I know very +well it wouldn’t suit me, and I should soon send the old man about his +business. He is so dull; he calls her his daughter; looks after her like a +child; and is always in the way. I am sure at this very moment one of his +servants is prowling about in the street to see who comes out, and especially +who goes in.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, poor Marguerite!” said Gaston, sitting down to the piano and playing a +waltz. “I hadn’t a notion of it, but I did notice she hasn’t been looking so +gay lately.” +</p> + +<p> +“Hush,” said Prudence, listening. Gaston stopped. +</p> + +<p> +“She is calling me, I think.” +</p> + +<p> +We listened. A voice was calling, “Prudence!” +</p> + +<p> +“Come, now, you must go,” said Mme. Duvernoy. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, that is your idea of hospitality,” said Gaston, laughing; “we won’t go +till we please.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why should we go?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am going over to Marguerite’s.” +</p> + +<p> +“We will wait here.” +</p> + +<p> +“You can’t.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then we will go with you.” +</p> + +<p> +“That still less.” +</p> + +<p> +“I know Marguerite,” said Gaston; “I can very well pay her a call.” +</p> + +<p> +“But Armand doesn’t know her.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will introduce him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Impossible.” +</p> + +<p> +We again heard Marguerite’s voice calling to Prudence, who rushed to her +dressing-room window. I followed with Gaston as she opened the window. We hid +ourselves so as not to be seen from outside. +</p> + +<p> +“I have been calling you for ten minutes,” said Marguerite from her window, in +almost an imperious tone of voice. +</p> + +<p> +“What do you want?” +</p> + +<p> +“I want you to come over at once.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because the Comte de N. is still here, and he is boring me to death.” +</p> + +<p> +“I can’t now.” +</p> + +<p> +“What is hindering you?” +</p> + +<p> +“There are two young fellows here who won’t go.” +</p> + +<p> +“Tell them that you must go out.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have told them.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, then, leave them in the house. They will soon go when they see you have +gone.” +</p> + +<p> +“They will turn everything upside down.” +</p> + +<p> +“But what do they want?” +</p> + +<p> +“They want to see you.” +</p> + +<p> +“What are they called?” +</p> + +<p> +“You know one, M. Gaston R.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, yes, I know him. And the other?” +</p> + +<p> +“M. Armand Duval; and you don’t know him.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, but bring them along. Anything is better than the count. I expect you. +Come at once.” +</p> + +<p> +Marguerite closed her window and Prudence hers. Marguerite, who had remembered +my face for a moment, did not remember my name. I would rather have been +remembered to my disadvantage than thus forgotten. +</p> + +<p> +“I knew,” said Gaston, “that she would be delighted to see us.” +</p> + +<p> +“Delighted isn’t the word,” replied Prudence, as she put on her hat and shawl. +“She will see you in order to get rid of the count. Try to be more agreeable +than he is, or (I know Marguerite) she will put it all down to me.” +</p> + +<p> +We followed Prudence downstairs. I trembled; it seemed to me that this visit +was to have a great influence on my life. I was still more agitated than on the +evening when I was introduced in the box at the Opera Comique. As we reached +the door that you know, my heart beat so violently that I was hardly able to +think. +</p> + +<p> +We heard the sound of a piano. Prudence rang. The piano was silent. A woman who +looked more like a companion than a servant opened the door. We went into the +drawing-room, and from that to the boudoir, which was then just as you have +seen it since. A young man was leaning against the mantel-piece. Marguerite, +seated at the piano, let her fingers wander over the notes, beginning scraps of +music without finishing them. The whole scene breathed boredom, the man +embarrassed by the consciousness of his nullity, the woman tired of her dismal +visitor. At the voice of Prudence, Marguerite rose, and coming toward us with a +look of gratitude to Mme. Duvernoy, said: +</p> + +<p> +“Come in, and welcome.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0009"></a> +Chapter IX</h2> + +<p> +“Good-evening, my dear Gaston,” said Marguerite to my companion. “I am very +glad to see you. Why didn’t you come to see me in my box at the Variétés?” +</p> + +<p> +“I was afraid it would be indiscreet.” +</p> + +<p> +“Friends,” and Marguerite lingered over the word, as if to intimate to those +who were present that in spite of the familiar way in which she greeted him, +Gaston was not and never had been anything more than a friend, “friends are +always welcome.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then, will you permit me to introduce M. Armand Duval?” +</p> + +<p> +“I had already authorized Prudence to do so.” +</p> + +<p> +“As far as that goes, madame,” I said, bowing, and succeeding in getting more +or less intelligible sounds out of my throat, “I have already had the honour of +being introduced to you.” +</p> + +<p> +Marguerite’s beautiful eyes seemed to be looking back in memory, but she could +not, or seemed not to, remember. +</p> + +<p> +“Madame,” I continued, “I am grateful to you for having forgotten the occasion +of my first introduction, for I was very absurd and must have seemed to you +very tiresome. It was at the Opera Comique, two years ago; I was with Ernest de +——.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, I remember,” said Marguerite, with a smile. “It was not you who were +absurd; it was I who was mischievous, as I still am, but somewhat less. You +have forgiven me?” +</p> + +<p> +And she held out her hand, which I kissed. +</p> + +<p> +“It is true,” she went on; “you know I have the bad habit of trying to +embarrass people the first time I meet them. It is very stupid. My doctor says +it is because I am nervous and always ill; believe my doctor.” +</p> + +<p> +“But you seem quite well.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! I have been very ill.” +</p> + +<p> +“I know.” +</p> + +<p> +“Who told you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Every one knew it; I often came to inquire after you, and I was happy to hear +of your convalescence.” +</p> + +<p> +“They never gave me your card.” +</p> + +<p> +“I did not leave it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Was it you, then, who called every day while I was ill, and would never leave +your name?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, it was I.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then you are more than indulgent, you are generous. You, count, wouldn’t have +done that,” said she, turning toward M. de N., after giving me one of those +looks in which women sum up their opinion of a man. +</p> + +<p> +“I have only known you for two months,” replied the count. +</p> + +<p> +“And this gentleman only for five minutes. You always say something +ridiculous.” +</p> + +<p> +Women are pitiless toward those whom they do not care for. The count reddened +and bit his lips. +</p> + +<p> +I was sorry for him, for he seemed, like myself, to be in love, and the bitter +frankness of Marguerite must have made him very unhappy, especially in the +presence of two strangers. +</p> + +<p> +“You were playing the piano when we came in,” I said, in order to change the +conversation. “Won’t you be so good as to treat me as an old acquaintance and +go on?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh,” said she, flinging herself on the sofa and motioning to us to sit down, +“Gaston knows what my music is like. It is all very well when I am alone with +the count, but I won’t inflict such a punishment on you.” +</p> + +<p> +“You show me that preference?” said M. de N., with a smile which he tried to +render delicately ironical. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t reproach me for it. It is the only one.” It was fated that the poor man +was not to say a single word. He cast a really supplicating glance at +Marguerite. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Prudence,” she went on, “have you done what I asked you to do?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. +</p> + +<p> +“All right. You will tell me about it later. We must talk over it; don’t go +before I can speak with you.” +</p> + +<p> +“We are doubtless intruders,” I said, “and now that we, or rather I, have had a +second introduction, to blot out the first, it is time for Gaston and me to be +going.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not in the least. I didn’t mean that for you. I want you to stay.” +</p> + +<p> +The count took a very elegant watch out of his pocket and looked at the time. +“I must be going to my club,” he said. Marguerite did not answer. The count +thereupon left his position by the fireplace and going up to her, said: “Adieu, +madame.” +</p> + +<p> +Marguerite rose. “Adieu, my dear count. Are you going already?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I fear I am boring you.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are not boring me to-day more than any other day. When shall I be seeing +you?” +</p> + +<p> +“When you permit me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good-bye, then.” +</p> + +<p> +It was cruel, you will admit. Fortunately, the count had excellent manners and +was very good-tempered. He merely kissed Marguerite’s hand, which she held out +to him carelessly enough, and, bowing to us, went out. +</p> + +<p> +As he crossed the threshold, he cast a glance at Prudence. She shrugged her +shoulders, as much as to say: +</p> + +<p> +“What do you expect? I have done all I could.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nanine!” cried Marguerite. “Light M. le Comte to the door.” +</p> + +<p> +We heard the door open and shut. +</p> + +<p> +“At last,” cried Marguerite, coming back, “he has gone! That man gets +frightfully on my nerves!” +</p> + +<p> +“My dear child,” said Prudence, “you really treat him too badly, and he is so +good and kind to you. Look at this watch on the mantel-piece, that he gave you: +it must have cost him at least three thousand francs, I am sure.” +</p> + +<p> +And Mme. Duvernoy began to turn it over, as it lay on the mantel-piece, looking +at it with covetous eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“My dear,” said Marguerite, sitting down to the piano, “when I put on one side +what he gives me and on the other what he says to me, it seems to me that he +buys his visits very cheap.” +</p> + +<p> +“The poor fellow is in love with you.” +</p> + +<p> +“If I had to listen to everybody who was in love with me, I shouldn’t have time +for my dinner.” +</p> + +<p> +And she began to run her fingers over the piano, and then, turning to us, she +said: +</p> + +<p> +“What will you take? I think I should like a little punch.” +</p> + +<p> +“And I could eat a little chicken,” said Prudence. “Suppose we have supper?” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s it, let’s go and have supper,” said Gaston. +</p> + +<p> +“No, we will have supper here.” +</p> + +<p> +She rang, and Nanine appeared. +</p> + +<p> +“Send for some supper.” +</p> + +<p> +“What must I get?” +</p> + +<p> +“Whatever you like, but at once, at once.” +</p> + +<p> +Nanine went out. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s it,” said Marguerite, jumping like a child, “we’ll have supper. How +tiresome that idiot of a count is!” +</p> + +<p> +The more I saw her, the more she enchanted me. She was exquisitely beautiful. +Her slenderness was a charm. I was lost in contemplation. +</p> + +<p> +What was passing in my mind I should have some difficulty in explaining. I was +full of indulgence for her life, full of admiration for her beauty. The proof +of disinterestedness that she gave in not accepting a rich and fashionable +young man, ready to waste all his money upon her, excused her in my eyes for +all her faults in the past. +</p> + +<p> +There was a kind of candour in this woman. You could see she was still in the +virginity of vice. Her firm walk, her supple figure, her rosy, open nostrils, +her large eyes, slightly tinged with blue, indicated one of those ardent +natures which shed around them a sort of voluptuous perfume, like Eastern +vials, which, close them as tightly as you will, still let some of their +perfume escape. Finally, whether it was simple nature or a breath of fever, +there passed from time to time in the eyes of this woman a glimmer of desire, +giving promise of a very heaven for one whom she should love. But those who had +loved Marguerite were not to be counted, nor those whom she had loved. +</p> + +<p> +In this girl there was at once the virgin whom a mere nothing had turned into a +courtesan, and the courtesan whom a mere nothing would have turned into the +most loving and the purest of virgins. Marguerite had still pride and +independence, two sentiments which, if they are wounded, can be the equivalent +of a sense of shame. I did not speak a word; my soul seemed to have passed into +my heart and my heart into my eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“So,” said she all at once, “it was you who came to inquire after me when I was +ill?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you know, it was quite splendid of you! How can I thank you for it?” +</p> + +<p> +“By allowing me to come and see you from time to time.” +</p> + +<p> +“As often as you like, from five to six, and from eleven to twelve. Now, +Gaston, play the Invitation à la Valse.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why?” +</p> + +<p> +“To please me, first of all, and then because I never can manage to play it +myself.” +</p> + +<p> +“What part do you find difficult?” +</p> + +<p> +“The third part, the part in sharps.” +</p> + +<p> +Gaston rose and went to the piano, and began to play the wonderful melody of +Weber, the music of which stood open before him. +</p> + +<p> +Marguerite, resting one hand on the piano, followed every note on the music, +accompanying it in a low voice, and when Gaston had come to the passage which +she had mentioned to him, she sang out, running her fingers along the top of +the piano: +</p> + +<p> +“Do, re, mi, do, re, fa, mi, re; that is what I can not do. Over again.” +</p> + +<p> +Gaston began over again, after which Marguerite said: +</p> + +<p> +“Now, let me try.” +</p> + +<p> +She took her place and began to play; but her rebellious fingers always came to +grief over one of the notes. +</p> + +<p> +“Isn’t it incredible,” she said, exactly like a child, “that I can not succeed +in playing that passage? Would you believe that I sometimes spend two hours of +the morning over it? And when I think that that idiot of a count plays it +without his music, and beautifully, I really believe it is that that makes me +so furious with him.” And she began again, always with the same result. +</p> + +<p> +“The devil take Weber, music, and pianos!” she cried, throwing the music to the +other end of the room. “How can I play eight sharps one after another?” She +folded her arms and looked at us, stamping her foot. The blood flew to her +cheeks, and her lips half opened in a slight cough. +</p> + +<p> +“Come, come,” said Prudence, who had taken off her hat and was smoothing her +hair before the glass, “you will work yourself into a rage and do yourself +harm. Better come and have supper; for my part, I am dying of hunger.” +</p> + +<p> +Marguerite rang the bell, sat down to the piano again, and began to hum over a +very risky song, which she accompanied without difficulty. Gaston knew the +song, and they gave a sort of duet. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t sing those beastly things,” I said to Marguerite, imploringly. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, how proper you are!” she said, smiling and giving me her hand. “It is not +for myself, but for you.” +</p> + +<p> +Marguerite made a gesture as if to say, “Oh, it is long since that I have done +with propriety!” At that moment Nanine appeared. +</p> + +<p> +“Is supper ready?” asked Marguerite. “Yes, madame, in one moment.” +</p> + +<p> +“Apropos,” said Prudence to me, “you have not looked round; come, and I will +show you.” As you know, the drawing-room was a marvel. +</p> + +<p> +Marguerite went with us for a moment; then she called Gaston and went into the +dining-room with him to see if supper was ready. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah,” said Prudence, catching sight of a little Saxe figure on a side-table, “I +never knew you had this little gentleman.” +</p> + +<p> +“Which?” +</p> + +<p> +“A little shepherd holding a bird-cage.” +</p> + +<p> +“Take it, if you like it.” +</p> + +<p> +“I won’t deprive you of it.” +</p> + +<p> +“I was going to give it to my maid. I think it hideous; but if you like it, +take it.” +</p> + +<p> +Prudence only saw the present, not the way in which it was given. She put the +little figure on one side, and took me into the dressing-room, where she showed +me two miniatures hanging side by side, and said: +</p> + +<p> +“That is the Comte de G., who was very much in love with Marguerite; it was he +who brought her out. Do you know him?” +</p> + +<p> +“No. And this one?” I inquired, pointing to the other miniature. +</p> + +<p> +“That is the little Vicomte de L. He was obliged to disappear.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because he was all but ruined. That’s one, if you like, who loved Marguerite.” +</p> + +<p> +“And she loved him, too, no doubt?” +</p> + +<p> +“She is such a queer girl, one never knows. The night he went away she went to +the theatre as usual, and yet she had cried when he said good-bye to her.” +</p> + +<p> +Just then Nanine appeared, to tell us that supper was served. +</p> + +<p> +When we entered the dining-room, Marguerite was leaning against the wall, and +Gaston, holding her hands, was speaking to her in a low voice. +</p> + +<p> +“You are mad,” replied Marguerite. “You know quite well that I don’t want you. +It is no good at the end of two years to make love to a woman like me. With us, +it is at once, or never. Come, gentlemen, supper!” +</p> + +<p> +And, slipping away from Gaston, Marguerite made him sit on her right at table, +me on her left, then called to Nanine: +</p> + +<p> +“Before you sit down, tell them in the kitchen not to open to anybody if there +is a ring.” +</p> + +<p> +This order was given at one o’clock in the morning. +</p> + +<p> +We laughed, drank, and ate freely at this supper. In a short while mirth had +reached its last limit, and the words that seem funny to a certain class of +people, words that degrade the mouth that utters them, were heard from time to +time, amidst the applause of Nanine, of Prudence, and of Marguerite. Gaston was +thoroughly amused; he was a very good sort of fellow, but somewhat spoiled by +the habits of his youth. For a moment I tried to forget myself, to force my +heart and my thoughts to become indifferent to the sight before me, and to take +my share of that gaiety which seemed like one of the courses of the meal. But +little by little I withdrew from the noise; my glass remained full, and I felt +almost sad as I saw this beautiful creature of twenty drinking, talking like a +porter, and laughing the more loudly the more scandalous was the joke. +</p> + +<p> +Nevertheless, this hilarity, this way of talking and drinking, which seemed to +me in the others the mere results of bad company or of bad habits, seemed in +Marguerite a necessity of forgetting, a fever, a nervous irritability. At every +glass of champagne her cheeks would flush with a feverish colour, and a cough, +hardly perceptible at the beginning of supper, became at last so violent that +she was obliged to lean her head on the back of her chair and hold her chest in +her hands every time that she coughed. I suffered at the thought of the injury +to so frail a constitution which must come from daily excesses like this. At +length, something which I had feared and foreseen happened. Toward the end of +supper Marguerite was seized by a more violent fit of coughing than any she had +had while I was there. It seemed as if her chest were being torn in two. The +poor girl turned crimson, closed her eyes under the pain, and put her napkin to +her lips. It was stained with a drop of blood. She rose and ran into her +dressing-room. +</p> + +<p> +“What is the matter with Marguerite?” asked Gaston. +</p> + +<p> +“She has been laughing too much, and she is spitting blood. Oh, it is nothing; +it happens to her every day. She will be back in a minute. Leave her alone. She +prefers it.” +</p> + +<p> +I could not stay still; and, to the consternation of Prudence and Nanine, who +called to me to come back, I followed Marguerite. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0010"></a> +Chapter X</h2> + +<p> +The room to which she had fled was lit only by a single candle. She lay back on +a great sofa, her dress undone, holding one hand on her heart, and letting the +other hang by her side. On the table was a basin half full of water, and the +water was stained with streaks of blood. +</p> + +<p> +Very pale, her mouth half open, Marguerite tried to recover breath. Now and +again her bosom was raised by a long sigh, which seemed to relieve her a +little, and for a few seconds she would seem to be quite comfortable. +</p> + +<p> +I went up to her; she made no movement, and I sat down and took the hand which +was lying on the sofa. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! it is you,” she said, with a smile. +</p> + +<p> +I must have looked greatly agitated, for she added: +</p> + +<p> +“Are you unwell, too?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, but you: do you still suffer?” +</p> + +<p> +“Very little;” and she wiped off with her handkerchief the tears which the +coughing had brought to her eyes; “I am used to it now.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are killing yourself, madame,” I said to her in a moved voice. “I wish I +were a friend, a relation of yours, that I might keep you from doing yourself +harm like this.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! it is really not worth your while to alarm yourself,” she replied in a +somewhat bitter tone; “see how much notice the others take of me! They know too +well that there is nothing to be done.” +</p> + +<p> +Thereupon she got up, and, taking the candle, put it on the mantel-piece and +looked at herself in the glass. +</p> + +<p> +“How pale I am!” she said, as she fastened her dress and passed her fingers +over her loosened hair. “Come, let us go back to supper. Are you coming?” +</p> + +<p> +I sat still and did not move. +</p> + +<p> +She saw how deeply I had been affected by the whole scene, and, coming up to +me, held out her hand, saying: +</p> + +<p> +“Come now, let us go.” +</p> + +<p> +I took her hand, raised it to my lips, and in spite of myself two tears fell +upon it. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, what a child you are!” she said, sitting down by my side again. “You are +crying! What is the matter?” +</p> + +<p> +“I must seem very silly to you, but I am frightfully troubled by what I have +just seen.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are very good! What would you have of me? I can not sleep. I must amuse +myself a little. And then, girls like me, what does it matter, one more or +less? The doctors tell me that the blood I spit up comes from my throat; I +pretend to believe them; it is all I can do for them.” +</p> + +<p> +“Listen, Marguerite,” I said, unable to contain myself any longer; “I do not +know what influence you are going to have over my life, but at this present +moment there is no one, not even my sister, in whom I feel the interest which I +feel in you. It has been just the same ever since I saw you. Well, for Heaven’s +sake, take care of yourself, and do not live as you are living now.” +</p> + +<p> +“If I took care of myself I should die. All that supports me is the feverish +life I lead. Then, as for taking care of oneself, that is all very well for +women with families and friends; as for us, from the moment we can no longer +serve the vanity or the pleasure of our lovers, they leave us, and long nights +follow long days. I know it. I was in bed for two months, and after three weeks +no one came to see me.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is true I am nothing to you,” I went on, “but if you will let me, I will +look after you like a brother, I will never leave your side, and I will cure +you. Then, when you are strong again, you can go back to the life you are +leading, if you choose; but I am sure you will come to prefer a quiet life, +which will make you happier and keep your beauty unspoiled.” +</p> + +<p> +“You think like that to-night because the wine has made you sad, but you would +never have the patience that you pretend to.” +</p> + +<p> +“Permit me to say, Marguerite, that you were ill for two months, and that for +two months I came to ask after you every day.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is true, but why did you not come up?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because I did not know you then.” +</p> + +<p> +“Need you have been so particular with a girl like me?” +</p> + +<p> +“One must always be particular with a woman; it is what I feel, at least.” +</p> + +<p> +“So you would look after me?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“You would stay by me all day?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. +</p> + +<p> +“And even all night?” +</p> + +<p> +“As long as I did not weary you.” +</p> + +<p> +“And what do you call that?” +</p> + +<p> +“Devotion.” +</p> + +<p> +“And what does this devotion come from?” +</p> + +<p> +“The irresistible sympathy which I have for you.” +</p> + +<p> +“So you are in love with me? Say it straight out, it is much more simple.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is possible; but if I am to say it to you one day, it is not to-day.” +</p> + +<p> +“You will do better never to say it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because only one of two things can come of it.” +</p> + +<p> +“What?” +</p> + +<p> +“Either I shall not accept: then you will have a grudge against me; or I shall +accept: then you will have a sorry mistress; a woman who is nervous, ill, sad, +or gay with a gaiety sadder than grief, a woman who spits blood and spends a +hundred thousand francs a year. That is all very well for a rich old man like +the duke, but it is very bad for a young man like you, and the proof of it is +that all the young lovers I have had have very soon left me.” I did not answer; +I listened. This frankness, which was almost a kind of confession, the sad +life, of which I caught some glimpse through the golden veil which covered it, +and whose reality the poor girl sought to escape in dissipation, drink, and +wakefulness, impressed me so deeply that I could not utter a single word. +</p> + +<p> +“Come,” continued Marguerite, “we are talking mere childishness. Give me your +arm and let us go back to the dining-room. They won’t know what we mean by our +absence.” +</p> + +<p> +“Go in, if you like, but allow me to stay here.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because your mirth hurts me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I will be sad.” +</p> + +<p> +“Marguerite, let me say to you something which you have no doubt often heard, +so often that the habit of hearing it has made you believe it no longer, but +which is none the less real, and which I will never repeat.” +</p> + +<p> +“And that is...?” she said, with the smile of a young mother listening to some +foolish notion of her child. +</p> + +<p> +“It is this, that ever since I have seen you, I know not why, you have taken a +place in my life; that, if I drive the thought of you out of my mind, it always +comes back; that when I met you to-day, after not having seen you for two +years, you made a deeper impression on my heart and mind than ever; that, now +that you have let me come to see you, now that I know you, now that I know all +that is strange in you, you have become a necessity of my life, and you will +drive me mad, not only if you will not love me, but if you will not let me love +you.” +</p> + +<p> +“But, foolish creature that you are, I shall say to you, like Mme. D., ‘You +must be very rich, then!’ Why, you don’t know that I spend six or seven +thousand francs a month, and that I could not live without it; you don’t know, +my poor friend, that I should ruin you in no time, and that your family would +cast you off if you were to live with a woman like me. Let us be friends, good +friends, but no more. Come and see me, we will laugh and talk, but don’t +exaggerate what I am worth, for I am worth very little. You have a good heart, +you want someone to love you, you are too young and too sensitive to live in a +world like mine. Take a married woman. You see, I speak to you frankly, like a +friend.” +</p> + +<p> +“But what the devil are you doing there?” cried Prudence, who had come in +without our hearing her, and who now stood just inside the door, with her hair +half coming down and her dress undone. I recognised the hand of Gaston. +</p> + +<p> +“We are talking sense,” said Marguerite; “leave us alone; we will be back +soon.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good, good! Talk, my children,” said Prudence, going out and closing the door +behind her, as if to further emphasize the tone in which she had said these +words. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, it is agreed,” continued Marguerite, when we were alone, “you won’t fall +in love with me?” +</p> + +<p> +“I will go away.” +</p> + +<p> +“So much as that?” +</p> + +<p> +I had gone too far to draw back; and I was really carried away. This mingling +of gaiety, sadness, candour, prostitution, her very malady, which no doubt +developed in her a sensitiveness to impressions, as well as an irritability of +nerves, all this made it clear to me that if from the very beginning I did not +completely dominate her light and forgetful nature, she was lost to me. +</p> + +<p> +“Come, now, do you seriously mean what you say?” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“Seriously.” +</p> + +<p> +“But why didn’t you say it to me sooner?” +</p> + +<p> +“When could I have said it?” +</p> + +<p> +“The day after you had been introduced to me at the Opera Comique.” +</p> + +<p> +“I thought you would have received me very badly if I had come to see you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because I had behaved so stupidly.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s true. And yet you were already in love with me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“And that didn’t hinder you from going to bed and sleeping quite comfortably. +One knows what that sort of love means.” +</p> + +<p> +“There you are mistaken. Do you know what I did that evening, after the Opera +Comique?” +</p> + +<p> +“No.” +</p> + +<p> +“I waited for you at the door of the Café Anglais. I followed the carriage in +which you and your three friends were, and when I saw you were the only one to +get down, and that you went in alone, I was very happy.” +</p> + +<p> +Marguerite began to laugh. +</p> + +<p> +“What are you laughing at?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing.” +</p> + +<p> +“Tell me, I beg of you, or I shall think you are still laughing at me.” +</p> + +<p> +“You won’t be cross?” +</p> + +<p> +“What right have I to be cross?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, there was a sufficient reason why I went in alone.” +</p> + +<p> +“What?” +</p> + +<p> +“Some one was waiting for me here.” +</p> + +<p> +If she had thrust a knife into me she would not have hurt me more. I rose, and +holding out my hand, “Goodbye,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“I knew you would be cross,” she said; “men are frantic to know what is certain +to give them pain.” +</p> + +<p> +“But I assure you,” I added coldly, as if wishing to prove how completely I was +cured of my passion, “I assure you that I am not cross. It was quite natural +that someone should be waiting for you, just as it is quite natural that I +should go from here at three in the morning.” +</p> + +<p> +“Have you, too, someone waiting for you?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, but I must go.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good-bye, then.” +</p> + +<p> +“You send me away?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not the least in the world.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why are you so unkind to me?” +</p> + +<p> +“How have I been unkind to you?” +</p> + +<p> +“In telling me that someone was waiting for you.” +</p> + +<p> +“I could not help laughing at the idea that you had been so happy to see me +come in alone when there was such a good reason for it.” +</p> + +<p> +“One finds pleasure in childish enough things, and it is too bad to destroy +such a pleasure when, by simply leaving it alone, one can make somebody so +happy.” +</p> + +<p> +“But what do you think I am? I am neither maid nor duchess. I didn’t know you +till to-day, and I am not responsible to you for my actions. Supposing one day +I should become your mistress, you are bound to know that I have had other +lovers besides you. If you make scenes of jealousy like this before, what will +it be after, if that after should ever exist? I never met anyone like you.” +</p> + +<p> +“That is because no one has ever loved you as I love you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Frankly, then, you really love me?” +</p> + +<p> +“As much as it is possible to love, I think.” +</p> + +<p> +“And that has lasted since—?” +</p> + +<p> +“Since the day I saw you go into Susse’s, three years ago.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you know, that is tremendously fine? Well, what am I to do in return?” +</p> + +<p> +“Love me a little,” I said, my heart beating so that I could hardly speak; for, +in spite of the half-mocking smiles with which she had accompanied the whole +conversation, it seemed to me that Marguerite began to share my agitation, and +that the hour so long awaited was drawing near. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, but the duke?” +</p> + +<p> +“What duke?” +</p> + +<p> +“My jealous old duke.” +</p> + +<p> +“He will know nothing.” +</p> + +<p> +“And if he should?” +</p> + +<p> +“He would forgive you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, no, he would leave me, and what would become of me?” +</p> + +<p> +“You risk that for someone else.” +</p> + +<p> +“How do you know?” “By the order you gave not to admit anyone to-night.” “It is +true; but that is a serious friend.” +</p> + +<p> +“For whom you care nothing, as you have shut your door against him at such an +hour.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is not for you to reproach me, since it was in order to receive you, you +and your friend.” +</p> + +<p> +Little by little I had drawn nearer to Marguerite. I had put my arms about her +waist, and I felt her supple body weigh lightly on my clasped hands. +</p> + +<p> +“If you knew how much I love you!” I said in a low voice. “Really true?” +</p> + +<p> +“I swear it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, if you will promise to do everything I tell you, without a word, without +an opinion, without a question, perhaps I will say yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will do everything that you wish!” +</p> + +<p> +“But I forewarn you I must be free to do as I please, without giving you the +slightest details what I do. I have long wished for a young lover, who should +be young and not self-willed, loving without distrust, loved without claiming +the right to it. I have never found one. Men, instead of being satisfied in +obtaining for a long time what they scarcely hoped to obtain once, exact from +their mistresses a full account of the present, the past, and even the future. +As they get accustomed to her, they want to rule her, and the more one gives +them the more exacting they become. If I decide now on taking a new lover, he +must have three very rare qualities: he must be confiding, submissive, and +discreet.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I will be all that you wish.” +</p> + +<p> +“We shall see.” +</p> + +<p> +“When shall we see?” +</p> + +<p> +“Later on.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because,” said Marguerite, releasing herself from my arms, and, taking from a +great bunch of red camellias a single camellia, she placed it in my buttonhole, +“because one can not always carry out agreements the day they are signed.” +</p> + +<p> +“And when shall I see you again?” I said, clasping her in my arms. +</p> + +<p> +“When this camellia changes colour.” +</p> + +<p> +“When will it change colour?” +</p> + +<p> +“To-morrow night between eleven and twelve. Are you satisfied?” +</p> + +<p> +“Need you ask me?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not a word of this either to your friend or to Prudence, or to anybody +whatever.” +</p> + +<p> +“I promise.” +</p> + +<p> +“Now, kiss me, and we will go back to the dining-room.” +</p> + +<p> +She held up her lips to me, smoothed her hair again, and we went out of the +room, she singing, and I almost beside myself. +</p> + +<p> +In the next room she stopped for a moment and said to me in a low voice: +</p> + +<p> +“It must seem strange to you that I am ready to take you at a moment’s notice. +Shall I tell you why? It is,” she continued, taking my hand and placing it +against her heart so that I could feel how rapidly and violently it palpitated; +“it is because I shall not live as long as others, and I have promised myself +to live more quickly.” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t speak to me like that, I entreat you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, make yourself easy,” she continued, laughing; “however short a time I have +to live, I shall live longer than you will love me!” +</p> + +<p> +And she went singing into the dining-room. +</p> + +<p> +“Where is Nanine?” she said, seeing Gaston and Prudence alone. +</p> + +<p> +“She is asleep in your room, waiting till you are ready to go to bed,” replied +Prudence. +</p> + +<p> +“Poor thing, I am killing her! And now gentlemen, it is time to go.” +</p> + +<p> +Ten minutes after, Gaston and I left the house. Marguerite shook hands with me +and said good-bye. Prudence remained behind. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” said Gaston, when we were in the street, “what do you think of +Marguerite?” +</p> + +<p> +“She is an angel, and I am madly in love with her.” “So I guessed; did you tell +her so?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“And did she promise to believe you?” +</p> + +<p> +“No.” +</p> + +<p> +“She is not like Prudence.” +</p> + +<p> +“Did she promise to?” +</p> + +<p> +“Better still, my dear fellow. You wouldn’t think it; but she is still not half +bad, poor old Duvernoy!” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0011"></a> +Chapter XI</h2> + +<p> +At this point Armand stopped. +</p> + +<p> +“Would you close the window for me?” he said. “I am beginning to feel cold. +Meanwhile, I will get into bed.” +</p> + +<p> +I closed the window. Armand, who was still very weak, took off his +dressing-gown and lay down in bed, resting his head for a few moments on the +pillow, like a man who is tired by much talking or disturbed by painful +memories. +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps you have been talking too much,” I said to him. “Would you rather for +me to go and leave you to sleep? You can tell me the rest of the story another +day.” +</p> + +<p> +“Are you tired of listening to it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Quite the contrary.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then I will go on. If you left me alone, I should not sleep.” +</p> + +<p> +When I returned home (he continued, without needing to pause and recollect +himself, so fresh were all the details in his mind), I did not go to bed, but +began to reflect over the day’s adventure. The meeting, the introduction, the +promise of Marguerite, had followed one another so rapidly, and so +unexpectedly, that there were moments when it seemed to me I had been dreaming. +Nevertheless, it was not the first time that a girl like Marguerite had +promised herself to a man on the morrow of the day on which he had asked for +the promise. +</p> + +<p> +Though, indeed, I made this reflection, the first impression produced on me by +my future mistress was so strong that it still persisted. I refused obstinately +to see in her a woman like other women, and, with the vanity so common to all +men, I was ready to believe that she could not but share the attraction which +drew me to her. +</p> + +<p> +Yet, I had before me plenty of instances to the contrary, and I had often heard +that the affection of Marguerite was a thing to be had more or less dear, +according to the season. +</p> + +<p> +But, on the other hand, how was I to reconcile this reputation with her +constant refusal of the young count whom we had found at her house? You may say +that he was unattractive to her, and that, as she was splendidly kept by the +duke, she would be more likely to choose a man who was attractive to her, if +she were to take another lover. If so, why did she not choose Gaston, who was +rich, witty, and charming, and why did she care for me, whom she had thought so +ridiculous the first time she had seen me? +</p> + +<p> +It is true that there are events of a moment which tell more than the courtship +of a year. Of those who were at the supper, I was the only one who had been +concerned at her leaving the table. I had followed her, I had been so affected +as to be unable to hide it from her, I had wept as I kissed her hand. This +circumstance, added to my daily visits during the two months of her illness, +might have shown her that I was somewhat different from the other men she knew, +and perhaps she had said to herself that for a love which could thus manifest +itself she might well do what she had done so often that it had no more +consequence for her. +</p> + +<p> +All these suppositions, as you may see, were improbable enough; but whatever +might have been the reason of her consent, one thing was certain, she had +consented. +</p> + +<p> +Now, I was in love with Marguerite. I had nothing more to ask of her. +Nevertheless, though she was only a kept woman, I had so anticipated for +myself, perhaps to poetize it a little, a hopeless love, that the nearer the +moment approached when I should have nothing more to hope, the more I doubted. +I did not close my eyes all night. +</p> + +<p> +I scarcely knew myself. I was half demented. Now, I seemed to myself not +handsome or rich or elegant enough to possess such a woman, now I was filled +with vanity at the thought of it; then I began to fear lest Marguerite had no +more than a few days’ caprice for me, and I said to myself that since we should +soon have to part, it would be better not to keep her appointment, but to write +and tell her my fears and leave her. From that I went on to unlimited hope, +unbounded confidence. I dreamed incredible dreams of the future; I said to +myself that she should owe to me her moral and physical recovery, that I should +spend my whole life with her, and that her love should make me happier than all +the maidenly loves in the world. +</p> + +<p> +But I can not repeat to you the thousand thoughts that rose from my heart to my +head, and that only faded away with the sleep that came to me at daybreak. +</p> + +<p> +When I awoke it was two o’clock. The weather was superb. I don’t think life +ever seemed to me so beautiful and so full of possibilities. The memories of +the night before came to me without shadow or hindrance, escorted gaily by the +hopes of the night to come. From time to time my heart leaped with love and joy +in my breast. A sweet fever thrilled me. I thought no more of the reasons which +had filled my mind before I slept. I saw only the result, I thought only of the +hour when I was to see Marguerite again. +</p> + +<p> +It was impossible to stay indoors. My room seemed too small to contain my +happiness. I needed the whole of nature to unbosom myself. +</p> + +<p> +I went out. Passing by the Rue d’Antin, I saw Marguerite’s coupé waiting for +her at the door. I went toward the Champs-Elysées. I loved all the people whom +I met. Love gives one a kind of goodness. +</p> + +<p> +After I had been walking for an hour from the Marly horses to the Rond-Point, I +saw Marguerite’s carriage in the distance; I divined rather than recognised it. +As it was turning the corner of the Champs-Elysées it stopped, and a tall young +man left a group of people with whom he was talking and came up to her. They +talked for a few moments; the young man returned to his friends, the horses set +out again, and as I came near the group I recognised the one who had spoken to +Marguerite as the Comte de G., whose portrait I had seen and whom Prudence had +indicated to me as the man to whom Marguerite owed her position. It was to him +that she had closed her doors the night before; I imagined that she had stopped +her carriage in order to explain to him why she had done so, and I hoped that +at the same time she had found some new pretext for not receiving him on the +following night. +</p> + +<p> +How I spent the rest of the day I do not know; I walked, smoked, talked, but +what I said, whom I met, I had utterly forgotten by ten o’clock in the evening. +</p> + +<p> +All I remember is that when I returned home, I spent three hours over my +toilet, and I looked at my watch and my clock a hundred times, which +unfortunately both pointed to the same hour. +</p> + +<p> +When it struck half past ten, I said to myself that it was time to go. +</p> + +<p> +I lived at that time in the Rue de Provence; I followed the Rue du Mont-Blanc, +crossed the Boulevard, went up the Rue Louis-le-Grand, the Rue de Port-Mahon, +and the Rue d’Antin. I looked up at Marguerite’s windows. There was a light. I +rang. I asked the porter if Mlle. Gautier was at home. He replied that she +never came in before eleven or a quarter past eleven. I looked at my watch. I +intended to come quite slowly, and I had come in five minutes from the Rue de +Provence to the Rue d’Antin. +</p> + +<p> +I walked to and fro in the street; there are no shops, and at that hour it is +quite deserted. In half an hour’s time Marguerite arrived. She looked around +her as she got down from her coupé, as if she were looking for some one. The +carriage drove off; the stables were not at the house. Just as Marguerite was +going to ring, I went up to her and said, “Good-evening.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, it is you,” she said, in a tone that by no means reassured me as to her +pleasure in seeing me. +</p> + +<p> +“Did you not promise me that I might come and see you to-day?” +</p> + +<p> +“Quite right. I had forgotten.” +</p> + +<p> +This word upset all the reflections I had had during the day. Nevertheless, I +was beginning to get used to her ways, and I did not leave her, as I should +certainly have done once. We entered. Nanine had already opened the door. +</p> + +<p> +“Has Prudence come?” said Marguerite. +</p> + +<p> +“No, madame.” +</p> + +<p> +“Say that she is to be admitted as soon as she comes. But first put out the +lamp in the drawing-room, and if anyone comes, say that I have not come back +and shall not be coming back.” +</p> + +<p> +She was like a woman who is preoccupied with something, and perhaps annoyed by +an unwelcome guest. I did not know what to do or say. Marguerite went toward +her bedroom; I remained where I was. +</p> + +<p> +“Come,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +She took off her hat and her velvet cloak and threw them on the bed, then let +herself drop into a great armchair beside the fire, which she kept till the +very beginning of summer, and said to me as she fingered her watch-chain: +</p> + +<p> +“Well, what news have you got for me?” +</p> + +<p> +“None, except that I ought not to have come to-night.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because you seem vexed, and no doubt I am boring you.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are not boring me; only I am not well; I have been suffering all day. I +could not sleep, and I have a frightful headache.” +</p> + +<p> +“Shall I go away and let you go to bed?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, you can stay. If I want to go to bed I don’t mind your being here.” +</p> + +<p> +At that moment there was a ring. +</p> + +<p> +“Who is coming now?” she said, with an impatient movement. +</p> + +<p> +A few minutes after there was another ring. +</p> + +<p> +“Isn’t there anyone to go to the door? I shall have to go.” She got up and said +to me, “Wait here.” +</p> + +<p> +She went through the rooms, and I heard her open the outer door. I listened. +</p> + +<p> +The person whom she had admitted did not come farther than the dining-room. At +the first word I recognised the voice of the young Comte de N. +</p> + +<p> +“How are you this evening?” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“Not well,” replied Marguerite drily. +</p> + +<p> +“Am I disturbing you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps. +</p> + +<p> +“How you receive me! What have I done, my dear Marguerite?” +</p> + +<p> +“My dear friend, you have done nothing. I am ill; I must go to bed, so you will +be good enough to go. It is sickening not to be able to return at night without +your making your appearance five minutes afterward. What is it you want? For me +to be your mistress? Well, I have already told you a hundred times, No; you +simply worry me, and you might as well go somewhere else. I repeat to you +to-day, for the last time, I don’t want to have anything to do with you; that’s +settled. Good-bye. Here’s Nanine coming in; she can light you to the door. +Good-night.” +</p> + +<p> +Without adding another word, or listening to what the young man stammered out, +Marguerite returned to the room and slammed the door. Nanine entered a moment +after. +</p> + +<p> +“Now understand,” said Marguerite, “you are always to say to that idiot that I +am not in, or that I will not see him. I am tired out with seeing people who +always want the same thing; who pay me for it, and then think they are quit of +me. If those who are going to go in for our hateful business only knew what it +really was they would sooner be chambermaids. But no, vanity, the desire of +having dresses and carriages and diamonds carries us away; one believes what +one hears, for here, as elsewhere, there is such a thing as belief, and one +uses up one’s heart, one’s body, one’s beauty, little by little; one is feared +like a beast of prey, scorned like a pariah, surrounded by people who always +take more than they give; and one fine day one dies like a dog in a ditch, +after having ruined others and ruined one’s self.” +</p> + +<p> +“Come, come, madame, be calm,” said Nanine; “your nerves are a bit upset +to-night.” +</p> + +<p> +“This dress worries me,” continued Marguerite, unhooking her bodice; “give me a +dressing-gown. Well, and Prudence?” +</p> + +<p> +“She has not come yet, but I will send her to you, madame, the moment she +comes.” +</p> + +<p> +“There’s one, now,” Marguerite went on, as she took off her dress and put on a +white dressing-gown, “there’s one who knows very well how to find me when she +is in want of me, and yet she can’t do me a service decently. She knows I am +waiting for an answer. She knows how anxious I am, and I am sure she is going +about on her own account, without giving a thought to me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps she had to wait.” +</p> + +<p> +“Let us have some punch.” +</p> + +<p> +“It will do you no good, madame,” said Nanine. +</p> + +<p> +“So much the better. Bring some fruit, too, and a paté or a wing of chicken; +something or other, at once. I am hungry.” +</p> + +<p> +Need I tell you the impression which this scene made upon me, or can you not +imagine it? +</p> + +<p> +“You are going to have supper with me,” she said to me; “meanwhile, take a +book. I am going into my dressing-room for a moment.” +</p> + +<p> +She lit the candles of a candelabra, opened a door at the foot of the bed, and +disappeared. +</p> + +<p> +I began to think over this poor girl’s life, and my love for her was mingled +with a great pity. I walked to and fro in the room, thinking over things, when +Prudence entered. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, you here?”’ she said, “where is Marguerite?” +</p> + +<p> +“In her dressing-room.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will wait. By the way, do you know she thinks you charming?” +</p> + +<p> +“No.” +</p> + +<p> +“She hasn’t told you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not at all.” +</p> + +<p> +“How are you here?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have come to pay her a visit.” +</p> + +<p> +“At midnight?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why not?” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Farceur!</i>” +</p> + +<p> +“She has received me, as a matter of fact, very badly.” +</p> + +<p> +“She will receive you better by and bye.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you think so?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have some good news for her.” +</p> + +<p> +“No harm in that. So she has spoken to you about me?” +</p> + +<p> +“Last night, or rather to-night, when you and your friend went. By the way, +what is your friend called? Gaston R., his name is, isn’t it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said I, not without smiling, as I thought of what Gaston had confided to +me, and saw that Prudence scarcely even knew his name. +</p> + +<p> +“He is quite nice, that fellow; what does he do?” +</p> + +<p> +“He has twenty-five thousand francs a year.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, indeed! Well, to return to you. Marguerite asked me all about you: who you +were, what you did, what mistresses you had had; in short, everything that one +could ask about a man of your age. I told her all I knew, and added that you +were a charming young man. That’s all.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thanks. Now tell me what it was she wanted to say to you last night.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing at all. It was only to get rid of the count; but I have really +something to see her about to-day, and I am bringing her an answer now.” +</p> + +<p> +At this moment Marguerite reappeared from her dressing-room, wearing a +coquettish little nightcap with bunches of yellow ribbons, technically known as +“cabbages.” She looked ravishing. She had satin slippers on her bare feet, and +was in the act of polishing her nails. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” she said, seeing Prudence, “have you seen the duke?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, indeed.” +</p> + +<p> +“And what did he say to you?” +</p> + +<p> +“He gave me—” +</p> + +<p> +“How much?” +</p> + +<p> +“Six thousand.” +</p> + +<p> +“Have you got it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. +</p> + +<p> +“Did he seem put out?” +</p> + +<p> +“No.” +</p> + +<p> +“Poor man!” +</p> + +<p> +This “Poor man!” was said in a tone impossible to render. Marguerite took the +six notes of a thousand francs. +</p> + +<p> +“It was quite time,” she said. “My dear Prudence, are you in want of any +money?” +</p> + +<p> +“You know, my child, it is the 15th in a couple of days, so if you could lend +me three or four hundred francs, you would do me a real service.” +</p> + +<p> +“Send over to-morrow; it is too late to get change now.” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t forget.” +</p> + +<p> +“No fear. Will you have supper with us?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, Charles is waiting for me.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are still devoted to him?” +</p> + +<p> +“Crazy, my dear! I will see you to-morrow. Good-bye, Armand.” +</p> + +<p> +Mme. Duvernoy went out. +</p> + +<p> +Marguerite opened the drawer of a side-table and threw the bank-notes into it. +</p> + +<p> +“Will you permit me to get into bed?” she said with a smile, as she moved +toward the bed. +</p> + +<p> +“Not only permit, but I beg of you.” +</p> + +<p> +She turned back the covering and got into bed. +</p> + +<p> +“Now,” said she, “come and sit down by me, and let’s have a talk.” +</p> + +<p> +Prudence was right: the answer that she had brought to Marguerite had put her +into a good humour. +</p> + +<p> +“Will you forgive me for my bad temper tonight?” she said, taking my hand. +</p> + +<p> +“I am ready to forgive you as often as you like.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you love me?” +</p> + +<p> +“Madly.” +</p> + +<p> +“In spite of my bad disposition?” +</p> + +<p> +“In spite of all.” +</p> + +<p> +“You swear it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” I said in a whisper. +</p> + +<p> +Nanine entered, carrying plates, a cold chicken, a bottle of claret, and some +strawberries. +</p> + +<p> +“I haven’t had any punch made,” said Nanine; “claret is better for you. Isn’t +it, sir?” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly,” I replied, still under the excitement of Marguerite’s last words, +my eyes fixed ardently upon her. +</p> + +<p> +“Good,” said she; “put it all on the little table, and draw it up to the bed; +we will help ourselves. This is the third night you have sat up, and you must +be in want of sleep. Go to bed. I don’t want anything more.” +</p> + +<p> +“Shall I lock the door?” +</p> + +<p> +“I should think so! And above all, tell them not to admit anybody before +midday.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0012"></a> +Chapter XII</h2> + +<p> +At five o’clock in the morning, as the light began to appear through the +curtains, Marguerite said to me: “Forgive me if I send you away; but I must. +The duke comes every morning; they will tell him, when he comes, that I am +asleep, and perhaps he will wait until I wake.” +</p> + +<p> +I took Marguerite’s head in my hands; her loosened hair streamed about her; I +gave her a last kiss, saying: “When shall I see you again?” +</p> + +<p> +“Listen,” she said; “take the little gilt key on the mantelpiece, open that +door; bring me back the key and go. In the course of the day you shall have a +letter, and my orders, for you know you are to obey blindly.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes; but if I should already ask for something?” +</p> + +<p> +“What?” +</p> + +<p> +“Let me have that key.” +</p> + +<p> +“What you ask is a thing I have never done for anyone.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, do it for me, for I swear to you that I don’t love you as the others +have loved you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, keep it; but it only depends on me to make it useless to you, after +all.” +</p> + +<p> +“How?” +</p> + +<p> +“There are bolts on the door.” +</p> + +<p> +“Wretch!” +</p> + +<p> +“I will have them taken off.” +</p> + +<p> +“You love, then, a little?” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know how it is, but it seems to me as if I do! Now, go; I can’t keep +my eyes open.” +</p> + +<p> +I held her in my arms for a few seconds and then went. +</p> + +<p> +The streets were empty, the great city was still asleep, a sweet freshness +circulated in the streets that a few hours later would be filled with the noise +of men. It seemed to me as if this sleeping city belonged to me; I searched my +memory for the names of those whose happiness I had once envied; and I could +not recall one without finding myself the happier. +</p> + +<p> +To be loved by a pure young girl, to be the first to reveal to her the strange +mystery of love, is indeed a great happiness, but it is the simplest thing in +the world. To take captive a heart which has had no experience of attack, is to +enter an unfortified and ungarrisoned city. Education, family feeling, the +sense of duty, the family, are strong sentinels, but there are no sentinels so +vigilant as not to be deceived by a girl of sixteen to whom nature, by the +voice of the man she loves, gives the first counsels of love, all the more +ardent because they seem so pure. +</p> + +<p> +The more a girl believes in goodness, the more easily will she give way, if not +to her lover, at least to love, for being without mistrust she is without +force, and to win her love is a triumph that can be gained by any young man of +five-and-twenty. See how young girls are watched and guarded! The walls of +convents are not high enough, mothers have no locks strong enough, religion has +no duties constant enough, to shut these charming birds in their cages, cages +not even strewn with flowers. Then how surely must they desire the world which +is hidden from them, how surely must they find it tempting, how surely must +they listen to the first voice which comes to tell its secrets through their +bars, and bless the hand which is the first to raise a corner of the mysterious +veil! +</p> + +<p> +But to be really loved by a courtesan: that is a victory of infinitely greater +difficulty. With them the body has worn out the soul, the senses have burned up +the heart, dissipation has blunted the feelings. They have long known the words +that we say to them, the means we use; they have sold the love that they +inspire. They love by profession, and not by instinct. They are guarded better +by their calculations than a virgin by her mother and her convent; and they +have invented the word caprice for that unbartered love which they allow +themselves from time to time, for a rest, for an excuse, for a consolation, +like usurers, who cheat a thousand, and think they have bought their own +redemption by once lending a sovereign to a poor devil who is dying of hunger +without asking for interest or a receipt. +</p> + +<p> +Then, when God allows love to a courtesan, that love, which at first seems like +a pardon, becomes for her almost without penitence. When a creature who has all +her past to reproach herself with is taken all at once by a profound, sincere, +irresistible love, of which she had never felt herself capable; when she has +confessed her love, how absolutely the man whom she loves dominates her! How +strong he feels with his cruel right to say: You do no more for love than you +have done for money. They know not what proof to give. A child, says the fable, +having often amused himself by crying “Help! a wolf!” in order to disturb the +labourers in the field, was one day devoured by a Wolf, because those whom he +had so often deceived no longer believed in his cries for help. It is the same +with these unhappy women when they love seriously. They have lied so often that +no one will believe them, and in the midst of their remorse they are devoured +by their love. +</p> + +<p> +Hence those great devotions, those austere retreats from the world, of which +some of them have given an example. +</p> + +<p> +But when the man who inspires this redeeming love is great enough in soul to +receive it without remembering the past, when he gives himself up to it, when, +in short, he loves as he is loved, this man drains at one draught all earthly +emotions, and after such a love his heart will be closed to every other. +</p> + +<p> +I did not make these reflections on the morning when I returned home. They +could but have been the presentiment of what was to happen to me, and, despite +my love for Marguerite, I did not foresee such consequences. I make these +reflections to-day. Now that all is irrevocably ended, they a rise naturally +out of what has taken place. +</p> + +<p> +But to return to the first day of my liaison. When I reached home I was in a +state of mad gaiety. As I thought of how the barriers which my imagination had +placed between Marguerite and myself had disappeared, of how she was now mine; +of the place I now had in her thoughts, of the key to her room which I had in +my pocket, and of my right to use this key, I was satisfied with life, proud of +myself, and I loved God because he had let such things be. +</p> + +<p> +One day a young man is passing in the street, he brushes against a woman, looks +at her, turns, goes on his way. He does not know the woman, and she has +pleasures, griefs, loves, in which he has no part. He does not exist for her, +and perhaps, if he spoke to her, she would only laugh at him, as Marguerite had +laughed at me. Weeks, months, years pass, and all at once, when they have each +followed their fate along a different path, the logic of chance brings them +face to face. The woman becomes the man’s mistress and loves him. How? why? +Their two existences are henceforth one; they have scarcely begun to know one +another when it seems as if they had known one another always, and all that had +gone before is wiped out from the memory of the two lovers. It is curious, one +must admit. +</p> + +<p> +As for me, I no longer remembered how I had lived before that night. My whole +being was exalted into joy at the memory of the words we had exchanged during +that first night. Either Marguerite was very clever in deception, or she had +conceived for me one of those sudden passions which are revealed in the first +kiss, and which die, often enough, as suddenly as they were born. +</p> + +<p> +The more I reflected the more I said to myself that Marguerite had no reason +for feigning a love which she did not feel, and I said to myself also that +women have two ways of loving, one of which may arise from the other: they love +with the heart or with the senses. Often a woman takes a lover in obedience to +the mere will of the senses, and learns without expecting it the mystery of +immaterial love, and lives henceforth only through her heart; often a girl who +has sought in marriage only the union of two pure affections receives the +sudden revelation of physical love, that energetic conclusion of the purest +impressions of the soul. +</p> + +<p> +In the midst of these thoughts I fell asleep; I was awakened by a letter from +Marguerite containing these words: +</p> + +<p> +“Here are my orders: To-night at the Vaudeville. +</p> + +<p> +“Come during the third <i>entr’acte</i>.” +</p> + +<p> +I put the letter into a drawer, so that I might always have it at hand in case +I doubted its reality, as I did from time to time. +</p> + +<p> +She did not tell me to come to see her during the day, and I dared not go; but +I had so great a desire to see her before the evening that I went to the +Champs-Elysées, where I again saw her pass and repass, as I had on the previous +day. +</p> + +<p> +At seven o’clock I was at the Vaudeville. Never had I gone to a theatre so +early. The boxes filled one after another. Only one remained empty, the stage +box. At the beginning of the third act I heard the door of the box, on which my +eyes had been almost constantly fixed, open, and Marguerite appeared. She came +to the front at once, looked around the stalls, saw me, and thanked me with a +look. +</p> + +<p> +That night she was marvellously beautiful. Was I the cause of this coquetry? +Did she love me enough to believe that the more beautiful she looked the +happier I should be? I did not know, but if that had been her intention she +certainly succeeded, for when she appeared all heads turned, and the actor who +was then on the stage looked to see who had produced such an effect on the +audience by her mere presence there. +</p> + +<p> +And I had the key of this woman’s room, and in three or four hours she would +again be mine! +</p> + +<p> +People blame those who let themselves be ruined by actresses and kept women; +what astonishes me is that twenty times greater follies are not committed for +them. One must have lived that life, as I have, to know how much the little +vanities which they afford their lovers every day help to fasten deeper into +the heart, since we have no other word for it, the love which he has for them. +</p> + +<p> +Prudence next took her place in the box, and a man, whom I recognised as the +Comte de G., seated himself at the back. As I saw him, a cold shiver went +through my heart. +</p> + +<p> +Doubtless Marguerite perceived the impression made on me by the presence of +this man, for she smiled to me again, and, turning her back to the count, +appeared to be very attentive to the play. At the third <i>entr’acte</i> she +turned and said two words: the count left the box, and Marguerite beckoned to +me to come to her. +</p> + +<p> +“Good-evening,” she said as I entered, holding out her hand. +</p> + +<p> +“Good-evening,” I replied to both Marguerite and Prudence. +</p> + +<p> +“Sit down.” +</p> + +<p> +“But I am taking someone’s place. Isn’t the Comte de G. coming back?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes; I sent him to fetch some sweets, so that we could talk by ourselves for a +moment. Mme. Duvernoy is in on the secret.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, my children,” said she; “have no fear. I shall say nothing.” +</p> + +<p> +“What is the matter with you to-night?” said Marguerite, rising and coming to +the back of the box and kissing me on the forehead. +</p> + +<p> +“I am not very well.” +</p> + +<p> +“You should go to bed,” she replied, with that ironical air which went so well +with her delicate and witty face. +</p> + +<p> +“Where?” +</p> + +<p> +“At home.” +</p> + +<p> +“You know that I shouldn’t be able to sleep there.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, then, it won’t do for you to come and be pettish here because you have +seen a man in my box.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is not for that reason.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, it is. I know; and you are wrong, so let us say no more about it. You +will go back with Prudence after the theatre, and you will stay there till I +call. Do you understand?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +How could I disobey? +</p> + +<p> +“You still love me?” +</p> + +<p> +“Can you ask?” +</p> + +<p> +“You have thought of me?” +</p> + +<p> +“All day long.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you know that I am really afraid that I shall get very fond of you? Ask +Prudence.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah,” said she, “it is amazing!” +</p> + +<p> +“Now, you must go back to your seat. The count will be coming back, and there +is nothing to be gained by his finding you here.” +</p> + +<p> +“Because you don’t like seeing him.” +</p> + +<p> +“No; only if you had told me that you wanted to come to the Vaudeville to-night +I could have got this box for you as well as he.” +</p> + +<p> +“Unfortunately, he got it for me without my asking him, and he asked me to go +with him; you know well enough that I couldn’t refuse. All I could do was to +write and tell you where I was going, so that you could see me, and because I +wanted to see you myself; but since this is the way you thank me, I shall +profit by the lesson.” +</p> + +<p> +“I was wrong; forgive me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well and good; and now go back nicely to your place, and, above all, no more +jealousy.” +</p> + +<p> +She kissed me again, and I left the box. In the passage I met the count coming +back. I returned to my seat. +</p> + +<p> +After all, the presence of M. de G. in Marguerite’s box was the most natural +thing in the world. He had been her lover, he sent her a box, he accompanied +her to the theatre; it was all quite natural, and if I was to have a mistress +like Marguerite I should have to get used to her ways. +</p> + +<p> +Nonetheless, I was very unhappy all the rest of the evening, and went away very +sadly after having seen Prudence, the count, and Marguerite get into the +carriage, which was waiting for them at the door. +</p> + +<p> +However, a quarter of an hour later I was at Prudence’s. She had only just got +in. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0013"></a> +Chapter XIII</h2> + +<p> +“You have come almost as quickly as we,” said Prudence. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” I answered mechanically. “Where is Marguerite?” +</p> + +<p> +“At home.” +</p> + +<p> +“Alone?” +</p> + +<p> +“With M. de G.” +</p> + +<p> +I walked to and fro in the room. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, what is the matter?” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you think it amuses me to wait here till M. de G. leaves Marguerite’s?” +</p> + +<p> +“How unreasonable you are! Don’t you see that Marguerite can’t turn the count +out of doors? M. de G. has been with her for a long time; he has always given +her a lot of money; he still does. Marguerite spends more than a hundred +thousand francs a year; she has heaps of debts. The duke gives her all that she +asks for, but she does not always venture to ask him for all that she is in +want of. It would never do for her to quarrel with the count, who is worth to +her at least ten thousand francs a year. Marguerite is very fond of you, my +dear fellow, but your liaison with her, in her interests and in yours, ought +not to be serious. You with your seven or eight thousand francs a year, what +could you do toward supplying all the luxuries which a girl like that is in +need of? It would not be enough to keep her carriage. Take Marguerite for what +she is, for a good, bright, pretty girl; be her lover for a month, two months; +give her flowers, sweets, boxes at the theatre; but don’t get any other ideas +into your head, and don’t make absurd scenes of jealousy. You know whom you +have to do with; Marguerite isn’t a saint. She likes you, you are very fond of +her; let the rest alone. You amaze me when I see you so touchy; you have the +most charming mistress in Paris. She receives you in the greatest style, she is +covered with diamonds, she needn’t cost you a penny, unless you like, and you +are not satisfied. My dear fellow, you ask too much!” +</p> + +<p> +“You are right, but I can’t help it; the idea that that man is her lover hurts +me horribly.” +</p> + +<p> +“In the first place,” replied Prudence; “is he still her lover? He is a man who +is useful to her, nothing more. She has closed her doors to him for two days; +he came this morning—she could not but accept the box and let him +accompany her. He saw her home; he has gone in for a moment, he is not staying, +because you are waiting here. All that, it seems to me, is quite natural. +Besides, you don’t mind the duke.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes; but he is an old man, and I am sure that Marguerite is not his mistress. +Then, it is all very well to accept one liaison, but not two. Such easiness in +the matter is very like calculation, and puts the man who consents to it, even +out of love, very much in the category of those who, in a lower stage of +society, make a trade of their connivance, and a profit of their trade.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, my dear fellow, how old-fashioned you are! How many of the richest and +most fashionable men of the best families I have seen quite ready to do what I +advise you to do, and without an effort, without shame, without remorse, Why, +one sees it every day. How do you suppose the kept women in Paris could live in +the style they do, if they had not three or four lovers at once? No single +fortune, however large, could suffice for the expenses of a woman like +Marguerite. A fortune of five hundred thousand francs a year is, in France, an +enormous fortune; well, my dear friend, five hundred thousand francs a year +would still be too little, and for this reason: a man with such an income has a +large house, horses, servants, carriages; he shoots, has friends, often he is +married, he has children, he races, gambles, travels, and what not. All these +habits are so much a part of his position that he can not forego them without +appearing to have lost all his money, and without causing scandal. Taking it +all round, with five hundred thousand francs a year he can not give a woman +more than forty or fifty thousand francs in the year, and that is already a +good deal. Well, other lovers make up for the rest of her expenses. With +Marguerite, it is still more convenient; she has chanced by a miracle on an old +man worth ten millions, whose wife and daughter are dead; who has only some +nephews, themselves rich, and who gives her all she wants without asking +anything in return. But she can not ask him for more than seventy thousand +francs a year; and I am sure that if she did ask for more, despite his health +and the affection he has for her he would not give it to her. +</p> + +<p> +“All the young men of twenty or thirty thousand francs a year at Paris, that is +to say, men who have only just enough to live on in the society in which they +mix, know perfectly well, when they are the lovers of a woman like Marguerite, +that she could not so much as pay for the rooms she lives in and the servants +who wait upon her with what they give her. They do not say to her that they +know it; they pretend not to see anything, and when they have had enough of it +they go their way. If they have the vanity to wish to pay for everything they +get ruined, like the fools they are, and go and get killed in Africa, after +leaving a hundred thousand francs of debt in Paris. Do you think a woman is +grateful to them for it? Far from it. She declares that she has sacrificed her +position for them, and that while she was with them she was losing money. These +details seem to you shocking? Well, they are true. You are a very nice fellow; +I like you very much. I have lived with these women for twenty years; I know +what they are worth, and I don’t want to see you take the caprice that a pretty +girl has for you too seriously. +</p> + +<p> +“Then, besides that,” continued Prudence; “admit that Marguerite loves you +enough to give up the count or the duke, in case one of them were to discover +your liaison and to tell her to choose between him and you, the sacrifice that +she would make for you would be enormous, you can not deny it. What equal +sacrifice could you make for her, on your part, and when you had got tired of +her, what could you do to make up for what you had taken from her? Nothing. You +would have cut her off from the world in which her fortune and her future were +to be found; she would have given you her best years, and she would be +forgotten. Either you would be an ordinary man, and, casting her past in her +teeth, you would leave her, telling her that you were only doing like her other +lovers, and you would abandon her to certain misery; or you would be an honest +man, and, feeling bound to keep her by you, you would bring inevitable trouble +upon yourself, for a liaison which is excusable in a young man, is no longer +excusable in a man of middle age. It becomes an obstacle to every thing; it +allows neither family nor ambition, man’s second and last loves. Believe me, +then, my friend, take things for what they are worth, and do not give a kept +woman the right to call herself your creditor, no matter in what.” +</p> + +<p> +It was well argued, with a logic of which I should have thought Prudence +incapable. I had nothing to reply, except that she was right; I took her hand +and thanked her for her counsels. +</p> + +<p> +“Come, come,” said she, “put these foolish theories to flight, and laugh over +them. Life is pleasant, my dear fellow; it all depends on the colour of the +glass through which one sees it. Ask your friend Gaston; there’s a man who +seems to me to understand love as I understand it. All that you need think of, +unless you are quite a fool, is that close by there is a beautiful girl who is +waiting impatiently for the man who is with her to go, thinking of you, keeping +the whole night for you, and who loves you, I am certain. Now, come to the +window with me, and let us watch for the count to go; he won’t be long in +leaving the coast clear.” +</p> + +<p> +Prudence opened the window, and we leaned side by side over the balcony. She +watched the few passers, I reflected. All that she had said buzzed in my head, +and I could not help feeling that she was right; but the genuine love which I +had for Marguerite had some difficulty in accommodating itself to such a +belief. I sighed from time to time, at which Prudence turned, and shrugged her +shoulders like a physician who has given up his patient. +</p> + +<p> +“How one realizes the shortness of life,” I said to myself, “by the rapidity of +sensations! I have only known Marguerite for two days, she has only been my +mistress since yesterday, and she has already so completely absorbed my +thoughts, my heart, and my life that the visit of the Comte de G. is a +misfortune for me.” +</p> + +<p> +At last the count came out, got into his carriage and disappeared. Prudence +closed the window. At the same instant Marguerite called to us: +</p> + +<p> +“Come at once,” she said; “they are laying the table, and we’ll have supper.” +</p> + +<p> +When I entered, Marguerite ran to me, threw her arms around my neck and kissed +me with all her might. +</p> + +<p> +“Are we still sulky?” she said to me. +</p> + +<p> +“No, it is all over,” replied Prudence. “I have given him a talking to, and he +has promised to be reasonable.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well and good.” +</p> + +<p> +In spite of myself I glanced at the bed; it was not unmade. As for Marguerite, +she was already in her white dressing-gown. We sat down to table. +</p> + +<p> +Charm, sweetness, spontaneity, Marguerite had them all, and I was forced from +time to time to admit that I had no right to ask of her anything else; that +many people would be very happy to be in my place; and that, like Virgil’s +shepherd, I had only to enjoy the pleasures that a god, or rather a goddess, +set before me. +</p> + +<p> +I tried to put in practice the theories of Prudence, and to be as gay as my two +companions; but what was natural in them was on my part an effort, and the +nervous laughter, whose source they did not detect, was nearer to tears than to +mirth. +</p> + +<p> +At last the supper was over and I was alone with Marguerite. She sat down as +usual on the hearthrug before the fire and gazed sadly into the flames. What +was she thinking of? I know not. As for me, I looked at her with a mingling of +love and terror, as I thought of all that I was ready to suffer for her sake. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you know what I am thinking of?” +</p> + +<p> +“No.” +</p> + +<p> +“Of a plan that has come into my head.” +</p> + +<p> +“And what is this plan?” +</p> + +<p> +“I can’t tell you yet, but I can tell you what the result would be. The result +would be that in a month I should be free, I should have no more debts, and we +could go and spend the summer in the country.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you can’t tell me by what means?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, only love me as I love you, and all will succeed.” +</p> + +<p> +“And have you made this plan all by yourself?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you will carry it out all by yourself?” +</p> + +<p> +“I alone shall have the trouble of it,” said Marguerite, with a smile which I +shall never forget, “but we shall both partake its benefits.” +</p> + +<p> +I could not help flushing at the word benefits; I thought of Manon Lescaut +squandering with Desgrieux the money of M. de B. +</p> + +<p> +I replied in a hard voice, rising from my seat: +</p> + +<p> +“You must permit me, my dear Marguerite, to share only the benefits of those +enterprises which I have conceived and carried out myself.” +</p> + +<p> +“What does that mean?” +</p> + +<p> +“It means that I have a strong suspicion that M. de G. is to be your associate +in this pretty plan, of which I can accept neither the cost nor the benefits.” +</p> + +<p> +“What a child you are! I thought you loved me. I was mistaken; all right.” +</p> + +<p> +She rose, opened the piano and began to play the “Invitation à la Valse”, as +far as the famous passage in the major which always stopped her. Was it through +force of habit, or was it to remind me of the day when we first met? All I know +is that the melody brought back that recollection, and, coming up to her, I +took her head between my hands and kissed her. “You forgive me?” I said. +</p> + +<p> +“You see I do,” she answered; “but observe that we are only at our second day, +and already I have had to forgive you something. Is this how you keep your +promise of blind obedience?” +</p> + +<p> +“What can I do, Marguerite? I love you too much and I am jealous of the least +of your thoughts. What you proposed to me just now made me frantic with +delight, but the mystery in its carrying out hurts me dreadfully.” +</p> + +<p> +“Come, let us reason it out,” she said, taking both my hands and looking at me +with a charming smile which it was impossible to resist, “You love me, do you +not? and you would gladly spend two or three months alone with me in the +country? I too should be glad of this <i>solitude à deux</i>, and not only glad +of it, but my health requires it. I can not leave Paris for such a length of +time without putting my affairs in order, and the affairs of a woman like me +are always in great confusion; well, I have found a way to reconcile +everything, my money affairs and my love for you; yes, for you, don’t laugh; I +am silly enough to love you! And here you are taking lordly airs and talking +big words. Child, thrice child, only remember that I love you, and don’t let +anything disturb you. Now, is it agreed?” +</p> + +<p> +“I agree to all you wish, as you know.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then, in less than a month’s time we shall be in some village, walking by the +river side, and drinking milk. Does it seem strange that Marguerite Gautier +should speak to you like that? The fact is, my friend, that when this Paris +life, which seems to make me so happy, doesn’t burn me, it wearies me, and then +I have sudden aspirations toward a calmer existence which might recall my +childhood. One has always had a childhood, whatever one becomes. Don’t be +alarmed; I am not going to tell you that I am the daughter of a colonel on +half-pay, and that I was brought up at Saint-Denis. I am a poor country girl, +and six years ago I could not write my own name. You are relieved, aren’t you? +Why is it you are the first whom I have ever asked to share the joy of this +desire of mine? I suppose because I feel that you love me for myself and not +for yourself, while all the others have only loved me for themselves. +</p> + +<p> +“I have often been in the country, but never as I should like to go there. I +count on you for this easy happiness; do not be unkind, let me have it. Say +this to yourself: ‘She will never live to be old, and I should some day be +sorry for not having done for her the first thing she asked of me, such an easy +thing to do!’” +</p> + +<p> +What could I reply to such words, especially with the memory of a first night +of love, and in the expectation of a second? +</p> + +<p> +An hour later I held Marguerite in my arms, and, if she had asked me to commit +a crime, I would have obeyed her. +</p> + +<p> +At six in the morning I left her, and before leaving her I said: “Till +to-night!” She kissed me more warmly than ever, but said nothing. +</p> + +<p> +During the day I received a note containing these words: +</p> + +<p> +“DEAR CHILD: I am not very well, and the doctor has ordered quiet. I shall go +to bed early to-night and shall not see you. But, to make up, I shall expect +you to-morrow at twelve. I love you.” +</p> + +<p> +My first thought was: She is deceiving me! +</p> + +<p> +A cold sweat broke out on my forehead, for I already loved this woman too much +not to be overwhelmed by the suspicion. And yet, I was bound to expect such a +thing almost any day with Marguerite, and it had happened to me often enough +with my other mistresses, without my taking much notice of it. What was the +meaning of the hold which this woman had taken upon my life? +</p> + +<p> +Then it occurred to me, since I had the key, to go and see her as usual. In +this way I should soon know the truth, and if I found a man there I would +strike him in the face. +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile I went to the Champs-Elysées. I waited there four hours. She did not +appear. At night I went into all the theatres where she was accustomed to go. +She was in none of them. +</p> + +<p> +At eleven o’clock I went to the Rue d’Antin. There was no light in Marguerite’s +windows. All the same, I rang. The porter asked me where I was going. +</p> + +<p> +“To Mlle. Gautier’s,” I said. +</p> + +<p> +“She has not come in.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will go up and wait for her.” +</p> + +<p> +“There is no one there.” +</p> + +<p> +Evidently I could get in, since I had the key, but, fearing foolish scandal, I +went away. Only I did not return home; I could not leave the street, and I +never took my eyes off Marguerite’s house. It seemed to me that there was still +something to be found out, or at least that my suspicions were about to be +confirmed. +</p> + +<p> +About midnight a carriage that I knew well stopped before No. 9. The Comte de +G. got down and entered the house, after sending away the carriage. For a +moment I hoped that the same answer would be given to him as to me, and that I +should see him come out; but at four o’clock in the morning I was still +awaiting him. +</p> + +<p> +I have suffered deeply during these last three weeks, but that is nothing, I +think, in comparison with what I suffered that night. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0014"></a> +Chapter XIV</h2> + +<p> +When I reached home I began to cry like a child. There is no man to whom a +woman has not been unfaithful, once at least, and who will not know what I +suffered. +</p> + +<p> +I said to myself, under the weight of these feverish resolutions which one +always feels as if one had the force to carry out, that I must break with my +amour at once, and I waited impatiently for daylight in order to set out +forthwith to rejoin my father and my sister, of whose love at least I was +certain, and certain that that love would never be betrayed. +</p> + +<p> +However, I did not wish to go away without letting Marguerite know why I went. +Only a man who really cares no more for his mistress leaves her without writing +to her. I made and remade twenty letters in my head. I had had to do with a +woman like all other women of the kind. I had been poetizing too much. She had +treated me like a school-boy, she had used in deceiving me a trick which was +insultingly simple. My self-esteem got the upper hand. I must leave this woman +without giving her the satisfaction of knowing that she had made me suffer, and +this is what I wrote to her in my most elegant handwriting and with tears of +rage and sorrow in my eyes: +</p> + +<p> +“MY DEAR MARGUERITE: I hope that your indisposition yesterday was not serious. +I came, at eleven at night, to ask after you, and was told that you had not +come in. M. de G. was more fortunate, for he presented himself shortly +afterward, and at four in the morning he had not left. +</p> + +<p> +“Forgive me for the few tedious hours that I have given you, and be assured +that I shall never forget the happy moments which I owe to you. +</p> + +<p> +“I should have called to-day to ask after you, but I intend going back to my +father’s. +</p> + +<p> +“Good-bye, my dear Marguerite. I am not rich enough to love you as I would nor +poor enough to love you as you would. Let us then forget, you a name which must +be indifferent enough to you, I a happiness which has become impossible. +</p> + +<p> +“I send back your key, which I have never used, and which might be useful to +you, if you are often ill as you were yesterday.” +</p> + +<p> +As you will see, I was unable to end my letter without a touch of impertinent +irony, which proved how much in love I still was. +</p> + +<p> +I read and reread this letter ten times over; then the thought of the pain it +would give to Marguerite calmed me a little. I tried to persuade myself of the +feelings which it professed; and when my servant came to my room at eight +o’clock, I gave it to him and told him to take it at once. +</p> + +<p> +“Shall I wait for an answer?” asked Joseph (my servant, like all servants, was +called Joseph). +</p> + +<p> +“If they ask whether there is a reply, you will say that you don’t know, and +wait.” +</p> + +<p> +I buoyed myself up with the hope that she would reply. Poor, feeble creatures +that we are! All the time that my servant was away I was in a state of extreme +agitation. At one moment I would recall how Marguerite had given herself to me, +and ask myself by what right I wrote her an impertinent letter, when she could +reply that it was not M. de G. who supplanted me, but I who had supplanted M. +de G.: a mode of reasoning which permits many women to have many lovers. At +another moment I would recall her promises, and endeavour to convince myself +that my letter was only too gentle, and that there were not expressions +forcible enough to punish a woman who laughed at a love like mine. Then I said +to myself that I should have done better not to have written to her, but to +have gone to see her, and that then I should have had the pleasure of seeing +the tears that she would shed. Finally, I asked myself what she would reply to +me; already prepared to believe whatever excuse she made. +</p> + +<p> +Joseph returned. +</p> + +<p> +“Well?” I said to him. +</p> + +<p> +“Sir,” said he, “madame was not up, and still asleep, but as soon as she rings +the letter will be taken to her, and if there is any reply it will be sent.” +</p> + +<p> +She was asleep! +</p> + +<p> +Twenty times I was on the point of sending to get the letter back, but every +time I said to myself: “Perhaps she will have got it already, and it would look +as if I have repented of sending it.” +</p> + +<p> +As the hour at which it seemed likely that she would reply came nearer, I +regretted more and more that I had written. The clock struck, ten, eleven, +twelve. At twelve I was on the point of keeping the appointment as if nothing +had happened. In the end I could see no way out of the circle of fire which +closed upon me. +</p> + +<p> +Then I began to believe, with the superstition which people have when they are +waiting, that if I went out for a little while, I should find an answer when I +got back. I went out under the pretext of going to lunch. +</p> + +<p> +Instead of lunching at the Café Foy, at the corner of the Boulevard, as I +usually did, I preferred to go to the Palais Royal and so pass through the Rue +d’Antin. Every time that I saw a woman at a distance, I fancied it was Nanine +bringing me an answer. I passed through the Rue d’Antin without even coming +across a commissionaire. I went to Very’s in the Palais Royal. The waiter gave +me something to eat, or rather served up to me whatever he liked, for I ate +nothing. In spite of myself, my eyes were constantly fixed on the clock. I +returned home, certain that I should find a letter from Marguerite. +</p> + +<p> +The porter had received nothing, but I still hoped in my servant. He had seen +no one since I went out. +</p> + +<p> +If Marguerite had been going to answer me she would have answered long before. +</p> + +<p> +Then I began to regret the terms of my letter; I should have said absolutely +nothing, and that would undoubtedly have aroused her suspicions, for, finding +that I did not keep my appointment, she would have inquired the reason of my +absence, and only then I should have given it to her. Thus, she would have had +to exculpate herself, and what I wanted was for her to exculpate herself. I +already realized that I should have believed whatever reasons she had given me, +and anything was better than not to see her again. +</p> + +<p> +At last I began to believe that she would come to see me herself; but hour +followed hour, and she did not come. +</p> + +<p> +Decidedly Marguerite was not like other women, for there are few who would have +received such a letter as I had just written without answering it at all. +</p> + +<p> +At five, I hastened to the Champs-Elysées. “If I meet her,” I thought, “I will +put on an indifferent air, and she will be convinced that I no longer think +about her.” +</p> + +<p> +As I turned the corner of the Rue Royale, I saw her pass in her carriage. The +meeting was so sudden that I turned pale. I do not know if she saw my emotion; +as for me, I was so agitated that I saw nothing but the carriage. +</p> + +<p> +I did not go any farther in the direction of the Champs-Elysées. I looked at +the advertisements of the theatres, for I had still a chance of seeing her. +There was a first night at the Palais Royal. Marguerite was sure to be there. I +was at the theatre by seven. The boxes filled one after another, but Marguerite +was not there. I left the Palais Royal and went to all the theatres where she +was most often to be seen: to the Vaudeville, the Variétés, the Opera Comique. +She was nowhere. +</p> + +<p> +Either my letter had troubled her too much for her to care to go to the +theatre, or she feared to come across me, and so wished to avoid an +explanation. So my vanity was whispering to me on the boulevards, when I met +Gaston, who asked me where I had been. +</p> + +<p> +“At the Palais Royal.” +</p> + +<p> +“And I at the Opera,” said he; “I expected to see you there.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because Marguerite was there.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, she was there?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. +</p> + +<p> +“Alone?” +</p> + +<p> +“No; with another woman.” +</p> + +<p> +“That all?” +</p> + +<p> +“The Comte de G. came to her box for an instant; but she went off with the +duke. I expected to see you every moment, for there was a stall at my side +which remained empty the whole evening, and I was sure you had taken it.” +</p> + +<p> +“But why should I go where Marguerite goes?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because you are her lover, surely!” +</p> + +<p> +“Who told you that?” +</p> + +<p> +“Prudence, whom I met yesterday. I give you my congratulations, my dear fellow; +she is a charming mistress, and it isn’t everybody who has the chance. Stick to +her; she will do you credit.” +</p> + +<p> +These simple reflections of Gaston showed me how absurd had been my +susceptibilities. If I had only met him the night before and he had spoken to +me like that, I should certainly not have written the foolish letter which I +had written. +</p> + +<p> +I was on the point of calling on Prudence, and of sending her to tell +Marguerite that I wanted to speak to her; but I feared that she would revenge +herself on me by saying that she could not see me, and I returned home, after +passing through the Rue d’Antin. Again I asked my porter if there was a letter +for me. Nothing! She is waiting to see if I shall take some fresh step, and if +I retract my letter of to-day, I said to myself as I went to bed; but, seeing +that I do not write, she will write to me to-morrow. +</p> + +<p> +That night, more than ever, I reproached myself for what I had done. I was +alone, unable to sleep, devoured by restlessness and jealousy, when by simply +letting things take their natural course I should have been with Marguerite, +hearing the delicious words which I had heard only twice, and which made my +ears burn in my solitude. +</p> + +<p> +The most frightful part of the situation was that my judgment was against me; +as a matter of fact, everything went to prove that Marguerite loved me. First, +her proposal to spend the summer with me in the country, then the certainty +that there was no reason why she should be my mistress, since my income was +insufficient for her needs and even for her caprices. There could not then have +been on her part anything but the hope of finding in me a sincere affection, +able to give her rest from the mercenary loves in whose midst she lived; and on +the very second day I had destroyed this hope, and paid by impertinent irony +for the love which I had accepted during two nights. What I had done was +therefore not merely ridiculous, it was indelicate. I had not even paid the +woman, that I might have some right to find fault with her; withdrawing after +two days, was I not like a parasite of love, afraid of having to pay the bill +of the banquet? What! I had only known Marguerite for thirty-six hours; I had +been her lover for only twenty-four; and instead of being too happy that she +should grant me all that she did, I wanted to have her all to myself, and to +make her sever at one stroke all her past relations which were the revenue of +her future. What had I to reproach in her? Nothing. She had written to say she +was unwell, when she might have said to me quite crudely, with the hideous +frankness of certain women, that she had to see a lover; and, instead of +believing her letter, instead of going to any street in Paris except the Rue +d’Antin, instead of spending the evening with my friends, and presenting myself +next day at the appointed hour, I was acting the Othello, spying upon her, and +thinking to punish her by seeing her no more. But, on the contrary, she ought +to be enchanted at this separation. She ought to find me supremely foolish, and +her silence was not even that of rancour; it was contempt. +</p> + +<p> +I might have made Marguerite a present which would leave no doubt as to my +generosity and permit me to feel properly quits of her, as of a kept woman, but +I should have felt that I was offending by the least appearance of trafficking, +if not the love which she had for me, at all events the love which I had for +her, and since this love was so pure that it could admit no division, it could +not pay by a present, however generous, the happiness that it had received, +however short that happiness had been. +</p> + +<p> +That is what I said to myself all night long, and what I was every moment +prepared to go and say to Marguerite. When the day dawned I was still +sleepless. I was in a fever. I could think of nothing but Marguerite. +</p> + +<p> +As you can imagine, it was time to take a decided step, and finish either with +the woman or with one’s scruples, if, that is, she would still be willing to +see me. But you know well, one is always slow in taking a decided step; so, +unable to remain within doors and not daring to call on Marguerite, I made one +attempt in her direction, an attempt that I could always look upon as a mere +chance if it succeeded. +</p> + +<p> +It was nine o’clock, and I went at once to call upon Prudence, who asked to +what she owed this early visit. I dared not tell her frankly what brought me. I +replied that I had gone out early in order to reserve a place in the diligence +for C., where my father lived. +</p> + +<p> +“You are fortunate,” she said, “in being able to get away from Paris in this +fine weather.” +</p> + +<p> +I looked at Prudence, asking myself whether she was laughing at me, but her +face was quite serious. +</p> + +<p> +“Shall you go and say good-bye to Marguerite?” she continued, as seriously as +before. +</p> + +<p> +“No.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are quite right.” +</p> + +<p> +“You think so?” +</p> + +<p> +“Naturally. Since you have broken with her, why should you see her again?” +</p> + +<p> +“You know it is broken off?” +</p> + +<p> +“She showed me your letter.” +</p> + +<p> +“What did she say about it?” +</p> + +<p> +“She said: ‘My dear Prudence, your <i>protégé</i> is not polite; one thinks +such letters, one does not write them.”’ +</p> + +<p> +“In what tone did she say that?” +</p> + +<p> +“Laughingly,” and she added: “He has had supper with me twice, and hasn’t even +called.” +</p> + +<p> +That, then, was the effect produced by my letter and my jealousy. I was cruelly +humiliated in the vanity of my affection. +</p> + +<p> +“What did she do last night?” +</p> + +<p> +“She went to the opera.” +</p> + +<p> +“I know. And afterward?” +</p> + +<p> +“She had supper at home.” +</p> + +<p> +“Alone?” +</p> + +<p> +“With the Comte de G., I believe.” +</p> + +<p> +So my breaking with her had not changed one of her habits. It is for such +reasons as this that certain people say to you: Don’t have anything more to do +with the woman; she cares nothing about you. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I am very glad to find that Marguerite does not put herself out for me,” +I said with a forced smile. +</p> + +<p> +“She has very good reason not to. You have done what you were bound to do. You +have been more reasonable than she, for she was really in love with you; she +did nothing but talk of you. I don’t know what she would not have been capable +of doing.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why hasn’t she answered me, if she was in love with me?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because she realizes she was mistaken in letting herself love you. Women +sometimes allow you to be unfaithful to their love; they never allow you to +wound their self-esteem; and one always wounds the self-esteem of a woman when, +two days after one has become her lover, one leaves her, no matter for what +reason. I know Marguerite; she would die sooner than reply.” +</p> + +<p> +“What can I do, then?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing. She will forget you, you will forget her, and neither will have any +reproach to make against the other.” +</p> + +<p> +“But if I write and ask her forgiveness?” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t do that, for she would forgive you.” +</p> + +<p> +I could have flung my arms round Prudence’s neck. +</p> + +<p> +A quarter of an hour later I was once more in my own quarters, and I wrote to +Marguerite: +</p> + +<p> +“Some one, who repents of a letter that he wrote yesterday and who will leave +Paris to-morrow if you do not forgive him, wishes to know at what hour he might +lay his repentance at your feet. +</p> + +<p> +“When can he find you alone? for, you know, confessions must be made without +witnesses.” +</p> + +<p> +I folded this kind of madrigal in prose, and sent it by Joseph, who handed it +to Marguerite herself; she replied that she would send the answer later. +</p> + +<p> +I only went out to have a hasty dinner, and at eleven in the evening no reply +had come. I made up my mind to endure it no longer, and to set out next day. In +consequence of this resolution, and convinced that I should not sleep if I went +to bed, I began to pack up my things. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0015"></a> +Chapter XV</h2> + +<p> +It was hardly an hour after Joseph and I had begun preparing for my departure, +when there was a violent ring at the door. +</p> + +<p> +“Shall I go to the door?” said Joseph. +</p> + +<p> +“Go,” I said, asking myself who it could be at such an hour, and not daring to +believe that it was Marguerite. +</p> + +<p> +“Sir,” said Joseph coming back to me, “it is two ladies.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is we, Armand,” cried a voice that I recognised as that of Prudence. +</p> + +<p> +I came out of my room. Prudence was standing looking around the place; +Marguerite, seated on the sofa, was meditating. I went to her, knelt down, took +her two hands, and, deeply moved, said to her, “Pardon.” +</p> + +<p> +She kissed me on the forehead, and said: +</p> + +<p> +“This is the third time that I have forgiven you.” +</p> + +<p> +“I should have gone away to-morrow.” +</p> + +<p> +“How can my visit change your plans? I have not come to hinder you from leaving +Paris. I have come because I had no time to answer you during the day, and I +did not wish to let you think that I was angry with you. Prudence didn’t want +me to come; she said that I might be in the way.” +</p> + +<p> +“You in the way, Marguerite! But how?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, you might have had a woman here,” said Prudence, “and it would hardly +have been amusing for her to see two more arrive.” +</p> + +<p> +During this remark Marguerite looked at me attentively. +</p> + +<p> +“My dear Prudence,” I answered, “you do not know what you are saying.” +</p> + +<p> +“What a nice place you’ve got!” Prudence went on. “May we see the bedroom?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +Prudence went into the bedroom, not so much to see it as to make up for the +foolish thing which she had just said, and to leave Marguerite and me alone. +</p> + +<p> +“Why did you bring Prudence?” I asked her. +</p> + +<p> +“Because she was at the theatre with me, and because when I leave here I want +to have someone to see me home.” +</p> + +<p> +“Could not I do?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, but, besides not wishing to put you out, I was sure that if you came as +far as my door you would want to come up, and as I could not let you, I did not +wish to let you go away blaming me for saying ‘No.’” +</p> + +<p> +“And why could you not let me come up?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because I am watched, and the least suspicion might do me the greatest harm.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is that really the only reason?” +</p> + +<p> +“If there were any other, I would tell you; for we are not to have any secrets +from one another now.” +</p> + +<p> +“Come, Marguerite, I am not going to take a roundabout way of saying what I +really want to say. Honestly, do you care for me a little?” +</p> + +<p> +“A great deal.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then why did you deceive me?” +</p> + +<p> +“My friend, if I were the Duchess So and So, if I had two hundred thousand +francs a year, and if I were your mistress and had another lover, you would +have the right to ask me; but I am Mlle. Marguerite Gautier, I am forty +thousand francs in debt, I have not a penny of my own, and I spend a hundred +thousand francs a year. Your question becomes unnecessary and my answer +useless.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are right,” I said, letting my head sink on her knees; “but I love you +madly.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, my friend, you must either love me a little less or understand me a +little better. Your letter gave me a great deal of pain. If I had been free, +first of all I would not have seen the count the day before yesterday, or, if I +had, I should have come and asked your forgiveness as you ask me now, and in +future I should have had no other lover but you. I fancied for a moment that I +might give myself that happiness for six months; you would not have it; you +insisted on knowing the means. Well, good heavens, the means were easy enough +to guess! In employing them I was making a greater sacrifice for you than you +imagine. I might have said to you, ‘I want twenty thousand francs’; you were in +love with me and you would have found them, at the risk of reproaching me for +it later on. I preferred to owe you nothing; you did not understand the +scruple, for such it was. Those of us who are like me, when we have any heart +at all, we give a meaning and a development to words and things unknown to +other women; I repeat, then, that on the part of Marguerite Gautier the means +which she used to pay her debts without asking you for the money necessary for +it, was a scruple by which you ought to profit, without saying anything. If you +had only met me to-day, you would be too delighted with what I promised you, +and you would not question me as to what I did the day before yesterday. We are +sometimes obliged to buy the satisfaction of our souls at the expense of our +bodies, and we suffer still more, when, afterward, that satisfaction is denied +us.” +</p> + +<p> +I listened, and I gazed at Marguerite with admiration. When I thought that this +marvellous creature, whose feet I had once longed to kiss, was willing to let +me take my place in her thoughts, my part in her life, and that I was not yet +content with what she gave me, I asked if man’s desire has indeed limits when, +satisfied as promptly as mine had been, it reached after something further. +</p> + +<p> +“Truly,” she continued, “we poor creatures of chance have fantastic desires and +inconceivable loves. We give ourselves now for one thing, now for another. +There are men who ruin themselves without obtaining the least thing from us; +there are others who obtain us for a bouquet of flowers. Our hearts have their +caprices; it is their one distraction and their one excuse. I gave myself to +you sooner than I ever did to any man, I swear to you; and do you know why? +Because when you saw me spitting blood you took my hand; because you wept; +because you are the only human being who has ever pitied me. I am going to say +a mad thing to you: I once had a little dog who looked at me with a sad look +when I coughed; that is the only creature I ever loved. When he died I cried +more than when my mother died. It is true that for twelve years of her life she +used to beat me. Well, I loved you all at once, as much as my dog. If men knew +what they can have for a tear, they would be better loved and we should be less +ruinous to them. +</p> + +<p> +“Your letter undeceived me; it showed me that you lacked the intelligence of +the heart; it did you more harm with me than anything you could possibly have +done. It was jealousy certainly, but ironical and impertinent jealousy. I was +already feeling sad when I received your letter. I was looking forward to +seeing you at twelve, to having lunch with you, and wiping out, by seeing you, +a thought which was with me incessantly, and which, before I knew you, I had no +difficulty in tolerating. +</p> + +<p> +“Then,” continued Marguerite, “you were the only person before whom it seemed +to me, from the first, that I could think and speak freely. All those who come +about women like me have an interest in calculating their slightest words, in +thinking of the consequences of their most insignificant actions. Naturally we +have no friends. We have selfish lovers who spend their fortunes, not on us, as +they say, but on their own vanity. For these people we have to be merry when +they are merry, well when they want to sup, sceptics like themselves. We are +not allowed to have hearts, under penalty of being hooted down and of ruining +our credit. +</p> + +<p> +“We no longer belong to ourselves. We are no longer beings, but things. We +stand first in their self-esteem, last in their esteem. We have women who call +themselves our friends, but they are friends like Prudence, women who were once +kept and who have still the costly tastes that their age does not allow them to +gratify. Then they become our friends, or rather our guests at table. Their +friendship is carried to the point of servility, never to that of +disinterestedness. Never do they give you advice which is not lucrative. It +means little enough to them that we should have ten lovers extra, as long as +they get dresses or a bracelet out of them, and that they can drive in our +carriage from time to time or come to our box at the theatre. They have our +last night’s bouquets, and they borrow our shawls. They never render us a +service, however slight, without seeing that they are paid twice its value. You +yourself saw when Prudence brought me the six thousand francs that I had asked +her to get from the duke, how she borrowed five hundred francs, which she will +never pay me back, or which she will pay me in hats, which will never be taken +out of their boxes. +</p> + +<p> +“We can not, then, have, or rather I can not have more than one possible kind +of happiness, and this is, sad as I sometimes am, suffering as I always am, to +find a man superior enough not to ask questions about my life, and to be the +lover of my impressions rather than of my body. Such a man I found in the duke; +but the duke is old, and old age neither protects nor consoles. I thought I +could accept the life which he offered me; but what would you have? I was dying +of ennui, and if one is bound to be consumed, it is as well to throw oneself +into the flames as to be asphyxiated with charcoal. +</p> + +<p> +“Then I met you, young, ardent, happy, and I tried to make you the man I had +longed for in my noisy solitude. What I loved in you was not the man who was, +but the man who was going to be. You do not accept the position, you reject it +as unworthy of you; you are an ordinary lover. Do like the others; pay me, and +say no more about it.” +</p> + +<p> +Marguerite, tired out with this long confession, threw herself back on the +sofa, and to stifle a slight cough put up her handkerchief to her lips, and +from that to her eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“Pardon, pardon,” I murmured. “I understood it all, but I wanted to have it +from your own lips, my beloved Marguerite. Forget the rest and remember only +one thing: that we belong to one another, that we are young, and that we love. +Marguerite, do with me as you will; I am your slave, your dog, but in the name +of heaven tear up the letter which I wrote to you and do not make me leave you +to-morrow; it would kill me.” +</p> + +<p> +Marguerite drew the letter from her bosom, and handing it to me with a smile of +infinite sweetness, said: +</p> + +<p> +“Here it is. I have brought it back.” +</p> + +<p> +I tore the letter into fragments and kissed with tears the hand that gave it to +me. +</p> + +<p> +At this moment Prudence reappeared. +</p> + +<p> +“Look here, Prudence; do you know what he wants?” said Marguerite. +</p> + +<p> +“He wants you to forgive him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Precisely.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you do?” +</p> + +<p> +“One has to; but he wants more than that.” +</p> + +<p> +“What, then?” +</p> + +<p> +“He wants to have supper with us.” +</p> + +<p> +“And do you consent?” +</p> + +<p> +“What do you think?” +</p> + +<p> +“I think that you are two children who haven’t an atom of sense between you; +but I also think that I am very hungry, and that the sooner you consent the +sooner we shall have supper.” +</p> + +<p> +“Come,” said Marguerite, “there is room for the three of us in my carriage.” +</p> + +<p> +“By the way,” she added, turning to me, “Nanine will be gone to bed. You must +open the door; take my key, and try not to lose it again.” +</p> + +<p> +I embraced Marguerite until she was almost stifled. +</p> + +<p> +Thereupon Joseph entered. +</p> + +<p> +“Sir,” he said, with the air of a man who is very well satisfied with himself, +“the luggage is packed.” +</p> + +<p> +“All of it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, then, unpack it again; I am not going.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0016"></a> +Chapter XVI</h2> + +<p> +I might have told you of the beginning of this liaison in a few lines, but I +wanted you to see every step by which we came, I to agree to whatever +Marguerite wished, Marguerite to be unable to live apart from me. +</p> + +<p> +It was the day after the evening when she came to see me that I sent her Manon +Lescaut. +</p> + +<p> +From that time, seeing that I could not change my mistress’s life, I changed my +own. I wished above all not to leave myself time to think over the position I +had accepted, for, in spite of myself, it was a great distress to me. Thus my +life, generally so calm, assumed all at once an appearance of noise and +disorder. Never believe, however disinterested the love of a kept woman may be, +that it will cost one nothing. Nothing is so expensive as their caprices, +flowers, boxes at the theatre, suppers, days in the country, which one can +never refuse to one’s mistress. +</p> + +<p> +As I have told you, I had little money. My father was, and still is, +<i>receveur général</i> at C. He has a great reputation there for loyalty, +thanks to which he was able to find the security which he needed in order to +attain this position. +</p> + +<p> +It is worth forty thousand francs a year, and during the ten years that he has +had it, he has paid off the security and put aside a dowry for my sister. My +father is the most honourable man in the world. When my mother died, she left +six thousand francs a year, which he divided between my sister and myself on +the very day when he received his appointment; then, when I was twenty-one, he +added to this little income an annual allowance of five thousand francs, +assuring me that with eight thousand francs a year I might live very happily at +Paris, if, in addition to this, I would make a position for myself either in +law or medicine. I came to Paris, studied law, was called to the bar, and, like +many other young men, put my diploma in my pocket, and let myself drift, as one +so easily does in Paris. +</p> + +<p> +My expenses were very moderate; only I used up my year’s income in eight +months, and spent the four summer months with my father, which practically gave +me twelve thousand francs a year, and, in addition, the reputation of a good +son. For the rest, not a penny of debt. +</p> + +<p> +This, then, was my position when I made the acquaintance of Marguerite. You can +well understand that, in spite of myself, my expenses soon increased. +Marguerite’s nature was very capricious, and, like so many women, she never +regarded as a serious expense those thousand and one distractions which made up +her life. So, wishing to spend as much time with me as possible, she would +write to me in the morning that she would dine with me, not at home, but at +some restaurant in Paris or in the country. I would call for her, and we would +dine and go on to the theatre, often having supper as well; and by the end of +the evening I had spent four or five louis, which came to two or three thousand +francs a month, which reduced my year to three months and a half, and made it +necessary for me either to go into debt or to leave Marguerite. I would have +consented to anything except the latter. +</p> + +<p> +Forgive me if I give you all these details, but you will see that they were the +cause of what was to follow. What I tell you is a true and simple story, and I +leave to it all the naivete of its details and all the simplicity of its +developments. +</p> + +<p> +I realized then that as nothing in the world would make me forget my mistress, +it was needful for me to find some way of meeting the expenses into which she +drew me. Then, too, my love for her had so disturbing an influence upon me that +every moment I spent away from Marguerite was like a year, and that I felt the +need of consuming these moments in the fire of some sort of passion, and of +living them so swiftly as not to know that I was living them. +</p> + +<p> +I began by borrowing five or six thousand francs on my little capital, and with +this I took to gambling. Since gambling houses were destroyed gambling goes on +everywhere. Formerly, when one went to Frascati, one had the chance of making a +fortune; one played against money, and if one lost, there was always the +consolation of saying that one might have gained; whereas now, except in the +clubs, where there is still a certain rigour in regard to payments, one is +almost certain, the moment one gains a considerable sum, not to receive it. You +will readily understand why. Gambling is only likely to be carried on by young +people very much in need of money and not possessing the fortune necessary for +supporting the life they lead; they gamble, then, and with this result; or else +they gain, and then those who lose serve to pay for their horses and +mistresses, which is very disagreeable. Debts are contracted, acquaintances +begun about a green table end by quarrels in which life or honour comes to +grief; and though one may be an honest man, one finds oneself ruined by very +honest men, whose only defect is that they have not two hundred thousand francs +a year. +</p> + +<p> +I need not tell you of those who cheat at play, and of how one hears one fine +day of their hasty disappearance and tardy condemnation. +</p> + +<p> +I flung myself into this rapid, noisy, and volcanic life, which had formerly +terrified me when I thought of it, and which had become for me the necessary +complement of my love for Marguerite. What else could I have done? +</p> + +<p> +The nights that I did not spend in the Rue d’Antin, if I had spent them alone +in my own room, I could not have slept. Jealousy would have kept me awake, and +inflamed my blood and my thoughts; while gambling gave a new turn to the fever +which would otherwise have preyed upon my heart, and fixed it upon a passion +which laid hold on me in spite of myself, until the hour struck when I might go +to my mistress. Then, and by this I knew the violence of my love, I left the +table without a moment’s hesitation, whether I was winning or losing, pitying +those whom I left behind because they would not, like me, find their real +happiness in leaving it. For the most of them, gambling was a necessity; for +me, it was a remedy. Free of Marguerite, I should have been free of gambling. +</p> + +<p> +Thus, in the midst of all that, I preserved a considerable amount of +self-possession; I lost only what I was able to pay, and gained only what I +should have been able to lose. +</p> + +<p> +For the rest, chance was on my side. I made no debts, and I spent three times +as much money as when I did not gamble. It was impossible to resist an +existence which gave me an easy means of satisfying the thousand caprices of +Marguerite. As for her, she continued to love me as much, or even more than +ever. +</p> + +<p> +As I told you, I began by being allowed to stay only from midnight to six +o’clock, then I was asked sometimes to a box in the theatre, then she sometimes +came to dine with me. One morning I did not go till eight, and there came a day +when I did not go till twelve. +</p> + +<p> +But, sooner than the moral metamorphosis, a physical metamorphosis came about +in Marguerite. I had taken her cure in hand, and the poor girl, seeing my aim, +obeyed me in order to prove her gratitude. I had succeeded without effort or +trouble in almost isolating her from her former habits. My doctor, whom I had +made her meet, had told me that only rest and calm could preserve her health, +so that in place of supper and sleepless nights, I succeeded in substituting a +hygienic regime and regular sleep. In spite of herself, Marguerite got +accustomed to this new existence, whose salutary effects she already realized. +She began to spend some of her evenings at home, or, if the weather was fine, +she wrapped herself in a shawl, put on a veil, and we went on foot, like two +children, in the dim alleys of the Champs-Elysées. She would come in tired, +take a light supper, and go to bed after a little music or reading, which she +had never been used to do. The cough, which every time that I heard it seemed +to go through my chest, had almost completely disappeared. +</p> + +<p> +At the end of six weeks the count was entirely given up, and only the duke +obliged me to conceal my liaison with Marguerite, and even he was sent away +when I was there, under the pretext that she was asleep and had given orders +that she was not to be awakened. +</p> + +<p> +The habit or the need of seeing me which Marguerite had now contracted had this +good result: that it forced me to leave the gaming-table just at the moment +when an adroit gambler would have left it. Settling one thing against another, +I found myself in possession of some ten thousand francs, which seemed to me an +inexhaustible capital. +</p> + +<p> +The time of the year when I was accustomed to join my father and sister had now +arrived, and I did not go; both of them wrote to me frequently, begging me to +come. To these letters I replied as best I could, always repeating that I was +quite well and that I was not in need of money, two things which, I thought, +would console my father for my delay in paying him my annual visit. +</p> + +<p> +Just then, one fine day in summer, Marguerite was awakened by the sunlight +pouring into her room, and, jumping out of bed, asked me if I would take her +into the country for the whole day. +</p> + +<p> +We sent for Prudence, and all three set off, after Marguerite had given Nanine +orders to tell the duke that she had taken advantage of the fine day to go into +the country with Mme. Duvernoy. +</p> + +<p> +Besides the presence of Mme. Duvernoy being needful on account of the old duke, +Prudence was one of those women who seem made on purpose for days in the +country. With her unchanging good-humour and her eternal appetite, she never +left a dull moment to those whom she was with, and was perfectly happy in +ordering eggs, cherries, milk, stewed rabbit, and all the rest of the +traditional lunch in the country. +</p> + +<p> +We had now only to decide where we should go. It was once more Prudence who +settled the difficulty. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you want to go to the real country?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, let us go to Bougival, at the Point du Jour, at Widow Arnould’s. Armand, +order an open carriage.” +</p> + +<p> +An hour and a half later we were at Widow Arnould’s. +</p> + +<p> +Perhaps you know the inn, which is a hotel on week days and a tea garden on +Sundays. There is a magnificent view from the garden, which is at the height of +an ordinary first floor. On the left the Aqueduct of Marly closes in the +horizon, on the right one looks across bill after hill; the river, almost +without current at that spot, unrolls itself like a large white watered ribbon +between the plain of the Gabillons and the island of Croissy, lulled eternally +by the trembling of its high poplars and the murmur of its willows. Beyond, +distinct in the sunlight, rise little white houses, with red roofs, and +manufactories, which, at that distance, put an admirable finish to the +landscape. Beyond that, Paris in the mist! As Prudence had told us, it was the +real country, and, I must add, it was a real lunch. +</p> + +<p> +It is not only out of gratitude for the happiness I owe it, but Bougival, in +spite of its horrible name, is one of the prettiest places that it is possible +to imagine. I have travelled a good deal, and seen much grander things, but +none more charming than this little village gaily seated at the foot of the +hill which protects it. +</p> + +<p> +Mme. Arnould asked us if we would take a boat, and Marguerite and Prudence +accepted joyously. +</p> + +<p> +People have always associated the country with love, and they have done well; +nothing affords so fine a frame for the woman whom one loves as the blue sky, +the odours, the flowers, the breeze, the shining solitude of fields, or woods. +However much one loves a woman, whatever confidence one may have in her, +whatever certainty her past may offer us as to her future, one is always more +or less jealous. If you have been in love, you must have felt the need of +isolating from this world the being in whom you would live wholly. It seems as +if, however indifferent she may be to her surroundings, the woman whom one +loves loses something of her perfume and of her unity at the contact of men and +things. As for me, I experienced that more than most. Mine was not an ordinary +love; I was as much in love as an ordinary creature could be, but with +Marguerite Gautier; that is to say, that at Paris, at every step, I might elbow +the man who had already been her lover or who was about to, while in the +country, surrounded by people whom we had never seen and who had no concern +with us, alone with nature in the spring-time of the year, that annual pardon, +and shut off from the noise of the city, I could hide my love, and love without +shame or fear. +</p> + +<p> +The courtesan disappeared little by little. I had by me a young and beautiful +woman, whom I loved, and who loved me, and who was called Marguerite; the past +had no more reality and the future no more clouds. The sun shone upon my +mistress as it might have shone upon the purest bride. We walked together in +those charming spots which seemed to have been made on purpose to recall the +verses of Lamartine or to sing the melodies of Scudo. Marguerite was dressed in +white, she leaned on my arm, saying over to me again under the starry sky the +words she had said to me the day before, and far off the world went on its way, +without darkening with its shadow the radiant picture of our youth and love. +</p> + +<p> +That was the dream that the hot sun brought to me that day through the leaves +of the trees, as, lying on the grass of the island on which we had landed, I +let my thought wander, free from the human links that had bound it, gathering +to itself every hope that came in its way. +</p> + +<p> +Add to this that from the place where I was I could see on the shore a charming +little house of two stories, with a semicircular railing; through the railing, +in front of the house, a green lawn, smooth as velvet, and behind the house a +little wood full of mysterious retreats, where the moss must efface each +morning the pathway that had been made the day before. Climbing flowers clung +about the doorway of this uninhabited house, mounting as high as the first +story. +</p> + +<p> +I looked at the house so long that I began by thinking of it as mine, so +perfectly did it embody the dream that I was dreaming; I saw Marguerite and +myself there, by day in the little wood that covered the hillside, in the +evening seated on the grass, and I asked myself if earthly creatures had ever +been so happy as we should be. +</p> + +<p> +“What a pretty house!” Marguerite said to me, as she followed the direction of +my gaze and perhaps of my thought. +</p> + +<p> +“Where?” asked Prudence. +</p> + +<p> +“Yonder,” and Marguerite pointed to the house in question. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, delicious!” replied Prudence. “Do you like it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Very much.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, tell the duke to take it for you; he would do so, I am sure. I’ll see +about it if you like.” +</p> + +<p> +Marguerite looked at me, as if to ask me what I thought. My dream vanished at +the last words of Prudence, and brought me back to reality so brutally that I +was still stunned with the fall. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, yes, an excellent idea,” I stammered, not knowing what I was saying. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I will arrange that,” said Marguerite, freeing my hand, and interpreting +my words according to her own desire. “Let us go and see if it is to let.” +</p> + +<p> +The house was empty, and to let for two thousand francs. +</p> + +<p> +“Would you be happy here?” she said to me. +</p> + +<p> +“Am I sure of coming here?” +</p> + +<p> +“And for whom else should I bury myself here, if not for you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, then, Marguerite, let me take it myself.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are mad; not only is it unnecessary, but it would be dangerous. You know +perfectly well that I have no right to accept it save from one man. Let me +alone, big baby, and say nothing.” +</p> + +<p> +“That means,” said Prudence, “that when I have two days free I will come and +spend them with you.” +</p> + +<p> +We left the house, and started on our return to Paris, talking over the new +plan. I held Marguerite in my arms, and as I got down from the carriage, I had +already begun to look upon her arrangement with less critical eyes. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0017"></a> +Chapter XVII</h2> + +<p> +Next day Marguerite sent me away very early, saying that the duke was coming at +an early hour, and promising to write to me the moment he went, and to make an +appointment for the evening. In the course of the day I received this note: +</p> + +<p> +“I am going to Bougival with the duke; be at Prudence’s to-night at eight.” +</p> + +<p> +At the appointed hour Marguerite came to me at Mme. Duvernoy’s. “Well, it is +all settled,” she said, as she entered. “The house is taken?” asked Prudence. +“Yes; he agreed at once.” +</p> + +<p> +I did not know the duke, but I felt ashamed of deceiving him. +</p> + +<p> +“But that is not all,” continued Marguerite. +</p> + +<p> +“What else is there?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have been seeing about a place for Armand to stay.” +</p> + +<p> +“In the same house?” asked Prudence, laughing. +</p> + +<p> +“No, at Point du Jour, where we had dinner, the duke and I. While he was +admiring the view, I asked Mme. Arnould (she is called Mme. Arnould, isn’t +she?) if there were any suitable rooms, and she showed me just the very thing: +salon, anteroom, and bed-room, at sixty francs a month; the whole place +furnished in a way to divert a hypochondriac. I took it. Was I right?” I flung +my arms around her neck and kissed her. +</p> + +<p> +“It will be charming,” she continued. “You have the key of the little door, and +I have promised the duke the key of the front door, which he will not take, +because he will come during the day when he comes. I think, between ourselves, +that he is enchanted with a caprice which will keep me out of Paris for a time, +and so silence the objections of his family. However, he has asked me how I, +loving Paris as I do, could make up my mind to bury myself in the country. I +told him that I was ill, and that I wanted rest. He seemed to have some +difficulty in believing me. The poor old man is always on the watch. We must +take every precaution, my dear Armand, for he will have me watched while I am +there; and it isn’t only the question of his taking a house for me, but he has +my debts to pay, and unluckily I have plenty. Does all that suit you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” I answered, trying to quiet the scruples which this way of living awoke +in me from time to time. +</p> + +<p> +“We went all over the house, and we shall have everything perfect. The duke is +going to look after every single thing. Ah, my dear,” she added, kissing me, +“you’re in luck; it’s a millionaire who makes your bed for you.” +</p> + +<p> +“And when shall you move into the house?” inquired Prudence. +</p> + +<p> +“As soon as possible.” +</p> + +<p> +“Will you take your horses and carriage?” +</p> + +<p> +“I shall take the whole house, and you can look after my place while I am +away.” +</p> + +<p> +A week later Marguerite was settled in her country house, and I was installed +at Point du Jour. +</p> + +<p> +Then began an existence which I shall have some difficulty in describing to +you. At first Marguerite could not break entirely with her former habits, and, +as the house was always <i>en fête</i>, all the women whom she knew came to see +her. For a whole month there was not a day when Marguerite had not eight or ten +people to meals. Prudence, on her side, brought down all the people she knew, +and did the honours of the house as if the house belonged to her. +</p> + +<p> +The duke’s money paid for all that, as you may imagine; but from time to time +Prudence came to me, asking for a note for a thousand francs, professedly on +behalf of Marguerite. You know I had won some money at gambling; I therefore +immediately handed over to Prudence what she asked for Marguerite, and fearing +lest she should require more than I possessed, I borrowed at Paris a sum equal +to that which I had already borrowed and paid back. I was then once more in +possession of some ten thousand francs, without reckoning my allowance. +However, Marguerite’s pleasure in seeing her friends was a little moderated +when she saw the expense which that pleasure entailed, and especially the +necessity she was sometimes in of asking me for money. The duke, who had taken +the house in order that Marguerite might rest there, no longer visited it, +fearing to find himself in the midst of a large and merry company, by whom he +did not wish to be seen. This came about through his having once arrived to +dine <i>tête-à-tête</i> with Marguerite, and having fallen upon a party of +fifteen, who were still at lunch at an hour when he was prepared to sit down to +dinner. He had unsuspectingly opened the dining-room door, and had been greeted +by a burst of laughter, and had had to retire precipitately before the +impertinent mirth of the women who were assembled there. +</p> + +<p> +Marguerite rose from table, and joined the duke in the next room, where she +tried, as far as possible, to induce him to forget the incident, but the old +man, wounded in his dignity, bore her a grudge for it, and could not forgive +her. He said to her, somewhat cruelly, that he was tired of paying for the +follies of a woman who could not even have him treated with respect under his +own roof, and he went away in great indignation. +</p> + +<p> +Since that day he had never been heard of. +</p> + +<p> +In vain Marguerite dismissed her guests, changed her way of life; the duke was +not to be heard of. I was the gainer in so, far that my mistress now belonged +to me more completely, and my dream was at length realized. Marguerite could +not be without me. Not caring what the result might be, she publicly proclaimed +our liaison, and I had come to live entirely at her house. The servants +addressed me officially as their master. +</p> + +<p> +Prudence had strictly sermonized Marguerite in regard to her new manner of +life; but she had replied that she loved me, that she could not live without +me, and that, happen what might, she would not sacrifice the pleasure of having +me constantly with her, adding that those who were not satisfied with this +arrangement were free to stay away. So much I had heard one day when Prudence +had said to Marguerite that she had something very important to tell her, and I +had listened at the door of the room into which they had shut themselves. +</p> + +<p> +Not long after, Prudence returned again. I was at the other end of the garden +when she arrived, and she did not see me. I had no doubt, from the way in which +Marguerite came to meet her, that another similar conversation was going to +take place, and I was anxious to hear what it was about. The two women shut +themselves into a boudoir, and I put myself within hearing. +</p> + +<p> +“Well?” said Marguerite. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I have seen the duke.” +</p> + +<p> +“What did he say?” +</p> + +<p> +“That he would gladly forgive you in regard to the scene which took place, but +that he has learned that you are publicly living with M. Armand Duval, and that +he will never forgive that. ‘Let Marguerite leave the young man,’ he said to +me, ‘and, as in the past, I will give her all that she requires; if not, let +her ask nothing more from me.’” +</p> + +<p> +“And you replied?” +</p> + +<p> +“That I would report his decision to you, and I promised him that I would bring +you into a more reasonable frame of mind. Only think, my dear child, of the +position that you are losing, and that Armand can never give you. He loves you +with all his soul, but he has no fortune capable of supplying your needs, and +he will be bound to leave you one day, when it will be too late and when the +duke will refuse to do any more for you. Would you like me to speak to Armand?” +</p> + +<p> +Marguerite seemed to be thinking, for she answered nothing. My heart beat +violently while I waited for her reply. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” she answered, “I will not leave Armand, and I will not conceal the fact +that I am living with him. It is folly no doubt, but I love him. What would you +have me do? And then, now that he has got accustomed to be always with me, he +would suffer too cruelly if he had to leave me so much as an hour a day. +Besides, I have not such a long time to live that I need make myself miserable +in order to please an old man whose very sight makes me feel old. Let him keep +his money; I will do without it.” +</p> + +<p> +“But what will you do?” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t in the least know.” +</p> + +<p> +Prudence was no doubt going to make some reply, but I entered suddenly and +flung myself at Marguerite’s feet, covering her hands with tears in my joy at +being thus loved. +</p> + +<p> +“My life is yours, Marguerite; you need this man no longer. Am I not here? +Shall I ever leave you, and can I ever repay you for the happiness that you +give me? No more barriers, my Marguerite; we love; what matters all the rest?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh yes, I love you, my Armand,” she murmured, putting her two arms around my +neck. “I love you as I never thought I should ever love. We will be happy; we +will live quietly, and I will say good-bye forever to the life for which I now +blush. You won’t ever reproach me for the past? Tell me!” +</p> + +<p> +Tears choked my voice. I could only reply by clasping Marguerite to my heart. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” said she, turning to Prudence, and speaking in a broken voice, “you can +report this scene to the duke, and you can add that we have no longer need of +him.” +</p> + +<p> +From that day forth the duke was never referred to. Marguerite was no longer +the same woman that I had known. She avoided everything that might recall to me +the life which she had been leading when I first met her. Never did wife or +sister surround husband or brother with such loving care as she had for me. Her +nature was morbidly open to all impressions and accessible to all sentiments. +She had broken equally with her friends and with her ways, with her words and +with her extravagances. Any one who had seen us leaving the house to go on the +river in the charming little boat which I had bought would never have believed +that the woman dressed in white, wearing a straw hat, and carrying on her arm a +little silk pelisse to protect her against the damp of the river, was that +Marguerite Gautier who, only four months ago, had been the talk of the town for +the luxury and scandal of her existence. +</p> + +<p> +Alas, we made haste to be happy, as if we knew that we were not to be happy +long. +</p> + +<p> +For two months we had not even been to Paris. No one came to see us, except +Prudence and Julie Duprat, of whom I have spoken to you, and to whom Marguerite +was afterward to give the touching narrative that I have there. +</p> + +<p> +I passed whole days at the feet of my mistress. We opened the windows upon the +garden, and, as we watched the summer ripening in its flowers and under the +shadow of the trees, we breathed together that true life which neither +Marguerite nor I had ever known before. +</p> + +<p> +Her delight in the smallest things was like that of a child. There were days +when she ran in the garden, like a child of ten, after a butterfly or a +dragon-fly. This courtesan who had cost more money in bouquets than would have +kept a whole family in comfort, would sometimes sit on the grass for an hour, +examining the simple flower whose name she bore. +</p> + +<p> +It was at this time that she read Manon Lescaut, over and over again. I found +her several times making notes in the book, and she always declared that when a +woman loves, she can not do as Manon did. +</p> + +<p> +The duke wrote to her two or three times. She recognised the writing and gave +me the letters without reading them. Sometimes the terms of these letters +brought tears to my eyes. He had imagined that by closing his purse to +Marguerite, he would bring her back to him; but when he had perceived the +uselessness of these means, he could hold out no longer; he wrote and asked +that he might see her again, as before, no matter on what conditions. +</p> + +<p> +I read these urgent and repeated letters, and tore them in pieces, without +telling Marguerite what they contained and without advising her to see the old +man again, though I was half inclined to, so much did I pity him, but I was +afraid lest, if I so advised her she should think that I wished the duke, not +merely to come and see her again, but to take over the expenses of the house; I +feared, above all, that she might think me capable of shirking the +responsibilities of every consequence to which her love for me might lead her. +</p> + +<p> +It thus came about that the duke, receiving no reply, ceased to write, and that +Marguerite and I continued to live together without giving a thought to the +future. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0018"></a> +Chapter XVIII</h2> + +<p> +It would be difficult to give you all the details of our new life. It was made +up of a series of little childish events, charming for us but insignificant to +anyone else. You know what it is to be in love with a woman, you know how it +cuts short the days, and with what loving listlessness one drifts into the +morrow. You know that forgetfulness of everything which comes of a violent +confident, reciprocated love. Every being who is not the beloved one seems a +useless being in creation. One regrets having cast scraps of one’s heart to +other women, and one can not believe in the possibility of ever pressing +another hand than that which one holds between one’s hands. The mind admits +neither work nor remembrance; nothing, in short, which can distract it from the +one thought in which it is ceaselessly absorbed. Every day one discovers in +one’s mistress a new charm and unknown delights. Existence itself is but the +unceasing accomplishment of an unchanging desire; the soul is but the vestal +charged to feed the sacred fire of love. +</p> + +<p> +We often went at night-time to sit in the little wood above the house; there we +listened to the cheerful harmonies of evening, both of us thinking of the +coming hours which should leave us to one another till the dawn of day. At +other times we did not get up all day; we did not even let the sunlight enter +our room. +</p> + +<p> +The curtains were hermetically closed, and for a moment the external world did +not exist for us. Nanine alone had the right to open our door, but only to +bring in our meals and even these we took without getting up, interrupting them +with laughter and gaiety. To that succeeded a brief sleep, for, disappearing +into the depths of our love, we were like two divers who only come to the +surface to take breath. +</p> + +<p> +Nevertheless, I surprised moments of sadness, even tears, in Marguerite; I +asked her the cause of her trouble, and she answered: +</p> + +<p> +“Our love is not like other loves, my Armand. You love me as if I had never +belonged to another, and I tremble lest later on, repenting of your love, and +accusing me of my past, you should let me fall back into that life from which +you have taken me. I think that now that I have tasted of another life, I +should die if I went back to the old one. Tell me that you will never leave +me!” +</p> + +<p> +“I swear it!” +</p> + +<p> +At these words she looked at me as if to read in my eyes whether my oath was +sincere; then flung herself into my arms, and, hiding her head in my bosom, +said to me: “You don’t know how much I love you!” +</p> + +<p> +One evening, seated on the balcony outside the window, we looked at the moon +which seemed to rise with difficulty out of its bed of clouds, and we listened +to the wind violently rustling the trees; we held each other’s hands, and for a +whole quarter of an hour we had not spoken, when Marguerite said to me: +</p> + +<p> +“Winter is at hand. Would you like for us to go abroad?” +</p> + +<p> +“Where?” +</p> + +<p> +“To Italy.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are tired of here?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am afraid of the winter; I am particularly afraid of your return to Paris.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why?” +</p> + +<p> +“For many reasons.” +</p> + +<p> +And she went on abruptly, without giving me her reasons for fears: +</p> + +<p> +“Will you go abroad? I will sell all that I have; we will go and live there, +and there will be nothing left of what I was; no one will know who I am. Will +you?” +</p> + +<p> +“By all means, if you like, Marguerite, let us travel,” I said. “But where is +the necessity of selling things which you will be glad of when we return? I +have not a large enough fortune to accept such a sacrifice; but I have enough +for us to be able to travel splendidly for five or six months, if that will +amuse you the least in the world.” +</p> + +<p> +“After all, no,” she said, leaving the window and going to sit down on the sofa +at the other end of the room. “Why should we spend money abroad? I cost you +enough already, here.” +</p> + +<p> +“You reproach me, Marguerite; it isn’t generous.” +</p> + +<p> +“Forgive me, my friend,” she said, giving me her hand. “This thunder weather +gets on my nerves; I do not say what I intend to say.” +</p> + +<p> +And after embracing me she fell into a long reverie. +</p> + +<p> +Scenes of this kind often took place, and though I could not discover their +cause, I could not fail to see in Marguerite signs of disquietude in regard to +the future. She could not doubt my love, which increased day by day, and yet I +often found her sad, without being able to get any explanation of the reason, +except some physical cause. Fearing that so monotonous a life was beginning to +weary her, I proposed returning to Paris; but she always refused, assuring me +that she could not be so happy anywhere as in the country. +</p> + +<p> +Prudence now came but rarely; but she often wrote letters which I never asked +to see, though, every time they came, they seemed to preoccupy Marguerite +deeply. I did not know what to think. +</p> + +<p> +One day Marguerite was in her room. I entered. She was writing. “To whom are +you writing?” I asked. “To Prudence. Do you want to see what I am writing?” +</p> + +<p> +I had a horror of anything that might look like suspicion, and I answered that +I had no desire to know what she was writing; and yet I was certain that letter +would have explained to me the cause of her sadness. +</p> + +<p> +Next day the weather was splendid.’ Marguerite proposed to me to take the boat +and go as far as the island of Croissy. She seemed very cheerful; when we got +back it was five o’clock. +</p> + +<p> +“Mme. Duvernoy has been here,” said Nanine, as she saw us enter. “She has gone +again?” asked Marguerite. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, madame, in the carriage; she said it was arranged.” +</p> + +<p> +“Quite right,” said Marguerite sharply. “Serve the dinner.” +</p> + +<p> +Two days afterward there came a letter from Prudence, and for a fortnight +Marguerite seemed to have got rid of her mysterious gloom, for which she +constantly asked my forgiveness, now that it no longer existed. Still, the +carriage did not return. +</p> + +<p> +“How is it that Prudence does not send you back your carriage?” I asked one +day. +</p> + +<p> +“One of the horses is ill, and there are some repairs to be done. It is better +to have that done while we are here, and don’t need a carriage, than to wait +till we get back to Paris.” +</p> + +<p> +Prudence came two days afterward, and confirmed what Marguerite had said. The +two women went for a walk in the garden, and when I joined them they changed +the conversation. That night, as she was going, Prudence complained of the cold +and asked Marguerite to lend her a shawl. +</p> + +<p> +So a month passed, and all the time Marguerite was more joyous and more +affectionate than she ever had been. Nevertheless, the carriage did not return, +the shawl had not been sent back, and I began to be anxious in spite of myself, +and as I knew in which drawer Marguerite put Prudence’s letters, I took +advantage of a moment when she was at the other end of the garden, went to the +drawer, and tried to open it; in vain, for it was locked. When I opened the +drawer in which the trinkets and diamonds were usually kept, these opened +without resistance, but the jewel cases had disappeared, along with their +contents no doubt. +</p> + +<p> +A sharp fear penetrated my heart. I might indeed ask Marguerite for the truth +in regard to these disappearances, but it was certain that she would not +confess it. +</p> + +<p> +“My good Marguerite,” I said to her, “I am going to ask your permission to go +to Paris. They do not know my address, and I expect there are letters from my +father waiting for me. I have no doubt he is concerned; I ought to answer him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Go, my friend,” she said; “but be back early.” I went straight to Prudence. +</p> + +<p> +“Come,” said I, without beating about the bush, “tell me frankly, where are +Marguerite’s horses?” +</p> + +<p> +“Sold.” +</p> + +<p> +“The shawl?” +</p> + +<p> +“Sold.” +</p> + +<p> +“The diamonds?” +</p> + +<p> +“Pawned.” +</p> + +<p> +“And who has sold and pawned them?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why did you not tell me?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because Marguerite made me promise not to.” +</p> + +<p> +“And why did you not ask me for money?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because she wouldn’t let me.” +</p> + +<p> +“And where has this money gone?” +</p> + +<p> +“In payments.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is she much in debt?” +</p> + +<p> +“Thirty thousand francs, or thereabouts. Ah, my dear fellow, didn’t I tell you? +You wouldn’t believe me; now you are convinced. The upholsterer whom the duke +had agreed to settle with was shown out of the house when he presented himself, +and the duke wrote next day to say that he would answer for nothing in regard +to Mlle. Gautier. This man wanted his money; he was given part payment out of +the few thousand francs that I got from you; then some kind souls warned him +that his debtor had been abandoned by the duke and was living with a penniless +young man; the other creditors were told the same; they asked for their money, +and seized some of the goods. Marguerite wanted to sell everything, but it was +too late, and besides I should have opposed it. But it was necessary to pay, +and in order not to ask you for money, she sold her horses and her shawls, and +pawned her jewels. Would you like to see the receipts and the pawn tickets?” +</p> + +<p> +And Prudence opened the drawer and showed me the papers. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, you think,” she continued, with the insistence of a woman who can say, I +was right after all, “ah, you think it is enough to be in love, and to go into +the country and lead a dreamy, pastoral life. No, my friend, no. By the side of +that ideal life, there is a material life, and the purest resolutions are held +to earth by threads which seem slight enough, but which are of iron, not easily +to be broken. If Marguerite has not been unfaithful to you twenty times, it is +because she has an exceptional nature. It is not my fault for not advising her +to, for I couldn’t bear to see the poor girl stripping herself of everything. +She wouldn’t; she replied that she loved you, and she wouldn’t be unfaithful to +you for anything in the world. All that is very pretty, very poetical, but one +can’t pay one’s creditors in that coin, and now she can’t free herself from +debt, unless she can raise thirty thousand francs.” +</p> + +<p> +“All right, I will provide that amount.” +</p> + +<p> +“You will borrow it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Good heavens! Why, yes!” +</p> + +<p> +“A fine thing that will be to do; you will fall out with your father, cripple +your resources, and one doesn’t find thirty thousand francs from one day to +another. Believe me, my dear Armand, I know women better than you do; do not +commit this folly; you will be sorry for it one day. Be reasonable. I don’t +advise you to leave Marguerite, but live with her as you did at the beginning. +Let her find the means to get out of this difficulty. The duke will come back +in a little while. The Comte de N., if she would take him, he told me yesterday +even, would pay all her debts, and give her four or five thousand francs a +month. He has two hundred thousand a year. It would be a position for her, +while you will certainly be obliged to leave her. Don’t wait till you are +ruined, especially as the Comte de N. is a fool, and nothing would prevent your +still being Marguerite’s lover. She would cry a little at the beginning, but +she would come to accustom herself to it, and you would thank me one day for +what you had done. Imagine that Marguerite is married, and deceive the husband; +that is all. I have already told you all this once, only at that time it was +merely advice, and now it is almost a necessity.” +</p> + +<p> +What Prudence said was cruelly true. +</p> + +<p> +“This is how it is,” she went on, putting away the papers she had just shown +me; “women like Marguerite always foresee that someone will love them, never +that they will love; otherwise they would put aside money, and at thirty they +could afford the luxury of having a lover for nothing. If I had only known once +what I know now! In short, say nothing to Marguerite, and bring her back to +Paris. You have lived with her alone for four or five months; that is quite +enough. Shut your eyes now; that is all that anyone asks of you. At the end of +a fortnight she will take the Comte de N., and she will save up during the +winter, and next summer you will begin over again. That is how things are done, +my dear fellow!” +</p> + +<p> +And Prudence appeared to be enchanted with her advice, which I refused +indignantly. +</p> + +<p> +Not only my love and my dignity would not let me act thus, but I was certain +that, feeling as she did now, Marguerite would die rather than accept another +lover. +</p> + +<p> +“Enough joking,” I said to Prudence; “tell me exactly how much Marguerite is in +need of.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have told you: thirty thousand francs.” +</p> + +<p> +“And when does she require this sum?” +</p> + +<p> +“Before the end of two months.” +</p> + +<p> +“She shall have it.” +</p> + +<p> +Prudence shrugged her shoulders. +</p> + +<p> +“I will give it to you,” I continued, “but you must swear to me that you will +not tell Marguerite that I have given it to you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t be afraid.” +</p> + +<p> +“And if she sends you anything else to sell or pawn, let me know.” +</p> + +<p> +“There is no danger. She has nothing left.” +</p> + +<p> +I went straight to my own house to see if there were any letters from my +father. There were four. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0019"></a> +Chapter XIX</h2> + +<p> +In his first three letters my father inquired the cause of my silence; in the +last he allowed me to see that he had heard of my change of life, and informed +me that he was about to come and see me. +</p> + +<p> +I have always had a great respect and a sincere affection for my father. I +replied that I had been travelling for a short time, and begged him to let me +know beforehand what day he would arrive, so that I could be there to meet him. +</p> + +<p> +I gave my servant my address in the country, telling him to bring me the first +letter that came with the postmark of C., then I returned to Bougival. +</p> + +<p> +Marguerite was waiting for me at the garden gate. She looked at me anxiously. +Throwing her arms round my neck, she said to me: “Have you seen Prudence?” +</p> + +<p> +“No.” +</p> + +<p> +“You were a long time in Paris.” +</p> + +<p> +“I found letters from my father to which I had to reply.” +</p> + +<p> +A few minutes afterward Nanine entered, all out of breath. Marguerite rose and +talked with her in whispers. When Nanine had gone out Marguerite sat down by me +again and said, taking my hand: +</p> + +<p> +“Why did you deceive me? You went to see Prudence.” +</p> + +<p> +“Who told you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nanine.” +</p> + +<p> +“And how did she know?” +</p> + +<p> +“She followed you.” +</p> + +<p> +“You told her to follow me?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. I thought that you must have had a very strong motive for going to Paris, +after not leaving me for four months. I was afraid that something might happen +to you, or that you were perhaps going to see another woman.” +</p> + +<p> +“Child!” +</p> + +<p> +“Now I am relieved. I know what you have done, but I don’t yet know what you +have been told.” +</p> + +<p> +I showed Marguerite my father’s letters. +</p> + +<p> +“That is not what I am asking you about. What I want to know is why you went to +see Prudence.” +</p> + +<p> +“To see her.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s a lie, my friend.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I went to ask her if the horse was any better, and if she wanted your +shawl and your jewels any longer.” +</p> + +<p> +Marguerite blushed, but did not answer. +</p> + +<p> +“And,” I continued, “I learned what you had done with your horses, shawls, and +jewels.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you are vexed?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am vexed that it never occurred to you to ask me for what you were in want +of.” +</p> + +<p> +“In a liaison like ours, if the woman has any sense of dignity at all, she +ought to make every possible sacrifice rather than ask her lover for money and +so give a venal character to her love. You love me, I am sure, but you do not +know on how slight a thread depends the love one has for a woman like me. Who +knows? Perhaps some day when you were bored or worried you would fancy you saw +a carefully concerted plan in our liaison. Prudence is a chatterbox. What need +had I of the horses? It was an economy to sell them. I don’t use them and I +don’t spend anything on their keep; if you love me, I ask nothing more, and you +will love me just as much without horses, or shawls, or diamonds.” +</p> + +<p> +All that was said so naturally that the tears came to my eyes as I listened. +</p> + +<p> +“But, my good Marguerite,” I replied, pressing her hands lovingly, “you knew +that one day I should discover the sacrifice you had made, and that the moment +I discovered it I should allow it no longer.” +</p> + +<p> +“But why?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because, my dear child, I can not allow your affection for me to deprive you +of even a trinket. I too should not like you to be able, in a moment when you +were bored or worried, to think that if you were living with somebody else +those moments would not exist; and to repent, if only for a minute, of living +with me. In a few days your horses, your diamonds, and your shawls shall be +returned to you. They are as necessary to you as air is to life, and it may be +absurd, but I like you better showy than simple.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then you no longer love me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Foolish creature!” +</p> + +<p> +“If you loved me, you would let me love you my own way; on the contrary, you +persist in only seeing in me a woman to whom luxury is indispensable, and whom +you think you are always obliged to pay. You are ashamed to accept the proof of +my love. In spite of yourself, you think of leaving me some day, and you want +to put your disinterestedness beyond risk of suspicion. You are right, my +friend, but I had better hopes.” +</p> + +<p> +And Marguerite made a motion to rise; I held her, and said to her: +</p> + +<p> +“I want you to be happy and to have nothing to reproach me for, that is all.” +</p> + +<p> +“And we are going to be separated!” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, Marguerite, who can separate us?” I cried. +</p> + +<p> +“You, who will not let me take you on your own level, but insist on taking me +on mine; you, who wish me to keep the luxury in the midst of which I have +lived, and so keep the moral distance which separates us; you, who do not +believe that my affection is sufficiently disinterested to share with me what +you have, though we could live happily enough on it together, and would rather +ruin yourself, because you are still bound by a foolish prejudice. Do you +really think that I could compare a carriage and diamonds with your love? Do +you think that my real happiness lies in the trifles that mean so much when one +has nothing to love, but which become trifling indeed when one has? You will +pay my debts, realize your estate, and then keep me? How long will that last? +Two or three months, and then it will be too late to live the life I propose, +for then you will have to take everything from me, and that is what a man of +honour can not do; while now you have eight or ten thousand francs a year, on +which we should be able to live. I will sell the rest of what I do not want, +and with this alone I will make two thousand francs a year. We will take a nice +little flat in which we can both live. In the summer we will go into the +country, not to a house like this, but to a house just big enough for two +people. You are independent, I am free, we are young; in heaven’s name, Armand, +do not drive me back into the life I had to lead once!” +</p> + +<p> +I could not answer. Tears of gratitude and love filled my eyes, and I flung +myself into Marguerite’s arms. +</p> + +<p> +“I wanted,” she continued, “to arrange everything without telling you, pay all +my debts, and take a new flat. In October we should have been back in Paris, +and all would have come out; but since Prudence has told you all, you will have +to agree beforehand, instead of agreeing afterward. Do you love me enough for +that?” +</p> + +<p> +It was impossible to resist such devotion. I kissed her hands ardently, and +said: +</p> + +<p> +“I will do whatever you wish.” +</p> + +<p> +It was agreed that we should do as she had planned. Thereupon, she went wild +with delight; danced, sang, amused herself with calling up pictures of her new +flat in all its simplicity, and began to consult me as to its position and +arrangement. I saw how happy and proud she was of this resolution, which seemed +as if it would bring us into closer and closer relationship, and I resolved to +do my own share. In an instant I decided the whole course of my life. I put my +affairs in order, and made over to Marguerite the income which had come to me +from my mother, and which seemed little enough in return for the sacrifice +which I was accepting. There remained the five thousand francs a year from my +father; and, whatever happened, I had always enough to live on. I did not tell +Marguerite what I had done, certain as I was that she would refuse the gift. +This income came from a mortgage of sixty thousand francs on a house that I had +never even seen. All that I knew was that every three months my father’s +solicitor, an old friend of the family, handed over to me seven hundred and +fifty francs in return for my receipt. +</p> + +<p> +The day when Marguerite and I came to Paris to look for a flat, I went to this +solicitor and asked him what had to be done in order to make over this income +to another person. The good man imagined I was ruined, and questioned me as to +the cause of my decision. As I knew that I should be obliged, sooner or later, +to say in whose favour I made this transfer, I thought it best to tell him the +truth at once. He made none of the objections that his position as friend and +solicitor authorized him to make, and assured me that he would arrange the +whole affair in the best way possible. Naturally, I begged him to employ the +greatest discretion in regard to my father, and on leaving him I rejoined +Marguerite, who was waiting for me at Julie Duprat’s, where she had gone in +preference to going to listen to the moralizings of Prudence. +</p> + +<p> +We began to look out for flats. All those that we saw seemed to Marguerite too +dear, and to me too simple. However, we finally found, in one of the quietest +parts of Paris, a little house, isolated from the main part of the building. +Behind this little house was a charming garden, surrounded by walls high enough +to screen us from our neighbours, and low enough not to shut off our own view. +It was better than our expectations. +</p> + +<p> +While I went to give notice at my own flat, Marguerite went to see a business +agent, who, she told me, had already done for one of her friends exactly what +she wanted him to do for her. She came on to the Rue de Provence in a state of +great delight. The man had promised to pay all her debts, to give her a receipt +for the amount, and to hand over to her twenty thousand francs, in return for +the whole of her furniture. You have seen by the amount taken at the sale that +this honest man would have gained thirty thousand francs out of his client. +</p> + +<p> +We went back joyously to Bougival, talking over our projects for the future, +which, thanks to our heedlessness, and especially to our love, we saw in the +rosiest light. +</p> + +<p> +A week later, as we were having lunch, Nanine came to tell us that my servant +was asking for me. “Let him come in,” I said. +</p> + +<p> +“Sir,” said he, “your father has arrived in Paris, and begs you to return at +once to your rooms, where he is waiting for you.” +</p> + +<p> +This piece of news was the most natural thing in the world, yet, as we heard +it, Marguerite and I looked at one another. We foresaw trouble. Before she had +spoken a word, I replied to her thought, and, taking her hand, I said, “Fear +nothing.” +</p> + +<p> +“Come back as soon as possible,” whispered Marguerite, embracing me; “I will +wait for you at the window.” +</p> + +<p> +I sent on Joseph to tell my father that I was on my way. Two hours later I was +at the Rue de Provence. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0020"></a> +Chapter XX</h2> + +<p> +My father was seated in my room in his dressing-gown; he was writing, and I saw +at once, by the way in which he raised his eyes to me when I came in, that +there was going to be a serious discussion. I went up to him, all the same, as +if I had seen nothing in his face, embraced him, and said: +</p> + +<p> +“When did you come, father?” +</p> + +<p> +“Last night.” +</p> + +<p> +“Did you come straight here, as usual?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am very sorry not to have been here to receive you.” +</p> + +<p> +I expected that the sermon which my father’s cold face threatened would begin +at once; but he said nothing, sealed the letter which he had just written, and +gave it to Joseph to post. +</p> + +<p> +When we were alone, my father rose, and leaning against the mantel-piece, said +to me: +</p> + +<p> +“My dear Armand, we have serious matters to discuss.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am listening, father.” +</p> + +<p> +“You promise me to be frank?” +</p> + +<p> +“Am I not accustomed to be so?” +</p> + +<p> +“Is it not true that you are living with a woman called Marguerite Gautier?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you know what this woman was?” +</p> + +<p> +“A kept woman.” +</p> + +<p> +“And it is for her that you have forgotten to come and see your sister and me +this year?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, father, I admit it.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are very much in love with this woman?” +</p> + +<p> +“You see it, father, since she has made me fail in duty toward you, for which I +humbly ask your forgiveness to-day.” +</p> + +<p> +My father, no doubt, was not expecting such categorical answers, for he seemed +to reflect a moment, and then said to me: +</p> + +<p> +“You have, of course, realized that you can not always live like that?” +</p> + +<p> +“I fear so, father, but I have not realized it.” +</p> + +<p> +“But you must realize,” continued my father, in a dryer tone, “that I, at all +events, should not permit it.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have said to myself that as long as I did nothing contrary to the respect +which I owe to the traditional probity of the family I could live as I am +living, and this has reassured me somewhat in regard to the fears I have had.” +</p> + +<p> +Passions are formidable enemies to sentiment. I was prepared for every +struggle, even with my father, in order that I might keep Marguerite. +</p> + +<p> +“Then, the moment is come when you must live otherwise.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, father?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because you are doing things which outrage the respect that you imagine you +have for your family.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t follow your meaning.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will explain it to you. Have a mistress if you will; pay her as a man of +honour is bound to pay the woman whom he keeps, by all means; but that you +should come to forget the most sacred things for her, that you should let the +report of your scandalous life reach my quiet countryside, and set a blot on +the honourable name that I have given you, it can not, it shall not be.” +</p> + +<p> +“Permit me to tell you, father, that those who have given you information about +me have been ill-informed. I am the lover of Mlle. Gautier; I live with her; it +is the most natural thing in the world. I do not give Mlle. Gautier the name +you have given me; I spend on her account what my means allow me to spend; I +have no debts; and, in short, I am not in a position which authorizes a father +to say to his son what you have just said to me.” +</p> + +<p> +“A father is always authorized to rescue his son out of evil paths. You have +not done any harm yet, but you will do it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Father!” +</p> + +<p> +“Sir, I know more of life than you do. There are no entirely pure sentiments +except in perfectly chaste women. Every Manon can have her own Des Grieux, and +times are changed. It would be useless for the world to grow older if it did +not correct its ways. You will leave your mistress.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am very sorry to disobey you, father, but it is impossible.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will compel you to do so.” +</p> + +<p> +“Unfortunately, father, there no longer exists a Sainte Marguerite to which +courtesans can be sent, and, even if there were, I would follow Mlle. Gautier +if you succeeded in having her sent there. What would you have? Perhaps am in +the wrong, but I can only be happy as long as I am the lover of this woman.” +</p> + +<p> +“Come, Armand, open your eyes. Recognise that it is your father who speaks to +you, your father who has always loved you, and who only desires your happiness. +Is it honourable for you to live like husband and wife with a woman whom +everybody has had?” +</p> + +<p> +“What does it matter, father, if no one will any more? What does it matter, if +this woman loves me, if her whole life is changed through the love which she +has for me and the love which I have for her? What does it matter, if she has +become a different woman?” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you think, then, sir, that the mission of a man of honour is to go about +converting lost women? Do you think that God has given such a grotesque aim to +life, and that the heart should have any room for enthusiasm of that kind? What +will be the end of this marvellous cure, and what will you think of what you +are saying to-day by the time you are forty? You will laugh at this love of +yours, if you can still laugh, and if it has not left too serious a trace in +your past. What would you be now if your father had had your ideas and had +given up his life to every impulse of this kind, instead of rooting himself +firmly in convictions of honour and steadfastness? Think it over, Armand, and +do not talk any more such absurdities. Come, leave this woman; your father +entreats you.” +</p> + +<p> +I answered nothing. +</p> + +<p> +“Armand,” continued my father, “in the name of your sainted mother, abandon +this life, which you will forget more easily than you think. You are tied to it +by an impossible theory. You are twenty-four; think of the future. You can not +always love this woman, who also can not always love you. You both exaggerate +your love. You put an end to your whole career. One step further, and you will +no longer be able to leave the path you have chosen, and you will suffer all +your life for what you have done in your youth. Leave Paris. Come and stay for +a month or two with your sister and me. Rest in our quiet family affection will +soon heal you of this fever, for it is nothing else. Meanwhile, your mistress +will console herself; she will take another lover; and when you see what it is +for which you have all but broken with your father, and all but lost his love, +you will tell me that I have done well to come and seek you out, and you will +thank me for it. Come, you will go with me, Armand, will you not?” I felt that +my father would be right if it had been any other woman, but I was convinced +that he was wrong with regard to Marguerite. Nevertheless, the tone in which he +said these last words was so kind, so appealing, that I dared not answer. +</p> + +<p> +“Well?” said he in a trembling voice. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, father, I can promise nothing,” I said at last; “what you ask of me is +beyond my power. Believe me,” I continued, seeing him make an impatient +movement, “you exaggerate the effects of this liaison. Marguerite is a +different kind of a woman from what you think. This love, far from leading me +astray, is capable, on the contrary, of setting me in the right direction. Love +always makes a man better, no matter what woman inspires it. If you knew +Marguerite, you would understand that I am in no danger. She is as noble as the +noblest of women. There is as much disinterestedness in her as there is +cupidity in others.” +</p> + +<p> +“All of which does not prevent her from accepting the whole of your fortune, +for the sixty thousand francs which come to you from your mother, and which you +are giving her, are, understand me well, your whole fortune.” +</p> + +<p> +My father had probably kept this peroration and this threat for the last +stroke. I was firmer before these threats than before his entreaties. +</p> + +<p> +“Who told you that I was handing this sum to her?” I asked. +</p> + +<p> +“My solicitor. Could an honest man carry out such a procedure without warning +me? Well, it is to prevent you from ruining yourself for a prostitute that I am +now in Paris. Your mother, when she died, left you enough to live on +respectably, and not to squander on your mistresses.” +</p> + +<p> +“I swear to you, father, that Marguerite knew nothing of this transfer.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, then, do you make it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because Marguerite, the woman you calumniate, and whom you wish me to abandon, +is sacrificing all that she possesses in order to live with me.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you accept this sacrifice? What sort of a man are you, sir, to allow Mlle. +Gautier to sacrifice anything for you? Come, enough of this. You will leave +this woman. Just now I begged you; now I command you. I will have no such +scandalous doings in my family. Pack up your things and get ready to come with +me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Pardon me, father,” I said, “but I shall not come.” +</p> + +<p> +“And why?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because I am at an age when no one any longer obeys a command.” +</p> + +<p> +My father turned pale at my answer. +</p> + +<p> +“Very well, sir,” he said, “I know what remains to be done.” +</p> + +<p> +He rang and Joseph appeared. +</p> + +<p> +“Have my things taken to the Hotel de Paris,” he said to my servant. And +thereupon he went to his room and finished dressing. When he returned, I went +up to him. +</p> + +<p> +“Promise me, father,” I said, “that you will do nothing to give Marguerite +pain?” +</p> + +<p> +My father stopped, looked at me disdainfully, and contented himself with +saying, “I believe you are mad.” After this he went out, shutting the door +violently after him. +</p> + +<p> +I went downstairs, took a cab, and returned to Bougival. +</p> + +<p> +Marguerite was waiting for me at the window. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0021"></a> +Chapter XXI</h2> + +<p> +“At last you have come,” she said, throwing her arms round my neck. “But how +pale you are!” +</p> + +<p> +I told her of the scene with my father. +</p> + +<p> +“My God! I was afraid of it,” she said. “When Joseph came to tell you of your +father’s arrival I trembled as if he had brought news of some misfortune. My +poor friend, I am the cause of all your distress. You will be better off, +perhaps, if you leave me and do not quarrel with your father on my account. He +knows that you are sure to have a mistress, and he ought to be thankful that it +is I, since I love you and do not want more of you than your position allows. +Did you tell him how we had arranged our future?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes; that is what annoyed him the most, for he saw how much we really love one +another.” +</p> + +<p> +“What are we to do, then?” +</p> + +<p> +“Hold together, my good Marguerite, and let the storm pass over.” +</p> + +<p> +“Will it pass?” +</p> + +<p> +“It will have to.” +</p> + +<p> +“But your father will not stop there.” +</p> + +<p> +“What do you suppose he can do?” +</p> + +<p> +“How do I know? Everything that a father can do to make his son obey him. He +will remind you of my past life, and will perhaps do me the honour of inventing +some new story, so that you may give me up.” +</p> + +<p> +“You know that I love you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, but what I know, too, is that, sooner or later, you will have to obey +your father, and perhaps you will end by believing him.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, Marguerite. It is I who will make him believe me. Some of his friends have +been telling him tales which have made him angry; but he is good and just, he +will change his first impression; and then, after all, what does it matter to +me?” +</p> + +<p> +“Do not say that, Armand. I would rather anything should happen than that you +should quarrel with your family; wait till after to-day, and to-morrow go back +to Paris. Your father, too, will have thought it over on his side, and perhaps +you will both come to a better understanding. Do not go against his principles, +pretend to make some concessions to what he wants; seem not to care so very +much about me, and he will let things remain as they are. Hope, my friend, and +be sure of one thing, that whatever happens, Marguerite will always be yours.” +</p> + +<p> +“You swear it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Do I need to swear it?” +</p> + +<p> +How sweet it is to let oneself be persuaded by the voice that one loves! +Marguerite and I spent the whole day in talking over our projects for the +future, as if we felt the need of realizing them as quickly as possible. At +every moment we awaited some event, but the day passed without bringing us any +new tidings. +</p> + +<p> +Next day I left at ten o’clock, and reached the hotel about twelve. My father +had gone out. +</p> + +<p> +I went to my own rooms, hoping that he had perhaps gone there. No one had +called. I went to the solicitor’s. No one was there. I went back to the hotel, +and waited till six. M. Duval did not return, and I went back to Bougival. +</p> + +<p> +I found Marguerite not waiting for me, as she had been the day before, but +sitting by the fire, which the weather still made necessary. She was so +absorbed in her thoughts that I came close to her chair without her hearing me. +When I put my lips to her forehead she started as if the kiss had suddenly +awakened her. +</p> + +<p> +“You frightened me,” she said. “And your father?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have not seen him. I do not know what it means. He was not at his hotel, nor +anywhere where there was a chance of my finding him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, you must try again to-morrow.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am very much inclined to wait till he sends for me. I think I have done all +that can be expected of me.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, my friend, it is not enough; you must call on your father again, and you +must call to-morrow.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why to-morrow rather than any other day?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because,” said Marguerite, and it seemed to me that she blushed slightly at +this question, “because it will show that you are the more keen about it, and +he will forgive us the sooner.” +</p> + +<p> +For the remainder of the day Marguerite was sad and preoccupied. I had to +repeat twice over everything I said to her to obtain an answer. She ascribed +this preoccupation to her anxiety in regard to the events which had happened +during the last two days. I spent the night in reassuring her, and she sent me +away in the morning with an insistent disquietude that I could not explain to +myself. +</p> + +<p> +Again my father was absent, but he had left this letter for me: +</p> + +<p> +“If you call again to-day, wait for me till four. If I am not in by four, come +and dine with me to-morrow. I must see you.” +</p> + +<p> +I waited till the hour he had named, but he did not appear. I returned to +Bougival. +</p> + +<p> +The night before I had found Marguerite sad; that night I found her feverish +and agitated. On seeing me, she flung her arms around my neck, but she cried +for a long time in my arms. I questioned her as to this sudden distress, which +alarmed me by its violence. She gave me no positive reason, but put me off with +those evasions which a woman resorts to when she will not tell the truth. +</p> + +<p> +When she was a little calmed down, I told her the result of my visit, and I +showed her my father’s letter, from which, I said, we might augur well. At the +sight of the letter and on hearing my comment, her tears began to flow so +copiously that I feared an attack of nerves, and, calling Nanine, I put her to +bed, where she wept without a word, but held my hands and kissed them every +moment. +</p> + +<p> +I asked Nanine if, during my absence, her mistress had received any letter or +visit which could account for the state in which I found her, but Nanine +replied that no one had called and nothing had been sent. +</p> + +<p> +Something, however, had occurred since the day before, something which troubled +me the more because Marguerite concealed it from me. +</p> + +<p> +In the evening she seemed a little calmer, and, making me sit at the foot of +the bed, she told me many times how much she loved me. She smiled at me, but +with an effort, for in spite of herself her eyes were veiled with tears. +</p> + +<p> +I used every means to make her confess the real cause of her distress, but she +persisted in giving me nothing but vague reasons, as I have told you. At last +she fell asleep in my arms, but it was the sleep which tires rather than rests +the body. From time to time she uttered a cry, started up, and, after assuring +herself that I was beside her, made me swear that I would always love her. +</p> + +<p> +I could make nothing of these intermittent paroxysms of distress, which went on +till morning. Then Marguerite fell into a kind of stupor. She had not slept for +two nights. +</p> + +<p> +Her rest was of short duration, for toward eleven she awoke, and, seeing that I +was up, she looked about her, crying: +</p> + +<p> +“Are you going already?” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” said I, holding her hands; “but I wanted to let you sleep on. It is still +early.” +</p> + +<p> +“What time are you going to Paris?” +</p> + +<p> +“At four.” +</p> + +<p> +“So soon? But you will stay with me till then?” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course. Do I not always?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am so glad! Shall we have lunch?” she went on absentmindedly. +</p> + +<p> +“If you like.” +</p> + +<p> +“And then you will be nice to me till the very moment you go?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes; and I will come back as soon as I can.” +</p> + +<p> +“You will come back?” she said, looking at me with haggard eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“Naturally.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, yes, you will come back to-night. I shall wait for you, as I always do, +and you will love me, and we shall be happy, as we have been ever since we have +known each other.” +</p> + +<p> +All these words were said in such a strained voice, they seemed to hide so +persistent and so sorrowful a thought, that I trembled every moment lest +Marguerite should become delirious. +</p> + +<p> +“Listen,” I said. “You are ill. I can not leave you like this. I will write and +tell my father not to expect me.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, no,” she cried hastily, “don’t do that. Your father will accuse me of +hindering you again from going to see him when he wants to see you; no, no, you +must go, you must! Besides, I am not ill. I am quite well. I had a bad dream +and am not yet fully awake.” +</p> + +<p> +From that moment Marguerite tried to seem more cheerful. There were no more +tears. +</p> + +<p> +When the hour came for me to go, I embraced her and asked her if she would come +with me as far as the train; I hoped that the walk would distract her and that +the air would do her good. I wanted especially to be with her as long as +possible. +</p> + +<p> +She agreed, put on her cloak and took Nanine with her, so as not to return +alone. Twenty times I was on the point of not going. But the hope of a speedy +return, and the fear of offending my father still more, sustained me, and I +took my place in the train. +</p> + +<p> +“Till this evening!” I said to Marguerite, as I left her. She did not reply. +</p> + +<p> +Once already she had not replied to the same words, and the Comte de G., you +will remember, had spent the night with her; but that time was so far away that +it seemed to have been effaced from my memory, and if I had any fear, it was +certainly not of Marguerite being unfaithful to me. Reaching Paris, I hastened +off to see Prudence, intending to ask her to go and keep Marguerite company, in +the hope that her mirth and liveliness would distract her. I entered without +being announced, and found Prudence at her toilet. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” she said, anxiously; “is Marguerite with you?” +</p> + +<p> +“No.” +</p> + +<p> +“How is she?” +</p> + +<p> +“She is not well.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is she not coming?” +</p> + +<p> +“Did you expect her?” +</p> + +<p> +Madame Duvernoy reddened, and replied, with a certain constraint: +</p> + +<p> +“I only meant that since you are at Paris, is she not coming to join you?” +</p> + +<p> +“No.” +</p> + +<p> +I looked at Prudence; she cast down her eyes, and I read in her face the fear +of seeing my visit prolonged. +</p> + +<p> +“I even came to ask you, my dear Prudence, if you have nothing to do this +evening, to go and see Marguerite; you will be company for her, and you can +stay the night. I never saw her as she was to-day, and I am afraid she is going +to be ill.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am dining in town,” replied Prudence, “and I can’t go and see Marguerite +this evening. I will see her tomorrow.” +</p> + +<p> +I took leave of Mme. Duvernoy, who seemed almost as preoccupied as Marguerite, +and went on to my father’s; his first glance seemed to study me attentively. He +held out his hand. +</p> + +<p> +“Your two visits have given me pleasure, Armand,” he said; “they make me hope +that you have thought over things on your side as I have on mine.” +</p> + +<p> +“May I ask you, father, what was the result of your reflection?” +</p> + +<p> +“The result, my dear boy, is that I have exaggerated the importance of the +reports that had been made to me, and that I have made up my mind to be less +severe with you.” +</p> + +<p> +“What are you saying, father?” I cried joyously. +</p> + +<p> +“I say, my dear child, that every young man must have his mistress, and that, +from the fresh information I have had, I would rather see you the lover of +Mlle. Gautier than of anyone else.” +</p> + +<p> +“My dear father, how happy you make me!” +</p> + +<p> +We talked in this manner for some moments, and then sat down to table. My +father was charming all dinner time. +</p> + +<p> +I was in a hurry to get back to Bougival to tell Marguerite about this +fortunate change, and I looked at the clock every moment. +</p> + +<p> +“You are watching the time,” said my father, “and you are impatient to leave +me. O young people, how you always sacrifice sincere to doubtful affections!” +</p> + +<p> +“Do not say that, father; Marguerite loves me, I am sure of it.” +</p> + +<p> +My father did not answer; he seemed to say neither yes nor no. +</p> + +<p> +He was very insistent that I should spend the whole evening with him and not go +till the morning; but Marguerite had not been well when I left her. I told him +of it, and begged his permission to go back to her early, promising to come +again on the morrow. +</p> + +<p> +The weather was fine; he walked with me as far as the station. Never had I been +so happy. The future appeared as I had long desired to see it. I had never +loved my father as I loved him at that moment. +</p> + +<p> +Just as I was leaving him, he once more begged me to stay. I refused. +</p> + +<p> +“You are really very much in love with her?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Madly.” +</p> + +<p> +“Go, then,” and he passed his hand across his forehead as if to chase a +thought, then opened his mouth as if to say something; but he only pressed my +hand, and left me hurriedly, saying: +</p> + +<p> +“Till to-morrow, then!” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0022"></a> +Chapter XXII</h2> + +<p> +It seemed to me as if the train did not move. I reached Bougival at eleven. +</p> + +<p> +Not a window in the house was lighted up, and when I rang no one answered the +bell. It was the first time that such a thing had occurred to me. At last the +gardener came. I entered. Nanine met me with a light. I went to Marguerite’s +room. +</p> + +<p> +“Where is madame?” +</p> + +<p> +“Gone to Paris,” replied Nanine. +</p> + +<p> +“To Paris!” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“When?” +</p> + +<p> +“An hour after you.” +</p> + +<p> +“She left no word for me?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing.” +</p> + +<p> +Nanine left me. +</p> + +<p> +Perhaps she had some suspicion or other, I thought, and went to Paris to make +sure that my visit to my father was not an excuse for a day off. Perhaps +Prudence wrote to her about something important. I said to myself when I was +alone; but I saw Prudence; she said nothing to make me suppose that she had +written to Marguerite. +</p> + +<p> +All at once I remembered Mme. Duvernoy’s question, “Isn’t she coming to-day?” +when I had said that Marguerite was ill. I remembered at the same time how +embarrassed Prudence had appeared when I looked at her after this remark, which +seemed to indicate an appointment. I remembered, too, Marguerite’s tears all +day long, which my father’s kind reception had rather put out of my mind. From +this moment all the incidents grouped themselves about my first suspicion, and +fixed it so firmly in my mind that everything served to confirm it, even my +father’s kindness. +</p> + +<p> +Marguerite had almost insisted on my going to Paris; she had pretended to be +calmer when I had proposed staying with her. Had I fallen into some trap? Was +Marguerite deceiving me? Had she counted on being back in time for me not to +perceive her absence, and had she been detained by chance? Why had she said +nothing to Nanine, or why had she not written? What was the meaning of those +tears, this absence, this mystery? +</p> + +<p> +That is what I asked myself in affright, as I stood in the vacant room, gazing +at the clock, which pointed to midnight, and seemed to say to me that it was +too late to hope for my mistress’s return. Yet, after all the arrangements we +had just made, after the sacrifices that had been offered and accepted, was it +likely that she was deceiving me? No. I tried to get rid of my first +supposition. +</p> + +<p> +Probably she had found a purchaser for her furniture, and she had gone to Paris +to conclude the bargain. She did not wish to tell me beforehand, for she knew +that, though I had consented to it, the sale, so necessary to our future +happiness, was painful to me, and she feared to wound my self-respect in +speaking to me about it. She would rather not see me till the whole thing was +done, and that was evidently why Prudence was expecting her when she let out +the secret. Marguerite could not finish the whole business to-day, and was +staying the night with Prudence, or perhaps she would come even now, for she +must know how anxious I should be, and would not wish to leave me in that +condition. But, if so, why those tears? No doubt, despite her love for me, the +poor girl could not make up her mind to give up all the luxury in which she had +lived until now, and for which she had been so envied, without crying over it. +I was quite ready to forgive her for such regrets. I waited for her +impatiently, that I might say to her, as I covered her with kisses, that I had +guessed the reason of her mysterious absence. +</p> + +<p> +Nevertheless, the night went on, and Marguerite did not return. +</p> + +<p> +My anxiety tightened its circle little by little, and began to oppress my head +and heart. Perhaps something had happened to her. Perhaps she was injured, ill, +dead. Perhaps a messenger would arrive with the news of some dreadful accident. +Perhaps the daylight would find me with the same uncertainty and with the same +fears. +</p> + +<p> +The idea that Marguerite was perhaps unfaithful to me at the very moment when I +waited for her in terror at her absence did not return to my mind. There must +be some cause, independent of her will, to keep her away from me, and the more +I thought, the more convinced I was that this cause could only be some mishap +or other. O vanity of man, coming back to us in every form! +</p> + +<p> +One o’clock struck. I said to myself that I would wait another hour, but that +at two o’clock, if Marguerite had not returned, I would set out for Paris. +Meanwhile I looked about for a book, for I dared not think. Manon Lescaut was +open on the table. It seemed to me that here and there the pages were wet as if +with tears. I turned the leaves over and then closed the book, for the letters +seemed to me void of meaning through the veil of my doubts. +</p> + +<p> +Time went slowly. The sky was covered with clouds. An autumn rain lashed the +windows. The empty bed seemed at moments to assume the aspect of a tomb. I was +afraid. +</p> + +<p> +I opened the door. I listened, and heard nothing but the voice of the wind in +the trees. Not a vehicle was to be seen on the road. The half hour sounded +sadly from the church tower. +</p> + +<p> +I began to fear lest someone should enter. It seemed to me that only a disaster +could come at that hour and under that sombre sky. +</p> + +<p> +Two o’clock struck. I still waited a little. Only the sound of the bell +troubled the silence with its monotonous and rhythmical stroke. +</p> + +<p> +At last I left the room, where every object had assumed that melancholy aspect +which the restless solitude of the heart gives to all its surroundings. +</p> + +<p> +In the next room I found Nanine sleeping over her work. At the sound of the +door, she awoke and asked if her mistress had come in. +</p> + +<p> +“No; but if she comes in, tell her that I was so anxious that I had to go to +Paris.” +</p> + +<p> +“At this hour?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. +</p> + +<p> +“But how? You won’t find a carriage.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will walk.” +</p> + +<p> +“But it is raining.” +</p> + +<p> +“No matter.” +</p> + +<p> +“But madame will be coming back, or if she doesn’t come it will be time enough +in the morning to go and see what has kept her. You will be murdered on the +way.” +</p> + +<p> +“There is no danger, my dear Nanine; I will see you to-morrow.” +</p> + +<p> +The good girl went and got me a cloak, put it over my shoulders, and offered to +wake up Mme. Arnould to see if a vehicle could be obtained; but I would hear of +nothing, convinced as I was that I should lose, in a perhaps fruitless inquiry, +more time than I should take to cover half the road. Besides, I felt the need +of air and physical fatigue in order to cool down the over-excitement which +possessed me. +</p> + +<p> +I took the key of the flat in the Rue d’Antin, and after saying good-bye to +Nanine, who came with me as far as the gate, I set out. +</p> + +<p> +At first I began to run, but the earth was muddy with rain, and I fatigued +myself doubly. At the end of half an hour I was obliged to stop, and I was +drenched with sweat. I recovered my breath and went on. The night was so dark +that at every step I feared to dash myself against one of the trees on the +roadside, which rose up sharply before me like great phantoms rushing upon me. +</p> + +<p> +I overtook one or two wagons, which I soon left behind. A carriage was going at +full gallop toward Bougival. As it passed me the hope came to me that +Marguerite was in it. I stopped and cried out, “Marguerite! Marguerite!” But no +one answered and the carriage continued its course. I watched it fade away in +the distance, and then started on my way again. I took two hours to reach the +Barrière de l’Étoile. The sight of Paris restored my strength, and I ran the +whole length of the alley I had so often walked. +</p> + +<p> +That night no one was passing; it was like going through the midst of a dead +city. The dawn began to break. When I reached the Rue d’Antin the great city +stirred a little before quite awakening. Five o’clock struck at the church of +Saint Roch at the moment when I entered Marguerite’s house. I called out my +name to the porter, who had had from me enough twenty-franc pieces to know that +I had the right to call on Mlle. Gautier at five in the morning. I passed +without difficulty. I might have asked if Marguerite was at home, but he might +have said “No,” and I preferred to remain in doubt two minutes longer, for, as +long as I doubted, there was still hope. +</p> + +<p> +I listened at the door, trying to discover a sound, a movement. Nothing. The +silence of the country seemed to be continued here. I opened the door and +entered. All the curtains were hermetically closed. I drew those of the +dining-room and went toward the bed-room and pushed open the door. I sprang at +the curtain cord and drew it violently. The curtain opened, a faint light made +its way in. I rushed to the bed. It was empty. +</p> + +<p> +I opened the doors one after another. I visited every room. No one. It was +enough to drive one mad. +</p> + +<p> +I went into the dressing-room, opened the window, and called Prudence several +times. Mme. Duvernoy’s window remained closed. +</p> + +<p> +I went downstairs to the porter and asked him if Mlle. Gautier had come home +during the day. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” answered the man; “with Mme. Duvernoy.” +</p> + +<p> +“She left no word for me?” +</p> + +<p> +“No.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you know what they did afterward?” +</p> + +<p> +“They went away in a carriage.” +</p> + +<p> +“What sort of a carriage?” +</p> + +<p> +“A private carriage.” +</p> + +<p> +What could it all mean? +</p> + +<p> +I rang at the next door. +</p> + +<p> +“Where are you going, sir?” asked the porter, when he had opened to me. +</p> + +<p> +“To Mme. Duvernoy’s.” +</p> + +<p> +“She has not come back.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are sure?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir; here’s a letter even, which was brought for her last night and which +I have not yet given her.” +</p> + +<p> +And the porter showed me a letter which I glanced at mechanically. I recognised +Marguerite’s writing. I took the letter. It was addressed, “To Mme. Duvernoy, +to forward to M. Duval.” +</p> + +<p> +“This letter is for me,” I said to the porter, as I showed him the address. +</p> + +<p> +“You are M. Duval?” he replied. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! I remember. You often came to see Mme. Duvernoy.” +</p> + +<p> +When I was in the street I broke the seal of the letter. If a thunder-bolt had +fallen at my feet I should have been less startled than I was by what I read. +</p> + +<p> +“By the time you read this letter, Armand, I shall be the mistress of another +man. All is over between us. +</p> + +<p> +“Go back to your father, my friend, and to your sister, and there, by the side +of a pure young girl, ignorant of all our miseries, you will soon forget what +you would have suffered through that lost creature who is called Marguerite +Gautier, whom you have loved for an instant, and who owes to you the only happy +moments of a life which, she hopes, will not be very long now.” +</p> + +<p> +When I had read the last word, I thought I should have gone mad. For a moment I +was really afraid of falling in the street. A cloud passed before my eyes and +my blood beat in my temples. At last I came to myself a little. I looked about +me, and was astonished to see the life of others continue without pausing at my +distress. +</p> + +<p> +I was not strong enough to endure the blow alone. Then I remembered that my +father was in the same city, that I might be with him in ten minutes, and that, +whatever might be the cause of my sorrow, he would share it. +</p> + +<p> +I ran like a madman, like a thief, to the Hotel de Paris; I found the key in +the door of my father’s room; I entered. He was reading. He showed so little +astonishment at seeing me, that it was as if he was expecting me. I flung +myself into his arms without saying a word. I gave him Marguerite’s letter, +and, falling on my knees beside his bed, I wept hot tears. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0023"></a> +Chapter XXIII</h2> + +<p> +When the current of life had resumed its course, I could not believe that the +day which I saw dawning would not be like those which had preceded it. There +were moments when I fancied that some circumstance, which I could not +recollect, had obliged me to spend the night away from Marguerite, but that, if +I returned to Bougival, I should find her again as anxious as I had been, and +that she would ask me what had detained me away from her so long. +</p> + +<p> +When one’s existence has contracted a habit, such as that of this love, it +seems impossible that the habit should be broken without at the same time +breaking all the other springs of life. I was forced from time to time to +reread Marguerite’s letter, in order to convince myself that I had not been +dreaming. +</p> + +<p> +My body, succumbing to the moral shock, was incapable of movement. Anxiety, the +night walk, and the morning’s news had prostrated me. My father profited by +this total prostration of all my faculties to demand of me a formal promise to +accompany him. I promised all that he asked, for I was incapable of sustaining +a discussion, and I needed some affection to help me to live, after what had +happened. I was too thankful that my father was willing to console me under +such a calamity. +</p> + +<p> +All that I remember is that on that day, about five o’clock, he took me with +him in a post-chaise. Without a word to me, he had had my luggage packed and +put up behind the chaise with his own, and so he carried me off. I did not +realize what I was doing until the town had disappeared and the solitude of the +road recalled to me the emptiness of my heart. Then my tears again began to +flow. +</p> + +<p> +My father had realized that words, even from him, would do nothing to console +me, and he let me weep without saying a word, only sometimes pressing my hand, +as if to remind me that I had a friend at my side. +</p> + +<p> +At night I slept a little. I dreamed of Marguerite. +</p> + +<p> +I woke with a start, not recalling why I was in the carriage. Then the truth +came back upon me, and I let my head sink on my breast. I dared not say +anything to my father. I was afraid he would say, “You see I was right when I +declared that this woman did not love you.” But he did not use his advantage, +and we reached C. without his having said anything to me except to speak of +matters quite apart from the event which had occasioned my leaving Paris. +</p> + +<p> +When I embraced my sister, I remembered what Marguerite had said about her in +her letter, and I saw at once how little my sister, good as she was, would be +able to make me forget my mistress. +</p> + +<p> +Shooting had begun, and my father thought that it would be a distraction for +me. He got up shooting parties with friends and neighbours. I went without +either reluctance or enthusiasm, with that sort of apathy into which I had sunk +since my departure. +</p> + +<p> +We were beating about for game and I was given my post. I put down my unloaded +gun at my side, and meditated. I watched the clouds pass. I let my thought +wander over the solitary plains, and from time to time I heard someone call to +me and point to a hare not ten paces off. None of these details escaped my +father, and he was not deceived by my exterior calm. He was well aware that, +broken as I now was, I should some day experience a terrible reaction, which +might be dangerous, and, without seeming to make any effort to console me, he +did his utmost to distract my thoughts. +</p> + +<p> +My sister, naturally, knew nothing of what had happened, and she could not +understand how it was that I, who had formerly been so lighthearted, had +suddenly become so sad and dreamy. +</p> + +<p> +Sometimes, surprising in the midst of my sadness my father’s anxious scrutiny, +I pressed his hand as if to ask him tacitly to forgive me for the pain which, +in spite of myself, I was giving him. +</p> + +<p> +Thus a month passed, but at the end of that time I could endure it no longer. +The memory of Marguerite pursued me unceasingly. I had loved, I still loved +this woman so much that I could not suddenly become indifferent to her. I had +to love or to hate her. Above all, whatever I felt for her, I had to see her +again, and at once. This desire possessed my mind, and with all the violence of +a will which had begun to reassert itself in a body so long inert. +</p> + +<p> +It was not enough for me to see Marguerite in a month, a week. I had to see her +the very next day after the day when the thought had occurred to me; and I went +to my father and told him that I had been called to Paris on business, but that +I should return promptly. No doubt he guessed the reason of my departure, for +he insisted that I should stay, but, seeing that if I did not carry out my +intention the consequences, in the state in which I was, might be fatal, he +embraced me, and begged me, almost, with tears, to return without delay. +</p> + +<p> +I did not sleep on the way to Paris. Once there, what was I going to do? I did +not know; I only knew that it must be something connected with Marguerite. I +went to my rooms to change my clothes, and, as the weather was fine and it was +still early, I made my way to the Champs-Elysées. At the end of half an hour I +saw Marguerite’s carriage, at some distance, coming from the Rond-Point to the +Place de la Concorde. She had repurchased her horses, for the carriage was just +as I was accustomed to see it, but she was not in it. Scarcely had I noticed +this fact, when looking around me, I saw Marguerite on foot, accompanied by a +woman whom I had never seen. +</p> + +<p> +As she passed me she turned pale, and a nervous smile tightened about her lips. +For my part, my heart beat violently in my breast; but I succeeded in giving a +cold expression to my face, as I bowed coldly to my former mistress, who just +then reached her carriage, into which she got with her friend. +</p> + +<p> +I knew Marguerite: this unexpected meeting must certainly have upset her. No +doubt she had heard that I had gone away, and had thus been reassured as to the +consequences of our rupture; but, seeing me again in Paris, finding herself +face to face with me, pale as I was, she must have realized that I had not +returned without purpose, and she must have asked herself what that purpose +was. +</p> + +<p> +If I had seen Marguerite unhappy, if, in revenging myself upon her, I could +have come to her aid, I should perhaps have forgiven her, and certainly I +should have never dreamt of doing her an injury. But I found her apparently +happy, someone else had restored to her the luxury which I could not give her; +her breaking with me seemed to assume a character of the basest self-interest; +I was lowered in my own esteem as well as in my love. I resolved that she +should pay for what I had suffered. +</p> + +<p> +I could not be indifferent to what she did, consequently what would hurt her +the most would be my indifference; it was, therefore, this sentiment which I +must affect, not only in her eyes, but in the eyes of others. +</p> + +<p> +I tried to put on a smiling countenance, and I went to call on Prudence. The +maid announced me, and I had to wait a few minutes in the drawing-room. At last +Mme. Duvernoy appeared and asked me into her boudoir; as I seated myself I +heard the drawing-room door open, a light footstep made the floor creak and the +front door was closed violently. +</p> + +<p> +“I am disturbing you,” I said to Prudence. +</p> + +<p> +“Not in the least. Marguerite was there. When she heard you announced, she made +her escape; it was she who has just gone out.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is she afraid of me now?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, but she is afraid that you would not wish to see her.” +</p> + +<p> +“But why?” I said, drawing my breath with difficulty, for I was choked with +emotion. “The poor girl left me for her carriage, her furniture, and her +diamonds; she did quite right, and I don’t bear her any grudge. I met her +to-day,” I continued carelessly. +</p> + +<p> +“Where?” asked Prudence, looking at me and seeming to ask herself if this was +the same man whom she had known so madly in love. +</p> + +<p> +“In the Champs-Elysées. She was with another woman, very pretty. Who is she?” +</p> + +<p> +“What was she like?” +</p> + +<p> +“Blonde, slender, with side curls; blue eyes; very elegant.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! It was Olympe; she is really very pretty.” +</p> + +<p> +“Whom does she live with?” +</p> + +<p> +“With nobody; with anybody.” +</p> + +<p> +“Where does she live?” +</p> + +<p> +“Rue Tronchet, No.—. Do you want to make love to her?” +</p> + +<p> +“One never knows.” +</p> + +<p> +“And Marguerite?” +</p> + +<p> +“I should hardly tell you the truth if I said I think no more about her; but I +am one of those with whom everything depends on the way in which one breaks +with them. Now Marguerite ended with me so lightly that I realize I was a great +fool to have been as much in love with her as I was, for I was really very much +in love with that girl.” +</p> + +<p> +You can imagine the way in which I said that; the sweat broke out on my +forehead. +</p> + +<p> +“She was very fond of you, you know, and she still is; the proof is, that after +meeting you to-day, she came straight to tell me about it. When she got here +she was all of a tremble; I thought she was going to faint.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, what did she say?” +</p> + +<p> +“She said, ‘He is sure to come here,’ and she begged me to ask you to forgive +her.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have forgiven her, you may tell her. She was a good girl; but, after all, +like the others, and I ought to have expected what happened. I am even grateful +to her, for I see now what would have happened if I had lived with her +altogether. It was ridiculous.” +</p> + +<p> +“She will be very glad to find that you take it so well. It was quite time she +left you, my dear fellow. The rascal of an agent to whom she had offered to +sell her furniture went around to her creditors to find out how much she owed; +they took fright, and in two days she would have been sold up.” +</p> + +<p> +“And now it is all paid?” +</p> + +<p> +“More or less.” +</p> + +<p> +“And who has supplied the money?” +</p> + +<p> +“The Comte de N. Ah, my dear friend, there are men made on purpose for such +occasions. To cut a long story short he gave her twenty thousand francs, but he +has had his way at last. He knows quite well that Marguerite is not in love +with him; but he is very nice with her all the same. As you have seen, he has +repurchased her horses, he has taken her jewels out of pawn, and he gives her +as much money as the duke used to give her; if she likes to live quietly, he +will stay with her a long time.” +</p> + +<p> +“And what is she doing? Is she living in Paris altogether?” +</p> + +<p> +“She would never go back to Bougival after you went. I had to go myself and see +after all her things, and yours, too. I made a package of them and you can send +here for them. You will find everything, except a little case with your +initials. Marguerite wanted to keep it. If you really want it, I will ask her +for it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Let her keep it,” I stammered, for I felt the tears rise from my heart to my +eyes at the recollection of the village where I had been so happy, and at the +thought that Marguerite cared to keep something which had belonged to me and +would recall me to her. If she had entered at that moment my thoughts of +vengeance would have disappeared, and I should have fallen at her feet. +</p> + +<p> +“For the rest,” continued Prudence, “I never saw her as she is now; she hardly +takes any sleep, she goes to all the balls, she goes to suppers, she even +drinks. The other day, after a supper, she had to stay in bed for a week; and +when the doctor let her get up, she began again at the risk of her life. Shall +you go and see her?” +</p> + +<p> +“What is the good? I came to see you, because you have always been charming to +me, and I knew you before I ever knew Marguerite. I owe it to you that I have +been her lover, and also, don’t I, that I am her lover no longer?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I did all I could to get her away from you, and I believe you will be +thankful to me later on.” +</p> + +<p> +“I owe you a double gratitude,” I added, rising, for I was disgusted with the +woman, seeing her take every word I said to her as if it were serious. +</p> + +<p> +“You are going?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +I had learned enough. +</p> + +<p> +“When shall I be seeing you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Soon. Good-bye.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good-bye.” +</p> + +<p> +Prudence saw me to the door, and I went back to my own rooms with tears of rage +in my eyes and a desire for vengeance in my heart. +</p> + +<p> +So Marguerite was no different from the others; so the steadfast love that she +had had for me could not resist the desire of returning to her former life, and +the need of having a carriage and plunging into dissipation. So I said to +myself, as I lay awake at night though if I had reflected as calmly as I +professed to I should have seen in this new and turbulent life of Marguerite +the attempt to silence a constant thought, a ceaseless memory. Unfortunately, +evil passion had the upper hand, and I only sought for some means of avenging +myself on the poor creature. Oh, how petty and vile is man when he is wounded +in one of his narrow passions! +</p> + +<p> +This Olympe whom I had seen was, if not a friend of Marguerite, at all events +the woman with whom she was most often seen since her return to Paris. She was +going to give a ball, and, as I took it for granted that Marguerite would be +there, I tried to get an invitation and succeeded. +</p> + +<p> +When, full of my sorrowful emotions, I arrived at the ball, it was already very +animated. They were dancing, shouting even, and in one of the quadrilles I +perceived Marguerite dancing with the Comte de N., who seemed proud of showing +her off, as if he said to everybody: “This woman is mine.” +</p> + +<p> +I leaned against the mantel-piece just opposite Marguerite and watched her +dancing. Her face changed the moment she caught sight of me. I saluted her +casually with a glance of the eyes and a wave of the hand. +</p> + +<p> +When I reflected that after the ball she would go home, not with me but with +that rich fool, when I thought of what would follow their return, the blood +rose to my face, and I felt the need of doing something to trouble their +relations. +</p> + +<p> +After the <i>contredanse</i> I went up to the mistress of the house, who +displayed for the benefit of her guests a dazzling bosom and magnificent +shoulders. She was beautiful, and, from the point of view of figure, more +beautiful than Marguerite. I realized this fact still more clearly from certain +glances which Marguerite bestowed upon her while I was talking with her. The +man who was the lover of such a woman might well be as proud as M. de N., and +she was beautiful enough to inspire a passion not less great than that which +Marguerite had inspired in me. At that moment she had no lover. It would not be +difficult to become so; it depended only on showing enough money to attract her +attention. +</p> + +<p> +I made up my mind. That woman should be my mistress. I began by dancing with +her. Half an hour afterward, Marguerite, pale as death, put on her pelisse and +left the ball. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0024"></a> +Chapter XXIV</h2> + +<p> +It was something already, but it was not enough. I saw the hold which I had +upon this woman, and I took a cowardly advantage of it. +</p> + +<p> +When I think that she is dead now, I ask myself if God will ever forgive me for +the wrong I did her. +</p> + +<p> +After the supper, which was noisy as could be, there was gambling. I sat by the +side of Olympe and put down my money so recklessly that she could not but +notice me. In an instant I had gained one hundred and fifty or two hundred +louis, which I spread out before me on the table, and on which she fastened her +eyes greedily. +</p> + +<p> +I was the only one not completely absorbed by the game, and able to pay her +some attention. All the rest of the night I gained, and it was I who gave her +money to play, for she had lost all she had before her and probably all she had +in the house. +</p> + +<p> +At five in the morning, the guests departed. I had gained three hundred louis. +</p> + +<p> +All the players were already on their way downstairs; I was the only one who +had remained behind, and as I did not know any of them, no one noticed it. +Olympe herself was lighting the way, and I was going to follow the others, +when, turning back, I said to her: +</p> + +<p> +“I must speak to you.” +</p> + +<p> +“To-morrow,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“No, now.” +</p> + +<p> +“What have you to say?” +</p> + +<p> +“You will see.” +</p> + +<p> +And I went back into the room. +</p> + +<p> +“You have lost,” I said. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. +</p> + +<p> +“All that you had in the house?” +</p> + +<p> +She hesitated. +</p> + +<p> +“Be frank.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, it is true.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have won three hundred louis. Here they are, if you will let me stay here +to-night.” +</p> + +<p> +And I threw the gold on the table. +</p> + +<p> +“And why this proposition?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because I am in love with you, of course.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, but because you love Marguerite, and you want to have your revenge upon +her by becoming my lover. You don’t deceive a woman like me, my dear friend; +unluckily, I am still too young and too good-looking to accept the part that +you offer me.” +</p> + +<p> +“So you refuse?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. +</p> + +<p> +“Would you rather take me for nothing? It is I who wouldn’t accept then. Think +it over, my dear Olympe; if I had sent someone to offer you these three hundred +louis on my behalf, on the conditions I attach to them, you would have +accepted. I preferred to speak to you myself. Accept without inquiring into my +reasons; say to yourself that you are beautiful, and that there is nothing +surprising in my being in love with you.” +</p> + +<p> +Marguerite was a woman in the same position as Olympe, and yet I should never +have dared say to her the first time I met her what I had said to the other +woman. I loved Marguerite. I saw in her instincts which were lacking in the +other, and at the very moment in which I made my bargain, I felt a disgust +toward the woman with whom I was making it. +</p> + +<p> +She accepted, of course, in the end, and at midday I left her house as her +lover; but I quitted her without a recollection of the caresses and of the +words of love which she had felt bound to shower upon me in return for the six +thousand francs which I left with her. And yet there were men who had ruined +themselves for that woman. +</p> + +<p> +From that day I inflicted on Marguerite a continual persecution. Olympe and she +gave up seeing one another, as you might imagine. I gave my new mistress a +carriage and jewels. I gambled, I committed every extravagance which could be +expected of a man in love with such a woman as Olympe. The report of my new +infatuation was immediately spread abroad. +</p> + +<p> +Prudence herself was taken in, and finally thought that I had completely +forgotten Marguerite. Marguerite herself, whether she guessed my motive or was +deceived like everybody else, preserved a perfect dignity in response to the +insults which I heaped upon her daily. Only, she seemed to suffer, for whenever +I met her she was more and more pale, more and more sad. My love for her, +carried to the point at which it was transformed into hatred, rejoiced at the +sight of her daily sorrow. Often, when my cruelty toward her became infamous, +Marguerite lifted upon me such appealing eyes that I blushed for the part I was +playing, and was ready to implore her forgiveness. +</p> + +<p> +But my repentance was only of a moment’s duration, and Olympe, who had finally +put aside all self-respect, and discovered that by annoying Marguerite she +could get from me whatever she wanted, constantly stirred up my resentment +against her, and insulted her whenever she found an opportunity, with the +cowardly persistence of a woman licensed by the authority of a man. +</p> + +<p> +At last Marguerite gave up going to balls or theatres, for fear of meeting +Olympe and me. Then direct impertinences gave way to anonymous letters, and +there was not a shameful thing which I did not encourage my mistress to relate +and which I did not myself relate in reference to Marguerite. +</p> + +<p> +To reach such a point I must have been literally mad. I was like a man drunk +upon bad wine, who falls into one of those nervous exaltations in which the +hand is capable of committing a crime without the head knowing anything about +it. In the midst of it all I endured a martyrdom. The not disdainful calm, the +not contemptuous dignity with which Marguerite responded to all my attacks, and +which raised her above me in my own eyes, enraged me still more against her. +</p> + +<p> +One evening Olympe had gone somewhere or other, and had met Marguerite, who for +once had not spared the foolish creature, so that she had had to retire in +confusion. Olympe returned in a fury, and Marguerite fainted and had to be +carried out. Olympe related to me what had happened, declared that Marguerite, +seeing her alone, had revenged herself upon her because she was my mistress, +and that I must write and tell her to respect the woman whom I loved, whether I +was present or absent. +</p> + +<p> +I need not tell you that I consented, and that I put into the letter which I +sent to her address the same day, everything bitter, shameful, and cruel that I +could think of. +</p> + +<p> +This time the blow was more than the unhappy creature could endure without +replying. I felt sure that an answer would come, and I resolved not to go out +all day. About two there was a ring, and Prudence entered. +</p> + +<p> +I tried to assume an indifferent air as I asked her what had brought her; but +that day Mme. Duvernoy was not in a laughing humour, and in a really moved +voice she said to me that since my return, that is to say for about three +weeks, I had left no occasion untried which could give pain to Marguerite, that +she was completely upset by it, and that the scene of last night and my angry +letter of the morning had forced her to take to her bed. In short, without +making any reproach, Marguerite sent to ask me for a little pity, since she had +no longer the moral or physical strength to endure what I was making her +suffer. +</p> + +<p> +“That Mlle. Gautier,” I said to Prudence, “should turn me out of her own house +is quite reasonable, but that she should insult the woman whom I love, under +the pretence that this woman is my mistress, is a thing I will never permit.” +</p> + +<p> +“My friend,” said Prudence, “you are under the influence of a woman who has +neither heart nor sense; you are in love with her, it is true, but that is not +a reason for torturing a woman who can not defend herself.” +</p> + +<p> +“Let Mlle. Gautier send me her Comte de N. and the sides will be equal.” +</p> + +<p> +“You know very well that she will not do that. So, my dear Armand, let her +alone. If you saw her you would be ashamed of the way in which you are treating +her. She is white, she coughs—she won’t last long now.” +</p> + +<p> +And Prudence held out her hand to me, adding: +</p> + +<p> +“Come and see her; it will make her very happy.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have no desire to meet M. de N.” +</p> + +<p> +“M. de N. is never there. She can not endure him.” +</p> + +<p> +“If Marguerite wishes to see me, she knows where I live; let her come to see +me, but, for my part, I will never put foot in the Rue d’Antin.” +</p> + +<p> +“Will you receive her well?” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I am sure that she will come.” +</p> + +<p> +“Let her come.” +</p> + +<p> +“Shall you be out to-day?” +</p> + +<p> +“I shall be at home all the evening.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will tell her.” +</p> + +<p> +And Prudence left me. +</p> + +<p> +I did not even write to tell Olympe not to expect me. I never troubled much +about her, scarcely going to see her one night a week. She consoled herself, I +believe, with an actor from some theatre or other. +</p> + +<p> +I went out for dinner and came back almost immediately. I had a fire lit in my +room and I told Joseph he could go out. +</p> + +<p> +I can give you no idea of the different impressions which agitated me during +the hour in which I waited; but when, toward nine o’clock, I heard a ring, they +thronged together into one such emotion, that, as I opened the door, I was +obliged to lean against the wall to keep myself from falling. +</p> + +<p> +Fortunately the anteroom was in half darkness, and the change in my countenance +was less visible. Marguerite entered. +</p> + +<p> +She was dressed in black and veiled. I could scarcely recognise her face +through the veil. She went into the drawing-room and raised her veil. She was +pale as marble. +</p> + +<p> +“I am here, Armand,” she said; “you wished to see me and I have come.” +</p> + +<p> +And letting her head fall on her hands, she burst into tears. +</p> + +<p> +I went up to her. +</p> + +<p> +“What is the matter?” I said to her in a low voice. +</p> + +<p> +She pressed my hand without a word, for tears still veiled her voice. But after +a few minutes, recovering herself a little, she said to me: +</p> + +<p> +“You have been very unkind to me, Armand, and I have done nothing to you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing?” I answered, with a bitter smile. +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing but what circumstances forced me to do.” +</p> + +<p> +I do not know if you have ever in your life experienced, or if you will ever +experience, what I felt at the sight of Marguerite. +</p> + +<p> +The last time she had come to see me she had sat in the same place where she +was now sitting; only, since then, she had been the mistress of another man, +other kisses than mine had touched her lips, toward which, in spite of myself, +my own reached out, and yet I felt that I loved this woman as much, more +perhaps, than I had ever loved her. +</p> + +<p> +It was difficult for me to begin the conversation on the subject which brought +her. Marguerite no doubt realized it, for she went on: +</p> + +<p> +“I have come to trouble you, Armand, for I have two things to ask: pardon for +what I said yesterday to Mlle. Olympe, and pity for what you are perhaps still +ready to do to me. Intentionally or not, since your return you have given me so +much pain that I should be incapable now of enduring a fourth part of what I +have endured till now. You will have pity on me, won’t you? And you will +understand that a man who is not heartless has other nobler things to do than +to take his revenge upon a sick and sad woman like me. See, take my hand. I am +in a fever. I left my bed to come to you, and ask, not for your friendship, but +for your indifference.” +</p> + +<p> +I took Marguerite’s hand. It was burning, and the poor woman shivered under her +fur cloak. +</p> + +<p> +I rolled the arm-chair in which she was sitting up to the fire. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you think, then, that I did not suffer,” said I, “on that night when, after +waiting for you in the country, I came to look for you in Paris, and found +nothing but the letter which nearly drove me mad? How could you have deceived +me, Marguerite, when I loved you so much? +</p> + +<p> +“Do not speak of that, Armand; I did not come to speak of that. I wanted to see +you only not an enemy, and I wanted to take your hand once more. You have a +mistress; she is young, pretty, you love her they say. Be happy with her and +forget me.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you. You are happy, no doubt?” +</p> + +<p> +“Have I the face of a happy woman, Armand? Do not mock my sorrow, you, who know +better than anyone what its cause and its depth are.” +</p> + +<p> +“It only depended on you not to have been unhappy at all, if you are as you +say.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, my friend; circumstances were stronger than my will. I obeyed, not the +instincts of a light woman, as you seem to say, but a serious necessity, and +reasons which you will know one day, and which will make you forgive me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why do you not tell me those reasons to-day?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because they would not bring about an impossible reunion between us, and they +would separate you perhaps from those from whom you must not be separated.” +</p> + +<p> +“Who do you mean?” +</p> + +<p> +“I can not tell you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then you are lying to me.” +</p> + +<p> +Marguerite rose and went toward the door. I could not behold this silent and +expressive sorrow without being touched, when I compared in my mind this pale +and weeping woman with the madcap who had made fun of me at the Opera Comique. +</p> + +<p> +“You shall not go,” I said, putting myself in front of the door. +</p> + +<p> +“Why?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because, in spite of what you have done to me, I love you always, and I want +you to stay here.” +</p> + +<p> +“To turn me out to-morrow? No; it is impossible. Our destinies are separate; do +not try to reunite them. You will despise me perhaps, while now you can only +hate me.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, Marguerite,” I cried, feeling all my love and all my desire reawaken at +the contact of this woman. “No, I will forget everything, and we will be happy +as we promised one another that we would be.” +</p> + +<p> +Marguerite shook her head doubtfully, and said: +</p> + +<p> +“Am I not your slave, your dog? Do with me what you will. Take me; I am yours.” +</p> + +<p> +And throwing off her cloak and hat, she flung them on the sofa, and began +hurriedly to undo the front of her dress, for, by one of those reactions so +frequent in her malady, the blood rushed to her head and stifled her. A hard, +dry cough followed. +</p> + +<p> +“Tell my coachman,” she said, “to go back with the carriage.” +</p> + +<p> +I went down myself and sent him away. When I returned Marguerite was lying in +front of the fire, and her teeth chattered with the cold. +</p> + +<p> +I took her in my arms. I undressed her, without her making a movement, and +carried her, icy cold, to the bed. Then I sat beside her and tried to warm her +with my caresses. She did not speak a word, but smiled at me. +</p> + +<p> +It was a strange night. All Marguerite’s life seemed to have passed into the +kisses with which she covered me, and I loved her so much that in my transports +of feverish love I asked myself whether I should not kill her, so that she +might never belong to another. +</p> + +<p> +A month of love like that, and there would have remained only the corpse of +heart or body. +</p> + +<p> +The dawn found us both awake. Marguerite was livid white. She did not speak a +word. From time to time, big tears rolled from her eyes, and stayed upon her +cheeks, shining like diamonds. Her thin arms opened, from time to time, to hold +me fast, and fell back helplessly upon the bed. +</p> + +<p> +For a moment it seemed to me as if I could forget all that had passed since I +had left Bougival, and I said to Marguerite: +</p> + +<p> +“Shall we go away and leave Paris?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, no!” she said, almost with affright; “we should be too unhappy. I can do +no more to make you happy, but while there is a breath of life in me, I will be +the slave of your fancies. At whatever hour of the day or night you will, come, +and I will be yours; but do not link your future any more with mine, you would +be too unhappy and you would make me too unhappy. I shall still be pretty for a +while; make the most of it, but ask nothing more.” +</p> + +<p> +When she had gone, I was frightened at the solitude in which she left me. Two +hours afterward I was still sitting on the side of the bed, looking at the +pillow which kept the imprint of her form, and asking myself what was to become +of me, between my love and my jealousy. +</p> + +<p> +At five o’clock, without knowing what I was going to do, I went to the Rue +d’Antin. +</p> + +<p> +Nanine opened to me. +</p> + +<p> +“Madame can not receive you,” she said in an embarrassed way. +</p> + +<p> +“Why?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because M. le Comte de N. is there, and he has given orders to let no one in.” +</p> + +<p> +“Quite so,” I stammered; “I forgot.” +</p> + +<p> +I went home like a drunken man, and do you know what I did during the moment of +jealous delirium which was long enough for the shameful thing I was going to +do? I said to myself that the woman was laughing at me; I saw her alone with +the count, saying over to him the same words that she had said to me in the +night, and taking a five-hundred-franc note I sent it to her with these words: +</p> + +<p> +“You went away so suddenly that I forgot to pay you. Here is the price of your +night.” +</p> + +<p> +Then when the letter was sent I went out as if to free myself from the +instantaneous remorse of this infamous action. +</p> + +<p> +I went to see Olympe, whom I found trying on dresses, and when we were alone +she sang obscene songs to amuse me. She was the very type of the shameless, +heartless, senseless courtesan, for me at least, for perhaps some men might +have dreamed of her as I dreamed of Marguerite. She asked me for money. I gave +it to her, and, free then to go, I returned home. +</p> + +<p> +Marguerite had not answered. +</p> + +<p> +I need not tell you in what state of agitation I spent the next day. At half +past nine a messenger brought me an envelope containing my letter and the +five-hundred-franc note, not a word more. +</p> + +<p> +“Who gave you this?” I asked the man. +</p> + +<p> +“A lady who was starting with her maid in the next mail for Boulogne, and who +told me not to take it until the coach was out of the courtyard.” +</p> + +<p> +I rushed to the Rue d’Antin. +</p> + +<p> +“Madame left for England at six o’clock,” said the porter. +</p> + +<p> +There was nothing to hold me in Paris any longer, neither hate nor love. I was +exhausted by this series of shocks. One of my friends was setting out on a tour +in the East. I told my father I should like to accompany him; my father gave me +drafts and letters of introduction, and eight or ten days afterward I embarked +at Marseilles. +</p> + +<p> +It was at Alexandria that I learned from an <i>attaché</i> at the embassy, whom +I had sometimes seen at Marguerite’s, that the poor girl was seriously ill. +</p> + +<p> +I then wrote her the letter which she answered in the way you know; I received +it at Toulon. +</p> + +<p> +I started at once, and you know the rest. +</p> + +<p> +Now you have only to read a few sheets which Julie Duprat gave me; they are the +best commentary on what I have just told you. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0025"></a> +Chapter XXV</h2> + +<p> +Armand, tired by this long narrative, often interrupted by his tears, put his +two hands over his forehead and closed his eyes to think, or to try to sleep, +after giving me the pages written by the hand of Marguerite. A few minutes +after, a more rapid breathing told me that Armand slept, but that light sleep +which the least sound banishes. +</p> + +<p> +This is what I read; I copy it without adding or omitting a syllable: +</p> + +<p> +To-day is the 15th December. I have been ill three or four days. This morning I +stayed in bed. The weather is dark, I am sad; there is no one by me. I think of +you, Armand. And you, where are you, while I write these lines? Far from Paris, +far, far, they tell me, and perhaps you have already forgotten Marguerite. +Well, be happy; I owe you the only happy moments in my life. +</p> + +<p> +I can not help wanting to explain all my conduct to you, and I have written you +a letter; but, written by a girl like me, such a letter might seem to be a lie, +unless death had sanctified it by its authority, and, instead of a letter, it +were a confession. +</p> + +<p> +To-day I am ill; I may die of this illness, for I have always had the +presentiment that I shall die young. My mother died of consumption, and the way +I have always lived could but increase the only heritage she ever left me. But +I do not want to die without clearing up for you everything about me; that is, +if, when you come back, you will still trouble yourself about the poor girl +whom you loved before you went away. +</p> + +<p> +This is what the letter contained; I shall like writing it over again, so as to +give myself another proof of my own justification. +</p> + +<p> +You remember, Armand, how the arrival of your father surprised us at Bougival; +you remember the involuntary fright that his arrival caused me, and the scene +which took place between you and him, which you told me of in the evening. +</p> + +<p> +Next day, when you were at Paris, waiting for your father, and he did not +return, a man came to the door and handed in a letter from M. Duval. +</p> + +<p> +His letter, which I inclose with this, begged me, in the most serious terms, to +keep you away on the following day, on some excuse or other, and to see your +father, who wished to speak to me, and asked me particularly not to say +anything to you about it. +</p> + +<p> +You know how I insisted on your returning to Paris next day. +</p> + +<p> +You had only been gone an hour when your father presented himself. I won’t say +what impression his severe face made upon me. Your father had the old theory +that a courtesan is a being without heart or reason, a sort of machine for +coining gold, always ready, like the machine, to bruise the hand that gives her +everything, and to tear in pieces, without pity or discernment, those who set +her in motion. +</p> + +<p> +Your father had written me a very polite letter, in order that I might consent +to see him; he did not present himself quite as he had written. His manner at +first was so stiff, insolent, and even threatening, that I had to make him +understand that I was in my own house, and that I had no need to render him an +account of my life, except because of the sincere affection which I had for his +son. +</p> + +<p> +M. Duval calmed down a little, but still went on to say that he could not any +longer allow his son to ruin himself over me; that I was beautiful, it was +true, but, however beautiful I might be, I ought not to make use of my beauty +to spoil the future of a young man by such expenditure as I was causing. +</p> + +<p> +At that there was only one thing to do, to show him the proof that since I was +your mistress I had spared no sacrifice to be faithful to you without asking +for more money than you had to give me. I showed him the pawn tickets, the +receipts of the people to whom I had sold what I could not pawn; I told him of +my resolve to part with my furniture in order to pay my debts, and live with +you without being a too heavy expense. I told him of our happiness, of how you +had shown me the possibility of a quieter and happier life, and he ended by +giving in to the evidence, offering me his hand, and asking pardon for the way +in which he had at first approached me. +</p> + +<p> +Then he said to me: +</p> + +<p> +“So, madame, it is not by remonstrances or by threats, but by entreaties, that +I must endeavour to obtain from you a greater sacrifice than you have yet made +for my son.” +</p> + +<p> +I trembled at this beginning. +</p> + +<p> +Your father came over to me, took both my hands, and continued in an +affectionate voice: +</p> + +<p> +“My child, do not take what I have to say to you amiss; only remember that +there are sometimes in life cruel necessities for the heart, but that they must +be submitted to. You are good, your soul has generosity unknown to many women +who perhaps despise you, and are less worthy than you. But remember that there +is not only the mistress, but the family; that besides love there are duties; +that to the age of passion succeeds the age when man, if he is to be respected, +must plant himself solidly in a serious position. My son has no fortune, and +yet he is ready to abandon to you the legacy of his mother. If he accepted from +you the sacrifice which you are on the point of making, his honour and dignity +would require him to give you, in exchange for it, this income, which would +always put you out of danger of adversity. But he can not accept this +sacrifice, because the world, which does not know you, would give a wrong +interpretation to this acceptance, and such an interpretation must not tarnish +the name which we bear. No one would consider whether Armand loves you, whether +you love him, whether this mutual love means happiness to him and redemption to +you; they would see only one thing, that Armand Duval allowed a kept woman +(forgive me, my child, for what I am forced to say to you) to sell all she had +for him. Then the day of reproaches and regrets would arrive, be sure, for you +or for others, and you would both bear a chain that you could not sever. What +would you do then? Your youth would be lost, my son’s future destroyed; and I, +his father, should receive from only one of my children the recompense that I +look for from both. +</p> + +<p> +“You are young, beautiful, life will console you; you are noble, and the memory +of a good deed will redeem you from many past deeds. During the six months that +he has known you Armand has forgotten me. I wrote to him four times, and he has +never once replied. I might have died and he not known it! +</p> + +<p> +“Whatever may be your resolution of living otherwise than as you have lived, +Armand, who loves you, will never consent to the seclusion to which his modest +fortune would condemn you, and to which your beauty does not entitle you. Who +knows what he would do then! He has gambled, I know; without telling you of it, +I know also, but, in a moment of madness, he might have lost part of what I +have saved, during many years, for my daughter’s portion, for him, and for the +repose of my old age. What might have happened may yet happen. +</p> + +<p> +“Are you sure, besides, that the life which you are giving up for him will +never again come to attract you? Are you sure, you who have loved him, that you +will never love another? Would you not-suffer on seeing the hindrances set by +your love to your lover’s life, hindrances for which you would be powerless to +console him, if, with age, thoughts of ambition should succeed to dreams of +love? Think over all that, madame. You love Armand; prove it to him by the sole +means which remains to you of yet proving it to him, by sacrificing your love +to his future. No misfortune has yet arrived, but one will arrive, and perhaps +a greater one than those which I foresee. Armand might become jealous of a man +who has loved you; he might provoke him, fight, be killed. Think, then, what +you would suffer in the presence of a father who should call on you to render +an account for the life of his son! +</p> + +<p> +“Finally, my dear child, let me tell you all, for I have not yet told you all, +let me tell you what has brought me to Paris. I have a daughter, as I have told +you, young, beautiful, pure as an angel. She loves, and she, too, has made this +love the dream of her life. I wrote all that to Armand, but, absorbed in you, +he made no reply. Well, my daughter is about to marry. She is to marry the man +whom she loves; she enters an honourable family, which requires that mine has +to be no less honourable. The family of the man who is to become my son-in-law +has learned what manner of life Armand is leading in Paris, and has declared to +me that the marriage must be broken off if Armand continues this life. The +future of a child who has done nothing against you, and who has the right of +looking forward to a happy future, is in your hands. Have you the right, have +you the strength, to shatter it? In the name of your love and of your +repentance, Marguerite, grant me the happiness of my child.” +</p> + +<p> +I wept silently, my friend, at all these reflections which I had so often made, +and which, in the mouth of your father, took a yet more serious reality. I said +to myself all that your father dared not say to me, though it had come to his +lips twenty times: that I was, after all, only a kept woman, and that whatever +excuse I gave for our liaison, it would always look like calculation on my +part; that my past life left me no right to dream of such a future, and that I +was accepting responsibilities for which my habits and reputation were far from +giving any guarantee. In short, I loved you, Armand. +</p> + +<p> +The paternal way in which M. Duval had spoken to me; the pure memories that he +awakened in me; the respect of this old man, which I would gain; yours, which I +was sure of gaining later on: all that called up in my heart thoughts which +raised me in my own eyes with a sort of holy pride, unknown till then. When I +thought that one day this old man, who was now imploring me for the future of +his son, would bid his daughter mingle my name with her prayers, as the name of +a mysterious friend, I seemed to become transformed, and I felt a pride in +myself. +</p> + +<p> +The exaltation of the moment perhaps exaggerated the truth of these +impressions, but that was what I felt, friend, and these new feelings silenced +the memory of the happy days I had spent with you. +</p> + +<p> +“Tell me, sir,” I said to your father, wiping away my tears, “do you believe +that I love your son?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said M. Duval. +</p> + +<p> +“With a disinterested love?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you believe that I had made this love the hope, the dream, the +forgiveness—of my life?” +</p> + +<p> +“Implicitly.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, sir, embrace me once, as you would embrace your daughter, and I swear to +you that that kiss, the only chaste kiss I have ever had, will make me strong +against my love, and that within a week your son will be once more at your +side, perhaps unhappy for a time, but cured forever.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are a noble child,” replied your father, kissing me on the forehead, “and +you are making an attempt for which God will reward you; but I greatly fear +that you will have no influence upon my son.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, be at rest, sir; he will hate me.” +</p> + +<p> +I had to set up between us, as much for me as for you, an insurmountable +barrier. +</p> + +<p> +I wrote to Prudence to say that I accepted the proposition of the Comte de N., +and that she was to tell him that I would sup with her and him. I sealed the +letter, and, without telling him what it contained, asked your father to have +it forwarded to its address on reaching Paris. +</p> + +<p> +He inquired of me what it contained. +</p> + +<p> +“Your son’s welfare,” I answered. +</p> + +<p> +Your father embraced me once more. I felt two grateful tears on my forehead, +like the baptism of my past faults, and at the moment when I consented to give +myself up to another man I glowed with pride at the thought of what I was +redeeming by this new fault. +</p> + +<p> +It was quite natural, Armand. You told me that your father was the most honest +man in the world. +</p> + +<p> +M. Duval returned to his carriage, and set out for Paris. +</p> + +<p> +I was only a woman, and when I saw you again I could not help weeping, but I +did not give way. +</p> + +<p> +Did I do right? That is what I ask myself to-day, as I lie ill in my bed, that +I shall never leave, perhaps, until I am dead. +</p> + +<p> +You are witness of what I felt as the hour of our separation approached; your +father was no longer there to support me, and there was a moment when I was on +the point of confessing everything to you, so terrified was I at the idea that +you were going to hate and despise me. +</p> + +<p> +One thing which you will not believe, perhaps, Armand, is that I prayed God to +give me strength; and what proves that he accepted my sacrifice is that he gave +me the strength for which I prayed. +</p> + +<p> +At supper I still had need of aid, for I could not think of what I was going to +do, so much did I fear that my courage would fail me. Who would ever have said +that I, Marguerite Gautier, would have suffered so at the mere thought of a new +lover? I drank for forgetfulness, and when I woke next day I was beside the +count. +</p> + +<p> +That is the whole truth, friend. Judge me and pardon me, as I have pardoned you +for all the wrong that you have done me since that day. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0026"></a> +Chapter XXVI</h2> + +<p> +What followed that fatal night you know as well as I; but what you can not +know, what you can not suspect, is what I have suffered since our separation. +</p> + +<p> +I heard that your father had taken you away with him, but I felt sure that you +could not live away from me for long, and when I met you in the Champs-Elysées, +I was a little upset, but by no means surprised. +</p> + +<p> +Then began that series of days; each of them brought me a fresh insult from +you. I received them all with a kind of joy, for, besides proving to me that +you still loved me, it seemed to me as if the more you persecuted me the more I +should be raised in your eyes when you came to know the truth. +</p> + +<p> +Do not wonder at my joy in martyrdom, Armand; your love for me had opened my +heart to noble enthusiasm. +</p> + +<p> +Still, I was not so strong as that quite at once. +</p> + +<p> +Between the time of the sacrifice made for you and the time of your return a +long while elapsed, during which I was obliged to have recourse to physical +means in order not to go mad, and in order to be blinded and deafened in the +whirl of life into which I flung myself. Prudence has told you (has she not?) +how I went to all the fêtes and balls and orgies. I had a sort of hope that I +should kill myself by all these excesses, and I think it will not be long +before this hope is realized. My health naturally got worse and worse, and when +I sent Mme. Duvernoy to ask you for pity I was utterly worn out, body and soul. +</p> + +<p> +I will not remind you, Armand, of the return you made for the last proof of +love that I gave you, and of the outrage by which you drove away a dying woman, +who could not resist your voice when you asked her for a night of love, and +who, like a fool, thought for one instant that she might again unite the past +with the present. You had the right to do what you did, Armand; people have not +always put so high a price on a night of mine! +</p> + +<p> +I left everything after that. Olympe has taken my place with the Comte de N., +and has told him, I hear, the reasons for my leaving him. The Comte de G. was +at London. He is one of those men who give just enough importance to making +love to women like me for it to be an agreeable pastime, and who are thus able +to remain friends with women, not hating them because they have never been +jealous of them, and he is, too, one of those grand seigneurs who open only a +part of their hearts to us, but the whole of their purses. It was of him that I +immediately thought. I joined him in London. He received me as kindly as +possible, but he was the lover there of a woman in society, and he feared to +compromise himself if he were seen with me. He introduced me to his friends, +who gave a supper in my honour, after which one of them took me home with him. +</p> + +<p> +What else was there for me to do, my friend? If I had killed myself it would +have burdened your life, which ought to be happy, with a needless remorse; and +then, what is the good of killing oneself when one is so near dying already? +</p> + +<p> +I became a body without a soul, a thing without a thought; I lived for some +time in that automatic way; then I returned to Paris, and asked after you; I +heard then that you were gone on a long voyage. There was nothing left to hold +me to life. My existence became what it had been two years before I knew you. I +tried to win back the duke, but I had offended him too deeply. Old men are not +patient, no doubt because they realize that they are not eternal. I got weaker +every day. I was pale and sad and thinner than ever. Men who buy love examine +the goods before taking them. At Paris there were women in better health, and +not so thin as I was; I was rather forgotten. That is all the past up to +yesterday. +</p> + +<p> +Now I am seriously ill. I have written to the duke to ask him for money, for I +have none, and the creditors have returned, and come to me with their bills +with pitiless perseverance. Will the duke answer? Why are you not in Paris, +Armand? You would come and see me, and your visits would do me good. +</p> + +<p> +December 20. +</p> + +<p> +The weather is horrible; it is snowing, and I am alone. I have been in such a +fever for the last three days that I could not write you a word. No news, my +friend; every day I hope vaguely for a letter from you, but it does not come, +and no doubt it will never come. Only men are strong enough not to forgive. The +duke has not answered. +</p> + +<p> +Prudence is pawning my things again. +</p> + +<p> +I have been spitting blood all the time. Oh, you would be sorry for me if you +could see me. You are indeed happy to be under a warm sky, and not, like me, +with a whole winter of ice on your chest. To-day I got up for a little while, +and looked out through the curtains of my window, and watched the life of Paris +passing below, the life with which I have now nothing more to do. I saw the +faces of some people I knew, passing rapidly, joyous and careless. Not one +lifted his eyes to my window. However, a few young men have come to inquire for +me. Once before I was ill, and you, though you did not know me, though you had +had nothing from me but an impertinence the day I met you first, you came to +inquire after me every day. We spent six months together. I had all the love +for you that a woman’s heart can hold and give, and you are far away, you are +cursing me, and there is not a word of consolation from you. But it is only +chance that has made you leave me, I am sure, for if you were at Paris, you +would not leave my bedside. +</p> + +<p> +December 25. +</p> + +<p> +My doctor tells me I must not write every day. And indeed my memories only +increase my fever, but yesterday I received a letter which did me good, more +because of what it said than by the material help which it contained. I can +write to you, then, to-day. This letter is from your father, and this is what +it says: +</p> + +<p> +“MADAME: I have just learned that you are ill. If I were at Paris I would come +and ask after you myself; if my son were here I would send him; but I can not +leave C., and Armand is six or seven hundred leagues from here; permit me, +then, simply to write to you, madame, to tell you how pained I am to hear of +your illness, and believe in my sincere wishes for your speedy recovery. +</p> + +<p> +“One of my good friends, M. H., will call on you; will you kindly receive him? +I have intrusted him with a commission, the result of which I await +impatiently. +</p> + +<p> +“Believe me, madame, +</p> + +<p> +“Yours most faithfully.” +</p> + +<p> +This is the letter he sent me. Your father has a noble heart; love him well, my +friend, for there are few men so worthy of being loved. This paper signed by +his name has done me more good than all the prescriptions of our great doctor. +</p> + +<p> +This morning M. H. called. He seemed much embarrassed by the delicate mission +which M. Duval had intrusted to him. As a matter of fact, he came to bring me +three thousand francs from your father. I wanted to refuse at first, but M. H. +told me that my refusal would annoy M. Duval, who had authorized him to give me +this sum now, and later on whatever I might need. I accepted it, for, coming +from your father, it could not be exactly taking alms. If I am dead when you +come back, show your father what I have written for him, and tell him that in +writing these lines the poor woman to whom he was kind enough to write so +consoling a letter wept tears of gratitude and prayed God for him. +</p> + +<p> +January 4. +</p> + +<p> +I have passed some terrible days. I never knew the body could suffer so. Oh, my +past life! I pay double for it now. +</p> + +<p> +There has been someone to watch by me every night; I can not breathe. What +remains of my poor existence is shared between being delirious and coughing. +</p> + +<p> +The dining-room is full of sweets and all sorts of presents that my friends +have brought. Some of them, I dare say, are hoping that I shall be their +mistress later on. If they could see what sickness has made of me, they would +go away in terror. +</p> + +<p> +Prudence is giving her New Year’s presents with those I have received. +</p> + +<p> +There is a thaw, and the doctor says that I may go out in a few days if the +fine weather continues. +</p> + +<p> +January 8. +</p> + +<p> +I went out yesterday in my carriage. The weather was lovely. The Champs-Elysées +was full of people. It was like the first smile of spring. Everything about me +had a festal air. I never knew before that a ray of sunshine could contain so +much joy, sweetness, and consolation. +</p> + +<p> +I met almost all the people I knew, all happy, all absorbed in their pleasures. +How many happy people don’t even know that they are happy! Olympe passed me in +an elegant carriage that M. de N. has given her. She tried to insult me by her +look. She little knows how far I am from such things now. A nice fellow, whom I +have known for a long time, asked me if I would have supper with him and one of +his friends, who, he said, was very anxious to make my acquaintance. I smiled +sadly and gave him my hand, burning with fever. I never saw such an astonished +countenance. +</p> + +<p> +I came in at four, and had quite an appetite for my dinner. Going out has done +me good. If I were only going to get well! How the sight of the life and +happiness of others gives a desire of life to those who, only the night before, +in the solitude of their soul and in the shadow of their sick-room, only wanted +to die soon! +</p> + +<p> +January 10. +</p> + +<p> +The hope of getting better was only a dream. I am back in bed again, covered +with plasters which burn me. If I were to offer the body that people paid so +dear for once, how much would they give, I wonder, to-day? +</p> + +<p> +We must have done something very wicked before we were born, or else we must be +going to be very happy indeed when we are dead, for God to let this life have +all the tortures of expiation and all the sorrows of an ordeal. +</p> + +<p> +January 12. +</p> + +<p> +I am always ill. +</p> + +<p> +The Comte de N. sent me some money yesterday. I did not keep it. I won’t take +anything from that man. It is through him that you are not here. +</p> + +<p> +Oh, that good time at Bougival! Where is it now? +</p> + +<p> +If I come out of this room alive I will make a pilgrimage to the house we lived +in together, but I will never leave it until I am dead. +</p> + +<p> +Who knows if I shall write to you to-morrow? +</p> + +<p> +January 25. +</p> + +<p> +I have not slept for eleven nights. I am suffocated. I imagine every moment +that I am going to die. The doctor has forbidden me to touch a pen. Julie +Duprat, who is looking after me, lets me write these few lines to you. Will you +not come back before I die? Is it all over between us forever? It seems to me +as if I should get well if you came. What would be the good of getting well? +</p> + +<p> +January 28. +</p> + +<p> +This morning I was awakened by a great noise. Julie, who slept in my room, ran +into the dining-room. I heard men’s voices, and hers protesting against them in +vain. She came back crying. +</p> + +<p> +They had come to seize my things. I told her to let what they call justice have +its way. The bailiff came into my room with his hat on. He opened the drawers, +wrote down what he saw, and did not even seem to be aware that there was a +dying woman in the bed that fortunately the charity of the law leaves me. +</p> + +<p> +He said, indeed, before going, that I could appeal within nine days, but he +left a man behind to keep watch. My God! what is to become of me? This scene +has made me worse than I was before. Prudence wanted to go and ask your +father’s friend for money, but I would not let her. +</p> + +<p> +I received your letter this morning. I was in need of it. Will my answer reach +you in time? Will you ever see me again? This is a happy day, and it has made +me forget all the days I have passed for the last six weeks. I seem as if I am +better, in spite of the feeling of sadness under the impression of which I +replied to you. +</p> + +<p> +After all, no one is unhappy always. +</p> + +<p> +When I think that it may happen to me not to die, for you to come back, for me +to see the spring again, for you still to love me, and for us to begin over +again our last year’s life! +</p> + +<p> +Fool that I am! I can scarcely hold the pen with which I write to you of this +wild dream of my heart. +</p> + +<p> +Whatever happens, I loved you well, Armand, and I would have died long ago if I +had not had the memory of your love to help me and a sort of vague hope of +seeing you beside me again. +</p> + +<p> +February 4. +</p> + +<p> +The Comte de G. has returned. His mistress has been unfaithful to him. He is +very sad; he was very fond of her. He came to tell me all about it. The poor +fellow is in rather a bad way as to money; all the same, he has paid my bailiff +and sent away the man. +</p> + +<p> +I talked to him about you, and he promised to tell you about me. I forgot that +I had been his mistress, and he tried to make me forget it, too. He is a good +friend. +</p> + +<p> +The duke sent yesterday to inquire after me, and this morning he came to see +me. I do not know how the old man still keeps alive. He remained with me three +hours and did not say twenty words. Two big tears fell from his eyes when he +saw how pale I was. The memory of his daughter’s death made him weep, no doubt. +He will have seen her die twice. His back was bowed, his head bent toward the +ground, his lips drooping, his eyes vacant. Age and sorrow weigh with a double +weight on his worn-out body. He did not reproach me. It looked as if he +rejoiced secretly to see the ravages that disease had made in me. He seemed +proud of being still on his feet, while I, who am still young, was broken down +by suffering. +</p> + +<p> +The bad weather has returned. No one comes to see me. Julie watches by me as +much as she can. Prudence, to whom I can no longer give as much as I used to, +begins to make excuses for not coming. +</p> + +<p> +Now that I am so near death, in spite of what the doctors tell me, for I have +several, which proves that I am getting worse, I am almost sorry that I +listened to your father; if I had known that I should only be taking a year of +your future, I could not have resisted the longing to spend that year with you, +and, at least, I should have died with a friend to hold my hand. It is true +that if we had lived together this year, I should not have died so soon. +</p> + +<p> +God’s will be done! +</p> + +<p> +February 5. +</p> + +<p> +Oh, come, come, Armand! I suffer horribly; I am going to die, O God! I was so +miserable yesterday that I wanted to spend the evening, which seemed as if it +were going to be as long as the last, anywhere but at home. The duke came in +the morning. It seems to me as if the sight of this old man, whom death has +forgotten, makes me die faster. +</p> + +<p> +Despite the burning fever which devoured me, I made them dress me and take me +to the Vaudeville. Julie put on some rouge for me, without which I should have +looked like a corpse. I had the box where I gave you our first rendezvous. All +the time I had my eyes fixed on the stall where you sat that day, though a sort +of country fellow sat there, laughing loudly at all the foolish things that the +actors said. I was half dead when they brought me home. I coughed and spat +blood all the night. To-day I can not speak, I can scarcely move my arm. My +God! My God! I am going to die! I have been expecting it, but I can not get +used to the thought of suffering more than I suffer now, and if— +</p> + +<p> +After this the few characters traced by Marguerite were indecipherable, and +what followed was written by Julie Duprat. +</p> + +<p> +February 18. +</p> + +<p> +MONSIEUR ARMAND: +</p> + +<p> +Since the day that Marguerite insisted on going to the theatre she has got +worse and worse. She has completely lost her voice, and now the use of her +limbs. +</p> + +<p> +What our poor friend suffers is impossible to say. I am not used to emotions of +this kind, and I am in a state of constant fright. +</p> + +<p> +How I wish you were here! She is almost always delirious; but delirious or +lucid, it is always your name that she pronounces, when she can speak a word. +</p> + +<p> +The doctor tells me that she is not here for long. Since she got so ill the old +duke has not returned. He told the doctor that the sight was too much for him. +</p> + +<p> +Mme. Duvernoy is not behaving well. This woman, who thought she could get more +money out of Marguerite, at whose expense she was living almost completely, has +contracted liabilities which she can not meet, and seeing that her neighbour is +no longer of use to her, she does not even come to see her. Everybody is +abandoning her. M. de G., prosecuted for his debts, has had to return to +London. On leaving, he sent us more money; he has done all he could, but they +have returned to seize the things, and the creditors are only waiting for her +to die in order to sell everything. +</p> + +<p> +I wanted to use my last resources to put a stop to it, but the bailiff told me +it was no use, and that there are other seizures to follow. Since she must die, +it is better to let everything go than to save it for her family, whom she has +never cared to see, and who have never cared for her. You can not conceive in +the midst of what gilded misery the poor thing is dying. Yesterday we had +absolutely no money. Plate, jewels, shawls, everything is in pawn; the rest is +sold or seized. Marguerite is still conscious of what goes on around her, and +she suffers in body, mind, and heart. Big tears trickle down her cheeks, so +thin and pale that you would never recognise the face of her whom you loved so +much, if you could see her. She has made me promise to write to you when she +can no longer write, and I write before her. She turns her eyes toward me, but +she no longer sees me; her eyes are already veiled by the coming of death; yet +she smiles, and all her thoughts, all her soul are yours, I am sure. +</p> + +<p> +Every time the door opens her eyes brighten, and she thinks you are going to +come in; then, when she sees that it is not you, her face resumes its sorrowful +expression, a cold sweat breaks out over it, and her cheek-bones flush. +</p> + +<p> +February 19, midnight. +</p> + +<p> +What a sad day we have had to-day, poor M. Armand! This morning Marguerite was +stifling; the doctor bled her, and her voice has returned to her a while. The +doctor begged her to see a priest. She said “Yes,” and he went himself to fetch +an abbe’ from Saint Roch. +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile Marguerite called me up to her bed, asked me to open a cupboard, and +pointed out a cap and a long chemise covered with lace, and said in a feeble +voice: +</p> + +<p> +“I shall die as soon as I have confessed. Then you will dress me in these +things; it is the whim of a dying woman.” +</p> + +<p> +Then she embraced me with tears and added: +</p> + +<p> +“I can speak, but I am stifled when I speak; I am stifling. Air!” +</p> + +<p> +I burst into tears, opened the window, and a few minutes afterward the priest +entered. I went up to him; when he knew where he was, he seemed afraid of being +badly received. +</p> + +<p> +“Come in boldly, father,” I said to him. +</p> + +<p> +He stayed a very short time in the room, and when he came out he said to me: +</p> + +<p> +“She lived a sinner, and she will die a Christian.” +</p> + +<p> +A few minutes afterward he returned with a choir boy bearing a crucifix, and a +sacristan who went before them ringing the bell to announce that God was coming +to the dying one. +</p> + +<p> +They went all three into the bed-room where so many strange words have been +said, but was now a sort of holy tabernacle. +</p> + +<p> +I fell on my knees. I do not know how long the impression of what I saw will +last, but I do not think that, till my turn comes, any human thing can make so +deep an impression on me. +</p> + +<p> +The priest anointed with holy oil the feet and hands and forehead of the dying +woman, repeated a short prayer, and Marguerite was ready to set out for the +heaven to which I doubt not she will go, if God has seen the ordeal of her life +and the sanctity of her death. +</p> + +<p> +Since then she has not said a word or made a movement. Twenty times I should +have thought her dead if I had not heard her breathing painfully. +</p> + +<p> +February 20, 5 P.M. +</p> + +<p> +All is over. +</p> + +<p> +Marguerite fell into her last agony at about two o’clock. Never did a martyr +suffer such torture, to judge by the cries she uttered. Two or three times she +sat upright in the bed, as if she would hold on to her life, which was escaping +toward God. +</p> + +<p> +Two or three times also she said your name; then all was silent, and she fell +back on the bed exhausted. Silent tears flowed from her eyes, and she was dead. +</p> + +<p> +Then I went up to her; I called her, and as she did not answer I closed her +eyes and kissed her on the forehead. +</p> + +<p> +Poor, dear Marguerite, I wish I were a holy woman that my kiss might recommend +you to God. +</p> + +<p> +Then I dressed her as she had asked me to do. I went to find a priest at Saint +Roch, I burned two candles for her, and I prayed in the church for an hour. +</p> + +<p> +I gave the money she left to the poor. +</p> + +<p> +I do not know much about religion, but I think that God will know that my tears +were genuine, my prayers fervent, my alms-giving sincere, and that he will have +pity on her who, dying young and beautiful, has only had me to close her eyes +and put her in her shroud. +</p> + +<p> +February 22. +</p> + +<p> +The burial took place to-day. Many of Marguerite’s friends came to the church. +Some of them wept with sincerity. When the funeral started on the way to +Montmartre only two men followed it: the Comte de G., who came from London on +purpose, and the duke, who was supported by two footmen. +</p> + +<p> +I write you these details from her house, in the midst of my tears and under +the lamp which burns sadly beside a dinner which I can not touch, as you can +imagine, but which Nanine has got for me, for I have eaten nothing for +twenty-four hours. +</p> + +<p> +My life can not retain these sad impressions for long, for my life is not my +own any more than Marguerite’s was hers; that is why I give you all these +details on the very spot where they occurred, in the fear, if a long time +elapsed between them and your return, that I might not be able to give them to +you with all their melancholy exactitude. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0027"></a> +Chapter XXVII</h2> + +<p> +“You have read it?” said Armand, when I had finished the manuscript. +</p> + +<p> +“I understand what you must have suffered, my friend, if all that I read is +true.” +</p> + +<p> +“My father confirmed it in a letter.” +</p> + +<p> +We talked for some time over the sad destiny which had been accomplished, and I +went home to rest a little. +</p> + +<p> +Armand, still sad, but a little relieved by the narration of his story, soon +recovered, and we went together to pay a visit to Prudence and to Julie Duprat. +</p> + +<p> +Prudence had become bankrupt. She told us that Marguerite was the cause of it; +that during her illness she had lent her a lot of money in the form of +promissory notes, which she could not pay, Marguerite having died without +having returned her the money, and without having given her a receipt with +which she could present herself as a creditor. +</p> + +<p> +By the help of this fable, which Mme. Duvernoy repeated everywhere in order to +account for her money difficulties, she extracted a note for a thousand francs +from Armand, who did not believe it, but who pretended to, out of respect for +all those in whose company Marguerite had lived. +</p> + +<p> +Then we called on Julie Duprat, who told us the sad incident which she had +witnessed, shedding real tears at the remembrance of her friend. +</p> + +<p> +Lastly, we went to Marguerite’s grave, on which the first rays of the April sun +were bringing the first leaves into bud. +</p> + +<p> +One duty remained to Armand—to return to his father. He wished me to +accompany him. +</p> + +<p> +We arrived at C., where I saw M. Duval, such as I had imagined him from the +portrait his son had made of him, tall, dignified, kindly. +</p> + +<p> +He welcomed Armand with tears of joy, and clasped my hand affectionately. I was +not long in seeing that the paternal sentiment was that which dominated all +others in his mind. +</p> + +<p> +His daughter, named Blanche, had that transparence of eyes, that serenity of +the mouth, which indicates a soul that conceives only holy thoughts and lips +that repeat only pious words. She welcomed her brother’s return with smiles, +not knowing, in the purity of her youth, that far away a courtesan had +sacrificed her own happiness at the mere invocation of her name. +</p> + +<p> +I remained for some time in their happy family, full of indulgent care for one +who brought them the convalescence of his heart. +</p> + +<p> +I returned to Paris, where I wrote this story just as it had been told me. It +has only one merit, which will perhaps be denied it; that is, that it is true. +</p> + +<p> +I do not draw from this story the conclusion that all women like Marguerite are +capable of doing all that she did—far from it; but I have discovered that +one of them experienced a serious love in the course of her life, that she +suffered for it, and that she died of it. I have told the reader all that I +learned. It was my duty. +</p> + +<p> +I am not the apostle of vice, but I would gladly be the echo of noble sorrow +wherever I bear its voice in prayer. +</p> + +<p> +The story of Marguerite is an exception, I repeat; had it not been an +exception, it would not have been worth the trouble of writing it. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CAMILLE (LA DAME AUX CAMILIAS) ***</div> +<div style='text-align:left'> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will +be renamed. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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\ No newline at end of file diff --git a/old/1608.txt b/old/1608.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..287a161 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/1608.txt @@ -0,0 +1,8470 @@ +Project Gutenberg's Camille (La Dame aux Camilias), by Alexandre Dumas, fils + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Camille (La Dame aux Camilias) + +Author: Alexandre Dumas, fils + +Posting Date: September 26, 2008 [EBook #1608] +Release Date: January, 1999 +Last Updated: July 3, 2016 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CAMILLE (LA DAME AUX CAMILIAS) *** + + + + +Produced by Dianne Bean + + + + + +CAMILLE (LA DAME AUX CAMILIAS) + +By Alexandre Dumas, fils + + + + +Chapter 1 + +In my opinion, it is impossible to create characters until one has spent +a long time in studying men, as it is impossible to speak a language +until it has been seriously acquired. Not being old enough to invent, I +content myself with narrating, and I beg the reader to assure himself of +the truth of a story in which all the characters, with the exception of +the heroine, are still alive. Eye-witnesses of the greater part of the +facts which I have collected are to be found in Paris, and I might call +upon them to confirm me if my testimony is not enough. And, thanks to a +particular circumstance, I alone can write these things, for I alone +am able to give the final details, without which it would have been +impossible to make the story at once interesting and complete. + +This is how these details came to my knowledge. On the 12th of March, +1847, I saw in the Rue Lafitte a great yellow placard announcing a sale +of furniture and curiosities. The sale was to take place on account of +the death of the owner. The owner's name was not mentioned, but the sale +was to be held at 9, Rue d'Antin, on the 16th, from 12 to 5. The placard +further announced that the rooms and furniture could be seen on the 13th +and 14th. + +I have always been very fond of curiosities, and I made up my mind not +to miss the occasion, if not of buying some, at all events of seeing +them. Next day I called at 9, Rue d'Antin. + +It was early in the day, and yet there were already a number of +visitors, both men and women, and the women, though they were dressed +in cashmere and velvet, and had their carriages waiting for them at the +door, gazed with astonishment and admiration at the luxury which they +saw before them. + +I was not long in discovering the reason of this astonishment and +admiration, for, having begun to examine things a little carefully, I +discovered without difficulty that I was in the house of a kept woman. +Now, if there is one thing which women in society would like to see (and +there were society women there), it is the home of those women whose +carriages splash their own carriages day by day, who, like them, side by +side with them, have their boxes at the Opera and at the Italiens, +and who parade in Paris the opulent insolence of their beauty, their +diamonds, and their scandal. + +This one was dead, so the most virtuous of women could enter even her +bedroom. Death had purified the air of this abode of splendid foulness, +and if more excuse were needed, they had the excuse that they had merely +come to a sale, they knew not whose. They had read the placards, they +wished to see what the placards had announced, and to make their choice +beforehand. What could be more natural? Yet, all the same, in the midst +of all these beautiful things, they could not help looking about for +some traces of this courtesan's life, of which they had heard, no doubt, +strange enough stories. + +Unfortunately the mystery had vanished with the goddess, and, for +all their endeavours, they discovered only what was on sale since +the owner's decease, and nothing of what had been on sale during her +lifetime. For the rest, there were plenty of things worth buying. The +furniture was superb; there were rosewood and buhl cabinets and tables, +Sevres and Chinese vases, Saxe statuettes, satin, velvet, lace; there +was nothing lacking. + +I sauntered through the rooms, following the inquisitive ladies of +distinction. They entered a room with Persian hangings, and I was just +going to enter in turn, when they came out again almost immediately, +smiling, and as if ashamed of their own curiosity. I was all the more +eager to see the room. It was the dressing-room, laid out with all the +articles of toilet, in which the dead woman's extravagance seemed to be +seen at its height. + +On a large table against the wall, a table three feet in width and six +in length, glittered all the treasures of Aucoc and Odiot. It was a +magnificent collection, and there was not one of those thousand little +things so necessary to the toilet of a woman of the kind which was not +in gold or silver. Such a collection could only have been got together +little by little, and the same lover had certainly not begun and ended +it. + +Not being shocked at the sight of a kept woman's dressing-room, I +amused myself with examining every detail, and I discovered that these +magnificently chiselled objects bore different initials and different +coronets. I looked at one after another, each recalling a separate +shame, and I said that God had been merciful to the poor child, in not +having left her to pay the ordinary penalty, but rather to die in +the midst of her beauty and luxury, before the coming of old age, the +courtesan's first death. + +Is there anything sadder in the world than the old age of vice, +especially in woman? She preserves no dignity, she inspires no interest. +The everlasting repentance, not of the evil ways followed, but of the +plans that have miscarried, the money that has been spent in vain, is +as saddening a thing as one can well meet with. I knew an aged woman who +had once been "gay," whose only link with the past was a daughter almost +as beautiful as she herself had been. This poor creature to whom her +mother had never said, "You are my child," except to bid her nourish her +old age as she herself had nourished her youth, was called Louise, and, +being obedient to her mother, she abandoned herself without volition, +without passion, without pleasure, as she would have worked at any other +profession that might have been taught her. + +The constant sight of dissipation, precocious dissipation, in addition +to her constant sickly state, had extinguished in her mind all the +knowledge of good and evil that God had perhaps given her, but that no +one had ever thought of developing. I shall always remember her, as +she passed along the boulevards almost every day at the same hour, +accompanied by her mother as assiduously as a real mother might have +accompanied her daughter. I was very young then, and ready to accept for +myself the easy morality of the age. I remember, however, the +contempt and disgust which awoke in me at the sight of this scandalous +chaperoning. Her face, too, was inexpressibly virginal in its expression +of innocence and of melancholy suffering. She was like a figure of +Resignation. + +One day the girl's face was transfigured. In the midst of all the +debauches mapped out by her mother, it seemed to her as if God had left +over for her one happiness. And why indeed should God, who had made her +without strength, have left her without consolation, under the sorrowful +burden of her life? One day, then, she realized that she was to have a +child, and all that remained to her of chastity leaped for joy. The soul +has strange refuges. Louise ran to tell the good news to her mother. +It is a shameful thing to speak of, but we are not telling tales of +pleasant sins; we are telling of true facts, which it would be better, +no doubt, to pass over in silence, if we did not believe that it is +needful from time to time to reveal the martyrdom of those who are +condemned without bearing, scorned without judging; shameful it is, but +this mother answered the daughter that they had already scarce enough +for two, and would certainly not have enough for three; that such +children are useless, and a lying-in is so much time lost. + +Next day a midwife, of whom all we will say is that she was a friend of +the mother, visited Louise, who remained in bed for a few days, and then +got up paler and feebler than before. + +Three months afterward a man took pity on her and tried to heal her, +morally and physically; but the last shock had been too violent, and +Louise died of it. The mother still lives; how? God knows. + +This story returned to my mind while I looked at the silver toilet +things, and a certain space of time must have elapsed during these +reflections, for no one was left in the room but myself and an +attendant, who, standing near the door, was carefully watching me to see +that I did not pocket anything. + +I went up to the man, to whom I was causing so much anxiety. "Sir," I +said, "can you tell me the name of the person who formerly lived here?" + +"Mademoiselle Marguerite Gautier." + +I knew her by name and by sight. + +"What!" I said to the attendant; "Marguerite Gautier is dead?" + +"Yes, sir." + +"When did she die?" + +"Three weeks ago, I believe." + +"And why are the rooms on view?" + +"The creditors believe that it will send up the prices. People can see +beforehand the effect of the things; you see that induces them to buy." + +"She was in debt, then?" + +"To any extent, sir." + +"But the sale will cover it?" + +"And more too." + +"Who will get what remains over?" + +"Her family." + +"She had a family?" + +"It seems so." + +"Thanks." + +The attendant, reassured as to my intentions, touched his hat, and I +went out. + +"Poor girl!" I said to myself as I returned home; "she must have had a +sad death, for, in her world, one has friends only when one is perfectly +well." And in spite of myself I began to feel melancholy over the fate +of Marguerite Gautier. + +It will seem absurd to many people, but I have an unbounded sympathy +for women of this kind, and I do not think it necessary to apologize for +such sympathy. + +One day, as I was going to the Prefecture for a passport, I saw in one +of the neighbouring streets a poor girl who was being marched along by +two policemen. I do not know what was the matter. All I know is that she +was weeping bitterly as she kissed an infant only a few months old, from +whom her arrest was to separate her. Since that day I have never dared +to despise a woman at first sight. + + + +Chapter 2 + +The sale was to take place on the 16th. A day's interval had been left +between the visiting days and the sale, in order to give time for taking +down the hangings, curtains, etc. I had just returned from abroad. It +was natural that I had not heard of Marguerite's death among the pieces +of news which one's friends always tell on returning after an absence. +Marguerite was a pretty woman; but though the life of such women makes +sensation enough, their death makes very little. They are suns which set +as they rose, unobserved. Their death, when they die young, is heard +of by all their lovers at the same moment, for in Paris almost all +the lovers of a well-known woman are friends. A few recollections are +exchanged, and everybody's life goes on as if the incident had never +occurred, without so much as a tear. + +Nowadays, at twenty-five, tears have become so rare a thing that they +are not to be squandered indiscriminately. It is the most that can be +expected if the parents who pay for being wept over are wept over in +return for the price they pay. + +As for me, though my initials did not occur on any of Marguerite's +belongings, that instinctive indulgence, that natural pity that I have +already confessed, set me thinking over her death, more perhaps than it +was worth thinking over. I remembered having often met Marguerite in the +Bois, where she went regularly every day in a little blue coupe drawn by +two magnificent bays, and I had noticed in her a distinction quite apart +from other women of her kind, a distinction which was enhanced by a +really exceptional beauty. + +These unfortunate creatures whenever they go out are always accompanied +by somebody or other. As no man cares to make himself conspicuous by +being seen in their company, and as they are afraid of solitude, they +take with them either those who are not well enough off to have a +carriage, or one or another of those elegant, ancient ladies, whose +elegance is a little inexplicable, and to whom one can always go for +information in regard to the women whom they accompany. + +In Marguerite's case it was quite different. She was always alone when +she drove in the Champs-Elysees, lying back in her carriage as much as +possible, dressed in furs in winter, and in summer wearing very simple +dresses; and though she often passed people whom she knew, her smile, +when she chose to smile, was seen only by them, and a duchess might +have smiled in just such a manner. She did not drive to and fro like the +others, from the Rond-Point to the end of the Champs-Elysees. She drove +straight to the Bois. There she left her carriage, walked for an hour, +returned to her carriage, and drove rapidly home. + +All these circumstances which I had so often witnessed came back to my +memory, and I regretted her death as one might regret the destruction of +a beautiful work of art. + +It was impossible to see more charm in beauty than in that of +Marguerite. Excessively tall and thin, she had in the fullest degree the +art of repairing this oversight of Nature by the mere arrangement of the +things she wore. Her cashmere reached to the ground, and showed on each +side the large flounces of a silk dress, and the heavy muff which she +held pressed against her bosom was surrounded by such cunningly arranged +folds that the eye, however exacting, could find no fault with the +contour of the lines. Her head, a marvel, was the object of the most +coquettish care. It was small, and her mother, as Musset would say, +seemed to have made it so in order to make it with care. + +Set, in an oval of indescribable grace, two black eyes, surmounted by +eyebrows of so pure a curve that it seemed as if painted; veil these +eyes with lovely lashes, which, when drooped, cast their shadow on the +rosy hue of the cheeks; trace a delicate, straight nose, the nostrils +a little open, in an ardent aspiration toward the life of the senses; +design a regular mouth, with lips parted graciously over teeth as white +as milk; colour the skin with the down of a peach that no hand +has touched, and you will have the general aspect of that charming +countenance. The hair, black as jet, waving naturally or not, was +parted on the forehead in two large folds and draped back over the head, +leaving in sight just the tip of the ears, in which there glittered two +diamonds, worth four to five thousand francs each. How it was that her +ardent life had left on Marguerite's face the virginal, almost childlike +expression, which characterized it, is a problem which we can but state, +without attempting to solve it. + +Marguerite had a marvellous portrait of herself, by Vidal, the only man +whose pencil could do her justice. I had this portrait by me for a few +days after her death, and the likeness was so astonishing that it has +helped to refresh my memory in regard to some points which I might not +otherwise have remembered. + +Some among the details of this chapter did not reach me until later, +but I write them here so as not to be obliged to return to them when the +story itself has begun. + +Marguerite was always present at every first night, and passed every +evening either at the theatre or the ball. Whenever there was a new +piece she was certain to be seen, and she invariably had three things +with her on the ledge of her ground-floor box: her opera-glass, a bag of +sweets, and a bouquet of camellias. + +For twenty-five days of the month the camellias were white, and for five +they were red; no one ever knew the reason of this change of colour, +which I mention though I can not explain it; it was noticed both by her +friends and by the habitue's of the theatres to which she most often +went. She was never seen with any flowers but camellias. At the +florist's, Madame Barjon's, she had come to be called "the Lady of the +Camellias," and the name stuck to her. + +Like all those who move in a certain set in Paris, I knew that +Marguerite had lived with some of the most fashionable young men in +society, that she spoke of it openly, and that they themselves +boasted of it; so that all seemed equally pleased with one another. +Nevertheless, for about three years, after a visit to Bagnees, she was +said to be living with an old duke, a foreigner, enormously rich, who +had tried to remove her as far as possible from her former life, and, as +it seemed, entirely to her own satisfaction. + +This is what I was told on the subject. In the spring of 1847 Marguerite +was so ill that the doctors ordered her to take the waters, and she went +to Bagneres. Among the invalids was the daughter of this duke; she +was not only suffering from the same complaint, but she was so like +Marguerite in appearance that they might have been taken for sisters; +the young duchess was in the last stage of consumption, and a few days +after Marguerite's arrival she died. One morning, the duke, who had +remained at Bagneres to be near the soil that had buried a part of his +heart, caught sight of Marguerite at a turn of the road. He seemed to +see the shadow of his child, and going up to her, he took her hands, +embraced and wept over her, and without even asking her who she was, +begged her to let him love in her the living image of his dead child. +Marguerite, alone at Bagneres with her maid, and not being in any fear +of compromising herself, granted the duke's request. Some people who +knew her, happening to be at Bagneres, took upon themselves to explain +Mademoiselle Gautier's true position to the duke. It was a blow to +the old man, for the resemblance with his daughter was ended in one +direction, but it was too late. She had become a necessity to his heart, +his only pretext, his only excuse, for living. He made no reproaches, +he had indeed no right to do so, but he asked her if she felt herself +capable of changing her mode of life, offering her in return for the +sacrifice every compensation that she could desire. She consented. + +It must be said that Marguerite was just then very ill. The past seemed +to her sensitive nature as if it were one of the main causes of her +illness, and a sort of superstition led her to hope that God would +restore to her both health and beauty in return for her repentance and +conversion. By the end of the summer, the waters, sleep, the natural +fatigue of long walks, had indeed more or less restored her health. The +duke accompanied her to Paris, where he continued to see her as he had +done at Bagneres. + +This liaison, whose motive and origin were quite unknown, caused a great +sensation, for the duke, already known for his immense fortune, +now became known for his prodigality. All this was set down to the +debauchery of a rich old man, and everything was believed except the +truth. The father's sentiment for Marguerite had, in truth, so pure a +cause that anything but a communion of hearts would have seemed to him a +kind of incest, and he had never spoken to her a word which his daughter +might not have heard. + +Far be it from me to make out our heroine to be anything but what she +was. As long as she remained at Bagneres, the promise she had made to +the duke had not been hard to keep, and she had kept it; but, once back +in Paris, it seemed to her, accustomed to a life of dissipation, of +balls, of orgies, as if the solitude, only interrupted by the duke's +stated visits, would kill her with boredom, and the hot breath of her +old life came back across her head and heart. + +We must add that Marguerite had returned more beautiful than she had +ever been; she was but twenty, and her malady, sleeping but not subdued, +continued to give her those feverish desires which are almost always the +result of diseases of the chest. + +It was a great grief to the duke when his friends, always on the lookout +for some scandal on the part of the woman with whom, it seemed to them, +he was compromising himself, came to tell him, indeed to prove to him, +that at times when she was sure of not seeing him she received other +visits, and that these visits were often prolonged till the following +day. On being questioned, Marguerite admitted everything to the duke, +and advised him, without arriere-pensee, to concern himself with her no +longer, for she felt incapable of carrying out what she had undertaken, +and she did not wish to go on accepting benefits from a man whom she was +deceiving. The duke did not return for a week; it was all he could do, +and on the eighth day he came to beg Marguerite to let him still visit +her, promising that he would take her as she was, so long as he might +see her, and swearing that he would never utter a reproach against her, +not though he were to die of it. + +This, then, was the state of things three months after Marguerite's +return; that is to say, in November or December, 1842. + + + +Chapter 3 + +At one o'clock on the 16th I went to the Rue d'Antin. The voice of the +auctioneer could be heard from the outer door. The rooms were crowded +with people. There were all the celebrities of the most elegant +impropriety, furtively examined by certain great ladies who had again +seized the opportunity of the sale in order to be able to see, close at +hand, women whom they might never have another occasion of meeting, and +whom they envied perhaps in secret for their easy pleasures. The Duchess +of F. elbowed Mlle. A., one of the most melancholy examples of our +modern courtesan; the Marquis de T. hesitated over a piece of furniture +the price of which was being run high by Mme. D., the most elegant and +famous adulteress of our time; the Duke of Y., who in Madrid is supposed +to be ruining himself in Paris, and in Paris to be ruining himself in +Madrid, and who, as a matter of fact, never even reaches the limit of +his income, talked with Mme. M., one of our wittiest story-tellers, who +from time to time writes what she says and signs what she writes, while +at the same time he exchanged confidential glances with Mme. de N., a +fair ornament of the Champs-Elysees, almost always dressed in pink +or blue, and driving two big black horses which Tony had sold her for +10,000 francs, and for which she had paid, after her fashion; finally, +Mlle. R., who makes by her mere talent twice what the women of the world +make by their dot and three times as much as the others make by their +amours, had come, in spite of the cold, to make some purchases, and was +not the least looked at among the crowd. + +We might cite the initials of many more of those who found themselves, +not without some mutual surprise, side by side in one room. But we fear +to weary the reader. We will only add that everyone was in the highest +spirits, and that many of those present had known the dead woman, and +seemed quite oblivious of the fact. There was a sound of loud laughter; +the auctioneers shouted at the top of their voices; the dealers who had +filled the benches in front of the auction table tried in vain to obtain +silence, in order to transact their business in peace. Never was there a +noisier or a more varied gathering. + +I slipped quietly into the midst of this tumult, sad to think of when +one remembered that the poor creature whose goods were being sold to pay +her debts had died in the next room. Having come rather to examine than +to buy, I watched the faces of the auctioneers, noticing how they +beamed with delight whenever anything reached a price beyond their +expectations. Honest creatures, who had speculated upon this woman's +prostitution, who had gained their hundred per cent out of her, who had +plagued with their writs the last moments of her life, and who came now +after her death to gather in at once the fruits of their dishonourable +calculations and the interest on their shameful credit, How wise were +the ancients in having only one God for traders and robbers! + +Dresses, cashmeres, jewels, were sold with incredible rapidity. There +was nothing that I cared for, and I still waited. All at once I heard: +"A volume, beautifully bound, gilt-edged, entitled Manon Lescaut. There +is something written on the first page. Ten francs." + +"Twelve," said a voice after a longish silence. + +"Fifteen," I said. + +Why? I did not know. Doubtless for the something written. + +"Fifteen," repeated the auctioneer. + +"Thirty," said the first bidder in a tone which seemed to defy further +competition. + +It had now become a struggle. "Thirty-five," I cried in the same tone. + +"Forty." + +"Fifty." + +"Sixty." + +"A hundred." + +If I had wished to make a sensation I should certainly have succeeded, +for a profound silence had ensued, and people gazed at me as if to see +what sort of a person it was, who seemed to be so determined to possess +the volume. + +The accent which I had given to my last word seemed to convince my +adversary; he preferred to abandon a conflict which could only have +resulted in making me pay ten times its price for the volume, and, +bowing, he said very gracefully, though indeed a little late: + +"I give way, sir." + +Nothing more being offered, the book was assigned to me. + +As I was afraid of some new fit of obstinacy, which my amour propre +might have sustained somewhat better than my purse, I wrote down my +name, had the book put on one side, and went out. I must have given +considerable food for reflection to the witnesses of this scene, who +would no doubt ask themselves what my purpose could have been in paying +a hundred francs for a book which I could have had anywhere for ten, or, +at the outside, fifteen. + +An hour after, I sent for my purchase. On the first page was written +in ink, in an elegant hand, an inscription on the part of the giver. It +consisted of these words: + +Manon to Marguerite. + +Humility. + +It was signed Armand Duval. + +What was the meaning of the word Humility? Was Manon to recognise in +Marguerite, in the opinion of M. Armand Duval, her superior in vice or +in affection? The second interpretation seemed the more probable, for +the first would have been an impertinent piece of plain speaking which +Marguerite, whatever her opinion of herself, would never have accepted. + +I went out again, and thought no more of the book until at night, when I +was going to bed. + +Manon Lescaut is a touching story. I know every detail of it, and yet +whenever I come across the volume the same sympathy always draws me to +it; I open it, and for the hundredth time I live over again with the +heroine of the Abbe Prevost. Now this heroine is so true to life that I +feel as if I had known her; and thus the sort of comparison between +her and Marguerite gave me an unusual inclination to read it, and my +indulgence passed into pity, almost into a kind of love for the poor +girl to whom I owed the volume. Manon died in the desert, it is true, +but in the arms of the man who loved her with the whole energy of his +soul; who, when she was dead, dug a grave for her, and watered it with +his tears, and buried his heart in it; while Marguerite, a sinner like +Manon, and perhaps converted like her, had died in a sumptuous bed (it +seemed, after what I had seen, the bed of her past), but in that desert +of the heart, a more barren, a vaster, a more pitiless desert than that +in which Manon had found her last resting-place. + +Marguerite, in fact, as I had found from some friends who knew of the +last circumstances of her life, had not a single real friend by her +bedside during the two months of her long and painful agony. + +Then from Manon and Marguerite my mind wandered to those whom I knew, +and whom I saw singing along the way which led to just such another +death. Poor souls! if it is not right to love them, is it not well to +pity them? You pity the blind man who has never seen the daylight, the +deaf who has never heard the harmonies of nature, the dumb who has never +found a voice for his soul, and, under a false cloak of shame, you will +not pity this blindness of heart, this deafness of soul, this dumbness +of conscience, which sets the poor afflicted creature beside herself +and makes her, in spite of herself, incapable of seeing what is good, of +bearing the Lord, and of speaking the pure language of love and faith. + +Hugo has written Marion Delorme, Musset has written Bernerette, +Alexandre Dumas has written Fernande, the thinkers and poets of all time +have brought to the courtesan the offering of their pity, and at times +a great man has rehabilitated them with his love and even with his name. +If I insist on this point, it is because many among those who have begun +to read me will be ready to throw down a book in which they will fear to +find an apology for vice and prostitution; and the author's age will do +something, no doubt, to increase this fear. Let me undeceive those +who think thus, and let them go on reading, if nothing but such a fear +hinders them. + +I am quite simply convinced of a certain principle, which is: For the +woman whose education has not taught her what is right, God almost +always opens two ways which lead thither the ways of sorrow and of love. +They are hard; those who walk in them walk with bleeding feet and torn +hands, but they also leave the trappings of vice upon the thorns of +the wayside, and reach the journey's end in a nakedness which is not +shameful in the sight of the Lord. + +Those who meet these bold travellers ought to succour them, and to tell +all that they have met them, for in so doing they point out the way. It +is not a question of setting at the outset of life two sign-posts, one +bearing the inscription "The Right Way," the other the inscription "The +Wrong Way," and of saying to those who come there, "Choose." One must +needs, like Christ, point out the ways which lead from the second +road to the first, to those who have been easily led astray; and it is +needful that the beginning of these ways should not be too painful nor +appear too impenetrable. + +Here is Christianity with its marvellous parable of the Prodigal Son to +teach us indulgence and pardon. Jesus was full of love for souls wounded +by the passions of men; he loved to bind up their wounds and to find in +those very wounds the balm which should heal them. Thus he said to the +Magdalen: "Much shall be forgiven thee because thou hast loved much," a +sublimity of pardon which can only have called forth a sublime faith. + +Why do we make ourselves more strict than Christ? Why, holding +obstinately to the opinions of the world, which hardens itself in +order that it may be thought strong, do we reject, as it rejects, souls +bleeding at wounds by which, like a sick man's bad blood, the evil of +their past may be healed, if only a friendly hand is stretched out to +lave them and set them in the convalescence of the heart? + +It is to my own generation that I speak, to those for whom the theories +of M. de Voltaire happily exist no longer, to those who, like myself, +realize that humanity, for these last fifteen years, has been in one of +its most audacious moments of expansion. The science of good and evil +is acquired forever; faith is refashioned, respect for sacred things has +returned to us, and if the world has not all at once become good, it has +at least become better. The efforts of every intelligent man tend in +the same direction, and every strong will is harnessed to the same +principle: Be good, be young, be true! Evil is nothing but vanity, let +us have the pride of good, and above all let us never despair. Do not +let us despise the woman who is neither mother, sister, maid, nor wife. +Do not let us limit esteem to the family nor indulgence to egoism. Since +"there is more joy in heaven over one sinner that repenteth than over +ninety and nine just persons that need no repentance," let us give joy +to heaven. Heaven will render it back to us with usury. Let us leave on +our way the alms of pardon for those whom earthly desires have driven +astray, whom a divine hope shall perhaps save, and, as old women say +when they offer you some homely remedy of their own, if it does no good +it will do no harm. + +Doubtless it must seem a bold thing to attempt to deduce these grand +results out of the meagre subject that I deal with; but I am one of +those who believe that all is in little. The child is small, and he +includes the man; the brain is narrow, and it harbours thought; the eye +is but a point, and it covers leagues. + + + +Chapter 4 + +Two days after, the sale was ended. It had produced 3.50,000 francs. The +creditors divided among them two thirds, and the family, a sister and a +grand-nephew, received the remainder. + +The sister opened her eyes very wide when the lawyer wrote to her that +she had inherited 50,000 francs. The girl had not seen her sister for +six or seven years, and did not know what had become of her from the +moment when she had disappeared from home. She came up to Paris in +haste, and great was the astonishment of those who had known Marguerite +when they saw as her only heir a fine, fat country girl, who until then +had never left her village. She had made the fortune at a single stroke, +without even knowing the source of that fortune. She went back, I heard +afterward, to her countryside, greatly saddened by her sister's death, +but with a sadness which was somewhat lightened by the investment at +four and a half per cent which she had been able to make. + +All these circumstances, often repeated in Paris, the mother city of +scandal, had begun to be forgotten, and I was even little by little +forgetting the part I had taken in them, when a new incident brought to +my knowledge the whole of Marguerite's life, and acquainted me with +such pathetic details that I was taken with the idea of writing down the +story which I now write. + +The rooms, now emptied of all their furniture, had been to let for three +or four days when one morning there was a ring at my door. + +My servant, or, rather, my porter, who acted as my servant, went to the +door and brought me a card, saying that the person who had given it to +him wished to see me. + +I glanced at the card and there read these two words: Armand Duval. + +I tried to think where I had seen the name, and remembered the first +leaf of the copy of Manon Lescaut. What could the person who had given +the book to Marguerite want of me? I gave orders to ask him in at once. + +I saw a young man, blond, tall, pale, dressed in a travelling suit which +looked as if he had not changed it for some days, and had not even taken +the trouble to brush it on arriving at Paris, for it was covered with +dust. + +M. Duval was deeply agitated; he made no attempt to conceal his +agitation, and it was with tears in his eyes and a trembling voice that +he said to me: + +"Sir, I beg you to excuse my visit and my costume; but young people are +not very ceremonious with one another, and I was so anxious to see you +to-day that I have not even gone to the hotel to which I have sent my +luggage, and have rushed straight here, fearing that, after all, I might +miss you, early as it is." + +I begged M. Duval to sit down by the fire; he did so, and, taking his +handkerchief from his pocket, hid his face in it for a moment. + +"You must be at a loss to understand," he went on, sighing sadly, "for +what purpose an unknown visitor, at such an hour, in such a costume, and +in tears, can have come to see you. I have simply come to ask of you a +great service." + +"Speak on, sir, I am entirely at your disposal." + +"You were present at the sale of Marguerite Gautier?" + +At this word the emotion, which he had got the better of for an instant, +was too much for him, and he was obliged to cover his eyes with his +hand. + +"I must seem to you very absurd," he added, "but pardon me, and believe +that I shall never forget the patience with which you have listened to +me." + +"Sir," I answered, "if the service which I can render you is able to +lessen your trouble a little, tell me at once what I can do for you, and +you will find me only too happy to oblige you." + +M. Duval's sorrow was sympathetic, and in spite of myself I felt the +desire of doing him a kindness. Thereupon he said to me: + +"You bought something at Marguerite's sale?" + +"Yes, a book." + +"Manon Lescaut?" + +"Precisely." + +"Have you the book still?" + +"It is in my bedroom." + +On hearing this, Armand Duval seemed to be relieved of a great weight, +and thanked me as if I had already rendered him a service merely by +keeping the book. + +I got up and went into my room to fetch the book, which I handed to him. + +"That is it indeed," he said, looking at the inscription on the first +page and turning over the leaves; "that is it in deed," and two big +tears fell on the pages. "Well, sir," said he, lifting his head, and no +longer trying to hide from me that he had wept and was even then on the +point of weeping, "do you value this book very greatly?" + +"Why?" + +"Because I have come to ask you to give it up to me." + +"Pardon my curiosity, but was it you, then, who gave it to Marguerite +Gautier?" + +"It was!" + +"The book is yours, sir; take it back. I am happy to be able to hand it +over to you." + +"But," said M. Duval with some embarrassment, "the least I can do is to +give you in return the price which you paid for it." + +"Allow me to offer it to you. The price of a single volume in a sale of +that kind is a mere nothing, and I do not remember how much I gave for +it." + +"You gave one hundred francs." + +"True," I said, embarrassed in my turn, "how do you know?" + +"It is quite simple. I hoped to reach Paris in time for the sale, and I +only managed to get here this morning. I was absolutely resolved to have +something which had belonged to her, and I hastened to the auctioneer +and asked him to allow me to see the list of the things sold and of +the buyers' names. I saw that this volume had been bought by you, and +I decided to ask you to give it up to me, though the price you had +set upon it made me fear that you might yourself have some souvenir in +connection with the possession of the book." + +As he spoke, it was evident that he was afraid I had known Marguerite as +he had known her. I hastened to reassure him. + +"I knew Mlle. Gautier only by sight," I said; "her death made on me the +impression that the death of a pretty woman must always make on a young +man who had liked seeing her. I wished to buy something at her sale, and +I bid higher and higher for this book out of mere obstinacy and to annoy +someone else, who was equally keen to obtain it, and who seemed to defy +me to the contest. I repeat, then, that the book is yours, and once more +I beg you to accept it; do not treat me as if I were an auctioneer, +and let it be the pledge between us of a longer and more intimate +acquaintance." + +"Good," said Armand, holding out his hand and pressing mine; "I accept, +and I shall be grateful to you all my life." + +I was very anxious to question Armand on the subject of Marguerite, for +the inscription in the book, the young man's hurried journey, his desire +to possess the volume, piqued my curiosity; but I feared if I questioned +my visitor that I might seem to have refused his money only in order to +have the right to pry into his affairs. + +It was as if he guessed my desire, for he said to me: + +"Have you read the volume?" + +"All through." + +"What did you think of the two lines that I wrote in it?" + +"I realized at once that the woman to whom you had given the volume +must have been quite outside the ordinary category, for I could not take +those two lines as a mere empty compliment." + +"You were right. That woman was an angel. See, read this letter." And he +handed to me a paper which seemed to have been many times reread. + +I opened it, and this is what it contained: + +"MY DEAR ARMAND:--I have received your letter. You are still good, and +I thank God for it. Yes, my friend, I am ill, and with one of those +diseases that never relent; but the interest you still take in me makes +my suffering less. I shall not live long enough, I expect, to have the +happiness of pressing the hand which has written the kind letter I have +just received; the words of it would be enough to cure me, if anything +could cure me. I shall not see you, for I am quite near death, and you +are hundreds of leagues away. My poor friend! your Marguerite of old +times is sadly changed. It is better perhaps for you not to see her +again than to see her as she is. You ask if I forgive you; oh, with all +my heart, friend, for the way you hurt me was only a way of proving the +love you had for me. I have been in bed for a month, and I think so much +of your esteem that I write every day the journal of my life, from the +moment we left each other to the moment when I shall be able to write +no longer. If the interest you take in me is real, Armand, when you come +back go and see Julie Duprat. She will give you my journal. You will +find in it the reason and the excuse for what has passed between us. +Julie is very good to me; we often talk of you together. She was there +when your letter came, and we both cried over it. + +"If you had not sent me any word, I had told her to give you those +papers when you returned to France. Do not thank me for it. This daily +looking back on the only happy moments of my life does me an immense +amount of good, and if you will find in reading it some excuse for the +past. I, for my part, find a continual solace in it. I should like to +leave you something which would always remind you of me, but everything +here has been seized, and I have nothing of my own. + +"Do you understand, my friend? I am dying, and from my bed I can hear +a man walking to and fro in the drawing-room; my creditors have put him +there to see that nothing is taken away, and that nothing remains to +me in case I do not die. I hope they will wait till the end before they +begin to sell. + +"Oh, men have no pity! or rather, I am wrong, it is God who is just and +inflexible! + +"And now, dear love, you will come to my sale, and you will buy +something, for if I put aside the least thing for you, they might accuse +you of embezzling seized goods. + +"It is a sad life that I am leaving! + +"It would be good of God to let me see you again before I die. According +to all probability, good-bye, my friend. Pardon me if I do not write a +longer letter, but those who say they are going to cure me wear me out +with bloodletting, and my hand refuses to write any more. + +"MARGUERITE GAUTIER." + + +The last two words were scarcely legible. I returned the letter to +Armand, who had, no doubt, read it over again in his mind while I was +reading it on paper, for he said to me as he took it: + +"Who would think that a kept woman could have written that?" And, +overcome by recollections, he gazed for some time at the writing of the +letter, which he finally carried to his lips. + +"And when I think," he went on, "that she died before I could see her, +and that I shall never see her again, when I think that she did for me +what no sister would ever have done, I can not forgive myself for having +left her to die like that. Dead! Dead and thinking of me, writing and +repeating my name, poor dear Marguerite!" + +And Armand, giving free outlet to his thoughts and his tears, held out +his hand to me, and continued: + +"People would think it childish enough if they saw me lament like this +over a dead woman such as she; no one will ever know what I made that +woman suffer, how cruel I have been to her! how good, how resigned +she was! I thought it was I who had to forgive her, and to-day I feel +unworthy of the forgiveness which she grants me. Oh, I would give ten +years of my life to weep at her feet for an hour!" + +It is always difficult to console a sorrow that is unknown to one, and +nevertheless I felt so lively a sympathy for the young man, he made me +so frankly the confidant of his distress, that I believed a word from me +would not be indifferent to him, and I said: + +"Have you no parents, no friends? Hope. Go and see them; they will +console you. As for me, I can only pity you." + +"It is true," he said, rising and walking to and fro in the room, "I +am wearying you. Pardon me, I did not reflect how little my sorrow must +mean to you, and that I am intruding upon you something which can not +and ought not to interest you at all." + +"You mistake my meaning. I am entirely at your service; only I regret +my inability to calm your distress. If my society and that of my friends +can give you any distraction, if, in short, you have need of me, no +matter in what way, I hope you will realize how much pleasure it will +give me to do anything for you." + +"Pardon, pardon," said he; "sorrow sharpens the sensations. Let me stay +here for a few minutes longer, long enough to dry my eyes, so that the +idlers in the street may not look upon it as a curiosity to see a big +fellow like me crying. You have made me very happy by giving me this +book. I do not know how I can ever express my gratitude to you." + +"By giving me a little of your friendship," said I, "and by telling me +the cause of your suffering. One feels better while telling what one +suffers." + +"You are right. But to-day I have too much need of tears; I can not very +well talk. One day I will tell you the whole story, and you will see if +I have reason for regretting the poor girl. And now," he added, rubbing +his eyes for the last time, and looking at himself in the glass, "say +that you do not think me too absolutely idiotic, and allow me to come +back and see you another time." + +He cast on me a gentle and amiable look. I was near embracing him. +As for him, his eyes again began to fill with tears; he saw that I +perceived it and turned away his head. + +"Come," I said, "courage." + +"Good-bye," he said. + +And, making a desperate effort to restrain his tears, he rushed rather +than went out of the room. + +I lifted the curtain of my window, and saw him get into the cabriolet +which awaited him at the door; but scarcely was he seated before he +burst into tears and hid his face in his pocket-handkerchief. + + + +Chapter 5 + +A good while elapsed before I heard anything more of Armand, but, on the +other hand, I was constantly hearing of Marguerite. + +I do not know if you have noticed, if once the name of anybody who might +in the natural course of things have always remained unknown, or at all +events indifferent to you, should be mentioned before you, immediately +details begin to group themselves about the name, and you find all your +friends talking to you about something which they have never mentioned +to you before. You discover that this person was almost touching you and +has passed close to you many times in your life without your noticing +it; you find coincidences in the events which are told you, a real +affinity with certain events of your own existence. I was not absolutely +at that point in regard to Marguerite, for I had seen and met her, I +knew her by sight and by reputation; nevertheless, since the moment +of the sale, her name came to my ears so frequently, and, owing to the +circumstance that I have mentioned in the last chapter, that name was +associated with so profound a sorrow, that my curiosity increased in +proportion with my astonishment. The consequence was that whenever I met +friends to whom I had never breathed the name of Marguerite, I always +began by saying: + +"Did you ever know a certain Marguerite Gautier?" + +"The Lady of the Camellias?" + +"Exactly." + +"Oh, very well!" + +The word was sometimes accompanied by a smile which could leave no doubt +as to its meaning. + +"Well, what sort of a girl was she?" + +"A good sort of girl." + +"Is that all?" + +"Oh, yes; more intelligence and perhaps a little more heart than most." + +"Do you know anything particular about her?" + +"She ruined Baron de G." + +"No more than that?" + +"She was the mistress of the old Duke of..." + +"Was she really his mistress?" + +"So they say; at all events, he gave her a great deal of money." + +The general outlines were always the same. Nevertheless I was anxious +to find out something about the relations between Marguerite and Armand. +Meeting one day a man who was constantly about with known women, I asked +him: "Did you know Marguerite Gautier?" + +The answer was the usual: "Very well." + +"What sort of a girl was she?" + +"A fine, good girl. I was very sorry to hear of her death." + +"Had she not a lover called Armand Duval?" + +"Tall and blond?" + +"Yes. + +"It is quite true." + +"Who was this Armand?" + +"A fellow who squandered on her the little money he had, and then had to +leave her. They say he was quite wild about it." + +"And she?" + +"They always say she was very much in love with him, but as girls like +that are in love. It is no good to ask them for what they can not give." + +"What has become of Armand?" + +"I don't know. We knew him very little. He was with Marguerite for five +or six months in the country. When she came back, he had gone." + +"And you have never seen him since?" + +"Never." + +I, too, had not seen Armand again. I was beginning to ask myself if, +when he had come to see me, the recent news of Marguerite's death had +not exaggerated his former love, and consequently his sorrow, and I +said to myself that perhaps he had already forgotten the dead woman, and +along with her his promise to come and see me again. This supposition +would have seemed probable enough in most instances, but in Armand's +despair there had been an accent of real sincerity, and, going from one +extreme to another, I imagined that distress had brought on an illness, +and that my not seeing him was explained by the fact that he was ill, +perhaps dead. + +I was interested in the young man in spite of myself. Perhaps there was +some selfishness in this interest; perhaps I guessed at some pathetic +love story under all this sorrow; perhaps my desire to know all about it +had much to do with the anxiety which Armand's silence caused me. +Since M. Duval did not return to see me, I decided to go and see him. A +pretext was not difficult to find; unluckily I did not know his address, +and no one among those whom I questioned could give it to me. + +I went to the Rue d'Antin; perhaps Marguerite's porter would know where +Armand lived. There was a new porter; he knew as little about it as I. +I then asked in what cemetery Mlle. Gautier had been buried. It was +the Montmartre Cemetery. It was now the month of April; the weather was +fine, the graves were not likely to look as sad and desolate as they do +in winter; in short, it was warm enough for the living to think a little +of the dead, and pay them a visit. I went to the cemetery, saying to +myself: "One glance at Marguerite's grave, and I shall know if Armand's +sorrow still exists, and perhaps I may find out what has become of him." + +I entered the keeper's lodge, and asked him if on the 22nd of February +a woman named Marguerite Gautier had not been buried in the Montmartre +Cemetery. He turned over the pages of a big book in which those who +enter this last resting-place are inscribed and numbered, and replied +that on the 22nd of February, at 12 o'clock, a woman of that name had +been buried. + +I asked him to show me the grave, for there is no finding one's way +without a guide in this city of the dead, which has its streets like a +city of the living. The keeper called over a gardener, to whom he gave +the necessary instructions; the gardener interrupted him, saying: +"I know, I know.--It is not difficult to find that grave," he added, +turning to me. + +"Why?" + +"Because it has very different flowers from the others." + +"Is it you who look after it?" + +"Yes, sir; and I wish all relations took as much trouble about the dead +as the young man who gave me my orders." + +After several turnings, the gardener stopped and said to me: "Here we +are." + +I saw before me a square of flowers which one would never have taken for +a grave, if it had not been for a white marble slab bearing a name. + +The marble slab stood upright, an iron railing marked the limits of the +ground purchased, and the earth was covered with white camellias. "What +do you say to that?" said the gardener. + +"It is beautiful." + +"And whenever a camellia fades, I have orders to replace it." + +"Who gave you the order?" + +"A young gentleman, who cried the first time he came here; an old pal +of hers, I suppose, for they say she was a gay one. Very pretty, too, I +believe. Did you know her, sir?" "Yes." + +"Like the other?" said the gardener, with a knowing smile. "No, I never +spoke to her." + +"And you come here, too! It is very good of you, for those that come to +see the poor girl don't exactly cumber the cemetery." + +"Doesn't anybody come?" + +"Nobody, except that young gentleman who came once." + +"Only once?" + +"Yes, sir." + +"He never came back again?" + +"No, but he will when he gets home." + +"He is away somewhere?" + +"Yes." + +"Do you know where he is?" + +"I believe he has gone to see Mlle. Gautier's sister." + +"What does he want there?" + +"He has gone to get her authority to have the corpse dug up again and +put somewhere else." + +"Why won't he let it remain here?" + +"You know, sir, people have queer notions about dead folk. We see +something of that every day. The ground here was only bought for five +years, and this young gentleman wants a perpetual lease and a bigger +plot of ground; it will be better in the new part." + +"What do you call the new part?" + +"The new plots of ground that are for sale, there to the left. If the +cemetery had always been kept like it is now, there wouldn't be the like +of it in the world; but there is still plenty to do before it will be +quite all it should be. And then people are so queer!" + +"What do you mean?" + +"I mean that there are people who carry their pride even here. Now, this +Demoiselle Gautier, it appears she lived a bit free, if you'll excuse my +saying so. Poor lady, she's dead now; there's no more of her left than +of them that no one has a word to say against. We water them every day. +Well, when the relatives of the folk that are buried beside her found +out the sort of person she was, what do you think they said? That they +would try to keep her out from here, and that there ought to be a piece +of ground somewhere apart for these sort of women, like there is for the +poor. Did you ever hear of such a thing? I gave it to them straight, I +did: well-to-do folk who come to see their dead four times a year, and +bring their flowers themselves, and what flowers! and look twice at the +keep of them they pretend to cry over, and write on their tombstones all +about the tears they haven't shed, and come and make difficulties about +their neighbours. You may believe me or not, sir, I never knew the young +lady; I don't know what she did. Well, I'm quite in love with the poor +thing; I look after her well, and I let her have her camellias at an +honest price. She is the dead body that I like the best. You see, sir, +we are obliged to love the dead, for we are kept so busy, we have hardly +time to love anything else." + +I looked at the man, and some of my readers will understand, without my +needing to explain it to them, the emotion which I felt on hearing him. +He observed it, no doubt, for he went on: + +"They tell me there were people who ruined themselves over that girl, +and lovers that worshipped her; well, when I think there isn't one of +them that so much as buys her a flower now, that's queer, sir, and +sad. And, after all, she isn't so badly off, for she has her grave to +herself, and if there is only one who remembers her, he makes up for the +others. But we have other poor girls here, just like her and just her +age, and they are just thrown into a pauper's grave, and it breaks my +heart when I hear their poor bodies drop into the earth. And not a soul +thinks about them any more, once they are dead! 'Tisn't a merry trade, +ours, especially when we have a little heart left. What do you expect? I +can't help it. I have a fine, strapping girl myself; she's just twenty, +and when a girl of that age comes here I think of her, and I don't care +if it's a great lady or a vagabond, I can't help feeling it a bit. But +I am taking up your time, sir, with my tales, and it wasn't to hear them +you came here. I was told to show you Mlle. Gautier's grave; here you +have it. Is there anything else I can do for you?" + +"Do you know M. Armand Duval's address?" I asked. + +"Yes; he lives at Rue de ----; at least, that's where I always go to get +my money for the flowers you see there." + +"Thanks, my good man." + +I gave one more look at the grave covered with flowers, half longing to +penetrate the depths of the earth and see what the earth had made of the +fair creature that had been cast to it; then I walked sadly away. + +"Do you want to see M. Duval, sir?" said the gardener, who was walking +beside me. + +"Yes." + +"Well, I am pretty sure he is not back yet, or he would have been here +already." + +"You don't think he has forgotten Marguerite?" + +"I am not only sure he hasn't, but I would wager that he wants to change +her grave simply in order to have one more look at her." + +"Why do you think that?" + +"The first word he said to me when he came to the cemetery was: 'How can +I see her again?' That can't be done unless there is a change of grave, +and I told him all about the formalities that have to be attended to in +getting it done; for, you see, if you want to move a body from one grave +to another you must have it identified, and only the family can give +leave for it under the direction of a police inspector. That is why M. +Duval has gone to see Mlle. Gautier's sister, and you may be sure his +first visit will be for me." + +We had come to the cemetery gate. I thanked the gardener again, putting +a few coins into his hand, and made my way to the address he had given +me. + +Armand had not yet returned. I left word for him, begging him to come +and see me as soon as he arrived, or to send me word where I could find +him. + +Next day, in the morning, I received a letter from Duval, telling me +of his return, and asking me to call on him, as he was so worn out with +fatigue that it was impossible for him to go out. + + + +Chapter 6 + +I found Armand in bed. On seeing me he held out a burning hand. "You +are feverish," I said to him. "It is nothing, the fatigue of a rapid +journey; that is all." "You have been to see Marguerite's sister?" "Yes; +who told you?" "I knew it. Did you get what you wanted?" + +"Yes; but who told you of my journey, and of my reason for taking it?" + +"The gardener of the cemetery." + +"You have seen the tomb?" + +I scarcely dared reply, for the tone in which the words were spoken +proved to me that the speaker was still possessed by the emotion which +I had witnessed before, and that every time his thoughts or speech +travelled back to that mournful subject emotion would still, for a long +time to come, prove stronger than his will. I contented myself with a +nod of the head. + +"He has looked after it well?" continued Armand. Two big tears rolled +down the cheeks of the sick man, and he turned away his head to hide +them from me. I pretended not to see them, and tried to change the +conversation. "You have been away three weeks," I said. + +Armand passed his hand across his eyes and replied, "Exactly three +weeks." + +"You had a long journey." + +"Oh, I was not travelling all the time. I was ill for a fortnight or I +should have returned long ago; but I had scarcely got there when I took +this fever, and I was obliged to keep my room." + +"And you started to come back before you were really well?" + +"If I had remained in the place for another week, I should have died +there." + +"Well, now you are back again, you must take care of yourself; your +friends will come and look after you; myself, first of all, if you will +allow me." + +"I shall get up in a couple of hours." + +"It would be very unwise." + +"I must." + +"What have you to do in such a great hurry?" + +"I must go to the inspector of police." + +"Why do you not get one of your friends to see after the matter? It is +likely to make you worse than you are now." + +"It is my only chance of getting better. I must see her. Ever since I +heard of her death, especially since I saw her grave, I have not been +able to sleep. I can not realize that this woman, so young and so +beautiful when I left her, is really dead. I must convince myself of it. +I must see what God has done with a being that I have loved so much, +and perhaps the horror of the sight will cure me of my despair. Will you +accompany me, if it won't be troubling you too much?" + +"What did her sister say about it?" + +"Nothing. She seemed greatly surprised that a stranger wanted to buy +a plot of ground and give Marguerite a new grave, and she immediately +signed the authorization that I asked her for." + +"Believe me, it would be better to wait until you are quite well." + +"Have no fear; I shall be quite composed. Besides, I should simply go +out of my mind if I were not to carry out a resolution which I have set +myself to carry out. I swear to you that I shall never be myself again +until I have seen Marguerite. It is perhaps the thirst of the fever, +a sleepless night's dream, a moment's delirium; but though I were to +become a Trappist, like M. de Rance', after having seen, I will see." + +"I understand," I said to Armand, "and I am at your service. Have you +seen Julie Duprat?" + +"Yes, I saw her the day I returned, for the first time." + +"Did she give you the papers that Marguerite had left for you?" + +Armand drew a roll of papers from under his pillow, and immediately put +them back. + +"I know all that is in these papers by heart," he said. "For three weeks +I have read them ten times over every day. You shall read them, too, but +later on, when I am calmer, and can make you understand all the love and +tenderness hidden away in this confession. For the moment I want you to +do me a service." + +"What is it?" + +"Your cab is below?" + +"Yes. + +"Well, will you take my passport and ask if there are any letters for me +at the poste restante? My father and sister must have written to me at +Paris, and I went away in such haste that I did not go and see before +leaving. When you come back we will go together to the inspector of +police, and arrange for to-morrow's ceremony." + +Armand handed me his passport, and I went to Rue Jean Jacques Rousseau. +There were two letters addressed to Duval. I took them and returned. +When I re-entered the room Armand was dressed and ready to go out. + +"Thanks," he said, taking the letters. "Yes," he added, after glancing +at the addresses, "they are from my father and sister. They must have +been quite at a loss to understand my silence." + +He opened the letters, guessed at rather than read them, for each was of +four pages; and a moment after folded them up. "Come," he said, "I will +answer tomorrow." + +We went to the police station, and Armand handed in the permission +signed by Marguerite's sister. He received in return a letter to the +keeper of the cemetery, and it was settled that the disinterment was to +take place next day, at ten o'clock, that I should call for him an hour +before, and that we should go to the cemetery together. + +I confess that I was curious to be present, and I did not sleep all +night. Judging from the thoughts which filled my brain, it must have +been a long night for Armand. When I entered his room at nine on the +following morning he was frightfully pale, but seemed calm. He smiled +and held out his hand. His candles were burned out; and before leaving +he took a very heavy letter addressed to his father, and no doubt +containing an account of that night's impressions. + +Half an hour later we were at Montmartre. The police inspector was there +already. We walked slowly in the direction of Marguerite's grave. The +inspector went in front; Armand and I followed a few steps behind. + +From time to time I felt my companion's arm tremble convulsively, as if +he shivered from head to feet. I looked at him. He understood the look, +and smiled at me; we had not exchanged a word since leaving the house. + +Just before we reached the grave, Armand stopped to wipe his face, which +was covered with great drops of sweat. I took advantage of the pause +to draw in a long breath, for I, too, felt as if I had a weight on my +chest. + +What is the origin of that mournful pleasure which we find in sights of +this kind? When we reached the grave the gardener had removed all the +flower-pots, the iron railing had been taken away, and two men were +turning up the soil. + +Armand leaned against a tree and watched. All his life seemed to pass +before his eyes. Suddenly one of the two pickaxes struck against a +stone. At the sound Armand recoiled, as at an electric shock, and seized +my hand with such force as to give me pain. + +One of the grave-diggers took a shovel and began emptying out the earth; +then, when only the stones covering the coffin were left, he threw them +out one by one. + +I scrutinized Armand, for every moment I was afraid lest the emotions +which he was visibly repressing should prove too much for him; but he +still watched, his eyes fixed and wide open, like the eyes of a madman, +and a slight trembling of the cheeks and lips were the only signs of the +violent nervous crisis under which he was suffering. + +As for me, all I can say is that I regretted having come. + +When the coffin was uncovered the inspector said to the grave-digger: +"Open it." They obeyed, as if it were the most natural thing in the +world. + +The coffin was of oak, and they began to unscrew the lid. The humidity +of the earth had rusted the screws, and it was not without some +difficulty that the coffin was opened. A painful odour arose in spite of +the aromatic plants with which it was covered. + +"O my God, my God!" murmured Armand, and turned paler than before. + +Even the grave-digger drew back. + +A great white shroud covered the corpse, closely outlining some of its +contours. This shroud was almost completely eaten away at one end, and +left one of the feet visible. + +I was nearly fainting, and at the moment of writing these lines I see +the whole scene over again in all its imposing reality. + +"Quick," said the inspector. Thereupon one of the men put out his hand, +began to unsew the shroud, and taking hold of it by one end suddenly +laid bare the face of Marguerite. + +It was terrible to see, it is horrible to relate. The eyes were nothing +but two holes, the lips had disappeared, vanished, and the white teeth +were tightly set. The black hair, long and dry, was pressed tightly +about the forehead, and half veiled the green hollows of the cheeks; and +yet I recognised in this face the joyous white and rose face that I had +seen so often. + +Armand, unable to turn away his eyes, had put the handkerchief to his +mouth and bit it. + +For my part, it was as if a circle of iron tightened about my head, a +veil covered my eyes, a rumbling filled my ears, and all I could do was +to unstop a smelling bottle which I happened to have with me, and to +draw in long breaths of it. + +Through this bewilderment I heard the inspector say to Duval, "Do you +identify?" + +"Yes," replied the young man in a dull voice. + +"Then fasten it up and take it away," said the inspector. + +The grave-diggers put back the shroud over the face of the corpse, +fastened up the coffin, took hold of each end of it, and began to carry +it toward the place where they had been told to take it. + +Armand did not move. His eyes were fixed upon the empty grave; he was as +white as the corpse which we had just seen. He looked as if he had been +turned to stone. + +I saw what was coming as soon as the pain caused by the spectacle should +have abated and thus ceased to sustain him. I went up to the inspector. +"Is this gentleman's presence still necessary?" I said, pointing to +Armand. + +"No," he replied, "and I should advise you to take him away. He looks +ill." + +"Come," I said to Armand, taking him by the arm. + +"What?" he said, looking at me as if he did not recognise me. + +"It is all over," I added. "You must come, my friend; you are quite +white; you are cold. These emotions will be too much for you." + +"You are right. Let us go," he answered mechanically, but without moving +a step. + +I took him by the arm and led him along. He let himself be guided like a +child, only from time to time murmuring, "Did you see her eyes?" and he +turned as if the vision had recalled her. + +Nevertheless, his steps became more irregular; he seemed to walk by a +series of jerks; his teeth chattered; his hands were cold; a violent +agitation ran through his body. I spoke to him; he did not answer. He +was just able to let himself be led along. A cab was waiting at the +gate. It was only just in time. Scarcely had he seated himself, when the +shivering became more violent, and he had an actual attack of nerves, in +the midst of which his fear of frightening me made him press my hand and +whisper: "It is nothing, nothing. I want to weep." + +His chest laboured, his eyes were injected with blood, but no tears +came. I made him smell the salts which I had with me, and when we +reached his house only the shivering remained. + +With the help of his servant I put him to bed, lit a big fire in +his room, and hurried off to my doctor, to whom I told all that had +happened. He hastened with me. + +Armand was flushed and delirious; he stammered out disconnected words, +in which only the name of Marguerite could be distinctly heard. + +"Well?" I said to the doctor when he had examined the patient. + +"Well, he has neither more nor less than brain fever, and very lucky it +is for him, for I firmly believe (God forgive me!) that he would have +gone out of his mind. Fortunately, the physical malady will kill the +mental one, and in a month's time he will be free from the one and +perhaps from the other." + + + +Chapter 7 + +Illnesses like Armand's have one fortunate thing about them: they either +kill outright or are very soon overcome. A fortnight after the events +which I have just related Armand was convalescent, and we had already +become great friends. During the whole course of his illness I had +hardly left his side. + +Spring was profuse in its flowers, its leaves, its birds, its songs; and +my friend's window opened gaily upon his garden, from which a reviving +breath of health seemed to come to him. The doctor had allowed him to +get up, and we often sat talking at the open window, at the hour when +the sun is at its height, from twelve to two. I was careful not to refer +to Marguerite, fearing lest the name should awaken sad recollections +hidden under the apparent calm of the invalid; but Armand, on the +contrary, seemed to delight in speaking of her, not as formerly, with +tears in his eyes, but with a sweet smile which reassured me as to the +state of his mind. + +I had noticed that ever since his last visit to the cemetery, and the +sight which had brought on so violent a crisis, sorrow seemed to have +been overcome by sickness, and Marguerite's death no longer appeared to +him under its former aspect. A kind of consolation had sprung from the +certainty of which he was now fully persuaded, and in order to banish +the sombre picture which often presented itself to him, he returned +upon the happy recollections of his liaison with Marguerite, and seemed +resolved to think of nothing else. + +The body was too much weakened by the attack of fever, and even by +the process of its cure, to permit him any violent emotions, and the +universal joy of spring which wrapped him round carried his thoughts +instinctively to images of joy. He had always obstinately refused to +tell his family of the danger which he had been in, and when he was well +again his father did not even know that he had been ill. + +One evening we had sat at the window later than usual; the weather had +been superb, and the sun sank to sleep in a twilight dazzling with gold +and azure. Though we were in Paris, the verdure which surrounded us +seemed to shut us off from the world, and our conversation was only now +and again disturbed by the sound of a passing vehicle. + +"It was about this time of the year, on the evening of a day like this, +that I first met Marguerite," said Armand to me, as if he were listening +to his own thoughts rather than to what I was saying. I did not answer. +Then turning toward me, he said: + +"I must tell you the whole story; you will make a book out of it; no one +will believe it, but it will perhaps be interesting to do." + +"You will tell me all about it later on, my friend," I said to him; "you +are not strong enough yet." + +"It is a warm evening, I have eaten my ration of chicken," he said to +me, smiling; "I have no fever, we have nothing to do, I will tell it to +you now." + +"Since you really wish it, I will listen." + +This is what he told me, and I have scarcely changed a word of the +touching story. + +Yes (Armand went on, letting his head sink back on the chair), yes, it +was just such an evening as this. I had spent the day in the country +with one of my friends, Gaston R--. We returned to Paris in the evening, +and not knowing what to do we went to the Varietes. We went out during +one of the entr'actes, and a tall woman passed us in the corridor, to +whom my friend bowed. + +"Whom are you bowing to?" I asked. + +"Marguerite Gautier," he said. + +"She seems much changed, for I did not recognise her," I said, with an +emotion that you will soon understand. + +"She has been ill; the poor girl won't last long." + +I remember the words as if they had been spoken to me yesterday. + +I must tell you, my friend, that for two years the sight of this girl +had made a strange impression on me whenever I came across her. Without +knowing why, I turned pale and my heart beat violently. I have a friend +who studies the occult sciences, and he would call what I experienced +"the affinity of fluids"; as for me, I only know that I was fated to +fall in love with Marguerite, and that I foresaw it. + +It is certainly the fact that she made a very definite impression upon +me, that many of my friends had noticed it and that they had been much +amused when they saw who it was that made this impression upon me. + +The first time I ever saw her was in the Place de la Bourse, outside +Susse's; an open carriage was stationed there, and a woman dressed +in white got down from it. A murmur of admiration greeted her as she +entered the shop. As for me, I was rivetted to the spot from the moment +she went in till the moment when she came out again. I could see her +through the shop windows selecting what she had come to buy. I might +have gone in, but I dared not. I did not know who she was, and I +was afraid lest she should guess why I had come in and be offended. +Nevertheless, I did not think I should ever see her again. + +She was elegantly dressed; she wore a muslin dress with many flounces, +an Indian shawl embroidered at the corners with gold and silk flowers, +a straw hat, a single bracelet, and a heavy gold chain, such as was just +then beginning to be the fashion. + +She returned to her carriage and drove away. One of the shopmen stood at +the door looking after his elegant customer's carriage. I went up to him +and asked him what was the lady's name. + +"Mademoiselle Marguerite Gautier," he replied. I dared not ask him for +her address, and went on my way. + +The recollection of this vision, for it was really a vision, would not +leave my mind like so many visions I had seen, and I looked everywhere +for this royally beautiful woman in white. + +A few days later there was a great performance at the Opera Comique. The +first person I saw in one of the boxes was Marguerite Gautier. + +The young man whom I was with recognised her immediately, for he said to +me, mentioning her name: "Look at that pretty girl." + +At that moment Marguerite turned her opera-glass in our direction and, +seeing my friend, smiled and beckoned to him to come to her. + +"I will go and say 'How do you do?' to her," he said, "and will be back +in a moment." + +"I could not help saying 'Happy man!'" + +"Why?" + +"To go and see that woman." + +"Are you in love with her?" + +"No," I said, flushing, for I really did not know what to say; "but I +should very much like to know her." + +"Come with me. I will introduce you." + +"Ask her if you may." + +"Really, there is no need to be particular with her; come." + +What he said troubled me. I feared to discover that Marguerite was not +worthy of the sentiment which I felt for her. + +In a book of Alphonse Karr entitles Am Rauchen, there is a man who one +evening follows a very elegant woman, with whom he had fallen in love +with at first sight on account of her beauty. Only to kiss her hand he +felt that he had the strength to undertake anything, the will to conquer +anything, the courage to achieve anything. He scarcely dares glance at +the trim ankle which she shows as she holds her dress out of the mud. +While he is dreaming of all that he would do to possess this woman, she +stops at the corner of the street and asks if he will come home with +her. He turns his head, crosses the street, and goes sadly back to his +own house. + +I recalled the story, and, having longed to suffer for this woman, I was +afraid that she would accept me too promptly and give me at once what +I fain would have purchased by long waiting or some great sacrifice. We +men are built like that, and it is very fortunate that the imagination +lends so much poetry to the senses, and that the desires of the body +make thus such concession to the dreams of the soul. If anyone had +said to me, You shall have this woman to-night and be killed tomorrow, I +would have accepted. If anyone had said to me, you can be her lover for +ten pounds, I would have refused. I would have cried like a child who +sees the castle he has been dreaming about vanish away as he awakens +from sleep. + +All the same, I wished to know her; it was my only means of making up my +mind about her. I therefore said to my friend that I insisted on having +her permission to be introduced to her, and I wandered to and fro in the +corridors, saying to myself that in a moment's time she was going to +see me, and that I should not know which way to look. I tried (sublime +childishness of love!) to string together the words I should say to her. + +A moment after my friend returned. "She is expecting us," he said. + +"Is she alone?" I asked. + +"With another woman." + +"There are no men?" + +"No." + +"Come, then." + +My friend went toward the door of the theatre. + +"That is not the way," I said. + +"We must go and get some sweets. She asked me for some." + +We went into a confectioner's in the passage de l'Opera. I would have +bought the whole shop, and I was looking about to see what sweets to +choose, when my friend asked for a pound of raisins glaces. + +"Do you know if she likes them?" + +"She eats no other kind of sweets; everybody knows it. + +"Ah," he went on when we had left the shop, "do you know what kind of +woman it is that I am going to introduce you to? Don't imagine it is +a duchess. It is simply a kept woman, very much kept, my dear fellow; +don't be shy, say anything that comes into your head." + +"Yes, yes," I stammered, and I followed him, saying to myself that I +should soon cure myself of my passion. + +When I entered the box Marguerite was in fits of laughter. I would +rather that she had been sad. My friend introduced me; Marguerite gave +me a little nod, and said, "And my sweets?" + +"Here they are." + +She looked at me as she took them. I dropped my eyes and blushed. + +She leaned across to her neighbour and said something in her ear, at +which both laughed. Evidently I was the cause of their mirth, and +my embarrassment increased. At that time I had as mistress a very +affectionate and sentimental little person, whose sentiment and whose +melancholy letters amused me greatly. I realized the pain I must have +given her by what I now experienced, and for five minutes I loved her as +no woman was ever loved. + +Marguerite ate her raisins glaces without taking any more notice of me. +The friend who had introduced me did not wish to let me remain in so +ridiculous a position. + +"Marguerite," he said, "you must not be surprised if M. Duval says +nothing: you overwhelm him to such a degree that he can not find a word +to say." + +"I should say, on the contrary, that he has only come with you because +it would have bored you to come here by yourself." + +"If that were true," I said, "I should not have begged Ernest to ask +your permission to introduce me." + +"Perhaps that was only in order to put off the fatal moment." + +However little one may have known women like Marguerite, one can not but +know the delight they take in pretending to be witty and in teasing the +people whom they meet for the first time. It is no doubt a return for +the humiliations which they often have to submit to on the part of those +whom they see every day. + +To answer them properly, one requires a certain knack, and I had not had +the opportunity of acquiring it; besides, the idea that I had formed +of Marguerite accentuated the effects of her mockery. Nothing that dame +from her was indifferent to me. I rose to my feet, saying in an altered +voice, which I could not entirely control: + +"If that is what you think of me, madame, I have only to ask your pardon +for my indiscretion, and to take leave of you with the assurance that it +shall not occur again." + +Thereupon I bowed and quitted the box. I had scarcely closed the door +when I heard a third peal of laughter. It would not have been well for +anybody who had elbowed me at that moment. + +I returned to my seat. The signal for raising the curtain was given. +Ernest came back to his place beside me. + +"What a way you behaved!" he said, as he sat down. "They will think you +are mad." + +"What did Marguerite say after I had gone?" + +"She laughed, and said she had never seen anyone so funny. But don't +look upon it as a lost chance; only do not do these women the honour +of taking them seriously. They do not know what politeness and ceremony +are. It is as if you were to offer perfumes to dogs--they would think it +smelled bad, and go and roll in the gutter." + +"After all, what does it matter to me?" I said, affecting to speak in a +nonchalant way. "I shall never see this woman again, and if I liked her +before meeting her, it is quite different now that I know her." + +"Bah! I don't despair of seeing you one day at the back of her box, +and of bearing that you are ruining yourself for her. However, you are +right, she hasn't been well brought up; but she would be a charming +mistress to have." + +Happily, the curtain rose and my friend was silent. I could not possibly +tell you what they were acting. All that I remember is that from time to +time I raised my eyes to the box I had quitted so abruptly, and that the +faces of fresh visitors succeeded one another all the time. + +I was far from having given up thinking about Marguerite. Another +feeling had taken possession of me. It seemed to me that I had her +insult and my absurdity to wipe out; I said to myself that if I spent +every penny I had, I would win her and win my right to the place I had +abandoned so quickly. + +Before the performance was over Marguerite and her friend left the box. +I rose from my seat. + +"Are you going?" said Ernest. + +"Yes." + +"Why?" + +At that moment he saw that the box was empty. + +"Go, go," he said, "and good luck, or rather better luck." + +I went out. + +I heard the rustle of dresses, the sound of voices, on the staircase. +I stood aside, and, without being seen, saw the two women pass me, +accompanied by two young men. At the entrance to the theatre they were +met by a footman. + +"Tell the coachman to wait at the door of the Cafe' Anglais," said +Marguerite. "We will walk there." + +A few minutes afterward I saw Marguerite from the street at a window of +one of the large rooms of the restaurant, pulling the camellias of her +bouquet to pieces, one by one. One of the two men was leaning over +her shoulder and whispering in her ear. I took up my position at the +Maison-d'or, in one of the first-floor rooms, and did not lose sight of +the window for an instant. At one in the morning Marguerite got into +her carriage with her three friends. I took a cab and followed them. The +carriage stopped at No. 9, Rue d'Antin. Marguerite got out and went +in alone. It was no doubt a mere chance, but the chance filled me with +delight. + +From that time forward, I often met Marguerite at the theatre or in +the Champs-Elysees. Always there was the same gaiety in her, the same +emotion in me. + +At last a fortnight passed without my meeting her. I met Gaston and +asked after her. + +"Poor girl, she is very ill," he answered. + +"What is the matter?" + +"She is consumptive, and the sort of life she leads isn't exactly the +thing to cure her. She has taken to her bed; she is dying." + +The heart is a strange thing; I was almost glad at hearing it. + +Every day I went to ask after her, without leaving my name or my card. I +heard she was convalescent and had gone to Bagneres. + +Time went by, the impression, if not the memory, faded gradually from my +mind. I travelled; love affairs, habits, work, took the place of other +thoughts, and when I recalled this adventure I looked upon it as one of +those passions which one has when one is very young, and laughs at soon +afterward. + +For the rest, it was no credit to me to have got the better of this +recollection, for I had completely lost sight of Marguerite, and, as I +told you, when she passed me in the corridor of the Varietes, I did not +recognise her. She was veiled, it is true; but, veiled though she might +have been two years earlier, I should not have needed to see her in +order to recognise her: I should have known her intuitively. All the +same, my heart began to beat when I knew that it was she; and the two +years that had passed since I saw her, and what had seemed to be the +results of that separation, vanished in smoke at the mere touch of her +dress. + + + +Chapter 8 + +However (continued Armand after a pause), while I knew myself to be +still in love with her, I felt more sure of myself, and part of my +desire to speak to Marguerite again was a wish to make her see that I +was stronger than she. + +How many ways does the heart take, how many reasons does it invent for +itself, in order to arrive at what it wants! + +I could not remain in the corridor, and I returned to my place in the +stalls, looking hastily around to see what box she was in. She was in a +ground-floor box, quite alone. She had changed, as I have told you, and +no longer wore an indifferent smile on her lips. She had suffered; she +was still suffering. Though it was April, she was still wearing a winter +costume, all wrapped up in furs. + +I gazed at her so fixedly that my eyes attracted hers. She looked at me +for a few seconds, put up her opera-glass to see me better, and seemed +to think she recognised me, without being quite sure who I was, for when +she put down her glasses, a smile, that charming, feminine salutation, +flitted across her lips, as if to answer the bow which she seemed to +expect; but I did not respond, so as to have an advantage over her, as +if I had forgotten, while she remembered. Supposing herself mistaken, +she looked away. + +The curtain went up. I have often seen Marguerite at the theatre. I +never saw her pay the slightest attention to what was being acted. As +for me, the performance interested me equally little, and I paid no +attention to anything but her, though doing my utmost to keep her from +noticing it. + +Presently I saw her glancing across at the person who was in the +opposite box; on looking, I saw a woman with whom I was quite familiar. +She had once been a kept woman, and had tried to go on the stage, had +failed, and, relying on her acquaintance with fashionable people in +Paris, had gone into business and taken a milliner's shop. I saw in her +a means of meeting with Marguerite, and profited by a moment in which +she looked my way to wave my hand to her. As I expected, she beckoned to +me to come to her box. + +Prudence Duvernoy (that was the milliner's auspicious name) was one of +those fat women of forty with whom one requires very little diplomacy +to make them understand what one wants to know, especially when what one +wants to know is as simple as what I had to ask of her. + +I took advantage of a moment when she was smiling across at Marguerite +to ask her, "Whom are you looking at?" + +"Marguerite Gautier." + +"You know her?" + +"Yes, I am her milliner, and she is a neighbour of mine." + +"Do you live in the Rue d'Antin?" + +"No. 7. The window of her dressing-room looks on to the window of mine." + +"They say she is a charming girl." + +"Don't you know her?" + +"No, but I should like to." + +"Shall I ask her to come over to our box?" + +"No, I would rather for you to introduce me to her." + +"At her own house?" + +"Yes. + +"That is more difficult." + +"Why?" + +"Because she is under the protection of a jealous old duke." + +"'Protection' is charming." + +"Yes, protection," replied Prudence. "Poor old man, he would be greatly +embarrassed to offer her anything else." + +Prudence then told me how Marguerite had made the acquaintance of the +duke at Bagneres. + +"That, then," I continued, "is why she is alone here?" + +"Precisely." + +"But who will see her home?" + +"He will." + +"He will come for her?" + +"In a moment." + +"And you, who is seeing you home?" + +"No one." + +"May I offer myself?" + +"But you are with a friend, are you not?" + +"May we offer, then?" + +"Who is your friend?" + +"A charming fellow, very amusing. He will be delighted to make your +acquaintance." + +"Well, all right; we will go after this piece is over, for I know the +last piece." + +"With pleasure; I will go and tell my friend." + +"Go, then. Ah," added Prudence, as I was going, "there is the duke just +coming into Marguerite's box." + +I looked at him. A man of about seventy had sat down behind her, and was +giving her a bag of sweets, into which she dipped at once, smiling. Then +she held it out toward Prudence, with a gesture which seemed to say, +"Will you have some?" + +"No," signalled Prudence. + +Marguerite drew back the bag, and, turning, began to talk with the duke. + +It may sound childish to tell you all these details, but everything +relating to Marguerite is so fresh in my memory that I can not help +recalling them now. + +I went back to Gaston and told him of the arrangement I had made for +him and for me. He agreed, and we left our stalls to go round to Mme. +Duvernoy's box. We had scarcely opened the door leading into the stalls +when we had to stand aside to allow Marguerite and the duke to pass. +I would have given ten years of my life to have been in the old man's +place. + +When they were on the street he handed her into a phaeton, which he +drove himself, and they were whirled away by two superb horses. + +We returned to Prudence's box, and when the play was over we took a cab +and drove to 7, Rue d'Antin. At the door, Prudence asked us to come up +and see her showrooms, which we had never seen, and of which she seemed +very proud. You can imagine how eagerly I accepted. It seemed to me +as if I was coming nearer and nearer to Marguerite. I soon turned the +conversation in her direction. + +"The old duke is at your neighbours," I said to Prudence. + +"Oh, no; she is probably alone." + +"But she must be dreadfully bored," said Gaston. + +"We spend most of our evening together, or she calls to me when she +comes in. She never goes to bed before two in the morning. She can't +sleep before that." + +"Why?" + +"Because she suffers in the chest, and is almost always feverish." + +"Hasn't she any lovers?" I asked. + +"I never see anyone remain after I leave; I don't say no one ever comes +when I am gone. Often in the evening I meet there a certain Comte de N., +who thinks he is making some headway by calling on her at eleven in the +evening, and by sending her jewels to any extent; but she can't stand +him. She makes a mistake; he is very rich. It is in vain that I say to +her from time to time, 'My dear child, there's the man for you.' She, +who generally listens to me, turns her back and replies that he is too +stupid. Stupid, indeed, he is; but it would be a position for her, while +this old duke might die any day. Old men are egoists; his family are +always reproaching him for his affection for Marguerite; there are two +reasons why he is likely to leave her nothing. I give her good advice, +and she only says it will be plenty of time to take on the count when +the duke is dead. It isn't all fun," continued Prudence, "to live like +that. I know very well it wouldn't suit me, and I should soon send the +old man about his business. He is so dull; he calls her his daughter; +looks after her like a child; and is always in the way. I am sure at +this very moment one of his servants is prowling about in the street to +see who comes out, and especially who goes in." + +"Ah, poor Marguerite!" said Gaston, sitting down to the piano and +playing a waltz. "I hadn't a notion of it, but I did notice she hasn't +been looking so gay lately." + +"Hush," said Prudence, listening. Gaston stopped. + +"She is calling me, I think." + +We listened. A voice was calling, "Prudence!" + +"Come, now, you must go," said Mme. Duvernoy. + +"Ah, that is your idea of hospitality," said Gaston, laughing; "we won't +go till we please." + +"Why should we go?" + +"I am going over to Marguerite's." + +"We will wait here." + +"You can't." + +"Then we will go with you." + +"That still less." + +"I know Marguerite," said Gaston; "I can very well pay her a call." + +"But Armand doesn't know her." + +"I will introduce him." + +"Impossible." + +We again heard Marguerite's voice calling to Prudence, who rushed to her +dressing-room window. I followed with Gaston as she opened the window. +We hid ourselves so as not to be seen from outside. + +"I have been calling you for ten minutes," said Marguerite from her +window, in almost an imperious tone of voice. + +"What do you want?" + +"I want you to come over at once." + +"Why?" + +"Because the Comte de N. is still here, and he is boring me to death." + +"I can't now." + +"What is hindering you?" + +"There are two young fellows here who won't go." + +"Tell them that you must go out." + +"I have told them." + +"Well, then, leave them in the house. They will soon go when they see +you have gone." + +"They will turn everything upside down." + +"But what do they want?" + +"They want to see you." + +"What are they called?" + +"You know one, M. Gaston R." + +"Ah, yes, I know him. And the other?" + +"M. Armand Duval; and you don't know him." + +"No, but bring them along. Anything is better than the count. I expect +you. Come at once." + +Marguerite closed her window and Prudence hers. Marguerite, who had +remembered my face for a moment, did not remember my name. I would +rather have been remembered to my disadvantage than thus forgotten. + +"I knew," said Gaston, "that she would be delighted to see us." + +"Delighted isn't the word," replied Prudence, as she put on her hat and +shawl. "She will see you in order to get rid of the count. Try to be +more agreeable than he is, or (I know Marguerite) she will put it all +down to me." + +We followed Prudence downstairs. I trembled; it seemed to me that +this visit was to have a great influence on my life. I was still more +agitated than on the evening when I was introduced in the box at the +Opera Comique. As we reached the door that you know, my heart beat so +violently that I was hardly able to think. + +We heard the sound of a piano. Prudence rang. The piano was silent. A +woman who looked more like a companion than a servant opened the door. +We went into the drawing-room, and from that to the boudoir, which was +then just as you have seen it since. A young man was leaning against the +mantel-piece. Marguerite, seated at the piano, let her fingers wander +over the notes, beginning scraps of music without finishing them. The +whole scene breathed boredom, the man embarrassed by the consciousness +of his nullity, the woman tired of her dismal visitor. At the voice of +Prudence, Marguerite rose, and coming toward us with a look of gratitude +to Mme. Duvernoy, said: + +"Come in, and welcome." + + + +Chapter 9 + +"Good-evening, my dear Gaston," said Marguerite to my companion. "I am +very glad to see you. Why didn't you come to see me in my box at the +Varietes?" + +"I was afraid it would be indiscreet." + +"Friends," and Marguerite lingered over the word, as if to intimate to +those who were present that in spite of the familiar way in which she +greeted him, Gaston was not and never had been anything more than a +friend, "friends are always welcome." + +"Then, will you permit me to introduce M. Armand Duval?" + +"I had already authorized Prudence to do so." + +"As far as that goes, madame," I said, bowing, and succeeding in getting +more or less intelligible sounds out of my throat, "I have already had +the honour of being introduced to you." + +Marguerite's beautiful eyes seemed to be looking back in memory, but she +could not, or seemed not to, remember. + +"Madame," I continued, "I am grateful to you for having forgotten the +occasion of my first introduction, for I was very absurd and must have +seemed to you very tiresome. It was at the Opera Comique, two years ago; +I was with Ernest de ----." + +"Ah, I remember," said Marguerite, with a smile. "It was not you who +were absurd; it was I who was mischievous, as I still am, but somewhat +less. You have forgiven me?" + +And she held out her hand, which I kissed. + +"It is true," she went on; "you know I have the bad habit of trying +to embarrass people the first time I meet them. It is very stupid. +My doctor says it is because I am nervous and always ill; believe my +doctor." + +"But you seem quite well." + +"Oh! I have been very ill." + +"I know." + +"Who told you?" + +"Every one knew it; I often came to inquire after you, and I was happy +to hear of your convalescence." + +"They never gave me your card." + +"I did not leave it." + +"Was it you, then, who called every day while I was ill, and would never +leave your name?" + +"Yes, it was I." + +"Then you are more than indulgent, you are generous. You, count, +wouldn't have done that," said she, turning toward M. de N., after +giving me one of those looks in which women sum up their opinion of a +man. + +"I have only known you for two months," replied the count. + +"And this gentleman only for five minutes. You always say something +ridiculous." + +Women are pitiless toward those whom they do not care for. The count +reddened and bit his lips. + +I was sorry for him, for he seemed, like myself, to be in love, and +the bitter frankness of Marguerite must have made him very unhappy, +especially in the presence of two strangers. + +"You were playing the piano when we came in," I said, in order to +change the conversation. "Won't you be so good as to treat me as an old +acquaintance and go on?" + +"Oh," said she, flinging herself on the sofa and motioning to us to sit +down, "Gaston knows what my music is like. It is all very well when I am +alone with the count, but I won't inflict such a punishment on you." + +"You show me that preference?" said M. de N., with a smile which he +tried to render delicately ironical. + +"Don't reproach me for it. It is the only one." It was fated that the +poor man was not to say a single word. He cast a really supplicating +glance at Marguerite. + +"Well, Prudence," she went on, "have you done what I asked you to do?" + +"Yes. + +"All right. You will tell me about it later. We must talk over it; don't +go before I can speak with you." + +"We are doubtless intruders," I said, "and now that we, or rather I, +have had a second introduction, to blot out the first, it is time for +Gaston and me to be going." + +"Not in the least. I didn't mean that for you. I want you to stay." + +The count took a very elegant watch out of his pocket and looked at the +time. "I must be going to my club," he said. Marguerite did not answer. +The count thereupon left his position by the fireplace and going up to +her, said: "Adieu, madame." + +Marguerite rose. "Adieu, my dear count. Are you going already?" + +"Yes, I fear I am boring you." + +"You are not boring me to-day more than any other day. When shall I be +seeing you?" + +"When you permit me." + +"Good-bye, then." + +It was cruel, you will admit. Fortunately, the count had excellent +manners and was very good-tempered. He merely kissed Marguerite's hand, +which she held out to him carelessly enough, and, bowing to us, went +out. + +As he crossed the threshold, he cast a glance at Prudence. She shrugged +her shoulders, as much as to say: + +"What do you expect? I have done all I could." + +"Nanine!" cried Marguerite. "Light M. le Comte to the door." + +We heard the door open and shut. + +"At last," cried Marguerite, coming back, "he has gone! That man gets +frightfully on my nerves!" + +"My dear child," said Prudence, "you really treat him too badly, and he +is so good and kind to you. Look at this watch on the mantel-piece, that +he gave you: it must have cost him at least three thousand francs, I am +sure." + +And Mme. Duvernoy began to turn it over, as it lay on the mantel-piece, +looking at it with covetous eyes. + +"My dear," said Marguerite, sitting down to the piano, "when I put on +one side what he gives me and on the other what he says to me, it seems +to me that he buys his visits very cheap." + +"The poor fellow is in love with you." + +"If I had to listen to everybody who was in love with me, I shouldn't +have time for my dinner." + +And she began to run her fingers over the piano, and then, turning to +us, she said: + +"What will you take? I think I should like a little punch." + +"And I could eat a little chicken," said Prudence. "Suppose we have +supper?" + +"That's it, let's go and have supper," said Gaston. + +"No, we will have supper here." + +She rang, and Nanine appeared. + +"Send for some supper." + +"What must I get?" + +"Whatever you like, but at once, at once." + +Nanine went out. + +"That's it," said Marguerite, jumping like a child, "we'll have supper. +How tiresome that idiot of a count is!" + +The more I saw her, the more she enchanted me. She was exquisitely +beautiful. Her slenderness was a charm. I was lost in contemplation. + +What was passing in my mind I should have some difficulty in explaining. +I was full of indulgence for her life, full of admiration for her +beauty. The proof of disinterestedness that she gave in not accepting a +rich and fashionable young man, ready to waste all his money upon her, +excused her in my eyes for all her faults in the past. + +There was a kind of candour in this woman. You could see she was still +in the virginity of vice. Her firm walk, her supple figure, her rosy, +open nostrils, her large eyes, slightly tinged with blue, indicated +one of those ardent natures which shed around them a sort of voluptuous +perfume, like Eastern vials, which, close them as tightly as you will, +still let some of their perfume escape. Finally, whether it was simple +nature or a breath of fever, there passed from time to time in the eyes +of this woman a glimmer of desire, giving promise of a very heaven for +one whom she should love. But those who had loved Marguerite were not to +be counted, nor those whom she had loved. + +In this girl there was at once the virgin whom a mere nothing had turned +into a courtesan, and the courtesan whom a mere nothing would have +turned into the most loving and the purest of virgins. Marguerite had +still pride and independence, two sentiments which, if they are wounded, +can be the equivalent of a sense of shame. I did not speak a word; my +soul seemed to have passed into my heart and my heart into my eyes. + +"So," said she all at once, "it was you who came to inquire after me +when I was ill?" + +"Yes." + +"Do you know, it was quite splendid of you! How can I thank you for it?" + +"By allowing me to come and see you from time to time." + +"As often as you like, from five to six, and from eleven to twelve. Now, +Gaston, play the Invitation A la Valse." + +"Why?" + +"To please me, first of all, and then because I never can manage to play +it myself." + +"What part do you find difficult?" + +"The third part, the part in sharps." + +Gaston rose and went to the piano, and began to play the wonderful +melody of Weber, the music of which stood open before him. + +Marguerite, resting one hand on the piano, followed every note on the +music, accompanying it in a low voice, and when Gaston had come to +the passage which she had mentioned to him, she sang out, running her +fingers along the top of the piano: + +"Do, re, mi, do, re, fa, mi, re; that is what I can not do. Over again." + +Gaston began over again, after which Marguerite said: + +"Now, let me try." + +She took her place and began to play; but her rebellious fingers always +came to grief over one of the notes. + +"Isn't it incredible," she said, exactly like a child, "that I can not +succeed in playing that passage? Would you believe that I sometimes +spend two hours of the morning over it? And when I think that that idiot +of a count plays it without his music, and beautifully, I really believe +it is that that makes me so furious with him." And she began again, +always with the same result. + +"The devil take Weber, music, and pianos!" she cried, throwing the music +to the other end of the room. "How can I play eight sharps one after +another?" She folded her arms and looked at us, stamping her foot. The +blood flew to her cheeks, and her lips half opened in a slight cough. + +"Come, come," said Prudence, who had taken off her hat and was smoothing +her hair before the glass, "you will work yourself into a rage and do +yourself harm. Better come and have supper; for my part, I am dying of +hunger." + +Marguerite rang the bell, sat down to the piano again, and began to hum +over a very risky song, which she accompanied without difficulty. Gaston +knew the song, and they gave a sort of duet. + +"Don't sing those beastly things," I said to Marguerite, imploringly. + +"Oh, how proper you are!" she said, smiling and giving me her hand. "It +is not for myself, but for you." + +Marguerite made a gesture as if to say, "Oh, it is long since that I +have done with propriety!" At that moment Nanine appeared. + +"Is supper ready?" asked Marguerite. "Yes, madame, in one moment." + +"Apropos," said Prudence to me, "you have not looked round; come, and I +will show you." As you know, the drawing-room was a marvel. + +Marguerite went with us for a moment; then she called Gaston and went +into the dining-room with him to see if supper was ready. + +"Ah," said Prudence, catching sight of a little Saxe figure on a +side-table, "I never knew you had this little gentleman." + +"Which?" + +"A little shepherd holding a bird-cage." + +"Take it, if you like it." + + +"I won't deprive you of it." + +"I was going to give it to my maid. I think it hideous; but if you like +it, take it." + +Prudence only saw the present, not the way in which it was given. She +put the little figure on one side, and took me into the dressing-room, +where she showed me two miniatures hanging side by side, and said: + +"That is the Comte de G., who was very much in love with Marguerite; it +was he who brought her out. Do you know him?" + +"No. And this one?" I inquired, pointing to the other miniature. + +"That is the little Vicomte de L. He was obliged to disappear." + +"Why?" + +"Because he was all but ruined. That's one, if you like, who loved +Marguerite." + +"And she loved him, too, no doubt?" + +"She is such a queer girl, one never knows. The night he went away +she went to the theatre as usual, and yet she had cried when he said +good-bye to her." + +Just then Nanine appeared, to tell us that supper was served. + +When we entered the dining-room, Marguerite was leaning against the +wall, and Gaston, holding her hands, was speaking to her in a low voice. + +"You are mad," replied Marguerite. "You know quite well that I don't +want you. It is no good at the end of two years to make love to a woman +like me. With us, it is at once, or never. Come, gentlemen, supper!" + +And, slipping away from Gaston, Marguerite made him sit on her right at +table, me on her left, then called to Nanine: + +"Before you sit down, tell them in the kitchen not to open to anybody if +there is a ring." + +This order was given at one o'clock in the morning. + +We laughed, drank, and ate freely at this supper. In a short while mirth +had reached its last limit, and the words that seem funny to a certain +class of people, words that degrade the mouth that utters them, were +heard from time to time, amidst the applause of Nanine, of Prudence, and +of Marguerite. Gaston was thoroughly amused; he was a very good sort of +fellow, but somewhat spoiled by the habits of his youth. For a moment +I tried to forget myself, to force my heart and my thoughts to become +indifferent to the sight before me, and to take my share of that gaiety +which seemed like one of the courses of the meal. But little by little +I withdrew from the noise; my glass remained full, and I felt almost +sad as I saw this beautiful creature of twenty drinking, talking like a +porter, and laughing the more loudly the more scandalous was the joke. + +Nevertheless, this hilarity, this way of talking and drinking, which +seemed to me in the others the mere results of bad company or of bad +habits, seemed in Marguerite a necessity of forgetting, a fever, a +nervous irritability. At every glass of champagne her cheeks would flush +with a feverish colour, and a cough, hardly perceptible at the beginning +of supper, became at last so violent that she was obliged to lean her +head on the back of her chair and hold her chest in her hands every time +that she coughed. I suffered at the thought of the injury to so frail a +constitution which must come from daily excesses like this. At length, +something which I had feared and foreseen happened. Toward the end of +supper Marguerite was seized by a more violent fit of coughing than any +she had had while I was there. It seemed as if her chest were being torn +in two. The poor girl turned crimson, closed her eyes under the pain, +and put her napkin to her lips. It was stained with a drop of blood. She +rose and ran into her dressing-room. + +"What is the matter with Marguerite?" asked Gaston. + +"She has been laughing too much, and she is spitting blood. Oh, it is +nothing; it happens to her every day. She will be back in a minute. +Leave her alone. She prefers it." + +I could not stay still; and, to the consternation of Prudence and +Nanine, who called to me to come back, I followed Marguerite. + + + +Chapter 10 + +The room to which she had fled was lit only by a single candle. She lay +back on a great sofa, her dress undone, holding one hand on her heart, +and letting the other hang by her side. On the table was a basin half +full of water, and the water was stained with streaks of blood. + +Very pale, her mouth half open, Marguerite tried to recover breath. Now +and again her bosom was raised by a long sigh, which seemed to +relieve her a little, and for a few seconds she would seem to be quite +comfortable. + +I went up to her; she made no movement, and I sat down and took the hand +which was lying on the sofa. + +"Ah! it is you," she said, with a smile. + +I must have looked greatly agitated, for she added: + +"Are you unwell, too?" + +"No, but you: do you still suffer?" + +"Very little;" and she wiped off with her handkerchief the tears which +the coughing had brought to her eyes; "I am used to it now." + +"You are killing yourself, madame," I said to her in a moved voice. "I +wish I were a friend, a relation of yours, that I might keep you from +doing yourself harm like this." + +"Ah! it is really not worth your while to alarm yourself," she replied +in a somewhat bitter tone; "see how much notice the others take of me! +They know too well that there is nothing to be done." + +Thereupon she got up, and, taking the candle, put it on the mantel-piece +and looked at herself in the glass. + +"How pale I am!" she said, as she fastened her dress and passed her +fingers over her loosened hair. "Come, let us go back to supper. Are you +coming?" + +I sat still and did not move. + +She saw how deeply I had been affected by the whole scene, and, coming +up to me, held out her hand, saying: + +"Come now, let us go." + +I took her hand, raised it to my lips, and in spite of myself two tears +fell upon it. + +"Why, what a child you are!" she said, sitting down by my side again. +"You are crying! What is the matter?" + +"I must seem very silly to you, but I am frightfully troubled by what I +have just seen." + +"You are very good! What would you have of me? I can not sleep. I must +amuse myself a little. And then, girls like me, what does it matter, one +more or less? The doctors tell me that the blood I spit up comes from my +throat; I pretend to believe them; it is all I can do for them." + +"Listen, Marguerite," I said, unable to contain myself any longer; "I do +not know what influence you are going to have over my life, but at this +present moment there is no one, not even my sister, in whom I feel the +interest which I feel in you. It has been just the same ever since I saw +you. Well, for Heaven's sake, take care of yourself, and do not live as +you are living now." + +"If I took care of myself I should die. All that supports me is the +feverish life I lead. Then, as for taking care of oneself, that is +all very well for women with families and friends; as for us, from the +moment we can no longer serve the vanity or the pleasure of our lovers, +they leave us, and long nights follow long days. I know it. I was in bed +for two months, and after three weeks no one came to see me." + +"It is true I am nothing to you," I went on, "but if you will let me, I +will look after you like a brother, I will never leave your side, and I +will cure you. Then, when you are strong again, you can go back to the +life you are leading, if you choose; but I am sure you will come to +prefer a quiet life, which will make you happier and keep your beauty +unspoiled." + +"You think like that to-night because the wine has made you sad, but you +would never have the patience that you pretend to." + +"Permit me to say, Marguerite, that you were ill for two months, and +that for two months I came to ask after you every day." + +"It is true, but why did you not come up?" + +"Because I did not know you then." + +"Need you have been so particular with a girl like me?" + +"One must always be particular with a woman; it is what I feel, at +least." + +"So you would look after me?" + +"Yes." + +"You would stay by me all day?" + +"Yes. + +"And even all night?" + +"As long as I did not weary you." + +"And what do you call that?" + +"Devotion." + +"And what does this devotion come from?" + +"The irresistible sympathy which I have for you." + +"So you are in love with me? Say it straight out, it is much more +simple." + +"It is possible; but if I am to say it to you one day, it is not +to-day." + +"You will do better never to say it." + +"Why?" + +"Because only one of two things can come of it." + +"What?" + +"Either I shall not accept: then you will have a grudge against me; or +I shall accept: then you will have a sorry mistress; a woman who is +nervous, ill, sad, or gay with a gaiety sadder than grief, a woman who +spits blood and spends a hundred thousand francs a year. That is all +very well for a rich old man like the duke, but it is very bad for a +young man like you, and the proof of it is that all the young lovers +I have had have very soon left me." I did not answer; I listened. This +frankness, which was almost a kind of confession, the sad life, of which +I caught some glimpse through the golden veil which covered it, and +whose reality the poor girl sought to escape in dissipation, drink, +and wakefulness, impressed me so deeply that I could not utter a single +word. + +"Come," continued Marguerite, "we are talking mere childishness. Give me +your arm and let us go back to the dining-room. They won't know what we +mean by our absence." + +"Go in, if you like, but allow me to stay here." + +"Why?" + +"Because your mirth hurts me." + +"Well, I will be sad." + +"Marguerite, let me say to you something which you have no doubt often +heard, so often that the habit of hearing it has made you believe it no +longer, but which is none the less real, and which I will never repeat." + +"And that is...?" she said, with the smile of a young mother listening +to some foolish notion of her child. + +"It is this, that ever since I have seen you, I know not why, you have +taken a place in my life; that, if I drive the thought of you out of my +mind, it always comes back; that when I met you to-day, after not having +seen you for two years, you made a deeper impression on my heart and +mind than ever; that, now that you have let me come to see you, now that +I know you, now that I know all that is strange in you, you have become +a necessity of my life, and you will drive me mad, not only if you will +not love me, but if you will not let me love you." + +"But, foolish creature that you are, I shall say to you, like Mme. D., +'You must be very rich, then!' Why, you don't know that I spend six or +seven thousand francs a month, and that I could not live without it; you +don't know, my poor friend, that I should ruin you in no time, and that +your family would cast you off if you were to live with a woman like me. +Let us be friends, good friends, but no more. Come and see me, we will +laugh and talk, but don't exaggerate what I am worth, for I am worth +very little. You have a good heart, you want someone to love you, you +are too young and too sensitive to live in a world like mine. Take a +married woman. You see, I speak to you frankly, like a friend." + +"But what the devil are you doing there?" cried Prudence, who had come +in without our bearing her, and who now stood just inside the door, with +her hair half coming down and her dress undone. I recognised the hand of +Gaston. + +"We are talking sense," said Marguerite; "leave us alone; we will be +back soon." + +"Good, good! Talk, my children," said Prudence, going out and closing +the door behind her, as if to further emphasize the tone in which she +had said these words. + +"Well, it is agreed," continued Marguerite, when we were alone, "you +won't fall in love with me?" + +"I will go away." + +"So much as that?" + +I had gone too far to draw back; and I was really carried away. This +mingling of gaiety, sadness, candour, prostitution, her very malady, +which no doubt developed in her a sensitiveness to impressions, as well +as an irritability of nerves, all this made it clear to me that if from +the very beginning I did not completely dominate her light and forgetful +nature, she was lost to me. + +"Come, now, do you seriously mean what you say?" she said. + +"Seriously." + +"But why didn't you say it to me sooner?" + +"When could I have said it?" + +"The day after you had been introduced to me at the Opera Comique." + +"I thought you would have received me very badly if I had come to see +you." + +"Why?" + +"Because I had behaved so stupidly." + +"That's true. And yet you were already in love with me." + +"Yes." + +"And that didn't hinder you from going to bed and sleeping quite +comfortably. One knows what that sort of love means." + +"There you are mistaken. Do you know what I did that evening, after the +Opera Comique?" + +"No." + +"I waited for you at the door of the Cafe Anglais. I followed the +carriage in which you and your three friends were, and when I saw you +were the only one to get down, and that you went in alone, I was very +happy." + +Marguerite began to laugh. + +"What are you laughing at?" + +"Nothing." + +"Tell me, I beg of you, or I shall think you are still laughing at me." + +"You won't be cross?" + +"What right have I to be cross?" + +"Well, there was a sufficient reason why I went in alone." + +"What?" + +"Some one was waiting for me here." + +If she had thrust a knife into me she would not have hurt me more. I +rose, and holding out my hand, "Goodbye," said I. + +"I knew you would be cross," she said; "men are frantic to know what is +certain to give them pain." + +"But I assure you," I added coldly, as if wishing to prove how +completely I was cured of my passion, "I assure you that I am not cross. +It was quite natural that someone should be waiting for you, just as it +is quite natural that I should go from here at three in the morning." + +"Have you, too, someone waiting for you?" + +"No, but I must go." + +"Good-bye, then." + +"You send me away?" + +"Not the least in the world." + +"Why are you so unkind to me?" + +"How have I been unkind to you?" + +"In telling me that someone was waiting for you." + +"I could not help laughing at the idea that you had been so happy to see +me come in alone when there was such a good reason for it." + +"One finds pleasure in childish enough things, and it is too bad to +destroy such a pleasure when, by simply leaving it alone, one can make +somebody so happy." + +"But what do you think I am? I am neither maid nor duchess. I didn't +know you till to-day, and I am not responsible to you for my actions. +Supposing one day I should become your mistress, you are bound to know +that I have had other lovers besides you. If you make scenes of jealousy +like this before, what will it be after, if that after should ever +exist? I never met anyone like you." + +"That is because no one has ever loved you as I love you." + +"Frankly, then, you really love me?" + +"As much as it is possible to love, I think." + +"And that has lasted since--?" + +"Since the day I saw you go into Susse's, three years ago." + +"Do you know, that is tremendously fine? Well, what am to do in return?" + +"Love me a little," I said, my heart beating so that I could hardly +speak; for, in spite of the half-mocking smiles with which she had +accompanied the whole conversation, it seemed to me that Marguerite +began to share my agitation, and that the hour so long awaited was +drawing near. + +"Well, but the duke?" + +"What duke?" + +"My jealous old duke." + +"He will know nothing." + +"And if he should?" + +"He would forgive you." + +"Ah, no, he would leave me, and what would become of me?" + +"You risk that for someone else." + +"How do you know?" "By the order you gave not to admit anyone +to-night." "It is true; but that is a serious friend." + +"For whom you care nothing, as you have shut your door against him at +such an hour." + +"It is not for you to reproach me, since it was in order to receive you, +you and your friend." + +Little by little I had drawn nearer to Marguerite. I had put my arms +about her waist, and I felt her supple body weigh lightly on my clasped +hands. + +"If you knew how much I love you!" I said in a low voice. "Really true?" + +"I swear it." + +"Well, if you will promise to do everything I tell you, without a word, +without an opinion, without a question, perhaps I will say yes." + +"I will do everything that you wish!" + +"But I forewarn you I must be free to do as I please, without giving you +the slightest details what I do. I have long wished for a young lover, +who should be young and not self-willed, loving without distrust, loved +without claiming the right to it. I have never found one. Men, instead +of being satisfied in obtaining for a long time what they scarcely +hoped to obtain once, exact from their mistresses a full account of the +present, the past, and even the future. As they get accustomed to her, +they want to rule her, and the more one gives them the more exacting +they become. If I decide now on taking a new lover, he must have three +very rare qualities: he must be confiding, submissive, and discreet." + +"Well, I will be all that you wish." + +"We shall see." + +"When shall we see?" + +"Later on." + +"Why?" + +"Because," said Marguerite, releasing herself from my arms, and, taking +from a great bunch of red camellias a single camellia, she placed it in +my buttonhole, "because one can not always carry out agreements the day +they are signed." + +"And when shall I see you again?" I said, clasping her in my arms. + +"When this camellia changes colour." + +"When will it change colour?" + +"To-morrow night between eleven and twelve. Are you satisfied?" + +"Need you ask me?" + +"Not a word of this either to your friend or to Prudence, or to anybody +whatever." + +"I promise." + +"Now, kiss me, and we will go back to the dining-room." + +She held up her lips to me, smoothed her hair again, and we went out of +the room, she singing, and I almost beside myself. + +In the next room she stopped for a moment and said to me in a low voice: + +"It must seem strange to you that I am ready to take you at a moment's +notice. Shall I tell you why? It is," she continued, taking my hand +and placing it against her heart so that I could feel how rapidly and +violently it palpitated; "it is because I shall not live as long as +others, and I have promised myself to live more quickly." + +"Don't speak to me like that, I entreat you." + +"Oh, make yourself easy," she continued, laughing; "however short a time +I have to live, I shall live longer than you will love me!" + +And she went singing into the dining-room. + +"Where is Nanine?" she said, seeing Gaston and Prudence alone. + +"She is asleep in your room, waiting till you are ready to go to bed," +replied Prudence. + +"Poor thing, I am killing her! And now gentlemen, it is time to go." + +Ten minutes after, Gaston and I left the house. Marguerite shook hands +with me and said good-bye. Prudence remained behind. + +"Well," said Gaston, when we were in the street, "what do you think of +Marguerite?" + +"She is an angel, and I am madly in love with her." "So I guessed; did +you tell her so?" + +"Yes." + +"And did she promise to believe you?" + +"No." + +"She is not like Prudence." + +"Did she promise to?" + +"Better still, my dear fellow. You wouldn't think it; but she is still +not half bad, poor old Duvernoy!" + + + +Chapter 11 + +At this point Armand stopped. + +"Would you close the window for me?" he said. "I am beginning to feel +cold. Meanwhile, I will get into bed." + +I closed the window. Armand, who was still very weak, took off his +dressing-gown and lay down in bed, resting his head for a few moments +on the pillow, like a man who is tired by much talking or disturbed by +painful memories. + +"Perhaps you have been talking too much," I said to him. "Would you +rather for me to go and leave you to sleep? You can tell me the rest of +the story another day." + +"Are you tired of listening to it?" + +"Quite the contrary." + +"Then I will go on. If you left me alone, I should not sleep." + +When I returned home (he continued, without needing to pause and +recollect himself, so fresh were all the details in his mind), I did not +go to bed, but began to reflect over the day's adventure. The meeting, +the introduction, the promise of Marguerite, had followed one another so +rapidly, and so unexpectedly, that there were moments when it seemed to +me I had been dreaming. Nevertheless, it was not the first time that a +girl like Marguerite had promised herself to a man on the morrow of the +day on which he had asked for the promise. + +Though, indeed, I made this reflection, the first impression produced +on me by my future mistress was so strong that it still persisted. I +refused obstinately to see in her a woman like other women, and, with +the vanity so common to all men, I was ready to believe that she could +not but share the attraction which drew me to her. + +Yet, I had before me plenty of instances to the contrary, and I had +often heard that the affection of Marguerite was a thing to be had more +or less dear, according to the season. + +But, on the other hand, how was I to reconcile this reputation with her +constant refusal of the young count whom we had found at her house? You +may say that he was unattractive to her, and that, as she was splendidly +kept by the duke, she would be more likely to choose a man who was +attractive to her, if she were to take another lover. If so, why did she +not choose Gaston, who was rich, witty, and charming, and why did she +care for me, whom she had thought so ridiculous the first time she had +seen me? + +It is true that there are events of a moment which tell more than the +courtship of a year. Of those who were at the supper, I was the only one +who had been concerned at her leaving the table. I had followed her, I +had been so affected as to be unable to hide it from her, I had wept as +I kissed her hand. This circumstance, added to my daily visits during +the two months of her illness, might have shown her that I was somewhat +different from the other men she knew, and perhaps she had said to +herself that for a love which could thus manifest itself she might well +do what she had done so often that it had no more consequence for her. + +All these suppositions, as you may see, were improbable enough; but +whatever might have been the reason of her consent, one thing was +certain, she had consented. + +Now, I was in love with Marguerite. I had nothing more to ask of her. +Nevertheless, though she was only a kept woman, I had so anticipated for +myself, perhaps to poetize it a little, a hopeless love, that the nearer +the moment approached when I should have nothing more to hope, the more +I doubted. I did not close my eyes all night. + +I scarcely knew myself. I was half demented. Now, I seemed to myself not +handsome or rich or elegant enough to possess such a woman, now I was +filled with vanity at the thought of it; then I began to fear lest +Marguerite had no more than a few days' caprice for me, and I said to +myself that since we should soon have to part, it would be better not to +keep her appointment, but to write and tell her my fears and leave her. +From that I went on to unlimited hope, unbounded confidence. I dreamed +incredible dreams of the future; I said to myself that she should owe +to me her moral and physical recovery, that I should spend my whole life +with her, and that her love should make me happier than all the maidenly +loves in the world. + +But I can not repeat to you the thousand thoughts that rose from my +heart to my head, and that only faded away with the sleep that came to +me at daybreak. + +When I awoke it was two o'clock. The weather was superb. I don't think +life ever seemed to me so beautiful and so full of possibilities. The +memories of the night before came to me without shadow or hindrance, +escorted gaily by the hopes of the night to come. From time to time my +heart leaped with love and joy in my breast. A sweet fever thrilled +me. I thought no more of the reasons which had filled my mind before I +slept. I saw only the result, I thought only of the hour when I was to +see Marguerite again. + +It was impossible to stay indoors. My room seemed too small to contain +my happiness. I needed the whole of nature to unbosom myself. + +I went out. Passing by the Rue d'Antin, I saw Marguerite's coupe' +waiting for her at the door. I went toward the Champs-Elysees. I loved +all the people whom I met. Love gives one a kind of goodness. + +After I had been walking for an hour from the Marly horses to the +Rond-Point, I saw Marguerite's carriage in the distance; I divined +rather than recognised it. As it was turning the corner of the +Champs-Elysees it stopped, and a tall young man left a group of people +with whom he was talking and came up to her. They talked for a few +moments; the young man returned to his friends, the horses set out +again, and as I came near the group I recognised the one who had spoken +to Marguerite as the Comte de G., whose portrait I had seen and whom +Prudence had indicated to me as the man to whom Marguerite owed her +position. It was to him that she had closed her doors the night before; +I imagined that she had stopped her carriage in order to explain to him +why she had done so, and I hoped that at the same time she had found +some new pretext for not receiving him on the following night. + +How I spent the rest of the day I do not know; I walked, smoked, talked, +but what I said, whom I met, I had utterly forgotten by ten o'clock in +the evening. + +All I remember is that when I returned home, I spent three hours over +my toilet, and I looked at my watch and my clock a hundred times, which +unfortunately both pointed to the same hour. + +When it struck half past ten, I said to myself that it was time to go. + +I lived at that time in the Rue de Provence; I followed the Rue du +Mont-Blanc, crossed the Boulevard, went up the Rue Louis-le-Grand, the +Rue de Port-Mahon, and the Rue d'Antin. I looked up at Marguerite's +windows. There was a light. I rang. I asked the porter if Mlle. Gautier +was at home. He replied that she never came in before eleven or a +quarter past eleven. I looked at my watch. I intended to come quite +slowly, and I had come in five minutes from the Rue de Provence to the +Rue d'Antin. + +I walked to and fro in the street; there are no shops, and at that hour +it is quite deserted. In half an hour's time Marguerite arrived. She +looked around her as she got down from her coupe, as if she were +looking for someone. The carriage drove off; the stables were not at +the house. Just as Marguerite was going to ring, I went up to her and +said, "Good-evening." + +"Ah, it is you," she said, in a tone that by no means reassured me as to +her pleasure in seeing me. + +"Did you not promise me that I might come and see you to-day?" + +"Quite right. I had forgotten." + +This word upset all the reflections I had had during the day. +Nevertheless, I was beginning to get used to her ways, and I did not +leave her, as I should certainly have done once. We entered. Nanine had +already opened the door. + +"Has Prudence come?" said Marguerite. + +"No, madame." + +"Say that she is to be admitted as soon as she comes. But first put out +the lamp in the drawing-room, and if anyone comes, say that I have not +come back and shall not be coming back." + +She was like a woman who is preoccupied with something, and perhaps +annoyed by an unwelcome guest. I did not know what to do or say. +Marguerite went toward her bedroom; I remained where I was. + +"Come," she said. + +She took off her hat and her velvet cloak and threw them on the bed, +then let herself drop into a great armchair beside the fire, which she +kept till the very beginning of summer, and said to me as she fingered +her watch-chain: + +"Well, what news have you got for me?" + +"None, except that I ought not to have come to-night." + +"Why?" + +"Because you seem vexed, and no doubt I am boring you." + +"You are not boring me; only I am not well; I have been suffering all +day. I could not sleep, and I have a frightful headache." + +"Shall I go away and let you go to bed?" + +"Oh, you can stay. If I want to go to bed I don't mind your being here." + +At that moment there was a ring. + +"Who is coming now?" she said, with an impatient movement. + +A few minutes after there was another ring. + +"Isn't there anyone to go to the door? I shall have to go." She got up +and said to me, "Wait here." + +She went through the rooms, and I heard her open the outer door. I +listened. + +The person whom she had admitted did not come farther than the +dining-room. At the first word I recognised the voice of the young Comte +de N. + +"How are you this evening?" he said. + +"Not well," replied Marguerite drily. + +"Am I disturbing you?" + +"Perhaps. + +"How you receive me! What have I done, my dear Marguerite?" + +"My dear friend, you have done nothing. I am ill; I must go to bed, so +you will be good enough to go. It is sickening not to be able to return +at night without your making your appearance five minutes afterward. +What is it you want? For me to be your mistress? Well, I have already +told you a hundred times, No; you simply worry me, and you might as well +go somewhere else. I repeat to you to-day, for the last time, I don't +want to have anything to do with you; that's settled. Good-bye. Here's +Nanine coming in; she can light you to the door. Good-night." + +Without adding another word, or listening to what the young man +stammered out, Marguerite returned to the room and slammed the door. +Nanine entered a moment after. + +"Now understand," said Marguerite, "you are always to say to that idiot +that I am not in, or that I will not see him. I am tired out with seeing +people who always want the same thing; who pay me for it, and then think +they are quit of me. If those who are going to go in for our hateful +business only knew what it really was they would sooner be chambermaids. +But no, vanity, the desire of having dresses and carriages and diamonds +carries us away; one believes what one hears, for here, as elsewhere, +there is such a thing as belief, and one uses up one's heart, one's +body, one's beauty, little by little; one is feared like a beast of +prey, scorned like a pariah, surrounded by people who always take more +than they give; and one fine day one dies like a dog in a ditch, after +having ruined others and ruined one's self." + +"Come, come, madame, be calm," said Nanine; "your nerves are a bit upset +to-night." + +"This dress worries me," continued Marguerite, unhooking her bodice; +"give me a dressing-gown. Well, and Prudence?" + +"She has not come yet, but I will send her to you, madame, the moment +she comes." + +"There's one, now," Marguerite went on, as she took off her dress and +put on a white dressing-gown, "there's one who knows very well how to +find me when she is in want of me, and yet she can't do me a service +decently. She knows I am waiting for an answer. She knows how anxious I +am, and I am sure she is going about on her own account, without giving +a thought to me." + +"Perhaps she had to wait." + +"Let us have some punch." + +"It will do you no good, madame," said Nanine. + +"So much the better. Bring some fruit, too, and a pate or a wing of +chicken; something or other, at once. I am hungry." + +Need I tell you the impression which this scene made upon me, or can you +not imagine it? + +"You are going to have supper with me," she said to me; "meanwhile, take +a book. I am going into my dressing-room for a moment." + +She lit the candles of a candelabra, opened a door at the foot of the +bed, and disappeared. + +I began to think over this poor girl's life, and my love for her was +mingled with a great pity. I walked to and fro in the room, thinking +over things, when Prudence entered. + +"Ah, you here?"' she said, "where is Marguerite?" + +"In her dressing-room." + +"I will wait. By the way, do you know she thinks you charming?" + +"No." + +"She hasn't told you?" + +"Not at all." + +"How are you here?" + +"I have come to pay her a visit." + +"At midnight?" + +"Why not?" + +"Farceur!" + +"She has received me, as a matter of fact, very badly." + +"She will receive you better by and bye." + +"Do you think so?" + +"I have some good news for her." + +"No harm in that. So she has spoken to you about me?" + +"Last night, or rather to-night, when you and your friend went. By the +way, what is your friend called? Gaston R., his name is, isn't it?" + +"Yes," said I, not without smiling, as I thought of what Gaston had +confided to me, and saw that Prudence scarcely even knew his name. + +"He is quite nice, that fellow; what does he do?" + +"He has twenty-five thousand francs a year." + +"Ah, indeed! Well, to return to you. Marguerite asked me all about +you: who you were, what you did, what mistresses you had had; in short, +everything that one could ask about a man of your age. I told her all I +knew, and added that you were a charming young man. That's all." + +"Thanks. Now tell me what it was she wanted to say to you last night." + +"Nothing at all. It was only to get rid of the count; but I have really +something to see her about to-day, and I am bringing her an answer now." + +At this moment Marguerite reappeared from her dressing-room, wearing a +coquettish little nightcap with bunches of yellow ribbons, technically +known as "cabbages." She looked ravishing. She had satin slippers on her +bare feet, and was in the act of polishing her nails. + +"Well," she said, seeing Prudence, "have you seen the duke?" + +"Yes, indeed." + +"And what did he say to you?" + +"He gave me--" + +"How much?" + +"Six thousand." + +"Have you got it?" + +"Yes. + +"Did he seem put out?" + +"No." + +"Poor man!" + +This "Poor man!" was said in a tone impossible to render. Marguerite +took the six notes of a thousand francs. + +"It was quite time," she said. "My dear Prudence, are you in want of any +money?" + +"You know, my child, it is the 15th in a couple of days, so if you could +lend me three or four hundred francs, you would do me a real service." + +"Send over to-morrow; it is too late to get change now." + +"Don't forget." + +"No fear. Will you have supper with us?" + +"No, Charles is waiting for me." + +"You are still devoted to him?" + +"Crazy, my dear! I will see you to-morrow. Good-bye, Armand." + +Mme. Duvernoy went out. + +Marguerite opened the drawer of a side-table and threw the bank-notes +into it. + +"Will you permit me to get into bed?" she said with a smile, as she +moved toward the bed. + +"Not only permit, but I beg of you." + +She turned back the covering and got into bed. + +"Now," said she, "come and sit down by me, and let's have a talk." + +Prudence was right: the answer that she had brought to Marguerite had +put her into a good humour. + +"Will you forgive me for my bad temper tonight?" she said, taking my +hand. + +"I am ready to forgive you as often as you like." + +"And you love me?" + +"Madly." + +"In spite of my bad disposition?" + +"In spite of all." + +"You swear it?" + +"Yes," I said in a whisper. + +Nanine entered, carrying plates, a cold chicken, a bottle of claret, and +some strawberries. + +"I haven't had any punch made," said Nanine; "claret is better for you. +Isn't it, sir?" + +"Certainly," I replied, still under the excitement of Marguerite's last +words, my eyes fixed ardently upon her. + +"Good," said she; "put it all on the little table, and draw it up to the +bed; we will help ourselves. This is the third night you have sat up, +and you must be in want of sleep. Go to bed. I don't want anything +more." + +"Shall I lock the door?" + +"I should think so! And above all, tell them not to admit anybody before +midday." + + + +Chapter 12 + +At five o'clock in the morning, as the light began to appear through the +curtains, Marguerite said to me: "Forgive me if I send you away; but I +must. The duke comes every morning; they will tell him, when he comes, +that I am asleep, and perhaps he will wait until I wake." + +I took Marguerite's head in my hands; her loosened hair streamed about +her; I gave her a last kiss, saying: "When shall I see you again?" + +"Listen," she said; "take the little gilt key on the mantelpiece, open +that door; bring me back the key and go. In the course of the day +you shall have a letter, and my orders, for you know you are to obey +blindly." + +"Yes; but if I should already ask for something?" + +"What?" + +"Let me have that key." + +"What you ask is a thing I have never done for anyone." + +"Well, do it for me, for I swear to you that I don't love you as the +others have loved you." + +"Well, keep it; but it only depends on me to make it useless to you, +after all." + +"How?" + +"There are bolts on the door." + +"Wretch!" + +"I will have them taken off." + +"You love, then, a little?" + +"I don't know how it is, but it seems to me as if I do! Now, go; I can't +keep my eyes open." + +I held her in my arms for a few seconds and then went. + +The streets were empty, the great city was still asleep, a sweet +freshness circulated in the streets that a few hours later would be +filled with the noise of men. It seemed to me as if this sleeping +city belonged to me; I searched my memory for the names of those whose +happiness I had once envied; and I could not recall one without finding +myself the happier. + +To be loved by a pure young girl, to be the first to reveal to her the +strange mystery of love, is indeed a great happiness, but it is the +simplest thing in the world. To take captive a heart which has had no +experience of attack, is to enter an unfortified and ungarrisoned city. +Education, family feeling, the sense of duty, the family, are strong +sentinels, but there are no sentinels so vigilant as not to be deceived +by a girl of sixteen to whom nature, by the voice of the man she loves, +gives the first counsels of love, all the more ardent because they seem +so pure. + +The more a girl believes in goodness, the more easily will she give way, +if not to her lover, at least to love, for being without mistrust she +is without force, and to win her love is a triumph that can be gained +by any young man of five-and-twenty. See how young girls are watched +and guarded! The walls of convents are not high enough, mothers have +no locks strong enough, religion has no duties constant enough, to shut +these charming birds in their cages, cages not even strewn with flowers. +Then how surely must they desire the world which is hidden from them, +how surely must they find it tempting, how surely must they listen to +the first voice which comes to tell its secrets through their bars, and +bless the hand which is the first to raise a corner of the mysterious +veil! + +But to be really loved by a courtesan: that is a victory of infinitely +greater difficulty. With them the body has worn out the soul, the senses +have burned up the heart, dissipation has blunted the feelings. They +have long known the words that we say to them, the means we use; they +have sold the love that they inspire. They love by profession, and not +by instinct. They are guarded better by their calculations than a virgin +by her mother and her convent; and they have invented the word caprice +for that unbartered love which they allow themselves from time to time, +for a rest, for an excuse, for a consolation, like usurers, who cheat +a thousand, and think they have bought their own redemption by once +lending a sovereign to a poor devil who is dying of hunger without +asking for interest or a receipt. + +Then, when God allows love to a courtesan, that love, which at first +seems like a pardon, becomes for her almost without penitence. When a +creature who has all her past to reproach herself with is taken all at +once by a profound, sincere, irresistible love, of which she had never +felt herself capable; when she has confessed her love, how absolutely +the man whom she loves dominates her! How strong he feels with his cruel +right to say: You do no more for love than you have done for money. +They know not what proof to give. A child, says the fable, having +often amused himself by crying "Help! a wolf!" in order to disturb the +labourers in the field, was one day devoured by a Wolf, because those +whom he had so often deceived no longer believed in his cries for help. +It is the same with these unhappy women when they love seriously. They +have lied so often that no one will believe them, and in the midst of +their remorse they are devoured by their love. + +Hence those great devotions, those austere retreats from the world, of +which some of them have given an example. + +But when the man who inspires this redeeming love is great enough in +soul to receive it without remembering the past, when he gives himself +up to it, when, in short, he loves as he is loved, this man drains at +one draught all earthly emotions, and after such a love his heart will +be closed to every other. + +I did not make these reflections on the morning when I returned home. +They could but have been the presentiment of what was to happen to +me, and, despite my love for Marguerite, I did not foresee such +consequences. I make these reflections to-day. Now that all is +irrevocably ended, they a rise naturally out of what has taken place. + +But to return to the first day of my liaison. When I reached home I +was in a state of mad gaiety. As I thought of how the barriers which my +imagination had placed between Marguerite and myself had disappeared, of +how she was now mine; of the place I now had in her thoughts, of the key +to her room which I had in my pocket, and of my right to use this key, I +was satisfied with life, proud of myself, and I loved God because he had +let such things be. + +One day a young man is passing in the street, he brushes against a +woman, looks at her, turns, goes on his way. He does not know the woman, +and she has pleasures, griefs, loves, in which he has no part. He does +not exist for her, and perhaps, if he spoke to her, she would only laugh +at him, as Marguerite had laughed at me. Weeks, months, years pass, and +all at once, when they have each followed their fate along a different +path, the logic of chance brings them face to face. The woman becomes +the man's mistress and loves him. How? why? Their two existences are +henceforth one; they have scarcely begun to know one another when it +seems as if they had known one another always, and all that had gone +before is wiped out from the memory of the two lovers. It is curious, +one must admit. + +As for me, I no longer remembered how I had lived before that night. +My whole being was exalted into joy at the memory of the words we had +exchanged during that first night. Either Marguerite was very clever +in deception, or she had conceived for me one of those sudden passions +which are revealed in the first kiss, and which die, often enough, as +suddenly as they were born. + +The more I reflected the more I said to myself that Marguerite had no +reason for feigning a love which she did not feel, and I said to myself +also that women have two ways of loving, one of which may arise from the +other: they love with the heart or with the senses. Often a woman takes +a lover in obedience to the mere will of the senses, and learns without +expecting it the mystery of immaterial love, and lives henceforth only +through her heart; often a girl who has sought in marriage only the +union of two pure affections receives the sudden revelation of physical +love, that energetic conclusion of the purest impressions of the soul. + +In the midst of these thoughts I fell asleep; I was awakened by a letter +from Marguerite containing these words: + +"Here are my orders: To-night at the Vaudeville. + +"Come during the third entr'acte." + +I put the letter into a drawer, so that I might always have it at hand +in case I doubted its reality, as I did from time to time. + +She did not tell me to come to see her during the day, and I dared not +go; but I had so great a desire to see her before the evening that I +went to the Champs-Elysees, where I again saw her pass and repass, as I +had on the previous day. + +At seven o'clock I was at the Vaudeville. Never had I gone to a theatre +so early. The boxes filled one after another. Only one remained empty, +the stage box. At the beginning of the third act I heard the door of +the box, on which my eyes had been almost constantly fixed, open, and +Marguerite appeared. She came to the front at once, looked around the +stalls, saw me, and thanked me with a look. + +That night she was marvellously beautiful. Was I the cause of this +coquetry? Did she love me enough to believe that the more beautiful she +looked the happier I should be? I did not know, but if that had been +her intention she certainly succeeded, for when she appeared all heads +turned, and the actor who was then on the stage looked to see who had +produced such an effect on the audience by her mere presence there. + +And I had the key of this woman's room, and in three or four hours she +would again be mine! + +People blame those who let themselves be ruined by actresses and kept +women; what astonishes me is that twenty times greater follies are not +committed for them. One must have lived that life, as I have, to know +how much the little vanities which they afford their lovers every day +help to fasten deeper into the heart, since we have no other word for +it, the love which he has for them. + +Prudence next took her place in the box, and a man, whom I recognised as +the Comte de G., seated himself at the back. As I saw him, a cold shiver +went through my heart. + +Doubtless Marguerite perceived the impression made on me by the presence +of this man, for she smiled to me again, and, turning her back to the +count, appeared to be very attentive to the play. At the third entr'acte +she turned and said two words: the count left the box, and Marguerite +beckoned to me to come to her. + +"Good-evening," she said as I entered, holding out her hand. + +"Good-evening," I replied to both Marguerite and Prudence. + +"Sit down." + +"But I am taking someone's place. Isn't the Comte de G. coming back?" + +"Yes; I sent him to fetch some sweets, so that we could talk by +ourselves for a moment. Mme. Duvernoy is in on the secret." + +"Yes, my children," said she; "have no fear. I shall say nothing." + +"What is the matter with you to-night?" said Marguerite, rising and +coming to the back of the box and kissing me on the forehead. + +"I am not very well." + +"You should go to bed," she replied, with that ironical air which went +so well with her delicate and witty face. + +"Where?" + +"At home." + +"You know that I shouldn't be able to sleep there." + +"Well, then, it won't do for you to come and be pettish here because you +have seen a man in my box." + +"It is not for that reason." + +"Yes, it is. I know; and you are wrong, so let us say no more about +it. You will go back with Prudence after the theatre, and you will stay +there till I call. Do you understand?" + +"Yes." + +How could I disobey? + +"You still love me?" + +"Can you ask?" + +"You have thought of me?" + +"All day long." + +"Do you know that I am really afraid that I shall get very fond of you? +Ask Prudence." + +"Ah," said she, "it is amazing!" + +"Now, you must go back to your seat. The count will be coming back, and +there is nothing to be gained by his finding you here." + +"Because you don't like seeing him." + +"No; only if you had told me that you wanted to come to the Vaudeville +to-night I could have got this box for you as well as he." + +"Unfortunately, he got it for me without my asking him, and he asked me +to go with him; you know well enough that I couldn't refuse. All I could +do was to write and tell you where I was going, so that you could see +me, and because I wanted to see you myself; but since this is the way +you thank me, I shall profit by the lesson." + +"I was wrong; forgive me." + +"Well and good; and now go back nicely to your place, and, above all, no +more jealousy." + +She kissed me again, and I left the box. In the passage I met the count +coming back. I returned to my seat. + +After all, the presence of M. de G. in Marguerite's box was the most +natural thing in the world. He had been her lover, he sent her a box, he +accompanied her to the theatre; it was all quite natural, and if I was +to have a mistress like Marguerite I should have to get used to her +ways. + +Nonetheless, I was very unhappy all the rest of the evening, and went +away very sadly after having seen Prudence, the count, and Marguerite +get into the carriage, which was waiting for them at the door. + +However, a quarter of an hour later I was at Prudence's. She had only +just got in. + + + +Chapter 13 + +"You have come almost as quickly as we," said Prudence. + +"Yes," I answered mechanically. "Where is Marguerite?" + +"At home." + +"Alone?" + +"With M. de G." + +I walked to and fro in the room. + +"Well, what is the matter?" + +"Do you think it amuses me to wait here till M. de G. leaves +Marguerite's?" + +"How unreasonable you are! Don't you see that Marguerite can't turn the +count out of doors? M. de G. has been with her for a long time; he has +always given her a lot of money; he still does. Marguerite spends more +than a hundred thousand francs a year; she has heaps of debts. The duke +gives her all that she asks for, but she does not always venture to ask +him for all that she is in want of. It would never do for her to quarrel +with the count, who is worth to her at least ten thousand francs a year. +Marguerite is very fond of you, my dear fellow, but your liaison with +her, in her interests and in yours, ought not to be serious. You with +your seven or eight thousand francs a year, what could you do toward +supplying all the luxuries which a girl like that is in need of? It +would not be enough to keep her carriage. Take Marguerite for what +she is, for a good, bright, pretty girl; be her lover for a month, two +months; give her flowers, sweets, boxes at the theatre; but don't +get any other ideas into your head, and don't make absurd scenes of +jealousy. You know whom you have to do with; Marguerite isn't a saint. +She likes you, you are very fond of her; let the rest alone. You amaze +me when I see you so touchy; you have the most charming mistress in +Paris. She receives you in the greatest style, she is covered with +diamonds, she needn't cost you a penny, unless you like, and you are not +satisfied. My dear fellow, you ask too much!" + +"You are right, but I can't help it; the idea that that man is her lover +hurts me horribly." + +"In the first place," replied Prudence; "is he still her lover? He is a +man who is useful to her, nothing more. She has closed her doors to him +for two days; he came this morning--she could not but accept the box and +let him accompany her. He saw her home; he has gone in for a moment, he +is not staying, because you are waiting here. All that, it seems to me, +is quite natural. Besides, you don't mind the duke." + +"Yes; but he is an old man, and I am sure that Marguerite is not his +mistress. Then, it is all very well to accept one liaison, but not two. +Such easiness in the matter is very like calculation, and puts the man +who consents to it, even out of love, very much in the category of those +who, in a lower stage of society, make a trade of their connivance, and +a profit of their trade." + +"Ah, my dear fellow, how old-fashioned you are! How many of the richest +and most fashionable men of the best families I have seen quite ready +to do what I advise you to do, and without an effort, without shame, +without remorse, Why, one sees it every day. How do you suppose the kept +women in Paris could live in the style they do, if they had not three or +four lovers at once? No single fortune, however large, could suffice +for the expenses of a woman like Marguerite. A fortune of five hundred +thousand francs a year is, in France, an enormous fortune; well, my dear +friend, five hundred thousand francs a year would still be too little, +and for this reason: a man with such an income has a large house, +horses, servants, carriages; he shoots, has friends, often he is +married, he has children, he races, gambles, travels, and what not. All +these habits are so much a part of his position that he can not forego +them without appearing to have lost all his money, and without causing +scandal. Taking it all round, with five hundred thousand francs a year +he can not give a woman more than forty or fifty thousand francs in the +year, and that is already a good deal. Well, other lovers make up for +the rest of her expenses. With Marguerite, it is still more convenient; +she has chanced by a miracle on an old man worth ten millions, whose +wife and daughter are dead; who has only some nephews, themselves rich, +and who gives her all she wants without asking anything in return. But +she can not ask him for more than seventy thousand francs a year; and +I am sure that if she did ask for more, despite his health and the +affection he has for her he would not give it to her. + +"All the young men of twenty or thirty thousand francs a year at Paris, +that is to say, men who have only just enough to live on in the society +in which they mix, know perfectly well, when they are the lovers of a +woman like Marguerite, that she could not so much as pay for the rooms +she lives in and the servants who wait upon her with what they give +her. They do not say to her that they know it; they pretend not to see +anything, and when they have had enough of it they go their way. If they +have the vanity to wish to pay for everything they get ruined, like the +fools they are, and go and get killed in Africa, after leaving a hundred +thousand francs of debt in Paris. Do you think a woman is grateful +to them for it? Far from it. She declares that she has sacrificed her +position for them, and that while she was with them she was losing +money. These details seem to you shocking? Well, they are true. You are +a very nice fellow; I like you very much. I have lived with these women +for twenty years; I know what they are worth, and I don't want to see +you take the caprice that a pretty girl has for you too seriously. + +"Then, besides that," continued Prudence; "admit that Marguerite loves +you enough to give up the count or the duke, in case one of them were to +discover your liaison and to tell her to choose between him and you, +the sacrifice that she would make for you would be enormous, you can not +deny it. What equal sacrifice could you make for her, on your part, and +when you had got tired of her, what could you do to make up for what you +had taken from her? Nothing. You would have cut her off from the world +in which her fortune and her future were to be found; she would have +given you her best years, and she would be forgotten. Either you would +be an ordinary man, and, casting her past in her teeth, you would leave +her, telling her that you were only doing like her other lovers, and you +would abandon her to certain misery; or you would be an honest man, and, +feeling bound to keep her by you, you would bring inevitable trouble +upon yourself, for a liaison which is excusable in a young man, is no +longer excusable in a man of middle age. It becomes an obstacle to every +thing; it allows neither family nor ambition, man's second and last +loves. Believe me, then, my friend, take things for what they are worth, +and do not give a kept woman the right to call herself your creditor, no +matter in what." + +It was well argued, with a logic of which I should have thought Prudence +incapable. I had nothing to reply, except that she was right; I took her +hand and thanked her for her counsels. + +"Come, come," said she, "put these foolish theories to flight, and +laugh over them. Life is pleasant, my dear fellow; it all depends on the +colour of the glass through which one sees it. Ask your friend Gaston; +there's a man who seems to me to understand love as I understand it. All +that you need think of, unless you are quite a fool, is that close by +there is a beautiful girl who is waiting impatiently for the man who is +with her to go, thinking of you, keeping the whole night for you, and +who loves you, I am certain. Now, come to the window with me, and let us +watch for the count to go; he won't be long in leaving the coast clear." + +Prudence opened the window, and we leaned side by side over the balcony. +She watched the few passers, I reflected. All that she had said buzzed +in my head, and I could not help feeling that she was right; but +the genuine love which I had for Marguerite had some difficulty in +accommodating itself to such a belief. I sighed from time to time, at +which Prudence turned, and shrugged her shoulders like a physician who +has given up his patient. + +"How one realizes the shortness of life," I said to myself, "by the +rapidity of sensations! I have only known Marguerite for two days, +she has only been my mistress since yesterday, and she has already so +completely absorbed my thoughts, my heart, and my life that the visit of +the Comte de G. is a misfortune for me." + +At last the count came out, got into his carriage and disappeared. +Prudence closed the window. At the same instant Marguerite called to us: + +"Come at once," she said; "they are laying the table, and we'll have +supper." + +When I entered, Marguerite ran to me, threw her arms around my neck and +kissed me with all her might. + +"Are we still sulky?" she said to me. + +"No, it is all over," replied Prudence. "I have given him a talking to, +and he has promised to be reasonable." + +"Well and good." + +In spite of myself I glanced at the bed; it was not unmade. As for +Marguerite, she was already in her white dressing-gown. We sat down to +table. + +Charm, sweetness, spontaneity, Marguerite had them all, and I was forced +from time to time to admit that I had no right to ask of her anything +else; that many people would be very happy to be in my place; and that, +like Virgil's shepherd, I had only to enjoy the pleasures that a god, or +rather a goddess, set before me. + +I tried to put in practice the theories of Prudence, and to be as gay +as my two companions; but what was natural in them was on my part an +effort, and the nervous laughter, whose source they did not detect, was +nearer to tears than to mirth. + +At last the supper was over and I was alone with Marguerite. She sat +down as usual on the hearthrug before the fire and gazed sadly into the +flames. What was she thinking of? I know not. As for me, I looked at her +with a mingling of love and terror, as I thought of all that I was ready +to suffer for her sake. + +"Do you know what I am thinking of?" + +"No." + +"Of a plan that has come into my head." + +"And what is this plan?" + +"I can't tell you yet, but I can tell you what the result would be. The +result would be that in a month I should be free, I should have no more +debts, and we could go and spend the summer in the country." + +"And you can't tell me by what means?" + +"No, only love me as I love you, and all will succeed." + +"And have you made this plan all by yourself?" + +"Yes." + +"And you will carry it out all by yourself?" + +"I alone shall have the trouble of it," said Marguerite, with a smile +which I shall never forget, "but we shall both partake its benefits." + +I could not help flushing at the word benefits; I thought of Manon +Lescaut squandering with Desgrieux the money of M. de B. + +I replied in a hard voice, rising from my seat: + +"You must permit me, my dear Marguerite, to share only the benefits of +those enterprises which I have conceived and carried out myself." + +"What does that mean?" + +"It means that I have a strong suspicion that M. de G. is to be your +associate in this pretty plan, of which I can accept neither the cost +nor the benefits." + +"What a child you are! I thought you loved me. I was mistaken; all +right." + +She rose, opened the piano and began to play the "Invitation a la Valse", +as far as the famous passage in the major which always stopped her. Was +it through force of habit, or was it to remind me of the day when we +first met? All I know is that the melody brought back that recollection, +and, coming up to her, I took her head between my hands and kissed her. +"You forgive me?" I said. + +"You see I do," she answered; "but observe that we are only at our +second day, and already I have had to forgive you something. Is this how +you keep your promise of blind obedience?" + +"What can I do, Marguerite? I love you too much and I am jealous of the +least of your thoughts. What you proposed to me just now made me frantic +with delight, but the mystery in its carrying out hurts me dreadfully." + +"Come, let us reason it out," she said, taking both my hands and looking +at me with a charming smile which it was impossible to resist, "You love +me, do you not? and you would gladly spend two or three months alone +with me in the country? I too should be glad of this solitude a deux, +and not only glad of it, but my health requires it. I can not leave +Paris for such a length of time without putting my affairs in order, and +the affairs of a woman like me are always in great confusion; well, I +have found a way to reconcile everything, my money affairs and my love +for you; yes, for you, don't laugh; I am silly enough to love you! And +here you are taking lordly airs and talking big words. Child, thrice +child, only remember that I love you, and don't let anything disturb +you. Now, is it agreed?" + +"I agree to all you wish, as you know." + +"Then, in less than a month's time we shall be in some village, +walking by the river side, and drinking milk. Does it seem strange +that Marguerite Gautier should speak to you like that? The fact is, +my friend, that when this Paris life, which seems to make me so happy, +doesn't burn me, it wearies me, and then I have sudden aspirations +toward a calmer existence which might recall my childhood. One has +always had a childhood, whatever one becomes. Don't be alarmed; I am not +going to tell you that I am the daughter of a colonel on half-pay, and +that I was brought up at Saint-Denis. I am a poor country girl, and six +years ago I could not write my own name. You are relieved, aren't you? +Why is it you are the first whom I have ever asked to share the joy +of this desire of mine? I suppose because I feel that you love me for +myself and not for yourself, while all the others have only loved me for +themselves. + +"I have often been in the country, but never as I should like to go +there. I count on you for this easy happiness; do not be unkind, let +me have it. Say this to yourself: 'She will never live to be old, and I +should some day be sorry for not having done for her the first thing she +asked of me, such an easy thing to do!'" + +What could I reply to such words, especially with the memory of a first +night of love, and in the expectation of a second? + +An hour later I held Marguerite in my arms, and, if she had asked me to +commit a crime, I would have obeyed her. + +At six in the morning I left her, and before leaving her I said: "Till +to-night!" She kissed me more warmly than ever, but said nothing. + +During the day I received a note containing these words: + +"DEAR CHILD: I am not very well, and the doctor has ordered quiet. I +shall go to bed early to-night and shall not see you. But, to make up, I +shall expect you to-morrow at twelve. I love you." + +My first thought was: She is deceiving me! + +A cold sweat broke out on my forehead, for I already loved this woman +too much not to be overwhelmed by the suspicion. And yet, I was bound to +expect such a thing almost any day with Marguerite, and it had happened +to me often enough with my other mistresses, without my taking much +notice of it. What was the meaning of the hold which this woman had +taken upon my life? + +Then it occurred to me, since I had the key, to go and see her as usual. +In this way I should soon know the truth, and if I found a man there I +would strike him in the face. + +Meanwhile I went to the Champs-Elysees. I waited there four hours. She +did not appear. At night I went into all the theatres where she was +accustomed to go. She was in none of them. + +At eleven o'clock I went to the Rue d'Antin. There was no light in +Marguerite's windows. All the same, I rang. The porter asked me where I +was going. + +"To Mlle. Gautier's," I said. + +"She has not come in." + +"I will go up and wait for her." + +"There is no one there." + +Evidently I could get in, since I had the key, but, fearing foolish +scandal, I went away. Only I did not return home; I could not leave the +street, and I never took my eyes off Marguerite's house. It seemed to +me that there was still something to be found out, or at least that my +suspicions were about to be confirmed. + +About midnight a carriage that I knew well stopped before No. 9. The +Comte de G. got down and entered the house, after sending away the +carriage. For a moment I hoped that the same answer would be given to +him as to me, and that I should see him come out; but at four o'clock in +the morning I was still awaiting him. + +I have suffered deeply during these last three weeks, but that is +nothing, I think, in comparison with what I suffered that night. + + + +Chapter 14 + +When I reached home I began to cry like a child. There is no man to whom +a woman has not been unfaithful, once at least, and who will not know +what I suffered. + +I said to myself, under the weight of these feverish resolutions which +one always feels as if one had the force to carry out, that I must break +with my amour at once, and I waited impatiently for daylight in order +to set out forthwith to rejoin my father and my sister, of whose love at +least I was certain, and certain that that love would never be betrayed. + +However, I did not wish to go away without letting Marguerite know why +I went. Only a man who really cares no more for his mistress leaves her +without writing to her. I made and remade twenty letters in my head. I +had had to do with a woman like all other women of the kind. I had been +poetizing too much. She had treated me like a school-boy, she had used +in deceiving me a trick which was insultingly simple. My self-esteem +got the upper hand. I must leave this woman without giving her the +satisfaction of knowing that she had made me suffer, and this is what I +wrote to her in my most elegant handwriting and with tears of rage and +sorrow in my eyes: + +"MY DEAR MARGUERITE: I hope that your indisposition yesterday was not +serious. I came, at eleven at night, to ask after you, and was told +that you had not come in. M. de G. was more fortunate, for he presented +himself shortly afterward, and at four in the morning he had not left. + +"Forgive me for the few tedious hours that I have given you, and be +assured that I shall never forget the happy moments which I owe to you. + +"I should have called to-day to ask after you, but I intend going back +to my father's. + +"Good-bye, my dear Marguerite. I am not rich enough to love you as I +would nor poor enough to love you as you would. Let us then forget, you +a name which must be indifferent enough to you, I a happiness which has +become impossible. + +"I send back your key, which I have never used, and which might be +useful to you, if you are often ill as you were yesterday." + +As you will see, I was unable to end my letter without a touch of +impertinent irony, which proved how much in love I still was. + +I read and reread this letter ten times over; then the thought of the +pain it would give to Marguerite calmed me a little. I tried to persuade +myself of the feelings which it professed; and when my servant came to +my room at eight o'clock, I gave it to him and told him to take it at +once. + +"Shall I wait for an answer?" asked Joseph (my servant, like all +servants, was called Joseph). + +"If they ask whether there is a reply, you will say that you don't know, +and wait." + +I buoyed myself up with the hope that she would reply. Poor, feeble +creatures that we are! All the time that my servant was away I was in a +state of extreme agitation. At one moment I would recall how Marguerite +had given herself to me, and ask myself by what right I wrote her an +impertinent letter, when she could reply that it was not M. de G. who +supplanted me, but I who had supplanted M. de G.: a mode of reasoning +which permits many women to have many lovers. At another moment I would +recall her promises, and endeavour to convince myself that my letter was +only too gentle, and that there were not expressions forcible enough to +punish a woman who laughed at a love like mine. Then I said to myself +that I should have done better not to have written to her, but to have +gone to see her, and that then I should have had the pleasure of seeing +the tears that she would shed. Finally, I asked myself what she would +reply to me; already prepared to believe whatever excuse she made. + +Joseph returned. + +"Well?" I said to him. + +"Sir," said he, "madame was not up, and still asleep, but as soon as she +rings the letter will be taken to her, and if there is any reply it will +be sent." + +She was asleep! + +Twenty times I was on the point of sending to get the letter back, but +every time I said to myself: "Perhaps she will have got it already, and +it would look as if I have repented of sending it." + +As the hour at which it seemed likely that she would reply came nearer, +I regretted more and more that I had written. The clock struck, ten, +eleven, twelve. At twelve I was on the point of keeping the appointment +as if nothing had happened. In the end I could see no way out of the +circle of fire which closed upon me. + +Then I began to believe, with the superstition which people have when +they are waiting, that if I went out for a little while, I should find +an answer when I got back. I went out under the pretext of going to +lunch. + +Instead of lunching at the Cafe Foy, at the corner of the Boulevard, as +I usually did, I preferred to go to the Palais Royal and so pass through +the Rue d'Antin. Every time that I saw a woman at a distance, I fancied +it was Nanine bringing me an answer. I passed through the Rue d'Antin +without even coming across a commissionaire. I went to Very's in the +Palais Royal. The waiter gave me something to eat, or rather served up +to me whatever he liked, for I ate nothing. In spite of myself, my eyes +were constantly fixed on the clock. I returned home, certain that I +should find a letter from Marguerite. + +The porter had received nothing, but I still hoped in my servant. He had +seen no one since I went out. + +If Marguerite had been going to answer me she would have answered long +before. + +Then I began to regret the terms of my letter; I should have said +absolutely nothing, and that would undoubtedly have aroused her +suspicions, for, finding that I did not keep my appointment, she would +have inquired the reason of my absence, and only then I should have +given it to her. Thus, she would have had to exculpate herself, and what +I wanted was for her to exculpate herself. I already realized that I +should have believed whatever reasons she had given me, and anything was +better than not to see her again. + +At last I began to believe that she would come to see me herself; but +hour followed hour, and she did not come. + +Decidedly Marguerite was not like other women, for there are few +who would have received such a letter as I had just written without +answering it at all. + +At five, I hastened to the Champs-Elysees. "If I meet her," I thought, +"I will put on an indifferent air, and she will be convinced that I no +longer think about her." + +As I turned the corner of the Rue Royale, I saw her pass in her +carriage. The meeting was so sudden that I turned pale. I do not know if +she saw my emotion; as for me, I was so agitated that I saw nothing but +the carriage. + +I did not go any farther in the direction of the Champs-Elysees. I +looked at the advertisements of the theatres, for I had still a chance +of seeing her. There was a first night at the Palais Royal. Marguerite +was sure to be there. I was at the theatre by seven. The boxes filled +one after another, but Marguerite was not there. I left the Palais Royal +and went to all the theatres where she was most often to be seen: to the +Vaudeville, the Varietes, the Opera Comique. She was nowhere. + +Either my letter had troubled her too much for her to care to go to +the theatre, or she feared to come across me, and so wished to avoid an +explanation. So my vanity was whispering to me on the boulevards, when I +met Gaston, who asked me where I had been. + +"At the Palais Royal." + +"And I at the Opera," said he; "I expected to see you there." + +"Why?" + +"Because Marguerite was there." + +"Ah, she was there?" + +"Yes. + +"Alone?" + +"No; with another woman." + +"That all?" + +"The Comte de G. came to her box for an instant; but she went off with +the duke. I expected to see you every moment, for there was a stall at +my side which remained empty the whole evening, and I was sure you had +taken it." + +"But why should I go where Marguerite goes?" + +"Because you are her lover, surely!" + +"Who told you that?" + +"Prudence, whom I met yesterday. I give you my congratulations, my dear +fellow; she is a charming mistress, and it isn't everybody who has the +chance. Stick to her; she will do you credit." + +These simple reflections of Gaston showed me how absurd had been my +susceptibilities. If I had only met him the night before and he had +spoken to me like that, I should certainly not have written the foolish +letter which I had written. + +I was on the point of calling on Prudence, and of sending her to tell +Marguerite that I wanted to speak to her; but I feared that she would +revenge herself on me by saying that she could not see me, and I +returned home, after passing through the Rue d'Antin. Again I asked my +porter if there was a letter for me. Nothing! She is waiting to see if I +shall take some fresh step, and if I retract my letter of to-day, I said +to myself as I went to bed; but, seeing that I do not write, she will +write to me to-morrow. + +That night, more than ever, I reproached myself for what I had done. I +was alone, unable to sleep, devoured by restlessness and jealousy, when +by simply letting things take their natural course I should have been +with Marguerite, hearing the delicious words which I had heard only +twice, and which made my ears burn in my solitude. + +The most frightful part of the situation was that my judgment was +against me; as a matter of fact, everything went to prove that +Marguerite loved me. First, her proposal to spend the summer with me in +the country, then the certainty that there was no reason why she should +be my mistress, since my income was insufficient for her needs and even +for her caprices. There could not then have been on her part anything +but the hope of finding in me a sincere affection, able to give her +rest from the mercenary loves in whose midst she lived; and on the very +second day I had destroyed this hope, and paid by impertinent irony for +the love which I had accepted during two nights. What I had done was +therefore not merely ridiculous, it was indelicate. I had not even +paid the woman, that I might have some right to find fault with her; +withdrawing after two days, was I not like a parasite of love, afraid of +having to pay the bill of the banquet? What! I had only known Marguerite +for thirty-six hours; I had been her lover for only twenty-four; and +instead of being too happy that she should grant me all that she did, +I wanted to have her all to myself, and to make her sever at one stroke +all her past relations which were the revenue of her future. What had I +to reproach in her? Nothing. She had written to say she was unwell, when +she might have said to me quite crudely, with the hideous frankness of +certain women, that she had to see a lover; and, instead of believing +her letter, instead of going to any street in Paris except the Rue +d'Antin, instead of spending the evening with my friends, and presenting +myself next day at the appointed hour, I was acting the Othello, spying +upon her, and thinking to punish her by seeing her no more. But, on the +contrary, she ought to be enchanted at this separation. She ought to +find me supremely foolish, and her silence was not even that of rancour; +it was contempt. + +I might have made Marguerite a present which would leave no doubt as to +my generosity and permit me to feel properly quits of her, as of a +kept woman, but I should have felt that I was offending by the least +appearance of trafficking, if not the love which she had for me, at all +events the love which I had for her, and since this love was so pure +that it could admit no division, it could not pay by a present, however +generous, the happiness that it had received, however short that +happiness had been. + +That is what I said to myself all night long, and what I was every +moment prepared to go and say to Marguerite. When the day dawned I +was still sleepless. I was in a fever. I could think of nothing but +Marguerite. + +As you can imagine, it was time to take a decided step, and finish +either with the woman or with one's scruples, if, that is, she would +still be willing to see me. But you know well, one is always slow in +taking a decided step; so, unable to remain within doors and not daring +to call on Marguerite, I made one attempt in her direction, an attempt +that I could always look upon as a mere chance if it succeeded. + +It was nine o'clock, and I went at once to call upon Prudence, who asked +to what she owed this early visit. I dared not tell her frankly what +brought me. I replied that I had gone out early in order to reserve a +place in the diligence for C., where my father lived. + +"You are fortunate," she said, "in being able to get away from Paris in +this fine weather." + +I looked at Prudence, asking myself whether she was laughing at me, but +her face was quite serious. + +"Shall you go and say good-bye to Marguerite?" she continued, as +seriously as before. + +"No." + +"You are quite right." + +"You think so?" + +"Naturally. Since you have broken with her, why should you see her +again?" + +"You know it is broken off?" + +"She showed me your letter." + +"What did she say about it?" + +"She said: 'My dear Prudence, your protege is not polite; one thinks +such letters, one does not write them."' + +"In what tone did she say that?" + +"Laughingly," and she added: "He has had supper with me twice, and hasn't +even called." + +That, then, was the effect produced by my letter and my jealousy. I was +cruelly humiliated in the vanity of my affection. + +"What did she do last night?" + +"She went to the opera." + +"I know. And afterward?" + +"She had supper at home." + +"Alone?" + +"With the Comte de G., I believe." + +So my breaking with her had not changed one of her habits. It is for +such reasons as this that certain people say to you: Don't have anything +more to do with the woman; she cares nothing about you. + +"Well, I am very glad to find that Marguerite does not put herself out +for me," I said with a forced smile. + +"She has very good reason not to. You have done what you were bound to +do. You have been more reasonable than she, for she was really in love +with you; she did nothing but talk of you. I don't know what she would +not have been capable of doing." + +"Why hasn't she answered me, if she was in love with me?" + +"Because she realizes she was mistaken in letting herself love you. +Women sometimes allow you to be unfaithful to their love; they never +allow you to wound their self-esteem; and one always wounds the +self-esteem of a woman when, two days after one has become her lover, +one leaves her, no matter for what reason. I know Marguerite; she would +die sooner than reply." + +"What can I do, then?" + +"Nothing. She will forget you, you will forget her, and neither will +have any reproach to make against the other." + +"But if I write and ask her forgiveness?" + +"Don't do that, for she would forgive you." + +I could have flung my arms round Prudence's neck. + +A quarter of an hour later I was once more in my own quarters, and I +wrote to Marguerite: + +"Some one, who repents of a letter that he wrote yesterday and who will +leave Paris to-morrow if you do not forgive him, wishes to know at what +hour he might lay his repentance at your feet. + +"When can he find you alone? for, you know, confessions must be made +without witnesses." + +I folded this kind of madrigal in prose, and sent it by Joseph, who +handed it to Marguerite herself; she replied that she would send the +answer later. + +I only went out to have a hasty dinner, and at eleven in the evening no +reply had come. I made up my mind to endure it no longer, and to set out +next day. In consequence of this resolution, and convinced that I should +not sleep if I went to bed, I began to pack up my things. + + + +Chapter 15 + +It was hardly an hour after Joseph and I had begun preparing for my +departure, when there was a violent ring at the door. + +"Shall I go to the door?" said Joseph. + +"Go," I said, asking myself who it could be at such an hour, and not +daring to believe that it was Marguerite. + +"Sir," said Joseph coming back to me, "it is two ladies." + +"It is we, Armand," cried a voice that I recognised as that of Prudence. + +I came out of my room. Prudence was standing looking around the place; +Marguerite, seated on the sofa, was meditating. I went to her, knelt +down, took her two hands, and, deeply moved, said to her, "Pardon." + +She kissed me on the forehead, and said: + +"This is the third time that I have forgiven you." + +"I should have gone away to-morrow." + +"How can my visit change your plans? I have not come to hinder you from +leaving Paris. I have come because I had no time to answer you during +the day, and I did not wish to let you think that I was angry with you. +Prudence didn't want me to come; she said that I might be in the way." + +"You in the way, Marguerite! But how?" + +"Well, you might have had a woman here," said Prudence, "and it would +hardly have been amusing for her to see two more arrive." + +During this remark Marguerite looked at me attentively. + +"My dear Prudence," I answered, "you do not know what you are saying." + +"What a nice place you've got!" Prudence went on. "May we see the +bedroom?" + +"Yes." + +Prudence went into the bedroom, not so much to see it as to make up for +the foolish thing which she had just said, and to leave Marguerite and +me alone. + +"Why did you bring Prudence?" I asked her. + +"Because she was at the theatre with me, and because when I leave here I +want to have someone to see me home." + +"Could not I do?" + +"Yes, but, besides not wishing to put you out, I was sure that if you +came as far as my door you would want to come up, and as I could not let +you, I did not wish to let you go away blaming me for saying 'No.'" + +"And why could you not let me come up?" + +"Because I am watched, and the least suspicion might do me the greatest +harm." + +"Is that really the only reason?" + +"If there were any other, I would tell you; for we are not to have any +secrets from one another now." + +"Come, Marguerite, I am not going to take a roundabout way of saying +what I really want to say. Honestly, do you care for me a little?" + +"A great deal." + +"Then why did you deceive me?" + +"My friend, if I were the Duchess So and So, if I had two hundred +thousand francs a year, and if I were your mistress and had another +lover, you would have the right to ask me; but I am Mlle. Marguerite +Gautier, I am forty thousand francs in debt, I have not a penny of my +own, and I spend a hundred thousand francs a year. Your question becomes +unnecessary and my answer useless." + +"You are right," I said, letting my head sink on her knees; "but I love +you madly." + +"Well, my friend, you must either love me a little less or understand me +a little better. Your letter gave me a great deal of pain. If I had +been free, first of all I would not have seen the count the day before +yesterday, or, if I had, I should have come and asked your forgiveness +as you ask me now, and in future I should have had no other lover but +you. I fancied for a moment that I might give myself that happiness for +six months; you would not have it; you insisted on knowing the means. +Well, good heavens, the means were easy enough to guess! In employing +them I was making a greater sacrifice for you than you imagine. I might +have said to you, 'I want twenty thousand francs'; you were in love with +me and you would have found them, at the risk of reproaching me for it +later on. I preferred to owe you nothing; you did not understand the +scruple, for such it was. Those of us who are like me, when we have any +heart at all, we give a meaning and a development to words and things +unknown to other women; I repeat, then, that on the part of Marguerite +Gautier the means which she used to pay her debts without asking you for +the money necessary for it, was a scruple by which you ought to profit, +without saying anything. If you had only met me to-day, you would be too +delighted with what I promised you, and you would not question me as to +what I did the day before yesterday. We are sometimes obliged to buy the +satisfaction of our souls at the expense of our bodies, and we suffer +still more, when, afterward, that satisfaction is denied us." + +I listened, and I gazed at Marguerite with admiration. When I thought +that this marvellous creature, whose feet I had once longed to kiss, was +willing to let me take my place in her thoughts, my part in her life, +and that I was not yet content with what she gave me, I asked if man's +desire has indeed limits when, satisfied as promptly as mine had been, +it reached after something further. + +"Truly," she continued, "we poor creatures of chance have fantastic +desires and inconceivable loves. We give ourselves now for one thing, +now for another. There are men who ruin themselves without obtaining +the least thing from us; there are others who obtain us for a bouquet of +flowers. Our hearts have their caprices; it is their one distraction +and their one excuse. I gave myself to you sooner than I ever did to +any man, I swear to you; and do you know why? Because when you saw me +spitting blood you took my hand; because you wept; because you are the +only human being who has ever pitied me. I am going to say a mad thing +to you: I once had a little dog who looked at me with a sad look when +I coughed; that is the only creature I ever loved. When he died I cried +more than when my mother died. It is true that for twelve years of her +life she used to beat me. Well, I loved you all at once, as much as my +dog. If men knew what they can have for a tear, they would be better +loved and we should be less ruinous to them. + +"Your letter undeceived me; it showed me that you lacked the +intelligence of the heart; it did you more harm with me than anything +you could possibly have done. It was jealousy certainly, but ironical +and impertinent jealousy. I was already feeling sad when I received your +letter. I was looking forward to seeing you at twelve, to having lunch +with you, and wiping out, by seeing you, a thought which was with +me incessantly, and which, before I knew you, I had no difficulty in +tolerating. + +"Then," continued Marguerite, "you were the only person before whom it +seemed to me, from the first, that I could think and speak freely. All +those who come about women like me have an interest in calculating +their slightest words, in thinking of the consequences of their most +insignificant actions. Naturally we have no friends. We have selfish +lovers who spend their fortunes, riot on us, as they say, but on their +own vanity. For these people we have to be merry when they are merry, +well when they want to sup, sceptics like themselves. We are not allowed +to have hearts, under penalty of being hooted down and of ruining our +credit. + +"We no longer belong to ourselves. We are no longer beings, but things. +We stand first in their self-esteem, last in their esteem. We have women +who call themselves our friends, but they are friends like Prudence, +women who were once kept and who have still the costly tastes that their +age does not allow them to gratify. Then they become our friends, or +rather our guests at table. Their friendship is carried to the point of +servility, never to that of disinterestedness. Never do they give you +advice which is not lucrative. It means little enough to them that we +should have ten lovers extra, as long as they get dresses or a bracelet +out of them, and that they can drive in our carriage from time to time +or come to our box at the theatre. They have our last night's bouquets, +and they borrow our shawls. They never render us a service, however +slight, without seeing that they are paid twice its value. You yourself +saw when Prudence brought me the six thousand francs that I had asked +her to get from the duke, how she borrowed five hundred francs, which +she will never pay me back, or which she will pay me in hats, which will +never be taken out of their boxes. + +"We can not, then, have, or rather I can not have more than one possible +kind of happiness, and this is, sad as I sometimes am, suffering as I +always am, to find a man superior enough not to ask questions about my +life, and to be the lover of my impressions rather than of my body. +Such a man I found in the duke; but the duke is old, and old age neither +protects nor consoles. I thought I could accept the life which he +offered me; but what would you have? I was dying of ennui, and if one is +bound to be consumed, it is as well to throw oneself into the flames as +to be asphyxiated with charcoal. + +"Then I met you, young, ardent, happy, and I tried to make you the man I +had longed for in my noisy solitude. What I loved in you was not the +man who was, but the man who was going to be. You do not accept the +position, you reject it as unworthy of you; you are an ordinary lover. +Do like the others; pay me, and say no more about it." + +Marguerite, tired out with this long confession, threw herself back on +the sofa, and to stifle a slight cough put up her handkerchief to her +lips, and from that to her eyes. + +"Pardon, pardon," I murmured. "I understood it all, but I wanted to +have it from your own lips, my beloved Marguerite. Forget the rest and +remember only one thing: that we belong to one another, that we are +young, and that we love. Marguerite, do with me as you will; I am your +slave, your dog, but in the name of heaven tear up the letter which I +wrote to you and do not make me leave you to-morrow; it would kill me." + +Marguerite drew the letter from her bosom, and handing it to me with a +smile of infinite sweetness, said: + +"Here it is. I have brought it back." + +I tore the letter into fragments and kissed with tears the hand that +gave it to me. + +At this moment Prudence reappeared. + +"Look here, Prudence; do you know what he wants?" said Marguerite. + +"He wants you to forgive him." + +"Precisely." + +"And you do?" + +"One has to; but he wants more than that." + +"What, then?" + +"He wants to have supper with us." + +"And do you consent?" + +"What do you think?" + +"I think that you are two children who haven't an atom of sense between +you; but I also think that I am very hungry, and that the sooner you +consent the sooner we shall have supper." + +"Come," said Marguerite, "there is room for the three of us in my +carriage." + +"By the way," she added, turning to me, "Nanine will be gone to bed. You +must open the door; take my key, and try not to lose it again." + +I embraced Marguerite until she was almost stifled. + +Thereupon Joseph entered. + +"Sir," he said, with the air of a man who is very well satisfied with +himself, "the luggage is packed." + +"All of it?" + +"Yes, sir." + +"Well, then, unpack it again; I am not going." + + + +Chapter 16 + +I might have told you of the beginning of this liaison in a few lines, +but I wanted you to see every step by which we came, I to agree to +whatever Marguerite wished, Marguerite to be unable to live apart from +me. + +It was the day after the evening when she came to see me that I sent her +Manon Lescaut. + +From that time, seeing that I could not change my mistress's life, I +changed my own. I wished above all not to leave myself time to think +over the position I had accepted, for, in spite of myself, it was a +great distress to me. Thus my life, generally so calm, assumed all +at once an appearance of noise and disorder. Never believe, however +disinterested the love of a kept woman may be, that it will cost one +nothing. Nothing is so expensive as their caprices, flowers, boxes at +the theatre, suppers, days in the country, which one can never refuse to +one's mistress. + +As I have told you, I had little money. My father was, and still is, +receveur general at C. He has a great reputation there for loyalty, +thanks to which he was able to find the security which he needed in +order to attain this position. + +It is worth forty thousand francs a year, and during the ten years that +he has had it, he has paid off the security and put aside a dowry for +my sister. My father is the most honourable man in the world. When +my mother died, she left six thousand francs a year, which he divided +between my sister and myself on the very day when he received his +appointment; then, when I was twenty-one, he added to this little income +an annual allowance of five thousand francs, assuring me that with +eight thousand francs a year I might live very happily at Paris, if, in +addition to this, I would make a position for myself either in law or +medicine. I came to Paris, studied law, was called to the bar, and, like +many other young men, put my diploma in my pocket, and let myself drift, +as one so easily does in Paris. + +My expenses were very moderate; only I used up my year's income in +eight months, and spent the four summer months with my father, which +practically gave me twelve thousand francs a year, and, in addition, the +reputation of a good son. For the rest, not a penny of debt. + +This, then, was my position when I made the acquaintance of Marguerite. +You can well understand that, in spite of myself, my expenses soon +increased. Marguerite's nature was very capricious, and, like so many +women, she never regarded as a serious expense those thousand and one +distractions which made up her life. So, wishing to spend as much time +with me as possible, she would write to me in the morning that she would +dine with me, not at home, but at some restaurant in Paris or in the +country. I would call for her, and we would dine and go on to the +theatre, often having supper as well; and by the end of the evening I +had spent four or five louis, which came to two or three thousand francs +a month, which reduced my year to three months and a half, and made it +necessary for me either to go into debt or to leave Marguerite. I would +have consented to anything except the latter. + +Forgive me if I give you all these details, but you will see that they +were the cause of what was to follow. What I tell you is a true and +simple story, and I leave to it all the naivete of its details and all +the simplicity of its developments. + +I realized then that as nothing in the world would make me forget my +mistress, it was needful for me to find some way of meeting the expenses +into which she drew me. Then, too, my love for her had so disturbing +an influence upon me that every moment I spent away from Marguerite was +like a year, and that I felt the need of consuming these moments in the +fire of some sort of passion, and of living them so swiftly as not to +know that I was living them. + +I began by borrowing five or six thousand francs on my little capital, +and with this I took to gambling. Since gambling houses were destroyed +gambling goes on everywhere. Formerly, when one went to Frascati, one +had the chance of making a fortune; one played against money, and if +one lost, there was always the consolation of saying that one might have +gained; whereas now, except in the clubs, where there is still a certain +rigour in regard to payments, one is almost certain, the moment one +gains a considerable sum, not to receive it. You will readily understand +why. Gambling is only likely to be carried on by young people very much +in need of money and not possessing the fortune necessary for supporting +the life they lead; they gamble, then, and with this result; or else +they gain, and then those who lose serve to pay for their horses +and mistresses, which is very disagreeable. Debts are contracted, +acquaintances begun about a green table end by quarrels in which life +or honour comes to grief; and though one may be an honest man, one finds +oneself ruined by very honest men, whose only defect is that they have +not two hundred thousand francs a year. + +I need not tell you of those who cheat at play, and of how one hears one +fine day of their hasty disappearance and tardy condemnation. + +I flung myself into this rapid, noisy, and volcanic life, which had +formerly terrified me when I thought of it, and which had become for +me the necessary complement of my love for Marguerite. What else could I +have done? + +The nights that I did not spend in the Rue d'Antin, if I had spent them +alone in my own room, I could not have slept. Jealousy would have kept +me awake, and inflamed my blood and my thoughts; while gambling gave a +new turn to the fever which would otherwise have preyed upon my heart, +and fixed it upon a passion which laid hold on me in spite of myself, +until the hour struck when I might go to my mistress. Then, and by this +I knew the violence of my love, I left the table without a moment's +hesitation, whether I was winning or losing, pitying those whom I left +behind because they would not, like me, find their real happiness in +leaving it. For the most of them, gambling was a necessity; for me, it +was a remedy. Free of Marguerite, I should have been free of gambling. + +Thus, in the midst of all that, I preserved a considerable amount of +self-possession; I lost only what I was able to pay, and gained only +what I should have been able to lose. + +For the rest, chance was on my side. I made no debts, and I spent three +times as much money as when I did not gamble. It was impossible to +resist an existence which gave me an easy means of satisfying the +thousand caprices of Marguerite. As for her, she continued to love me as +much, or even more than ever. + +As I told you, I began by being allowed to stay only from midnight to +six o'clock, then I was asked sometimes to a box in the theatre, then +she sometimes came to dine with me. One morning I did not go till eight, +and there came a day when I did not go till twelve. + +But, sooner than the moral metamorphosis, a physical metamorphosis came +about in Marguerite. I had taken her cure in hand, and the poor +girl, seeing my aim, obeyed me in order to prove her gratitude. I had +succeeded without effort or trouble in almost isolating her from her +former habits. My doctor, whom I had made her meet, had told me that +only rest and calm could preserve her health, so that in place of supper +and sleepless nights, I succeeded in substituting a hygienic regime and +regular sleep. In spite of herself, Marguerite got accustomed to this +new existence, whose salutary effects she already realized. She began +to spend some of her evenings at home, or, if the weather was fine, she +wrapped herself in a shawl, put on a veil, and we went on foot, like +two children, in the dim alleys of the Champs-Elysees. She would come +in tired, take a light supper, and go to bed after a little music or +reading, which she had never been used to do. The cough, which +every time that I heard it seemed to go through my chest, had almost +completely disappeared. + +At the end of six weeks the count was entirely given up, and only the +duke obliged me to conceal my liaison with Marguerite, and even he was +sent away when I was there, under the pretext that she was asleep and +had given orders that she was not to be awakened. + +The habit or the need of seeing me which Marguerite had now contracted +had this good result: that it forced me to leave the gaming-table just +at the moment when an adroit gambler would have left it. Settling one +thing against another, I found myself in possession of some ten thousand +francs, which seemed to me an inexhaustible capital. + +The time of the year when I was accustomed to join my father and sister +had now arrived, and I did not go; both of them wrote to me frequently, +begging me to come. To these letters I replied as best I could, always +repeating that I was quite well and that I was not in need of money, two +things which, I thought, would console my father for my delay in paying +him my annual visit. + +Just then, one fine day in summer, Marguerite was awakened by the +sunlight pouring into her room, and, jumping out of bed, asked me if I +would take her into the country for the whole day. + +We sent for Prudence, and all three set off, after Marguerite had given +Nanine orders to tell the duke that she had taken advantage of the fine +day to go into the country with Mme. Duvernoy. + +Besides the presence of Mme. Duvernoy being needful on account of the +old duke, Prudence was one of those women who seem made on purpose for +days in the country. With her unchanging good-humour and her eternal +appetite, she never left a dull moment to those whom she was with, and +was perfectly happy in ordering eggs, cherries, milk, stewed rabbit, and +all the rest of the traditional lunch in the country. + +We had now only to decide where we should go. It was once more Prudence +who settled the difficulty. + +"Do you want to go to the real country?" she asked. + +"Yes." + +"Well, let us go to Bougival, at the Point du Jour, at Widow Arnould's. +Armand, order an open carriage." + +An hour and a half later we were at Widow Arnould's. + +Perhaps you know the inn, which is a hotel on week days and a tea garden +on Sundays. There is a magnificent view from the garden, which is at +the height of an ordinary first floor. On the left the Aqueduct of Marly +closes in the horizon, on the right one looks across bill after hill; +the river, almost without current at that spot, unrolls itself like a +large white watered ribbon between the plain of the Gabillons and the +island of Croissy, lulled eternally by the trembling of its high poplars +and the murmur of its willows. Beyond, distinct in the sunlight, rise +little white houses, with red roofs, and manufactories, which, at that +distance, put an admirable finish to the landscape. Beyond that, Paris +in the mist! As Prudence had told us, it was the real country, and, I +must add, it was a real lunch. + +It is not only out of gratitude for the happiness I owe it, but +Bougival, in spite of its horrible name, is one of the prettiest places +that it is possible to imagine. I have travelled a good deal, and seen +much grander things, but none more charming than this little village +gaily seated at the foot of the hill which protects it. + +Mme. Arnould asked us if we would take a boat, and Marguerite and +Prudence accepted joyously. + +People have always associated the country with love, and they have done +well; nothing affords so fine a frame for the woman whom one loves as +the blue sky, the odours, the flowers, the breeze, the shining solitude +of fields, or woods. However much one loves a woman, whatever confidence +one may have in her, whatever certainty her past may offer us as to her +future, one is always more or less jealous. If you have been in love, +you must have felt the need of isolating from this world the being in +whom you would live wholly. It seems as if, however indifferent she may +be to her surroundings, the woman whom one loves loses something of her +perfume and of her unity at the contact of men and things. As for me, I +experienced that more than most. Mine was not an ordinary love; I was +as much in love as an ordinary creature could be, but with Marguerite +Gautier; that is to say, that at Paris, at every step, I might elbow +the man who had already been her lover or who was about to, while in +the country, surrounded by people whom we had never seen and who had no +concern with us, alone with nature in the spring-time of the year, that +annual pardon, and shut off from the noise of the city, I could hide my +love, and love without shame or fear. + +The courtesan disappeared little by little. I had by me a young and +beautiful woman, whom I loved, and who loved me, and who was called +Marguerite; the past had no more reality and the future no more clouds. +The sun shone upon my mistress as it might have shone upon the purest +bride. We walked together in those charming spots which seemed to have +been made on purpose to recall the verses of Lamartine or to sing the +melodies of Scudo. Marguerite was dressed in white, she leaned on my +arm, saying over to me again under the starry sky the words she had said +to me the day before, and far off the world went on its way, without +darkening with its shadow the radiant picture of our youth and love. + +That was the dream that the hot sun brought to me that day through the +leaves of the trees, as, lying on the grass of the island on which we +had landed, I let my thought wander, free from the human links that had +bound it, gathering to itself every hope that came in its way. + +Add to this that from the place where I was I could see on the shore +a charming little house of two stories, with a semicircular railing; +through the railing, in front of the house, a green lawn, smooth as +velvet, and behind the house a little wood full of mysterious retreats, +where the moss must efface each morning the pathway that had been +made the day before. Climbing flowers clung about the doorway of this +uninhabited house, mounting as high as the first story. + +I looked at the house so long that I began by thinking of it as mine, so +perfectly did it embody the dream that I was dreaming; I saw Marguerite +and myself there, by day in the little wood that covered the hillside, +in the evening seated on the grass, and I asked myself if earthly +creatures had ever been so happy as we should be. + +"What a pretty house!" Marguerite said to me, as she followed the +direction of my gaze and perhaps of my thought. + +"Where?" asked Prudence. + +"Yonder," and Marguerite pointed to the house in question. + +"Ah, delicious!" replied Prudence. "Do you like it?" + +"Very much." + +"Well, tell the duke to take it for you; he would do so, I am sure. I'll +see about it if you like." + +Marguerite looked at me, as if to ask me what I thought. My dream +vanished at the last words of Prudence, and brought me back to reality +so brutally that I was still stunned with the fall. + +"Yes, yes, an excellent idea," I stammered, not knowing what I was +saying. + +"Well, I will arrange that," said Marguerite, freeing my hand, and +interpreting my words according to her own desire. "Let us go and see if +it is to let." + +The house was empty, and to let for two thousand francs. + +"Would you be happy here?" she said to me. + +"Am I sure of coming here?" + +"And for whom else should I bury myself here, if not for you?" + +"Well, then, Marguerite, let me take it myself." + +"You are mad; not only is it unnecessary, but it would be dangerous. You +know perfectly well that I have no right to accept it save from one man. +Let me alone, big baby, and say nothing." + +"That means," said Prudence, "that when I have two days free I will come +and spend them with you." + +We left the house, and started on our return to Paris, talking over +the new plan. I held Marguerite in my arms, and as I got down from the +carriage, I had already begun to look upon her arrangement with less +critical eyes. + + + +Chapter 17 + +Next day Marguerite sent me away very early, saying that the duke was +coming at an early hour, and promising to write to me the moment he +went, and to make an appointment for the evening. In the course of the +day I received this note: + +"I am going to Bougival with the duke; be at Prudence's to-night at +eight." + +At the appointed hour Marguerite came to me at Mme. Duvernoy's. "Well, +it is all settled," she said, as she entered. "The house is taken?" +asked Prudence. "Yes; he agreed at once." + +I did not know the duke, but I felt ashamed of deceiving him. + +"But that is not all," continued Marguerite. + +"What else is there?" + +"I have been seeing about a place for Armand to stay." + +"In the same house?" asked Prudence, laughing. + +"No, at Point du Jour, where we had dinner, the duke and I. While he +was admiring the view, I asked Mme. Arnould (she is called Mme. Arnould, +isn't she?) if there were any suitable rooms, and she showed me just the +very thing: salon, anteroom, and bed-room, at sixty francs a month; the +whole place furnished in a way to divert a hypochondriac. I took it. Was +I right?" I flung my arms around her neck and kissed her. + +"It will be charming," she continued. "You have the key of the little +door, and I have promised the duke the key of the front door, which +he will not take, because he will come during the day when he comes. I +think, between ourselves, that he is enchanted with a caprice which will +keep me out of Paris for a time, and so silence the objections of his +family. However, he has asked me how I, loving Paris as I do, could make +up my mind to bury myself in the country. I told him that I was ill, and +that I wanted rest. He seemed to have some difficulty in believing me. +The poor old man is always on the watch. We must take every precaution, +my dear Armand, for he will have me watched while I am there; and it +isn't only the question of his taking a house for me, but he has my +debts to pay, and unluckily I have plenty. Does all that suit you?" + +"Yes," I answered, trying to quiet the scruples which this way of living +awoke in me from time to time. + +"We went all over the house, and we shall have everything perfect. The +duke is going to look after every single thing. Ah, my dear," she added, +kissing me, "you're in luck; it's a millionaire who makes your bed for +you." + +"And when shall you move into the house?" inquired Prudence. + +"As soon as possible." + +"Will you take your horses and carriage?" + +"I shall take the whole house, and you can look after my place while I +am away." + +A week later Marguerite was settled in her country house, and I was +installed at Point du Jour. + +Then began an existence which I shall have some difficulty in describing +to you. At first Marguerite could not break entirely with her former +habits, and, as the house was always en fete, all the women whom +she knew came to see her. For a whole month there was not a day when +Marguerite had not eight or ten people to meals. Prudence, on her side, +brought down all the people she knew, and did the honours of the house +as if the house belonged to her. + +The duke's money paid for all that, as you may imagine; but from time +to time Prudence came to me, asking for a note for a thousand francs, +professedly on behalf of Marguerite. You know I had won some money at +gambling; I therefore immediately handed over to Prudence what she +asked for Marguerite, and fearing lest she should require more than I +possessed, I borrowed at Paris a sum equal to that which I had already +borrowed and paid back. I was then once more in possession of some ten +thousand francs, without reckoning my allowance. However, Marguerite's +pleasure in seeing her friends was a little moderated when she saw the +expense which that pleasure entailed, and especially the necessity she +was sometimes in of asking me for money. The duke, who had taken the +house in order that Marguerite might rest there, no longer visited it, +fearing to find himself in the midst of a large and merry company, by +whom he did not wish to be seen. This came about through his having once +arrived to dine tete-a-tete with Marguerite, and having fallen upon +a party of fifteen, who were still at lunch at an hour when he was +prepared to sit down to dinner. He had unsuspectingly opened the +dining-room door, and had been greeted by a burst of laughter, and had +had to retire precipitately before the impertinent mirth of the women +who were assembled there. + +Marguerite rose from table, and joined the duke in the next room, where +she tried, as far as possible, to induce him to forget the incident, but +the old man, wounded in his dignity, bore her a grudge for it, and could +not forgive her. He said to her, somewhat cruelly, that he was tired of +paying for the follies of a woman who could not even have him treated +with respect under his own roof, and he went away in great indignation. + +Since that day he had never been heard of. + +In vain Marguerite dismissed her guests, changed her way of life; +the duke was not to be heard of. I was the gainer in so, far that my +mistress now belonged to me more completely, and my dream was at length +realized. Marguerite could not be without me. Not caring what the result +might be, she publicly proclaimed our liaison, and I had come to live +entirely at her house. The servants addressed me officially as their +master. + +Prudence had strictly sermonized Marguerite in regard to her new manner +of life; but she had replied that she loved me, that she could not live +without me, and that, happen what might, she would not sacrifice the +pleasure of having me constantly with her, adding that those who were +not satisfied with this arrangement were free to stay away. So much +I had heard one day when Prudence had said to Marguerite that she had +something very important to tell her, and I had listened at the door of +the room into which they had shut themselves. + +Not long after, Prudence returned again. I was at the other end of the +garden when she arrived, and she did not see me. I had no doubt, from +the way in which Marguerite came to meet her, that another similar +conversation was going to take place, and I was anxious to hear what +it was about. The two women shut themselves into a boudoir, and I put +myself within hearing. + +"Well?" said Marguerite. + +"Well, I have seen the duke." + +"What did he say?" + +"That he would gladly forgive you in regard to the scene which took +place, but that he has learned that you are publicly living with M. +Armand Duval, and that he will never forgive that. 'Let Marguerite leave +the young man,' he said to me, 'and, as in the past, I will give her all +that she requires; if not, let her ask nothing more from me.'" + +"And you replied?" + +"That I would report his decision to you, and I promised him that I +would bring you into a more reasonable frame of mind. Only think, my +dear child, of the position that you are losing, and that Armand can +never give you. He loves you with all his soul, but he has no fortune +capable of supplying your needs, and he will be bound to leave you one +day, when it will be too late and when the duke will refuse to do any +more for you. Would you like me to speak to Armand?" + +Marguerite seemed to be thinking, for she answered nothing. My heart +beat violently while I waited for her reply. + +"No," she answered, "I will not leave Armand, and I will not conceal the +fact that I am living with him. It is folly no doubt, but I love him. +What would you have me do? And then, now that he has got accustomed to +be always with me, he would suffer too cruelly if he had to leave me so +much as an hour a day. Besides, I have not such a long time to live that +I need make myself miserable in order to please an old man whose very +sight makes me feel old. Let him keep his money; I will do without it." + +"But what will you do?" + +"I don't in the least know." + +Prudence was no doubt going to make some reply, but I entered suddenly +and flung myself at Marguerite's feet, covering her hands with tears in +my joy at being thus loved. + +"My life is yours, Marguerite; you need this man no longer. Am I not +here? Shall I ever leave you, and can I ever repay you for the happiness +that you give me? No more barriers, my Marguerite; we love; what matters +all the rest?" + +"Oh yes, I love you, my Armand," she murmured, putting her two arms +around my neck. "I love you as I never thought I should ever love. We +will be happy; we will live quietly, and I will say good-bye forever to +the life for which I now blush. You won't ever reproach me for the past? +Tell me!" + +Tears choked my voice. I could only reply by clasping Marguerite to my +heart. + +"Well," said she, turning to Prudence, and speaking in a broken voice, +"you can report this scene to the duke, and you can add that we have no +longer need of him." + +From that day forth the duke was never referred to. Marguerite was no +longer the same woman that I had known. She avoided everything that +might recall to me the life which she had been leading when I first +met her. Never did wife or sister surround husband or brother with +such loving care as she had for me. Her nature was morbidly open to all +impressions and accessible to all sentiments. She had broken equally +with her friends and with her ways, with her words and with her +extravagances. Any one who had seen us leaving the house to go on the +river in the charming little boat which I had bought would never have +believed that the woman dressed in white, wearing a straw hat, and +carrying on her arm a little silk pelisse to protect her against the +damp of the river, was that Marguerite Gautier who, only four months +ago, had been the talk of the town for the luxury and scandal of her +existence. + +Alas, we made haste to be happy, as if we knew that we were not to be +happy long. + +For two months we had not even been to Paris. No one came to see us, +except Prudence and Julie Duprat, of whom I have spoken to you, and to +whom Marguerite was afterward to give the touching narrative that I have +there. + +I passed whole days at the feet of my mistress. We opened the windows +upon the garden, and, as we watched the summer ripening in its flowers +and under the shadow of the trees, we breathed together that true life +which neither Marguerite nor I had ever known before. + +Her delight in the smallest things was like that of a child. There were +days when she ran in the garden, like a child of ten, after a butterfly +or a dragon-fly. This courtesan who had cost more money in bouquets than +would have kept a whole family in comfort, would sometimes sit on the +grass for an hour, examining the simple flower whose name she bore. + +It was at this time that she read Manon Lescaut, over and over again. +I found her several times making notes in the book, and she always +declared that when a woman loves, she can not do as Manon did. + +The duke wrote to her two or three times. She recognised the writing and +gave me the letters without reading them. Sometimes the terms of these +letters brought tears to my eyes. He had imagined that by closing his +purse to Marguerite, he would bring her back to him; but when he had +perceived the uselessness of these means, he could hold out no longer; +he wrote and asked that he might see her again, as before, no matter on +what conditions. + +I read these urgent and repeated letters, and tore them in pieces, +without telling Marguerite what they contained and without advising her +to see the old man again, though I was half inclined to, so much did I +pity him, but I was afraid lest, if I so advised her she should think +that I wished the duke, not merely to come and see her again, but to +take over the expenses of the house; I feared, above all, that she might +think me capable of shirking the responsibilities of every consequence +to which her love for me might lead her. + +It thus came about that the duke, receiving no reply, ceased to write, +and that Marguerite and I continued to live together without giving a +thought to the future. + + + +Chapter 18 + +It would be difficult to give you all the details of our new life. It +was made up of a series of little childish events, charming for us but +insignificant to anyone else. You know what it is to be in love with +a woman, you know how it cuts short the days, and with what loving +listlessness one drifts into the morrow. You know that forgetfulness of +everything which comes of a violent confident, reciprocated love. Every +being who is not the beloved one seems a useless being in creation. One +regrets having cast scraps of one's heart to other women, and one can +not believe in the possibility of ever pressing another hand than that +which one holds between one's hands. The mind admits neither work nor +remembrance; nothing, in short, which can distract it from the one +thought in which it is ceaselessly absorbed. Every day one discovers in +one's mistress a new charm and unknown delights. Existence itself is but +the unceasing accomplishment of an unchanging desire; the soul is but +the vestal charged to feed the sacred fire of love. + +We often went at night-time to sit in the little wood above the house; +there we listened to the cheerful harmonies of evening, both of us +thinking of the coming hours which should leave us to one another till +the dawn of day. At other times we did not get up all day; we did not +even let the sunlight enter our room. + +The curtains were hermetically closed, and for a moment the external +world did not exist for us. Nanine alone had the right to open our door, +but only to bring in our meals and even these we took without getting +up, interrupting them with laughter and gaiety. To that succeeded a +brief sleep, for, disappearing into the depths of our love, we were like +two divers who only come to the surface to take breath. + +Nevertheless, I surprised moments of sadness, even tears, in Marguerite; +I asked her the cause of her trouble, and she answered: + +"Our love is not like other loves, my Armand. You love me as if I had +never belonged to another, and I tremble lest later on, repenting of +your love, and accusing me of my past, you should let me fall back into +that life from which you have taken me. I think that now that I have +tasted of another life, I should die if I went back to the old one. Tell +me that you will never leave me!" + +"I swear it!" + +At these words she looked at me as if to read in my eyes whether my oath +was sincere; then flung herself into my arms, and, hiding her head in my +bosom, said to me: "You don't know how much I love you!" + +One evening, seated on the balcony outside the window, we looked at the +moon which seemed to rise with difficulty out of its bed of clouds, +and we listened to the wind violently rustling the trees; we held each +other's hands, and for a whole quarter of an hour we had not spoken, +when Marguerite said to me: + +"Winter is at hand. Would you like for us to go abroad?" + +"Where?" + +"To Italy." + +"You are tired of here?" + +"I am afraid of the winter; I am particularly afraid of your return to +Paris." + +"Why?" + +"For many reasons." + +And she went on abruptly, without giving me her reasons for fears: + +"Will you go abroad? I will sell all that I have; we will go and live +there, and there will be nothing left of what I was; no one will know +who I am. Will you?" + +"By all means, if you like, Marguerite, let us travel," I said. "But +where is the necessity of selling things which you will be glad of when +we return? I have not a large enough fortune to accept such a sacrifice; +but I have enough for us to be able to travel splendidly for five or six +months, if that will amuse you the least in the world." + +"After all, no," she said, leaving the window and going to sit down +on the sofa at the other end of the room. "Why should we spend money +abroad? I cost you enough already, here." + +"You reproach me, Marguerite; it isn't generous." + +"Forgive me, my friend," she said, giving me her hand. "This thunder +weather gets on my nerves; I do not say what I intend to say." + +And after embracing me she fell into a long reverie. + +Scenes of this kind often took place, and though I could not discover +their cause, I could not fail to see in Marguerite signs of disquietude +in regard to the future. She could not doubt my love, which increased +day by day, and yet I often found her sad, without being able to get any +explanation of the reason, except some physical cause. Fearing that so +monotonous a life was beginning to weary her, I proposed returning to +Paris; but she always refused, assuring me that she could not be so +happy anywhere as in the country. + +Prudence now came but rarely; but she often wrote letters which I never +asked to see, though, every time they came, they seemed to preoccupy +Marguerite deeply. I did not know what to think. + +One day Marguerite was in her room. I entered. She was writing. "To whom +are you writing?" I asked. "To Prudence. Do you want to see what I am +writing?" + +I had a horror of anything that might look like suspicion, and I +answered that I had no desire to know what she was writing; and yet +I was certain that letter would have explained to me the cause of her +sadness. + +Next day the weather was splendid.' Marguerite proposed to me to +take the boat and go as far as the island of Croissy. She seemed very +cheerful; when we got back it was five o'clock. + +"Mme. Duvernoy has been here," said Nanine, as she saw us enter. "She +has gone again?" asked Marguerite. + +"Yes, madame, in the carriage; she said it was arranged." + +"Quite right," said Marguerite sharply. "Serve the dinner." + +Two days afterward there came a letter from Prudence, and for a +fortnight Marguerite seemed to have got rid of her mysterious gloom, +for which she constantly asked my forgiveness, now that it no longer +existed. Still, the carriage did not return. + +"How is it that Prudence does not send you back your carriage?" I asked +one day. + +"One of the horses is ill, and there are some repairs to be done. It is +better to have that done while we are here, and don't need a carriage, +than to wait till we get back to Paris." + +Prudence came two days afterward, and confirmed what Marguerite had +said. The two women went for a walk in the garden, and when I joined +them they changed the conversation. That night, as she was going, +Prudence complained of the cold and asked Marguerite to lend her a +shawl. + +So a month passed, and all the time Marguerite was more joyous and more +affectionate than she ever had been. Nevertheless, the carriage did not +return, the shawl had not been sent back, and I began to be anxious in +spite of myself, and as I knew in which drawer Marguerite put Prudence's +letters, I took advantage of a moment when she was at the other end of +the garden, went to the drawer, and tried to open it; in vain, for it +was locked. When I opened the drawer in which the trinkets and diamonds +were usually kept, these opened without resistance, but the jewel cases +had disappeared, along with their contents no doubt. + +A sharp fear penetrated my heart. I might indeed ask Marguerite for the +truth in regard to these disappearances, but it was certain that she +would not confess it. + +"My good Marguerite," I said to her, "I am going to ask your permission +to go to Paris. They do not know my address, and I expect there are +letters from my father waiting for me. I have no doubt he is concerned; +I ought to answer him." + +"Go, my friend," she said; "but be back early." I went straight to +Prudence. + +"Come," said I, without beating about the bush, "tell me frankly, where +are Marguerite's horses?" + +"Sold." + +"The shawl?" + +"Sold." + +"The diamonds?" + +"Pawned." + +"And who has sold and pawned them?" + +"Why did you not tell me?" + +"Because Marguerite made me promise not to." + +"And why did you not ask me for money?" + +"Because she wouldn't let me." + +"And where has this money gone?" + +"In payments." + +"Is she much in debt?" + +"Thirty thousand francs, or thereabouts. Ah, my dear fellow, didn't +I tell you? You wouldn't believe me; now you are convinced. The +upholsterer whom the duke had agreed to settle with was shown out of the +house when he presented himself, and the duke wrote next day to say that +he would answer for nothing in regard to Mlle. Gautier. This man wanted +his money; he was given part payment out of the few thousand francs that +I got from you; then some kind souls warned him that his debtor had been +abandoned by the duke and was living with a penniless young man; the +other creditors were told the same; they asked for their money, and +seized some of the goods. Marguerite wanted to sell everything, but it +was too late, and besides I should have opposed it. But it was necessary +to pay, and in order not to ask you for money, she sold her horses and +her shawls, and pawned her jewels. Would you like to see the receipts +and the pawn tickets?" + +And Prudence opened the drawer and showed me the papers. + +"Ah, you think," she continued, with the insistence of a woman who can +say, I was right after all, "ah, you think it is enough to be in love, +and to go into the country and lead a dreamy, pastoral life. No, my +friend, no. By the side of that ideal life, there is a material life, +and the purest resolutions are held to earth by threads which seem +slight enough, but which are of iron, not easily to be broken. If +Marguerite has not been unfaithful to you twenty times, it is because +she has an exceptional nature. It is not my fault for not advising +her to, for I couldn't bear to see the poor girl stripping herself +of everything. She wouldn't; she replied that she loved you, and she +wouldn't be unfaithful to you for anything in the world. All that is +very pretty, very poetical, but one can't pay one's creditors in that +coin, and now she can't free herself from debt, unless she can raise +thirty thousand francs." + +"All right, I will provide that amount." + +"You will borrow it?" + +"Good heavens! Why, yes!" + +"A fine thing that will be to do; you will fall out with your father, +cripple your resources, and one doesn't find thirty thousand francs from +one day to another. Believe me, my dear Armand, I know women better than +you do; do not commit this folly; you will be sorry for it one day. Be +reasonable. I don't advise you to leave Marguerite, but live with her +as you did at the beginning. Let her find the means to get out of this +difficulty. The duke will come back in a little while. The Comte de +N., if she would take him, he told me yesterday even, would pay all her +debts, and give her four or five thousand francs a month. He has two +hundred thousand a year. It would be a position for her, while you +will certainly be obliged to leave her. Don't wait till you are ruined, +especially as the Comte de N. is a fool, and nothing would prevent your +still being Marguerite's lover. She would cry a little at the beginning, +but she would come to accustom herself to it, and you would thank me +one day for what you had done. Imagine that Marguerite is married, and +deceive the husband; that is all. I have already told you all this +once, only at that time it was merely advice, and now it is almost a +necessity." + +What Prudence said was cruelly true. + +"This is how it is," she went on, putting away the papers she had just +shown me; "women like Marguerite always foresee that someone will love +them, never that they will love; otherwise they would put aside money, +and at thirty they could afford the luxury of having a lover for +nothing. If I had only known once what I know now! In short, say nothing +to Marguerite, and bring her back to Paris. You have lived with her +alone for four or five months; that is quite enough. Shut your eyes now; +that is all that anyone asks of you. At the end of a fortnight she will +take the Comte de N., and she will save up during the winter, and next +summer you will begin over again. That is how things are done, my dear +fellow!" + +And Prudence appeared to be enchanted with her advice, which I refused +indignantly. + +Not only my love and my dignity would not let me act thus, but I was +certain that, feeling as she did now, Marguerite would die rather than +accept another lover. + +"Enough joking," I said to Prudence; "tell me exactly how much +Marguerite is in need of." + +"I have told you: thirty thousand francs." + +"And when does she require this sum?" + +"Before the end of two months." + +"She shall have it." + +Prudence shrugged her shoulders. + +"I will give it to you," I continued, "but you must swear to me that you +will not tell Marguerite that I have given it to you." + +"Don't be afraid." + +"And if she sends you anything else to sell or pawn, let me know." + +"There is no danger. She has nothing left." + +I went straight to my own house to see if there were any letters from my +father. There were four. + + + +Chapter 19 + +In his first three letters my father inquired the cause of my silence; +in the last he allowed me to see that he had heard of my change of life, +and informed me that he was about to come and see me. + +I have always had a great respect and a sincere affection for my father. +I replied that I had been travelling for a short time, and begged him +to let me know beforehand what day he would arrive, so that I could be +there to meet him. + +I gave my servant my address in the country, telling him to bring me +the first letter that came with the postmark of C., then I returned to +Bougival. + +Marguerite was waiting for me at the garden gate. She looked at me +anxiously. Throwing her arms round my neck, she said to me: "Have you +seen Prudence?" + +"No." + +"You were a long time in Paris." + +"I found letters from my father to which I had to reply." + +A few minutes afterward Nanine entered, all out of breath. Marguerite +rose and talked with her in whispers. When Nanine had gone out +Marguerite sat down by me again and said, taking my hand: + +"Why did you deceive me? You went to see Prudence." + +"Who told you?" + +"Nanine." + +"And how did she know?" + +"She followed you." + +"You told her to follow me?" + +"Yes. I thought that you must have had a very strong motive for going to +Paris, after not leaving me for four months. I was afraid that something +might happen to you, or that you were perhaps going to see another +woman." + +"Child!" + +"Now I am relieved. I know what you have done, but I don't yet know what +you have been told." + +I showed Marguerite my father's letters. + +"That is not what I am asking you about. What I want to know is why you +went to see Prudence." + +"To see her." + +"That's a lie, my friend." + +"Well, I went to ask her if the horse was any better, and if she wanted +your shawl and your jewels any longer." + +Marguerite blushed, but did not answer. + +"And," I continued, "I learned what you had done with your horses, +shawls, and jewels." + +"And you are vexed?" + +"I am vexed that it never occurred to you to ask me for what you were in +want of." + +"In a liaison like ours, if the woman has any sense of dignity at all, +she ought to make every possible sacrifice rather than ask her lover for +money and so give a venal character to her love. You love me, I am sure, +but you do not know on how slight a thread depends the love one has +for a woman like me. Who knows? Perhaps some day when you were bored +or worried you would fancy you saw a carefully concerted plan in our +liaison. Prudence is a chatterbox. What need had I of the horses? It was +an economy to sell them. I don't use them and I don't spend anything +on their keep; if you love me, I ask nothing more, and you will love me +just as much without horses, or shawls, or diamonds." + +All that was said so naturally that the tears came to my eyes as I +listened. + +"But, my good Marguerite," I replied, pressing her hands lovingly, "you +knew that one day I should discover the sacrifice you had made, and that +the moment I discovered it I should allow it no longer." + +"But why?" + +"Because, my dear child, I can not allow your affection for me to +deprive you of even a trinket. I too should not like you to be able, +in a moment when you were bored or worried, to think that if you were +living with somebody else those moments would not exist; and to repent, +if only for a minute, of living with me. In a few days your horses, +your diamonds, and your shawls shall be returned to you. They are as +necessary to you as air is to life, and it may be absurd, but I like you +better showy than simple." + +"Then you no longer love me." + +"Foolish creature!" + +"If you loved me, you would let me love you my own way; on the +contrary, you persist in only seeing in me a woman to whom luxury is +indispensable, and whom you think you are always obliged to pay. You are +ashamed to accept the proof of my love. In spite of yourself, you think +of leaving me some day, and you want to put your disinterestedness +beyond risk of suspicion. You are right, my friend, but I had better +hopes." + +And Marguerite made a motion to rise; I held her, and said to her: + +"I want you to be happy and to have nothing to reproach me for, that is +all." + +"And we are going to be separated!" + +"Why, Marguerite, who can separate us?" I cried. + +"You, who will not let me take you on your own level, but insist on +taking me on mine; you, who wish me to keep the luxury in the midst of +which I have lived, and so keep the moral distance which separates us; +you, who do not believe that my affection is sufficiently disinterested +to share with me what you have, though we could live happily enough on +it together, and would rather ruin yourself, because you are still +bound by a foolish prejudice. Do you really think that I could compare +a carriage and diamonds with your love? Do you think that my real +happiness lies in the trifles that mean so much when one has nothing +to love, but which become trifling indeed when one has? You will pay my +debts, realize your estate, and then keep me? How long will that last? +Two or three months, and then it will be too late to live the life I +propose, for then you will have to take everything from me, and that +is what a man of honour can not do; while now you have eight or ten +thousand francs a year, on which we should be able to live. I will sell +the rest of what I do not want, and with this alone I will make two +thousand francs a year. We will take a nice little flat in which we can +both live. In the summer we will go into the country, not to a house +like this, but to a house just big enough for two people. You are +independent, I am free, we are young; in heaven's name, Armand, do not +drive me back into the life I had to lead once!" + +I could not answer. Tears of gratitude and love filled my eyes, and I +flung myself into Marguerite's arms. + +"I wanted," she continued, "to arrange everything without telling you, +pay all my debts, and take a new flat. In October we should have been +back in Paris, and all would have come out; but since Prudence has +told you all, you will have to agree beforehand, instead of agreeing +afterward. Do you love me enough for that?" + +It was impossible to resist such devotion. I kissed her hands ardently, +and said: + +"I will do whatever you wish." + +It was agreed that we should do as she had planned. Thereupon, she went +wild with delight; danced, sang, amused herself with calling up pictures +of her new flat in all its simplicity, and began to consult me as to +its position and arrangement. I saw how happy and proud she was of this +resolution, which seemed as if it would bring us into closer and closer +relationship, and I resolved to do my own share. In an instant I decided +the whole course of my life. I put my affairs in order, and made over +to Marguerite the income which had come to me from my mother, and which +seemed little enough in return for the sacrifice which I was accepting. +There remained the five thousand francs a year from my father; and, +whatever happened, I had always enough to live on. I did not tell +Marguerite what I had done, certain as I was that she would refuse the +gift. This income came from a mortgage of sixty thousand francs on a +house that I had never even seen. All that I knew was that every three +months my father's solicitor, an old friend of the family, handed over +to me seven hundred and fifty francs in return for my receipt. + +The day when Marguerite and I came to Paris to look for a flat, I went +to this solicitor and asked him what had to be done in order to make +over this income to another person. The good man imagined I was ruined, +and questioned me as to the cause of my decision. As I knew that I +should be obliged, sooner or later, to say in whose favour I made this +transfer, I thought it best to tell him the truth at once. He made none +of the objections that his position as friend and solicitor authorized +him to make, and assured me that he would arrange the whole affair in +the best way possible. Naturally, I begged him to employ the greatest +discretion in regard to my father, and on leaving him I rejoined +Marguerite, who was waiting for me at Julie Duprat's, where she had gone +in preference to going to listen to the moralizings of Prudence. + +We began to look out for flats. All those that we saw seemed to +Marguerite too dear, and to me too simple. However, we finally found, +in one of the quietest parts of Paris, a little house, isolated from +the main part of the building. Behind this little house was a +charming garden, surrounded by walls high enough to screen us from our +neighbours, and low enough not to shut off our own view. It was better +than our expectations. + +While I went to give notice at my own flat, Marguerite went to see +a business agent, who, she told me, had already done for one of her +friends exactly what she wanted him to do for her. She came on to the +Rue de Provence in a state of great delight. The man had promised to pay +all her debts, to give her a receipt for the amount, and to hand over +to her twenty thousand francs, in return for the whole of her furniture. +You have seen by the amount taken at the sale that this honest man would +have gained thirty thousand francs out of his client. + +We went back joyously to Bougival, talking over our projects for the +future, which, thanks to our heedlessness, and especially to our love, +we saw in the rosiest light. + +A week later, as we were having lunch, Nanine came to tell us that my +servant was asking for me. "Let him come in," I said. + +"Sir," said he, "your father has arrived in Paris, and begs you to +return at once to your rooms, where he is waiting for you." + +This piece of news was the most natural thing in the world, yet, as we +heard it, Marguerite and I looked at one another. We foresaw trouble. +Before she had spoken a word, I replied to her thought, and, taking her +hand, I said, "Fear nothing." + +"Come back as soon as possible," whispered Marguerite, embracing me; "I +will wait for you at the window." + +I sent on Joseph to tell my father that I was on my way. Two hours later +I was at the Rue de Provence. + + + +Chapter 20 + +My father was seated in my room in his dressing-gown; he was writing, +and I saw at once, by the way in which he raised his eyes to me when I +came in, that there was going to be a serious discussion. I went up to +him, all the same, as if I had seen nothing in his face, embraced him, +and said: + +"When did you come, father?" + +"Last night." + +"Did you come straight here, as usual?" + +"Yes." + +"I am very sorry not to have been here to receive you." + +I expected that the sermon which my father's cold face threatened would +begin at once; but he said nothing, sealed the letter which he had just +written, and gave it to Joseph to post. + +When we were alone, my father rose, and leaning against the +mantel-piece, said to me: + +"My dear Armand, we have serious matters to discuss." + +"I am listening, father." + +"You promise me to be frank?" + +"Am I not accustomed to be so?" + +"Is it not true that you are living with a woman called Marguerite +Gautier?" + +"Yes." + +"Do you know what this woman was?" + +"A kept woman." + +"And it is for her that you have forgotten to come and see your sister +and me this year?" + +"Yes, father, I admit it." + +"You are very much in love with this woman?" + +"You see it, father, since she has made me fail in duty toward you, for +which I humbly ask your forgiveness to-day." + +My father, no doubt, was not expecting such categorical answers, for he +seemed to reflect a moment, and then said to me: + +"You have, of course, realized that you can not always live like that?" + +"I fear so, father, but I have not realized it." + +"But you must realize," continued my father, in a dryer tone, "that I, +at all events, should not permit it." + +"I have said to myself that as long as I did nothing contrary to the +respect which I owe to the traditional probity of the family I could +live as I am living, and this has reassured me somewhat in regard to the +fears I have had." + +Passions are formidable enemies to sentiment. I was prepared for every +struggle, even with my father, in order that I might keep Marguerite. + +"Then, the moment is come when you must live otherwise." + +"Why, father?" + +"Because you are doing things which outrage the respect that you imagine +you have for your family." + +"I don't follow your meaning." + +"I will explain it to you. Have a mistress if you will; pay her as a +man of honour is bound to pay the woman whom he keeps, by all means; but +that you should come to forget the most sacred things for her, that +you should let the report of your scandalous life reach my quiet +countryside, and set a blot on the honourable name that I have given +you, it can not, it shall not be." + +"Permit me to tell you, father, that those who have given you +information about me have been ill-informed. I am the lover of Mlle. +Gautier; I live with her; it is the most natural thing in the world. +I do not give Mlle. Gautier the name you have given me; I spend on her +account what my means allow me to spend; I have no debts; and, in short, +I am not in a position which authorizes a father to say to his son what +you have just said to me." + +"A father is always authorized to rescue his son out of evil paths. You +have not done any harm yet, but you will do it." + +"Father!" + +"Sir, I know more of life than you do. There are no entirely pure +sentiments except in perfectly chaste women. Every Manon can have her +own Des Grieux, and times are changed. It would be useless for the +world to grow older if it did not correct its ways. You will leave your +mistress." + +"I am very sorry to disobey you, father, but it is impossible." + +"I will compel you to do so." + +"Unfortunately, father, there no longer exists a Sainte Marguerite to +which courtesans can be sent, and, even if there were, I would follow +Mlle. Gautier if you succeeded in having her sent there. What would you +have? Perhaps am in the wrong, but I can only be happy as long as I am +the lover of this woman." + +"Come, Armand, open your eyes. Recognise that it is your father who +speaks to you, your father who has always loved you, and who only +desires your happiness. Is it honourable for you to live like husband +and wife with a woman whom everybody has had?" + +"What does it matter, father, if no one will any more? What does it +matter, if this woman loves me, if her whole life is changed through the +love which she has for me and the love which I have for her? What does +it matter, if she has become a different woman?" + +"Do you think, then, sir, that the mission of a man of honour is to +go about converting lost women? Do you think that God has given such +a grotesque aim to life, and that the heart should have any room for +enthusiasm of that kind? What will be the end of this marvellous cure, +and what will you think of what you are saying to-day by the time you +are forty? You will laugh at this love of yours, if you can still laugh, +and if it has not left too serious a trace in your past. What would you +be now if your father had had your ideas and had given up his life +to every impulse of this kind, instead of rooting himself firmly in +convictions of honour and steadfastness? Think it over, Armand, and do +not talk any more such absurdities. Come, leave this woman; your father +entreats you." + +I answered nothing. + +"Armand," continued my father, "in the name of your sainted mother, +abandon this life, which you will forget more easily than you think. You +are tied to it by an impossible theory. You are twenty-four; think of +the future. You can not always love this woman, who also can not always +love you. You both exaggerate your love. You put an end to your whole +career. One step further, and you will no longer be able to leave the +path you have chosen, and you will suffer all your life for what you +have done in your youth. Leave Paris. Come and stay for a month or two +with your sister and me. Rest in our quiet family affection will soon +heal you of this fever, for it is nothing else. Meanwhile, your mistress +will console herself; she will take another lover; and when you see what +it is for which you have all but broken with your father, and all but +lost his love, you will tell me that I have done well to come and +seek you out, and you will thank me for it. Come, you will go with me, +Armand, will you not?" I felt that my father would be right if it had +been any other woman, but I was convinced that he was wrong with regard +to Marguerite. Nevertheless, the tone in which he said these last words +was so kind, so appealing, that I dared not answer. + +"Well?" said he in a trembling voice. + +"Well, father, I can promise nothing," I said at last; "what you ask +of me is beyond my power. Believe me," I continued, seeing him make +an impatient movement, "you exaggerate the effects of this liaison. +Marguerite is a different kind of a woman from what you think. This +love, far from leading me astray, is capable, on the contrary, of +setting me in the right direction. Love always makes a man better, +no matter what woman inspires it. If you knew Marguerite, you would +understand that I am in no danger. She is as noble as the noblest of +women. There is as much disinterestedness in her as there is cupidity in +others." + +"All of which does not prevent her from accepting the whole of your +fortune, for the sixty thousand francs which come to you from your +mother, and which you are giving her, are, understand me well, your +whole fortune." + +My father had probably kept this peroration and this threat for the last +stroke. I was firmer before these threats than before his entreaties. + +"Who told you that I was handing this sum to her?" I asked. + +"My solicitor. Could an honest man carry out such a procedure without +warning me? Well, it is to prevent you from ruining yourself for a +prostitute that I am now in Paris. Your mother, when she died, left you +enough to live on respectably, and not to squander on your mistresses." + +"I swear to you, father, that Marguerite knew nothing of this transfer." + +"Why, then, do you make it?" + +"Because Marguerite, the woman you calumniate, and whom you wish me to +abandon, is sacrificing all that she possesses in order to live with +me." + +"And you accept this sacrifice? What sort of a man are you, sir, to +allow Mlle. Gautier to sacrifice anything for you? Come, enough of this. +You will leave this woman. Just now I begged you; now I command you. I +will have no such scandalous doings in my family. Pack up your things +and get ready to come with me." + +"Pardon me, father," I said, "but I shall not come." + +"And why?" + +"Because I am at an age when no one any longer obeys a command." + +My father turned pale at my answer. + +"Very well, sir," he said, "I know what remains to be done." + +He rang and Joseph appeared. + +"Have my things taken to the Hotel de Paris," he said to my servant. And +thereupon he went to his room and finished dressing. When he returned, I +went up to him. + +"Promise me, father," I said, "that you will do nothing to give +Marguerite pain?" + +My father stopped, looked at me disdainfully, and contented himself with +saying, "I believe you are mad." After this he went out, shutting the +door violently after him. + +I went downstairs, took a cab, and returned to Bougival. + +Marguerite was waiting for me at the window. + + + +Chapter 21 + +"At last you have come," she said, throwing her arms round my neck. "But +how pale you are!" + +I told her of the scene with my father. + +"My God! I was afraid of it," she said. "When Joseph came to tell you +of your father's arrival I trembled as if he had brought news of some +misfortune. My poor friend, I am the cause of all your distress. You +will be better off, perhaps, if you leave me and do not quarrel +with your father on my account. He knows that you are sure to have a +mistress, and he ought to be thankful that it is I, since I love you and +do not want more of you than your position allows. Did you tell him how +we had arranged our future?" + +"Yes; that is what annoyed him the most, for he saw how much we really +love one another." + +"What are we to do, then?" + +"Hold together, my good Marguerite, and let the storm pass over." + +"Will it pass?" + +"It will have to." + +"But your father will not stop there." + +"What do you suppose he can do?" + +"How do I know? Everything that a father can do to make his son obey +him. He will remind you of my past life, and will perhaps do me the +honour of inventing some new story, so that you may give me up." + +"You know that I love you." + +"Yes, but what I know, too, is that, sooner or later, you will have to +obey your father, and perhaps you will end by believing him." + +"No, Marguerite. It is I who will make him believe me. Some of his +friends have been telling him tales which have made him angry; but he is +good and just, he will change his first impression; and then, after all, +what does it matter to me?" + +"Do not say that, Armand. I would rather anything should happen than +that you should quarrel with your family; wait till after to-day, and +to-morrow go back to Paris. Your father, too, will have thought it over +on his side, and perhaps you will both come to a better understanding. +Do not go against his principles, pretend to make some concessions to +what he wants; seem not to care so very much about me, and he will let +things remain as they are. Hope, my friend, and be sure of one thing, +that whatever happens, Marguerite will always be yours." + +"You swear it?" + +"Do I need to swear it?" + +How sweet it is to let oneself be persuaded by the voice that one loves! +Marguerite and I spent the whole day in talking over our projects for +the future, as if we felt the need of realizing them as quickly as +possible. At every moment we awaited some event, but the day passed +without bringing us any new tidings. + +Next day I left at ten o'clock, and reached the hotel about twelve. My +father had gone out. + +I went to my own rooms, hoping that he had perhaps gone there. No one +had called. I went to the solicitor's. No one was there. I went back to +the hotel, and waited till six. M. Duval did not return, and I went back +to Bougival. + +I found Marguerite not waiting for me, as she had been the day before, +but sitting by the fire, which the weather still made necessary. She was +so absorbed in her thoughts that I came close to her chair without her +hearing me. When I put my lips to her forehead she started as if the +kiss had suddenly awakened her. + +"You frightened me," she said. "And your father?" + +"I have not seen him. I do not know what it means. He was not at his +hotel, nor anywhere where there was a chance of my finding him." + +"Well, you must try again to-morrow." + +"I am very much inclined to wait till he sends for me. I think I have +done all that can be expected of me." + +"No, my friend, it is not enough; you must call on your father again, +and you must call to-morrow." + +"Why to-morrow rather than any other day?" + +"Because," said Marguerite, and it seemed to me that she blushed +slightly at this question, "because it will show that you are the more +keen about it, and he will forgive us the sooner." + +For the remainder of the day Marguerite was sad and preoccupied. I had +to repeat twice over everything I said to her to obtain an answer. She +ascribed this preoccupation to her anxiety in regard to the events which +had happened during the last two days. I spent the night in reassuring +her, and she sent me away in the morning with an insistent disquietude +that I could not explain to myself. + +Again my father was absent, but he had left this letter for me: + +"If you call again to-day, wait for me till four. If I am not in by +four, come and dine with me to-morrow. I must see you." + +I waited till the hour he had named, but he did not appear. I returned +to Bougival. + +The night before I had found Marguerite sad; that night I found her +feverish and agitated. On seeing me, she flung her arms around my neck, +but she cried for a long time in my arms. I questioned her as to this +sudden distress, which alarmed me by its violence. She gave me no +positive reason, but put me off with those evasions which a woman +resorts to when she will not tell the truth. + +When she was a little calmed down, I told her the result of my visit, +and I showed her my father's letter, from which, I said, we might augur +well. At the sight of the letter and on hearing my comment, her tears +began to flow so copiously that I feared an attack of nerves, and, +calling Nanine, I put her to bed, where she wept without a word, but +held my hands and kissed them every moment. + +I asked Nanine if, during my absence, her mistress had received any +letter or visit which could account for the state in which I found her, +but Nanine replied that no one had called and nothing had been sent. + +Something, however, had occurred since the day before, something which +troubled me the more because Marguerite concealed it from me. + +In the evening she seemed a little calmer, and, making me sit at the +foot of the bed, she told me many times how much she loved me. She +smiled at me, but with an effort, for in spite of herself her eyes were +veiled with tears. + +I used every means to make her confess the real cause of her distress, +but she persisted in giving me nothing but vague reasons, as I have +told you. At last she fell asleep in my arms, but it was the sleep which +tires rather than rests the body. From time to time she uttered a cry, +started up, and, after assuring herself that I was beside her, made me +swear that I would always love her. + +I could make nothing of these intermittent paroxysms of distress, which +went on till morning. Then Marguerite fell into a kind of stupor. She +had not slept for two nights. + +Her rest was of short duration, for toward eleven she awoke, and, seeing +that I was up, she looked about her, crying: + +"Are you going already?" + +"No," said I, holding her hands; "but I wanted to let you sleep on. It +is still early." + +"What time are you going to Paris?" + +"At four." + +"So soon? But you will stay with me till then?" + +"Of course. Do I not always?" + +"I am so glad! Shall we have lunch?" she went on absentmindedly. + +"If you like." + +"And then you will be nice to me till the very moment you go?" + +"Yes; and I will come back as soon as I can." + +"You will come back?" she said, looking at me with haggard eyes. + +"Naturally." + +"Oh, yes, you will come back to-night. I shall wait for you, as I always +do, and you will love me, and we shall be happy, as we have been ever +since we have known each other." + +All these words were said in such a strained voice, they seemed to hide +so persistent and so sorrowful a thought, that I trembled every moment +lest Marguerite should become delirious. + +"Listen," I said. "You are ill. I can not leave you like this. I will +write and tell my father not to expect me." + +"No, no," she cried hastily, "don't do that. Your father will accuse me +of hindering you again from going to see him when he wants to see you; +no, no, you must go, you must! Besides, I am not ill. I am quite well. I +had a bad dream and am not yet fully awake." + +From that moment Marguerite tried to seem more cheerful. There were no +more tears. + +When the hour came for me to go, I embraced her and asked her if she +would come with me as far as the train; I hoped that the walk would +distract her and that the air would do her good. I wanted especially to +be with her as long as possible. + +She agreed, put on her cloak and took Nanine with her, so as not to +return alone. Twenty times I was on the point of not going. But the +hope of a speedy return, and the fear of offending my father still more, +sustained me, and I took my place in the train. + +"Till this evening!" I said to Marguerite, as I left her. She did not +reply. + +Once already she had not replied to the same words, and the Comte de G., +you will remember, had spent the night with her; but that time was so +far away that it seemed to have been effaced from my memory, and if I +had any fear, it was certainly not of Marguerite being unfaithful to me. +Reaching Paris, I hastened off to see Prudence, intending to ask her +to go and keep Marguerite company, in the hope that her mirth and +liveliness would distract her. I entered without being announced, and +found Prudence at her toilet. + +"Ah!" she said, anxiously; "is Marguerite with you?" + +"No." + +"How is she?" + +"She is not well." + +"Is she not coming?" + +"Did you expect her?" + +Madame Duvernoy reddened, and replied, with a certain constraint: + +"I only meant that since you are at Paris, is she not coming to join +you?" + +"No." + +I looked at Prudence; she cast down her eyes, and I read in her face the +fear of seeing my visit prolonged. + +"I even came to ask you, my dear Prudence, if you have nothing to do +this evening, to go and see Marguerite; you will be company for her, +and you can stay the night. I never saw her as she was to-day, and I am +afraid she is going to be ill." + +"I am dining in town," replied Prudence, "and I can't go and see +Marguerite this evening. I will see her tomorrow." + +I took leave of Mme. Duvernoy, who seemed almost as preoccupied as +Marguerite, and went on to my father's; his first glance seemed to study +me attentively. He held out his hand. + +"Your two visits have given me pleasure, Armand," he said; "they make me +hope that you have thought over things on your side as I have on mine." + +"May I ask you, father, what was the result of your reflection?" + +"The result, my dear boy, is that I have exaggerated the importance of +the reports that had been made to me, and that I have made up my mind to +be less severe with you." + +"What are you saying, father?" I cried joyously. + +"I say, my dear child, that every young man must have his mistress, and +that, from the fresh information I have had, I would rather see you the +lover of Mlle. Gautier than of anyone else." + +"My dear father, how happy you make me!" + +We talked in this manner for some moments, and then sat down to table. +My father was charming all dinner time. + +I was in a hurry to get back to Bougival to tell Marguerite about this +fortunate change, and I looked at the clock every moment. + +"You are watching the time," said my father, "and you are impatient to +leave me. O young people, how you always sacrifice sincere to doubtful +affections!" + +"Do not say that, father; Marguerite loves me, I am sure of it." + +My father did not answer; he seemed to say neither yes nor no. + +He was very insistent that I should spend the whole evening with him and +not go till the morning; but Marguerite had not been well when I left +her. I told him of it, and begged his permission to go back to her +early, promising to come again on the morrow. + +The weather was fine; he walked with me as far as the station. Never had +I been so happy. The future appeared as I had long desired to see it. I +had never loved my father as I loved him at that moment. + +Just as I was leaving him, he once more begged me to stay. I refused. + +"You are really very much in love with her?" he asked. + +"Madly." + +"Go, then," and he passed his hand across his forehead as if to chase +a thought, then opened his mouth as if to say something; but he only +pressed my hand, and left me hurriedly, saying: + +"Till to-morrow, then!" + + + +Chapter 22 + +It seemed to me as if the train did not move. I reached Bougival at +eleven. + +Not a window in the house was lighted up, and when I rang no one +answered the bell. It was the first time that such a thing had occurred +to me. At last the gardener came. I entered. Nanine met me with a light. +I went to Marguerite's room. + +"Where is madame?" + +"Gone to Paris," replied Nanine. + +"To Paris!" + +"Yes, sir." + +"When?" + +"An hour after you." + +"She left no word for me?" + +"Nothing." + +Nanine left me. + +Perhaps she had some suspicion or other, I thought, and went to Paris +to make sure that my visit to my father was not an excuse for a day +off. Perhaps Prudence wrote to her about something important. I said to +myself when I was alone; but I saw Prudence; she said nothing to make me +suppose that she had written to Marguerite. + +All at once I remembered Mme. Duvernoy's question, "Isn't she coming +to-day?" when I had said that Marguerite was ill. I remembered at the +same time how embarrassed Prudence had appeared when I looked at +her after this remark, which seemed to indicate an appointment. I +remembered, too, Marguerite's tears all day long, which my father's +kind reception had rather put out of my mind. From this moment all the +incidents grouped themselves about my first suspicion, and fixed it so +firmly in my mind that everything served to confirm it, even my father's +kindness. + +Marguerite had almost insisted on my going to Paris; she had pretended +to be calmer when I had proposed staying with her. Had I fallen into +some trap? Was Marguerite deceiving me? Had she counted on being back +in time for me not to perceive her absence, and had she been detained by +chance? Why had she said nothing to Nanine, or why had she not written? +What was the meaning of those tears, this absence, this mystery? + +That is what I asked myself in affright, as I stood in the vacant room, +gazing at the clock, which pointed to midnight, and seemed to say to me +that it was too late to hope for my mistress's return. Yet, after all +the arrangements we had just made, after the sacrifices that had been +offered and accepted, was it likely that she was deceiving me? No. I +tried to get rid of my first supposition. + +Probably she had found a purchaser for her furniture, and she had +gone to Paris to conclude the bargain. She did not wish to tell me +beforehand, for she knew that, though I had consented to it, the sale, +so necessary to our future happiness, was painful to me, and she feared +to wound my self-respect in speaking to me about it. She would rather +not see me till the whole thing was done, and that was evidently why +Prudence was expecting her when she let out the secret. Marguerite could +not finish the whole business to-day, and was staying the night with +Prudence, or perhaps she would come even now, for she must know bow +anxious I should be, and would not wish to leave me in that condition. +But, if so, why those tears? No doubt, despite her love for me, the poor +girl could not make up her mind to give up all the luxury in which +she had lived until now, and for which she had been so envied, without +crying over it. I was quite ready to forgive her for such regrets. I +waited for her impatiently, that I might say to her, as I covered her +with kisses, that I had guessed the reason of her mysterious absence. + +Nevertheless, the night went on, and Marguerite did not return. + +My anxiety tightened its circle little by little, and began to oppress +my head and heart. Perhaps something had happened to her. Perhaps she +was injured, ill, dead. Perhaps a messenger would arrive with the news +of some dreadful accident. Perhaps the daylight would find me with the +same uncertainty and with the same fears. + +The idea that Marguerite was perhaps unfaithful to me at the very moment +when I waited for her in terror at her absence did not return to my +mind. There must be some cause, independent of her will, to keep her +away from me, and the more I thought, the more convinced I was that this +cause could only be some mishap or other. O vanity of man, coming back +to us in every form! + +One o'clock struck. I said to myself that I would wait another hour, but +that at two o'clock, if Marguerite had not returned, I would set out for +Paris. Meanwhile I looked about for a book, for I dared not think. Manon +Lescaut was open on the table. It seemed to me that here and there +the pages were wet as if with tears. I turned the leaves over and then +closed the book, for the letters seemed to me void of meaning through +the veil of my doubts. + +Time went slowly. The sky was covered with clouds. An autumn rain lashed +the windows. The empty bed seemed at moments to assume the aspect of a +tomb. I was afraid. + +I opened the door. I listened, and heard nothing but the voice of the +wind in the trees. Not a vehicle was to be seen on the road. The half +hour sounded sadly from the church tower. + +I began to fear lest someone should enter. It seemed to me that only a +disaster could come at that hour and under that sombre sky. + +Two o'clock struck. I still waited a little. Only the sound of the bell +troubled the silence with its monotonous and rhythmical stroke. + +At last I left the room, where every object had assumed that melancholy +aspect which the restless solitude of the heart gives to all its +surroundings. + +In the next room I found Nanine sleeping over her work. At the sound of +the door, she awoke and asked if her mistress had come in. + +"No; but if she comes in, tell her that I was so anxious that I had to +go to Paris." + +"At this hour?" + +"Yes. + +"But how? You won't find a carriage." + +"I will walk." + +"But it is raining." + +"No matter." + +"But madame will be coming back, or if she doesn't come it will be +time enough in the morning to go and see what has kept her. You will be +murdered on the way." + +"There is no danger, my dear Nanine; I will see you to-morrow." + +The good girl went and got me a cloak, put it over my shoulders, and +offered to wake up Mme. Arnould to see if a vehicle could be obtained; +but I would hear of nothing, convinced as I was that I should lose, in +a perhaps fruitless inquiry, more time than I should take to cover half +the road. Besides, I felt the need of air and physical fatigue in order +to cool down the over-excitement which possessed me. + +I took the key of the flat in the Rue d'Antin, and after saying good-bye +to Nanine, who came with me as far as the gate, I set out. + +At first I began to run, but the earth was muddy with rain, and I +fatigued myself doubly. At the end of half an hour I was obliged to +stop, and I was drenched with sweat. I recovered my breath and went on. +The night was so dark that at every step I feared to dash myself against +one of the trees on the roadside, which rose up sharply before me like +great phantoms rushing upon me. + +I overtook one or two wagons, which I soon left behind. A carriage was +going at full gallop toward Bougival. As it passed me the hope came +to me that Marguerite was in it. I stopped and cried out, "Marguerite! +Marguerite!" But no one answered and the carriage continued its course. +I watched it fade away in the distance, and then started on my way +again. I took two hours to reach the Barriere de l'Etoile. The sight of +Paris restored my strength, and I ran the whole length of the alley I +had so often walked. + +That night no one was passing; it was like going through the midst of a +dead city. The dawn began to break. When I reached the Rue d'Antin the +great city stirred a little before quite awakening. Five o'clock struck +at the church of Saint Roch at the moment when I entered Marguerite's +house. I called out my name to the porter, who had had from me enough +twenty-franc pieces to know that I had the right to call on Mlle. +Gautier at five in the morning. I passed without difficulty. I might +have asked if Marguerite was at home, but he might have said "No," and +I preferred to remain in doubt two minutes longer, for, as long as I +doubted, there was still hope. + +I listened at the door, trying to discover a sound, a movement. Nothing. +The silence of the country seemed to be continued here. I opened the +door and entered. All the curtains were hermetically closed. I drew +those of the dining-room and went toward the bed-room and pushed open +the door. I sprang at the curtain cord and drew it violently. The +curtain opened, a faint light made its way in. I rushed to the bed. It +was empty. + +I opened the doors one after another. I visited every room. No one. It +was enough to drive one mad. + +I went into the dressing-room, opened the window, and called Prudence +several times. Mme. Duvernoy's window remained closed. + +I went downstairs to the porter and asked him if Mlle. Gautier had come +home during the day. + +"Yes," answered the man; "with Mme. Duvernoy." + +"She left no word for me?" + +"No." + +"Do you know what they did afterward?" + +"They went away in a carriage." + +"What sort of a carriage?" + +"A private carriage." + +What could it all mean? + +I rang at the next door. + +"Where are you going, sir?" asked the porter, when he had opened to me. + +"To Mme. Duvernoy's." + +"She has not come back." + +"You are sure?" + +"Yes, sir; here's a letter even, which was brought for her last night +and which I have not yet given her." + +And the porter showed me a letter which I glanced at mechanically. I +recognised Marguerite's writing. I took the letter. It was addressed, +"To Mme. Duvernoy, to forward to M. Duval." + +"This letter is for me," I said to the porter, as I showed him the +address. + +"You are M. Duval?" he replied. + +"Yes. + +"Ah! I remember. You often came to see Mme. Duvernoy." + +When I was in the street I broke the seal of the letter. If a +thunder-bolt had fallen at my feet I should have been less startled than +I was by what I read. + +"By the time you read this letter, Armand, I shall be the mistress of +another man. All is over between us. + +"Go back to your father, my friend, and to your sister, and there, by +the side of a pure young girl, ignorant of all our miseries, you will +soon forget what you would have suffered through that lost creature who +is called Marguerite Gautier, whom you have loved for an instant, and +who owes to you the only happy moments of a life which, she hopes, will +not be very long now." + +When I had read the last word, I thought I should have gone mad. For +a moment I was really afraid of falling in the street. A cloud passed +before my eyes and my blood beat in my temples. At last I came to myself +a little. I looked about me, and was astonished to see the life of +others continue without pausing at my distress. + +I was not strong enough to endure the blow alone. Then I remembered that +my father was in the same city, that I might be with him in ten minutes, +and that, whatever might be the cause of my sorrow, he would share it. + +I ran like a madman, like a thief, to the Hotel de Paris; I found the +key in the door of my father's room; I entered. He was reading. He +showed so little astonishment at seeing me, that it was as if he was +expecting me. I flung myself into his arms without saying a word. I gave +him Marguerite's letter, and, falling on my knees beside his bed, I wept +hot tears. + + + +Chapter 23 + +When the current of life had resumed its course, I could not believe +that the day which I saw dawning would not be like those which had +preceded it. There were moments when I fancied that some circumstance, +which I could not recollect, had obliged me to spend the night away from +Marguerite, but that, if I returned to Bougival, I should find her again +as anxious as I had been, and that she would ask me what had detained me +away from her so long. + +When one's existence has contracted a habit, such as that of this love, +it seems impossible that the habit should be broken without at the same +time breaking all the other springs of life. I was forced from time to +time to reread Marguerite's letter, in order to convince myself that I +had not been dreaming. + +My body, succumbing to the moral shock, was incapable of movement. +Anxiety, the night walk, and the morning's news had prostrated me. My +father profited by this total prostration of all my faculties to demand +of me a formal promise to accompany him. I promised all that he asked, +for I was incapable of sustaining a discussion, and I needed some +affection to help me to live, after what had happened. I was too +thankful that my father was willing to console me under such a calamity. + +All that I remember is that on that day, about five o'clock, he took me +with him in a post-chaise. Without a word to me, he had had my luggage +packed and put up behind the chaise with his own, and so he carried me +off. I did not realize what I was doing until the town had disappeared +and the solitude of the road recalled to me the emptiness of my heart. +Then my tears again began to flow. + +My father had realized that words, even from him, would do nothing to +console me, and he let me weep without saying a word, only sometimes +pressing my hand, as if to remind me that I had a friend at my side. + +At night I slept a little. I dreamed of Marguerite. + +I woke with a start, not recalling why I was in the carriage. Then the +truth came back upon me, and I let my head sink on my breast. I dared +not say anything to my father. I was afraid he would say, "You see I was +right when I declared that this woman did not love you." But he did not +use his advantage, and we reached C. without his having said anything +to me except to speak of matters quite apart from the event which had +occasioned my leaving Paris. + +When I embraced my sister, I remembered what Marguerite had said about +her in her letter, and I saw at once how little my sister, good as she +was, would be able to make me forget my mistress. + +Shooting had begun, and my father thought that it would be a distraction +for me. He got up shooting parties with friends and neighbours. I went +without either reluctance or enthusiasm, with that sort of apathy into +which I had sunk since my departure. + +We were beating about for game and I was given my post. I put down my +unloaded gun at my side, and meditated. I watched the clouds pass. I +let my thought wander over the solitary plains, and from time to time I +heard someone call to me and point to a hare not ten paces off. None of +these details escaped my father, and he was not deceived by my exterior +calm. He was well aware that, broken as I now was, I should some day +experience a terrible reaction, which might be dangerous, and, without +seeming to make any effort to console me, he did his utmost to distract +my thoughts. + +My sister, naturally, knew nothing of what had happened, and she could +not understand how it was that I, who had formerly been so lighthearted, +had suddenly become so sad and dreamy. + +Sometimes, surprising in the midst of my sadness my father's anxious +scrutiny, I pressed his hand as if to ask him tacitly to forgive me for +the pain which, in spite of myself, I was giving him. + +Thus a month passed, but at the end of that time I could endure it no +longer. The memory of Marguerite pursued me unceasingly. I had loved, +I still loved this woman so much that I could not suddenly become +indifferent to her. I had to love or to hate her. Above all, whatever I +felt for her, I had to see her again, and at once. This desire possessed +my mind, and with all the violence of a will which had begun to reassert +itself in a body so long inert. + +It was not enough for me to see Marguerite in a month, a week. I had to +see her the very next day after the day when the thought had occurred to +me; and I went to my father and told him that I had been called to Paris +on business, but that I should return promptly. No doubt he guessed the +reason of my departure, for he insisted that I should stay, but, seeing +that if I did not carry out my intention the consequences, in the state +in which I was, might be fatal, he embraced me, and begged me, almost, +with tears, to return without delay. + +I did not sleep on the way to Paris. Once there, what was I going to +do? I did not know; I only knew that it must be something connected with +Marguerite. I went to my rooms to change my clothes, and, as the weather +was fine and it was still early, I made my way to the Champs-Elysees. At +the end of half an hour I saw Marguerite's carriage, at some distance, +coming from the Rond-Point to the Place de la Concorde. She had +repurchased her horses, for the carriage was just as I was accustomed +to see it, but she was not in it. Scarcely had I noticed this fact, when +looking around me, I saw Marguerite on foot, accompanied by a woman whom +I had never seen. + +As she passed me she turned pale, and a nervous smile tightened about +her lips. For my part, my heart beat violently in my breast; but I +succeeded in giving a cold expression to my face, as I bowed coldly to +my former mistress, who just then reached her carriage, into which she +got with her friend. + +I knew Marguerite: this unexpected meeting must certainly have upset +her. No doubt she had heard that I had gone away, and had thus been +reassured as to the consequences of our rupture; but, seeing me again +in Paris, finding herself face to face with me, pale as I was, she must +have realized that I had not returned without purpose, and she must have +asked herself what that purpose was. + +If I had seen Marguerite unhappy, if, in revenging myself upon her, +I could have come to her aid, I should perhaps have forgiven her, and +certainly I should have never dreamt of doing her an injury. But I found +her apparently happy, someone else had restored to her the luxury which +I could not give her; her breaking with me seemed to assume a character +of the basest self-interest; I was lowered in my own esteem as well as +in my love. I resolved that she should pay for what I had suffered. + +I could not be indifferent to what she did, consequently what would hurt +her the most would be my indifference; it was, therefore, this sentiment +which I must affect, not only in her eyes, but in the eyes of others. + +I tried to put on a smiling countenance, and I went to call on +Prudence. The maid announced me, and I had to wait a few minutes in +the drawing-room. At last Mme. Duvernoy appeared and asked me into her +boudoir; as I seated myself I heard the drawing-room door open, a light +footstep made the floor creak and the front door was closed violently. + +"I am disturbing you," I said to Prudence. + +"Not in the least. Marguerite was there. When she heard you announced, +she made her escape; it was she who has just gone out." + +"Is she afraid of me now?" + +"No, but she is afraid that you would not wish to see her." + +"But why?" I said, drawing my breath with difficulty, for I was choked +with emotion. "The poor girl left me for her carriage, her furniture, +and her diamonds; she did quite right, and I don't bear her any grudge. +I met her to-day," I continued carelessly. + +"Where?" asked Prudence, looking at me and seeming to ask herself if +this was the same man whom she had known so madly in love. + +"In the Champs-Elysees. She was with another woman, very pretty. Who is +she?" + +"What was she like?" + +"Blonde, slender, with side curls; blue eyes; very elegant." + +"Ali! It was Olympe; she is really very pretty." + +"Whom does she live with?" + +"With nobody; with anybody." + +"Where does she live?" + +"Rue Troncliet, No.--. Do you want to make love to her?" + +"One never knows." + +"And Marguerite?" + +"I should hardly tell you the truth if I said I think no more about her; +but I am one of those with whom everything depends on the way in which +one breaks with them. Now Marguerite ended with me so lightly that I +realize I was a great fool to have been as much in love with her as I +was, for I was really very much in love with that girl." + +You can imagine the way in which I said that; the sweat broke out on my +forehead. + +"She was very fond of you, you know, and she still is; the proof is, +that after meeting you to-day, she came straight to tell me about it. +When she got here she was all of a tremble; I thought she was going to +faint." + +"Well, what did she say?" + +"She said, 'He is sure to come here,' and she begged me to ask you to +forgive her." + +"I have forgiven her, you may tell her. She was a good girl; but, after +all, like the others, and I ought to have expected what happened. I am +even grateful to her, for I see now what would have happened if I had +lived with her altogether. It was ridiculous." + +"She will be very glad to find that you take it so well. It was quite +time she left you, my dear fellow. The rascal of an agent to whom she +had offered to sell her furniture went around to her creditors to find +out how much she owed; they took fright, and in two days she would have +been sold up." + +"And now it is all paid?" + +"More or less." + +"And who has supplied the money?" + +"The Comte de N. Ah, my dear friend, there are men made on purpose for +such occasions. To cut a long story short he gave her twenty thousand +francs, but he has had his way at last. He knows quite well that +Marguerite is not in love with him; but he is very nice with her all the +same. As you have seen, he has repurchased her horses, he has taken her +jewels out of pawn, and he gives her as much money as the duke used to +give her; if she likes to live quietly, he will stay with her a long +time." + +"And what is she doing? Is she living in Paris altogether?" + +"She would never go back to Bougival after you went. I had to go myself +and see after all her things, and yours, too. I made a package of them +and you can send here for them. You will find everything, except a +little case with your initials. Marguerite wanted to keep it. If you +really want it, I will ask her for it." + +"Let her keep it," I stammered, for I felt the tears rise from my heart +to my eyes at the recollection of the village where I had been so happy, +and at the thought that Marguerite cared to keep something which had +belonged to me and would recall me to her. If she had entered at that +moment my thoughts of vengeance would have disappeared, and I should +have fallen at her feet. + +"For the rest," continued Prudence, "I never saw her as she is now; she +hardly takes any sleep, she goes to all the balls, she goes to suppers, +she even drinks. The other day, after a supper, she had to stay in bed +for a week; and when the doctor let her get up, she began again at the +risk of her life. Shall you go and see her?" + +"What is the good? I came to see you, because you have always been +charming to me, and I knew you before I ever knew Marguerite. I owe +it to you that I have been her lover, and also, don't I, that I am her +lover no longer?" + +"Well, I did all I could to get her away from you, and I believe you +will be thankful to me later on." + +"I owe you a double gratitude," I added, rising, for I was disgusted +with the woman, seeing her take every word I said to her as if it were +serious. + +"You are going?" + +"Yes." + +I had learned enough. + +"When shall I be seeing you?" + +"Soon. Good-bye." + +"Good-bye." + +Prudence saw me to the door, and I went back to my own rooms with tears +of rage in my eyes and a desire for vengeance in my heart. + +So Marguerite was no different from the others; so the steadfast love +that she had had for me could not resist the desire of returning to +her former life, and the need of having a carriage and plunging into +dissipation. So I said to myself, as I lay awake at night though if I +had reflected as calmly as I professed to I should have seen in this +new and turbulent life of Marguerite the attempt to silence a constant +thought, a ceaseless memory. Unfortunately, evil passion had the upper +hand, and I only sought for some means of avenging myself on the poor +creature. Oh, how petty and vile is man when he is wounded in one of his +narrow passions! + +This Olympe whom I had seen was, if not a friend of Marguerite, at all +events the woman with whom she was most often seen since her return to +Paris. She was going to give a ball, and, as I took it for granted that +Marguerite would be there, I tried to get an invitation and succeeded. + +When, full of my sorrowful emotions, I arrived at the ball, it was +already very animated. They were dancing, shouting even, and in one of +the quadrilles I perceived Marguerite dancing with the Comte de N., who +seemed proud of showing her off, as if he said to everybody: "This woman +is mine." + +I leaned against the mantel-piece just opposite Marguerite and watched +her dancing. Her face changed the moment she caught sight of me. I +saluted her casually with a glance of the eyes and a wave of the hand. + +When I reflected that after the ball she would go home, not with me but +with that rich fool, when I thought of what would follow their return, +the blood rose to my face, and I felt the need of doing something to +trouble their relations. + +After the contredanse I went up to the mistress of the house, who +displayed for the benefit of her guests a dazzling bosom and magnificent +shoulders. She was beautiful, and, from the point of view of figure, +more beautiful than Marguerite. I realized this fact still more clearly +from certain glances which Marguerite bestowed upon her while I was +talking with her. The man who was the lover of such a woman might well +be as proud as M. de N., and she was beautiful enough to inspire a +passion not less great than that which Marguerite had inspired in me. At +that moment she had no lover. It would not be difficult to become so; it +depended only on showing enough money to attract her attention. + +I made up my mind. That woman should be my mistress. I began by dancing +with her. Half an hour afterward, Marguerite, pale as death, put on her +pelisse and left the ball. + + + +Chapter 24 + +It was something already, but it was not enough. I saw the hold which I +had upon this woman, and I took a cowardly advantage of it. + +When I think that she is dead now, I ask myself if God will ever forgive +me for the wrong I did her. + +After the supper, which was noisy as could be, there was gambling. I sat +by the side of Olympe and put down my money so recklessly that she could +not but notice me. In an instant I had gained one hundred and fifty or +two hundred louis, which I spread out before me on the table, and on +which she fastened her eyes greedily. + +I was the only one not completely absorbed by the game, and able to pay +her some attention. All the rest of the night I gained, and it was I +who gave her money to play, for she had lost all she had before her and +probably all she had in the house. + +At five in the morning, the guests departed. I had gained three hundred +louis. + +All the players were already on their way downstairs; I was the only +one who had remained behind, and as I did not know any of them, no one +noticed it. Olympe herself was lighting the way, and I was going to +follow the others, when, turning back, I said to her: + +"I must speak to you." + +"To-morrow," she said. + +"No, now." + +"What have you to say?" + +"You will see." + +And I went back into the room. + +"You have lost," I said. + +"Yes. + +"All that you had in the house?" + +She hesitated. + +"Be frank." + +"Well, it is true." + +"I have won three hundred louis. Here they are, if you will let me stay +here to-night." + +And I threw the gold on the table. + +"And why this proposition?" + +"Because I am in love with you, of course." + +"No, but because you love Marguerite, and you want to have your revenge +upon her by becoming my lover. You don't deceive a woman like me, my +dear friend; unluckily, I am still too young and too good-looking to +accept the part that you offer me." + +"So you refuse?" + +"Yes. + +"Would you rather take me for nothing? It is I who wouldn't accept then. +Think it over, my dear Olympe; if I had sent someone to offer you these +three hundred louis on my behalf, on the conditions I attach to them, +you would have accepted. I preferred to speak to you myself. Accept +without inquiring into my reasons; say to yourself that you are +beautiful, and that there is nothing surprising in my being in love with +you." + +Marguerite was a woman in the same position as Olympe, and yet I should +never have dared say to her the first time I met her what I had said to +the other woman. I loved Marguerite. I saw in her instincts which were +lacking in the other, and at the very moment in which I made my bargain, +I felt a disgust toward the woman with whom I was making it. + +She accepted, of course, in the end, and at midday I left her house as +her lover; but I quitted her without a recollection of the caresses +and of the words of love which she had felt bound to shower upon me in +return for the six thousand francs which I left with her. And yet there +were men who had ruined themselves for that woman. + +From that day I inflicted on Marguerite a continual persecution. Olympe +and she gave up seeing one another, as you might imagine. I gave my +new mistress a carriage and jewels. I gambled, I committed every +extravagance which could be expected of a man in love with such a woman +as Olympe. The report of my new infatuation was immediately spread +abroad. + +Prudence herself was taken in, and finally thought that I had completely +forgotten Marguerite. Marguerite herself, whether she guessed my motive +or was deceived like everybody else, preserved a perfect dignity in +response to the insults which I heaped upon her daily. Only, she seemed +to suffer, for whenever I met her she was more and more pale, more +and more sad. My love for her, carried to the point at which it was +transformed into hatred, rejoiced at the sight of her daily sorrow. +Often, when my cruelty toward her became infamous, Marguerite lifted +upon me such appealing eyes that I blushed for the part I was playing, +and was ready to implore her forgiveness. + +But my repentance was only of a moment's duration, and Olympe, who had +finally put aside all self-respect, and discovered that by annoying +Marguerite she could get from me whatever she wanted, constantly stirred +up my resentment against her, and insulted her whenever she found an +opportunity, with the cowardly persistence of a woman licensed by the +authority of a man. + +At last Marguerite gave up going to balls or theatres, for fear of +meeting Olympe and me. Then direct impertinences gave way to anonymous +letters, and there was not a shameful thing which I did not encourage +my mistress to relate and which I did not myself relate in reference to +Marguerite. + +To reach such a point I must have been literally mad. I was like a man +drunk upon bad wine, who falls into one of those nervous exaltations in +which the hand is capable of committing a crime without the head knowing +anything about it. In the midst of it all I endured a martyrdom. The +not disdainful calm, the not contemptuous dignity with which Marguerite +responded to all my attacks, and which raised her above me in my own +eyes, enraged me still more against her. + +One evening Olympe had gone somewhere or other, and had met Marguerite, +who for once had not spared the foolish creature, so that she had had to +retire in confusion. Olympe returned in a fury, and Marguerite fainted +and had to be carried out. Olympe related to me what had happened, +declared that Marguerite, seeing her alone, had revenged herself upon +her because she was my mistress, and that I must write and tell her to +respect the woman whom I loved, whether I was present or absent. + +I need not tell you that I consented, and that I put into the letter +which I sent to her address the same day, everything bitter, shameful, +and cruel that I could think of. + +This time the blow was more than the unhappy creature could endure +without replying. I felt sure that an answer would come, and I resolved +not to go out all day. About two there was a ring, and Prudence entered. + +I tried to assume an indifferent air as I asked her what had brought +her; but that day Mme. Duvernoy was not in a laughing humour, and in a +really moved voice she said to me that since my return, that is to say +for about three weeks, I had left no occasion untried which could give +pain to Marguerite, that she was completely upset by it, and that the +scene of last night and my angry letter of the morning had forced her to +take to her bed. In short, without making any reproach, Marguerite +sent to ask me for a little pity, since she had no longer the moral or +physical strength to endure what I was making her suffer. + +"That Mlle. Gautier," I said to Prudence, "should turn me out of her own +house is quite reasonable, but that she should insult the woman whom I +love, under the pretence that this woman is my mistress, is a thing I +will never permit." + +"My friend," said Prudence, "you are under the influence of a woman who +has neither heart nor sense; you are in love with her, it is true, but +that is not a reason for torturing a woman who can not defend herself." + +"Let Mlle. Gautier send me her Comte de N. and the sides will be equal." + +"You know very well that she will not do that. So, my dear Armand, let +her alone. If you saw her you would be ashamed of the way in which you +are treating her. She is white, she coughs--she won't last long now." + +And Prudence held out her hand to me, adding: + +"Come and see her; it will make her very happy." + +"I have no desire to meet M. de N." + +"M. de N. is never there. She can not endure him." + +"If Marguerite wishes to see me, she knows where I live; let her come to +see me, but, for my part, I will never put foot in the Rue d'Antin." + +"Will you receive her well?" + +"Certainly." + +"Well, I am sure that she will come." + +"Let her come." + +"Shall you be out to-day?" + +"I shall be at home all the evening." + +"I will tell her." + +And Prudence left me. + +I did not even write to tell Olympe not to expect me. I never troubled +much about her, scarcely going to see her one night a week. She consoled +herself, I believe, with an actor from some theatre or other. + +I went out for dinner and came back almost immediately. I had a fire lit +in my room and I told Joseph he could go out. + +I can give you no idea of the different impressions which agitated me +during the hour in which I waited; but when, toward nine o'clock, I +heard a ring, they thronged together into one such emotion, that, as I +opened the door, I was obliged to lean against the wall to keep myself +from falling. + +Fortunately the anteroom was in half darkness, and the change in my +countenance was less visible. Marguerite entered. + +She was dressed in black and veiled. I could scarcely recognise her face +through the veil. She went into the drawing-room and raised her veil. +She was pale as marble. + +"I am here, Armand," she said; "you wished to see me and I have come." + +And letting her head fall on her hands, she burst into tears. + +I went up to her. + +"What is the matter?" I said to her in a low voice. + +She pressed my hand without a word, for tears still veiled her voice. +But after a few minutes, recovering herself a little, she said to me: + +"You have been very unkind to me, Armand, and I have done nothing to +you." + +"Nothing?" I answered, with a bitter smile. + +"Nothing but what circumstances forced me to do." + +I do not know if you have ever in your life experienced, or if you will +ever experience, what I felt at the sight of Marguerite. + +The last time she had come to see me she had sat in the same place where +she was now sitting; only, since then, she had been the mistress of +another man, other kisses than mine had touched her lips, toward which, +in spite of myself, my own reached out, and yet I felt that I loved this +woman as much, more perhaps, than I had ever loved her. + +It was difficult for me to begin the conversation on the subject which +brought her. Marguerite no doubt realized it, for she went on: + +"I have come to trouble you, Armand, for I have two things to ask: +pardon for what I said yesterday to Mlle. Olympe, and pity for what you +are perhaps still ready to do to me. Intentionally or not, since your +return you have given me so much pain that I should be incapable now of +enduring a fourth part of what I have endured till now. You will have +pity on me, won't you? And you will understand that a man who is not +heartless has other nobler things to do than to take his revenge upon a +sick and sad woman like me. See, take my hand. I am in a fever. I left +my bed to come to you, and ask, not for your friendship, but for your +indifference." + +I took Marguerite's hand. It was burning, and the poor woman shivered +under her fur cloak. + +I rolled the arm-chair in which she was sitting up to the fire. + +"Do you think, then, that I did not suffer," said I, "on that night +when, after waiting for you in the country, I came to look for you in +Paris, and found nothing but the letter which nearly drove me mad? How +could you have deceived me, Marguerite, when I loved you so much? + +"Do not speak of that, Armand; I did not come to speak of that. I wanted +to see you only not an enemy, and I wanted to take your hand once more. +You have a mistress; she is young, pretty, you love her they say. Be +happy with her and forget me." + +"And you. You are happy, no doubt?" + +"Have I the face of a happy woman, Armand? Do not mock my sorrow, you, +who know better than anyone what its cause and its depth are." + +"It only depended on you not to have been unhappy at all, if you are as +you say." + +"No, my friend; circumstances were stronger than my will. I obeyed, +not the instincts of a light woman, as you seem to say, but a serious +necessity, and reasons which you will know one day, and which will make +you forgive me." + +"Why do you not tell me those reasons to-day?" + +"Because they would not bring about an impossible reunion between us, +and they would separate you perhaps from those from whom you must not be +separated." + +"Who do you mean?" + +"I can not tell you." + +"Then you are lying to me." + +Marguerite rose and went toward the door. I could not behold this silent +and expressive sorrow without being touched, when I compared in my mind +this pale and weeping woman with the madcap who had made fun of me at +the Opera Comique. + +"You shall not go," I said, putting myself in front of the door. + +"Why?" + +"Because, in spite of what you have done to me, I love you always, and I +want you to stay here." + +"To turn me out to-morrow? No; it is impossible. Our destinies are +separate; do not try to reunite them. You will despise me perhaps, while +now you can only hate me." + +"No, Marguerite," I cried, feeling all my love and all my desire +reawaken at the contact of this woman. "No, I will forget everything, +and we will be happy as we promised one another that we would be." + +Marguerite shook her head doubtfully, and said: + +"Am I not your slave, your dog? Do with me what you will. Take me; I am +yours." + +And throwing off her cloak and hat, she flung them on the sofa, and +began hurriedly to undo the front of her dress, for, by one of those +reactions so frequent in her malady, the blood rushed to her head and +stifled her. A hard, dry cough followed. + +"Tell my coachman," she said, "to go back with the carriage." + +I went down myself and sent him away. When I returned Marguerite was +lying in front of the fire, and her teeth chattered with the cold. + +I took her in my arms. I undressed her, without her making a movement, +and carried her, icy cold, to the bed. Then I sat beside her and tried +to warm her with my caresses. She did not speak a word, but smiled at +me. + +It was a strange night. All Marguerite's life seemed to have passed into +the kisses with which she covered me, and I loved her so much that in +my transports of feverish love I asked myself whether I should not kill +her, so that she might never belong to another. + +A month of love like that, and there would have remained only the corpse +of heart or body. + +The dawn found us both awake. Marguerite was livid white. She did not +speak a word. From time to time, big tears rolled from her eyes, and +stayed upon her cheeks, shining like diamonds. Her thin arms opened, +from time to time, to hold me fast, and fell back helplessly upon the +bed. + +For a moment it seemed to me as if I could forget all that had passed +since I had left Bougival, and I said to Marguerite: + +"Shall we go away and leave Paris?" + +"No, no!" she said, almost with affright; "we should be too unhappy. I +can do no more to make you happy, but while there is a breath of life in +me, I will be the slave of your fancies. At whatever hour of the day or +night you will, come, and I will be yours; but do not link your future +any more with mine, you would be too unhappy and you would make me too +unhappy. I shall still be pretty for a while; make the most of it, but +ask nothing more." + +When she had gone, I was frightened at the solitude in which she left +me. Two hours afterward I was still sitting on the side of the bed, +looking at the pillow which kept the imprint of her form, and asking +myself what was to become of me, between my love and my jealousy. + +At five o'clock, without knowing what I was going to do, I went to the +Rue d'Antin. + +Nanine opened to me. + +"Madame can not receive you," she said in an embarrassed way. + +"Why?" + +"Because M. le Comte de N. is there, and he has given orders to let no +one in." + +"Quite so," I stammered; "I forgot." + +I went home like a drunken man, and do you know what I did during the +moment of jealous delirium which was long enough for the shameful thing +I was going to do? I said to myself that the woman was laughing at me; I +saw her alone with the count, saying over to him the same words that she +had said to me in the night, and taking a five-hundred-franc note I sent +it to her with these words: + +"You went away so suddenly that I forgot to pay you. Here is the price +of your night." + +Then when the letter was sent I went out as if to free myself from the +instantaneous remorse of this infamous action. + +I went to see Olympe, whom I found trying on dresses, and when we were +alone she sang obscene songs to amuse me. She was the very type of the +shameless, heartless, senseless courtesan, for me at least, for perhaps +some men might have dreamed of her as I dreamed of Marguerite. She asked +me for money. I gave it to her, and, free then to go, I returned home. + +Marguerite had not answered. + +I need not tell you in what state of agitation I spent the next day. At +half past nine a messenger brought me an envelope containing my letter +and the five-hundred-franc note, not a word more. + +"Who gave you this?" I asked the man. + +"A lady who was starting with her maid in the next mail for Boulogne, +and who told me not to take it until the coach was out of the +courtyard." + +I rushed to the Rue d'Antin. + +"Madame left for England at six o'clock," said the porter. + +There was nothing to hold me in Paris any longer, neither hate nor love. +I was exhausted by this series of shocks. One of my friends was setting +out on a tour in the East. I told my father I should like to accompany +him; my father gave me drafts and letters of introduction, and eight or +ten days afterward I embarked at Marseilles. + +It was at Alexandria that I learned from an attache at the embassy, whom +I had sometimes seen at Marguerite's, that the poor girl was seriously +ill. + +I then wrote her the letter which she answered in the way you know; I +received it at Toulon. + +I started at once, and you know the rest. + +Now you have only to read a few sheets which Julie Duprat gave me; they +are the best commentary on what I have just told you. + + + +Chapter 25 + +Armand, tired by this long narrative, often interrupted by his tears, +put his two hands over his forehead and closed his eyes to think, or +to try to sleep, after giving me the pages written by the hand of +Marguerite. A few minutes after, a more rapid breathing told me that +Armand slept, but that light sleep which the least sound banishes. + +This is what I read; I copy it without adding or omitting a syllable: + +To-day is the 15th December. I have been ill three or four days. This +morning I stayed in bed. The weather is dark, I am sad; there is no one +by me. I think of you, Armand. And you, where are you, while I write +these lines? Far from Paris, far, far, they tell me, and perhaps you +have already forgotten Marguerite. Well, be happy; I owe you the only +happy moments in my life. + +I can not help wanting to explain all my conduct to you, and I have +written you a letter; but, written by a girl like me, such a letter +might seem to be a lie, unless death had sanctified it by its authority, +and, instead of a letter, it were a confession. + +To-day I am ill; I may die of this illness, for I have always had the +presentiment that I shall die young. My mother died of consumption, and +the way I have always lived could but increase the only heritage she +ever left me. But I do not want to die without clearing up for you +everything about me; that is, if, when you come back, you will still +trouble yourself about the poor girl whom you loved before you went +away. + +This is what the letter contained; I shall like writing it over again, +so as to give myself another proof of my own justification. + +You remember, Armand, how the arrival of your father surprised us at +Bougival; you remember the involuntary fright that his arrival caused +me, and the scene which took place between you and him, which you told +me of in the evening. + +Next day, when you were at Paris, waiting for your father, and he did +not return, a man came to the door and handed in a letter from M. Duval. + +His letter, which I inclose with this, begged me, in the most serious +terms, to keep you away on the following day, on some excuse or +other, and to see your father, who wished to speak to me, and asked me +particularly not to say anything to you about it. + +You know how I insisted on your returning to Paris next day. + +You had only been gone an hour when your father presented himself. I +won't say what impression his severe face made upon me. Your father had +the old theory that a courtesan is a being without heart or reason, a +sort of machine for coining gold, always ready, like the machine, +to bruise the hand that gives her everything, and to tear in pieces, +without pity or discernment, those who set her in motion. + +Your father had written me a very polite letter, in order that I might +consent to see him; he did not present himself quite as he had written. +His manner at first was so stiff, insolent, and even threatening, that I +had to make him understand that I was in my own house, and that I had no +need to render him an account of my life, except because of the sincere +affection which I had for his son. + +M. Duval calmed down a little, but still went on to say that he could +not any longer allow his son to ruin himself over me; that I was +beautiful, it was true, but, however beautiful I might be, I ought not +to make use of my beauty to spoil the future of a young man by such +expenditure as I was causing. + +At that there was only one thing to do, to show him the proof that since +I was your mistress I had spared no sacrifice to be faithful to you +without asking for more money than you had to give me. I showed him the +pawn tickets, the receipts of the people to whom I had sold what I could +not pawn; I told him of my resolve to part with my furniture in order +to pay my debts, and live with you without being a too heavy expense. I +told him of our happiness, of how you had shown me the possibility of +a quieter and happier life, and he ended by giving in to the evidence, +offering me his hand, and asking pardon for the way in which he had at +first approached me. + +Then he said to me: + +"So, madame, it is not by remonstrances or by threats, but by +entreaties, that I must endeavour to obtain from you a greater sacrifice +than you have yet made for my son." + +I trembled at this beginning. + +Your father came over to me, took both my hands, and continued in an +affectionate voice: + +"My child, do not take what I have to say to you amiss; only remember +that there are sometimes in life cruel necessities for the heart, but +that they must be submitted to. You are good, your soul has generosity +unknown to many women who perhaps despise you, and are less worthy than +you. But remember that there is not only the mistress, but the family; +that besides love there are duties; that to the age of passion succeeds +the age when man, if he is to be respected, must plant himself solidly +in a serious position. My son has no fortune, and yet he is ready to +abandon to you the legacy of his mother. If he accepted from you the +sacrifice which you are on the point of making, his honour and dignity +would require him to give you, in exchange for it, this income, which +would always put you out of danger of adversity. But he can not accept +this sacrifice, because the world, which does not know you, would give a +wrong interpretation to this acceptance, and such an interpretation must +not tarnish the name which we bear. No one would consider whether +Armand loves you, whether you love him, whether this mutual love means +happiness to him and redemption to you; they would see only one thing, +that Armand Duval allowed a kept woman (forgive me, my child, for what +I am forced to say to you) to sell all she had for him. Then the day of +reproaches and regrets would arrive, be sure, for you or for others, and +you would both bear a chain that you could not sever. What would you do +then? Your youth would be lost, my son's future destroyed; and I, his +father, should receive from only one of my children the recompense that +I look for from both. + +"You are young, beautiful, life will console you; you are noble, and the +memory of a good deed will redeem you from many past deeds. During the +six months that he has known you Armand has forgotten me. I wrote to him +four times, and he has never once replied. I might have died and he not +known it! + +"Whatever may be your resolution of living otherwise than as you have +lived, Armand, who loves you, will never consent to the seclusion to +which his modest fortune would condemn you, and to which your beauty +does not entitle you. Who knows what he would do then! He has gambled, +I know; without telling you of it, I know also, but, in a moment of +madness, he might have lost part of what I have saved, during many +years, for my daughter's portion, for him, and for the repose of my old +age. What might have happened may yet happen. + +"Are you sure, besides, that the life which you are giving up for him +will never again come to attract you? Are you sure, you who have loved +him, that you will never love another? Would you not-suffer on seeing +the hindrances set by your love to your lover's life, hindrances for +which you would be powerless to console him, if, with age, thoughts of +ambition should succeed to dreams of love? Think over all that, madame. +You love Armand; prove it to him by the sole means which remains to you +of yet proving it to him, by sacrificing your love to his future. No +misfortune has yet arrived, but one will arrive, and perhaps a greater +one than those which I foresee. Armand might become jealous of a man who +has loved you; he might provoke him, fight, be killed. Think, then, what +you would suffer in the presence of a father who should call on you to +render an account for the life of his son! + +"Finally, my dear child, let me tell you all, for I have not yet +told you all, let me tell you what has brought me to Paris. I have a +daughter, as I have told you, young, beautiful, pure as an angel. She +loves, and she, too, has made this love the dream of her life. I wrote +all that to Armand, but, absorbed in you, he made no reply. Well, my +daughter is about to marry. She is to marry the man whom she loves; she +enters an honourable family, which requires that mine has to be no less +honourable. The family of the man who is to become my son-in-law has +learned what manner of life Armand is leading in Paris, and has declared +to me that the marriage must be broken off if Armand continues this +life. The future of a child who has done nothing against you, and who +has the right of looking forward to a happy future, is in your hands. +Have you the right, have you the strength, to shatter it? In the name of +your love and of your repentance, Marguerite, grant me the happiness of +my child." + +I wept silently, my friend, at all these reflections which I had so +often made, and which, in the mouth of your father, took a yet more +serious reality. I said to myself all that your father dared not say to +me, though it had come to his lips twenty times: that I was, after all, +only a kept woman, and that whatever excuse I gave for our liaison, it +would always look like calculation on my part; that my past life left +me no right to dream of such a future, and that I was accepting +responsibilities for which my habits and reputation were far from giving +any guarantee. In short, I loved you, Armand. + +The paternal way in which M. Duval had spoken to me; the pure memories +that he awakened in me; the respect of this old man, which I would gain; +yours, which I was sure of gaining later on: all that called up in my +heart thoughts which raised me in my own eyes with a sort of holy pride, +unknown till then. When I thought that one day this old man, who was now +imploring me for the future of his son, would bid his daughter mingle my +name with her prayers, as the name of a mysterious friend, I seemed to +become transformed, and I felt a pride in myself. + +The exaltation of the moment perhaps exaggerated the truth of these +impressions, but that was what I felt, friend, and these new feelings +silenced the memory of the happy days I had spent with you. + +"Tell me, sir," I said to your father, wiping away my tears, "do you +believe that I love your son?" + +"Yes," said M. Duval. + +"With a disinterested love?" + +"Yes. + +"Do you believe that I had made this love the hope, the dream, the +forgiveness--of my life?" + +"Implicitly." + +"Well, sir, embrace me once, as you would embrace your daughter, and I +swear to you that that kiss, the only chaste kiss I have ever had, will +make me strong against my love, and that within a week your son will be +once more at your side, perhaps unhappy for a time, but cured forever." + +"You are a noble child," replied your father, kissing me on the +forehead, "and you are making an attempt for which God will reward you; +but I greatly fear that you will have no influence upon my son." + +"Oh, be at rest, sir; he will hate me." + +I had to set up between us, as much for me as for you, an insurmountable +barrier. + +I wrote to Prudence to say that I accepted the proposition of the Comte +de N., and that she was to tell him that I would sup with her and him. +I sealed the letter, and, without telling him what it contained, asked +your father to have it forwarded to its address on reaching Paris. + +He inquired of me what it contained. + +"Your son's welfare," I answered. + +Your father embraced me once more. I felt two grateful tears on my +forehead, like the baptism of my past faults, and at the moment when I +consented to give myself up to another man I glowed with pride at the +thought of what I was redeeming by this new fault. + +It was quite natural, Armand. You told me that your father was the most +honest man in the world. + +M. Duval returned to his carriage, and set out for Paris. + +I was only a woman, and when I saw you again I could not help weeping, +but I did not give way. + +Did I do right? That is what I ask myself to-day, as I lie ill in my +bed, that I shall never leave, perhaps, until I am dead. + +You are witness of what I felt as the hour of our separation approached; +your father was no longer there to support me, and there was a moment +when I was on the point of confessing everything to you, so terrified +was I at the idea that you were going to bate and despise me. + +One thing which you will not believe, perhaps, Armand, is that I prayed +God to give me strength; and what proves that he accepted my sacrifice +is that he gave me the strength for which I prayed. + +At supper I still had need of aid, for I could not think of what I was +going to do, so much did I fear that my courage would fail me. Who would +ever have said that I, Marguerite Gautier, would have suffered so at the +mere thought of a new lover? I drank for forgetfulness, and when I woke +next day I was beside the count. + +That is the whole truth, friend. Judge me and pardon me, as I have +pardoned you for all the wrong that you have done me since that day. + + + +Chapter 26 + +What followed that fatal night you know as well as I; but what you can +not know, what you can not suspect, is what I have suffered since our +separation. + +I heard that your father had taken you away with him, but I felt sure +that you could not live away from me for long, and when I met you in the +Champs-Elysees, I was a little upset, but by no means surprised. + +Then began that series of days; each of them brought me a fresh insult +from you. I received them all with a kind of joy, for, besides proving +to me that you still loved me, it seemed to me as if the more you +persecuted me the more I should be raised in your eyes when you came to +know the truth. + +Do not wonder at my joy in martyrdom, Armand; your love for me had +opened my heart to noble enthusiasm. + +Still, I was not so strong as that quite at once. + +Between the time of the sacrifice made for you and the time of your +return a long while elapsed, during which I was obliged to have recourse +to physical means in order not to go mad, and in order to be blinded and +deafened in the whirl of life into which I flung myself. Prudence +has told you (has she not?) how I went to all the fetes and balls and +orgies. I had a sort of hope that I should kill myself by all these +excesses, and I think it will not be long before this hope is realized. +My health naturally got worse and worse, and when I sent Mme. Duvernoy +to ask you for pity I was utterly worn out, body and soul. + +I will not remind you, Armand, of the return you made for the last proof +of love that I gave you, and of the outrage by which you drove away a +dying woman, who could not resist your voice when you asked her for a +night of love, and who, like a fool, thought for one instant that she +might again unite the past with the present. You had the right to do +what you did, Armand; people have not always put so high a price on a +night of mine! + +I left everything after that. Olympe has taken my place with the Comte +de N., and has told him, I hear, the reasons for my leaving him. The +Comte de G. was at London. He is one of those men who give just enough +importance to making love to women like me for it to be an agreeable +pastime, and who are thus able to remain friends with women, not hating +them because they have never been jealous of them, and he is, too, one +of those grand seigneurs who open only a part of their hearts to us, but +the whole of their purses. It was of him that I immediately thought. I +joined him in London. He received me as kindly as possible, but he +was the lover there of a woman in society, and he feared to compromise +himself if he were seen with me. He introduced me to his friends, who +gave a supper in my honour, after which one of them took me home with +him. + +What else was there for me to do, my friend? If I had killed myself it +would have burdened your life, which ought to be happy, with a needless +remorse; and then, what is the good of killing oneself when one is so +near dying already? + +I became a body without a soul, a thing without a thought; I lived for +some time in that automatic way; then I returned to Paris, and asked +after you; I heard then that you were gone on a long voyage. There was +nothing left to hold me to life. My existence became what it had been +two years before I knew you. I tried to win back the duke, but I had +offended him too deeply. Old men are not patient, no doubt because they +realize that they are not eternal. I got weaker every day. I was pale +and sad and thinner than ever. Men who buy love examine the goods before +taking them. At Paris there were women in better health, and not so thin +as I was; I was rather forgotten. That is all the past up to yesterday. + +Now I am seriously ill. I have written to the duke to ask him for money, +for I have none, and the creditors have returned, and come to me with +their bills with pitiless perseverance. Will the duke answer? Why are +you not in Paris, Armand? You would come and see me, and your visits +would do me good. + +December 20. + +The weather is horrible; it is snowing, and I am alone. I have been in +such a fever for the last three days that I could not write you a word. +No news, my friend; every day I hope vaguely for a letter from you, but +it does not come, and no doubt it will never come. Only men are strong +enough not to forgive. The duke has not answered. + +Prudence is pawning my things again. + +I have been spitting blood all the time. Oh, you would be sorry for me +if you could see me. You are indeed happy to be under a warm sky, and +not, like me, with a whole winter of ice on your chest. To-day I got up +for a little while, and looked out through the curtains of my window, +and watched the life of Paris passing below, the life with which I have +now nothing more to do. I saw the faces of some people I knew, passing +rapidly, joyous and careless. Not one lifted his eyes to my window. +However, a few young men have come to inquire for me. Once before I was +ill, and you, though you did not know me, though you had had nothing +from me but an impertinence the day I met you first, you came to inquire +after me every day. We spent six months together. I had all the love for +you that a woman's heart can hold and give, and you are far away, you +are cursing me, and there is not a word of consolation from you. But it +is only chance that has made you leave me, I am sure, for if you were at +Paris, you would not leave my bedside. + +December 25. + +My doctor tells me I must not write every day. And indeed my memories +only increase my fever, but yesterday I received a letter which did me +good, more because of what it said than by the material help which it +contained. I can write to you, then, to-day. This letter is from your +father, and this is what it says: + +"MADAME: I have just learned that you are ill. If I were at Paris I +would come and ask after you myself; if my son were here I would send +him; but I can not leave C., and Armand is six or seven hundred leagues +from here; permit me, then, simply to write to you, madame, to tell +you how pained I am to hear of your illness, and believe in my sincere +wishes for your speedy recovery. + +"One of my good friends, M. H., will call on you; will you kindly receive +him? I have intrusted him with a commission, the result of which I await +impatiently. + +"Believe me, madame, + +"Yours most faithfully." + + +This is the letter he sent me. Your father has a noble heart; love him +well, my friend, for there are few men so worthy of being loved. +This paper signed by his name has done me more good than all the +prescriptions of our great doctor. + +This morning M. H. called. He seemed much embarrassed by the delicate +mission which M. Duval had intrusted to him. As a matter of fact, he +came to bring me three thousand francs from your father. I wanted to +refuse at first, but M. H. told me that my refusal would annoy M. Duval, +who had authorized him to give me this sum now, and later on whatever I +might need. I accepted it, for, coming from your father, it could not be +exactly taking alms. If I am dead when you come back, show your father +what I have written for him, and tell him that in writing these lines +the poor woman to whom he was kind enough to write so consoling a letter +wept tears of gratitude and prayed God for him. + +January 4. + +I have passed some terrible days. I never knew the body could suffer so. +Oh, my past life! I pay double for it now. + +There has been someone to watch by me every night; I can not breathe. +What remains of my poor existence is shared between being delirious and +coughing. + +The dining-room is full of sweets and all sorts of presents that my +friends have brought. Some of them, I dare say, are hoping that I shall +be their mistress later on. If they could see what sickness has made of +me, they would go away in terror. + +Prudence is giving her New Year's presents with those I have received. + +There is a thaw, and the doctor says that I may go out in a few days if +the fine weather continues. + +January 8. + +I went out yesterday in my carriage. The weather was lovely. The +Champs-Elysees was full of people. It was like the first smile of +spring. Everything about me had a festal air. I never knew before that a +ray of sunshine could contain so much joy, sweetness, and consolation. + +I met almost all the people I knew, all happy, all absorbed in their +pleasures. How many happy people don't even know that they are happy! +Olympe passed me in an elegant carriage that M. de N. has given her. She +tried to insult me by her look. She little knows how far I am from such +things now. A nice fellow, whom I have known for a long time, asked me +if I would have supper with him and one of his friends, who, he said, +was very anxious to make my acquaintance. I smiled sadly and gave him my +hand, burning with fever. I never saw such an astonished countenance. + +I came in at four, and had quite an appetite for my dinner. Going out +has done me good. If I were only going to get well! How the sight of the +life and happiness of others gives a desire of life to those who, only +the night before, in the solitude of their soul and in the shadow of +their sick-room, only wanted to die soon! + +January 10. + +The hope of getting better was only a dream. I am back in bed again, +covered with plasters which burn me. If I were to offer the body that +people paid so dear for once, how much would they give, I wonder, +to-day? + +We must have done something very wicked before we were born, or else we +must be going to be very happy indeed when we are dead, for God to let +this life have all the tortures of expiation and all the sorrows of an +ordeal. + +January 12. + +I am always ill. + +The Comte de N. sent me some money yesterday. I did not keep it. I won't +take anything from that man. It is through him that you are not here. + +Oh, that good time at Bougival! Where is it now? + +If I come out of this room alive I will make a pilgrimage to the house +we lived in together, but I will never leave it until I am dead. + +Who knows if I shall write to you to-morrow? + +January 25. + +I have not slept for eleven nights. I am suffocated. I imagine every +moment that I am going to die. The doctor has forbidden me to touch +a pen. Julie Duprat, who is looking after me, lets me write these +few lines to you. Will you not come back before I die? Is it all over +between us forever? It seems to me as if I should get well if you came. +What would be the good of getting well? + +January 28. + +This morning I was awakened by a great noise. Julie, who slept in +my room, ran into the dining-room. I heard men's voices, and hers +protesting against them in vain. She came back crying. + +They had come to seize my things. I told her to let what they call +justice have its way. The bailiff came into my room with his hat on. He +opened the drawers, wrote down what he saw, and did not even seem to +be aware that there was a dying woman in the bed that fortunately the +charity of the law leaves me. + +He said, indeed, before going, that I could appeal within nine days, +but he left a man behind to keep watch. My God! what is to become of me? +This scene has made me worse than I was before. Prudence wanted to go +and ask your father's friend for money, but I would not let her. + +I received your letter this morning. I was in need of it. Will my answer +reach you in time? Will you ever see me again? This is a happy day, and +it has made me forget all the days I have passed for the last six weeks. +I seem as if I am better, in spite of the feeling of sadness under the +impression of which I replied to you. + +After all, no one is unhappy always. + +When I think that it may happen to me not to die, for you to come back, +for me to see the spring again, for you still to love me, and for us to +begin over again our last year's life! + +Fool that I am! I can scarcely hold the pen with which I write to you of +this wild dream of my heart. + +Whatever happens, I loved you well, Armand, and I would have died long +ago if I had not had the memory of your love to help me and a sort of +vague hope of seeing you beside me again. + +February 4. + +The Comte de G. has returned. His mistress has been unfaithful to him. +He is very sad; he was very fond of her. He came to tell me all about +it. The poor fellow is in rather a bad way as to money; all the same, he +has paid my bailiff and sent away the man. + +I talked to him about you, and he promised to tell you about me. I +forgot that I had been his mistress, and he tried to make me forget it, +too. He is a good friend. + +The duke sent yesterday to inquire after me, and this morning he came +to see me. I do not know how the old man still keeps alive. He remained +with me three hours and did not say twenty words. Two big tears fell +from his eyes when he saw how pale I was. The memory of his daughter's +death made him weep, no doubt. He will have seen her die twice. His back +was bowed, his head bent toward the ground, his lips drooping, his eyes +vacant. Age and sorrow weigh with a double weight on his worn-out body. +He did not reproach me. It looked as if he rejoiced secretly to see the +ravages that disease had made in me. He seemed proud of being still on +his feet, while I, who am still young, was broken down by suffering. + +The bad weather has returned. No one comes to see me. Julie watches by +me as much as she can. Prudence, to whom I can no longer give as much as +I used to, begins to make excuses for not coming. + +Now that I am so near death, in spite of what the doctors tell me, for +I have several, which proves that I am getting worse, I am almost sorry +that I listened to your father; if I had known that I should only be +taking a year of your future, I could not have resisted the longing +to spend that year with you, and, at least, I should have died with a +friend to hold my hand. It is true that if we had lived together this +year, I should not have died so soon. + +God's will be done! + +February 5. + +Oh, come, come, Armand! I suffer horribly; I am going to die, O God! +I was so miserable yesterday that I wanted to spend the evening, which +seemed as if it were going to be as long as the last, anywhere but at +home. The duke came in the morning. It seems to me as if the sight of +this old man, whom death has forgotten, makes me die faster. + +Despite the burning fever which devoured me, I made them dress me and +take me to the Vaudeville. Julie put on some rouge for me, without which +I should have looked like a corpse. I had the box where I gave you our +first rendezvous. All the time I had my eyes fixed on the stall where +you sat that day, though a sort of country fellow sat there, laughing +loudly at all the foolish things that the actors said. I was half dead +when they brought me home. I coughed and spat blood all the night. +To-day I can not speak, I can scarcely move my arm. My God! My God! I +am going to die! I have been expecting it, but I can not get used to the +thought of suffering more than I suffer now, and if-- + +After this the few characters traced by Marguerite were indecipherable, +and what followed was written by Julie Duprat. + +February 18. + +MONSIEUR ARMAND: + +Since the day that Marguerite insisted on going to the theatre she has +got worse and worse. She has completely lost her voice, and now the use +of her limbs. + +What our poor friend suffers is impossible to say. I am not used to +emotions of this kind, and I am in a state of constant fright. + +How I wish you were here! She is almost always delirious; but delirious +or lucid, it is always your name that she pronounces, when she can speak +a word. + +The doctor tells me that she is not here for long. Since she got so ill +the old duke has not returned. He told the doctor that the sight was too +much for him. + +Mme. Duvernoy is not behaving well. This woman, who thought she could +get more money out of Marguerite, at whose expense she was living almost +completely, has contracted liabilities which she can not meet, and +seeing that her neighbour is no longer of use to her, she does not even +come to see her. Everybody is abandoning her. M. de G., prosecuted for +his debts, has had to return to London. On leaving, he sent us more +money; he has done all he could, but they have returned to seize the +things, and the creditors are only waiting for her to die in order to +sell everything. + +I wanted to use my last resources to put a stop to it, but the bailiff +told me it was no use, and that there are other seizures to follow. +Since she must die, it is better to let everything go than to save it +for her family, whom she has never cared to see, and who have never +cared for her. You can not conceive in the midst of what gilded misery +the poor thing is dying. Yesterday we had absolutely no money. Plate, +jewels, shawls, everything is in pawn; the rest is sold or seized. +Marguerite is still conscious of what goes on around her, and she +suffers in body, mind, and heart. Big tears trickle down her cheeks, so +thin and pale that you would never recognise the face of her whom you +loved so much, if you could see her. She has made me promise to write to +you when she can no longer write, and I write before her. She turns her +eyes toward me, but she no longer sees me; her eyes are already veiled +by the coming of death; yet she smiles, and all her thoughts, all her +soul are yours, I am sure. + +Every time the door opens her eyes brighten, and she thinks you are +going to come in; then, when she sees that it is not you, her face +resumes its sorrowful expression, a cold sweat breaks out over it, and +her cheek-bones flush. + +February 19, midnight. + +What a sad day we have had to-day, poor M. Armand! This morning +Marguerite was stifling; the doctor bled her, and her voice has returned +to her a while. The doctor begged her to see a priest. She said "Yes," +and he went himself to fetch an abbe' from Saint Roch. + +Meanwhile Marguerite called me up to her bed, asked me to open a +cupboard, and pointed out a cap and a long chemise covered with lace, +and said in a feeble voice: + +"I shall die as soon as I have confessed. Then you will dress me in +these things; it is the whim of a dying woman." + +Then she embraced me with tears and added: + +"I can speak, but I am stifled when I speak; I am stifling. Air!" + +I burst into tears, opened the window, and a few minutes afterward the +priest entered. I went up to him; when he knew where he was, he seemed +afraid of being badly received. + +"Come in boldly, father," I said to him. + +He stayed a very short time in the room, and when he came out he said to +me: + +"She lived a sinner, and she will die a Christian." + +A few minutes afterward he returned with a choir boy bearing a crucifix, +and a sacristan who went before them ringing the bell to announce that +God was coming to the dying one. + +They went all three into the bed-room where so many strange words have +been said, but was now a sort of holy tabernacle. + +I fell on my knees. I do not know how long the impression of what I saw +will last, but I do not think that, till my turn comes, any human thing +can make so deep an impression on me. + +The priest anointed with holy oil the feet and hands and forehead of the +dying woman, repeated a short prayer, and Marguerite was ready to set +out for the heaven to which I doubt not she will go, if God has seen the +ordeal of her life and the sanctity of her death. + +Since then she has not said a word or made a movement. Twenty times I +should have thought her dead if I had not heard her breathing painfully. + +February 20, 5 P.M. + +All is over. + +Marguerite fell into her last agony at about two o'clock. Never did a +martyr suffer such torture, to judge by the cries she uttered. Two or +three times she sat upright in the bed, as if she would hold on to her +life, which was escaping toward God. + +Two or three times also she said your name; then all was silent, and she +fell back on the bed exhausted. Silent tears flowed from her eyes, and +she was dead. + +Then I went up to her; I called her, and as she did not answer I closed +her eyes and kissed her on the forehead. + +Poor, dear Marguerite, I wish I were a holy woman that my kiss might +recommend you to God. + +Then I dressed her as she had asked me to do. I went to find a priest at +Saint Roch, I burned two candles for her, and I prayed in the church for +an hour. + +I gave the money she left to the poor. + +I do not know much about religion, but I think that God will know that +my tears were genuine, my prayers fervent, my alms-giving sincere, and +that he will have pity on her who, dying young and beautiful, has only +had me to close her eyes and put her in her shroud. + +February 22. + +The burial took place to-day. Many of Marguerite's friends came to the +church. Some of them wept with sincerity. When the funeral started on +the way to Montmartre only two men followed it: the Comte de G., who +came from London on purpose, and the duke, who was supported by two +footmen. + +I write you these details from her house, in the midst of my tears and +under the lamp which burns sadly beside a dinner which I can not touch, +as you can imagine, but which Nanine has got for me, for I have eaten +nothing for twenty-four hours. + +My life can not retain these sad impressions for long, for my life is +not my own any more than Marguerite's was hers; that is why I give you +all these details on the very spot where they occurred, in the fear, if +a long time elapsed between them and your return, that I might not be +able to give them to you with all their melancholy exactitude. + + + +Chapter 27 + +"You have read it?" said Armand, when I had finished the manuscript. + +"I understand what you must have suffered, my friend, if all that I read +is true." + +"My father confirmed it in a letter." + +We talked for some time over the sad destiny which had been +accomplished, and I went home to rest a little. + +Armand, still sad, but a little relieved by the narration of his story, +soon recovered, and we went together to pay a visit to Prudence and to +Julie Duprat. + +Prudence had become bankrupt. She told us that Marguerite was the cause +of it; that during her illness she had lent her a lot of money in the +form of promissory notes, which she could not pay, Marguerite having +died without having returned her the money, and without having given her +a receipt with which she could present herself as a creditor. + +By the help of this fable, which Mme. Duvernoy repeated everywhere in +order to account for her money difficulties, she extracted a note for a +thousand francs from Armand, who did not believe it, but who pretended +to, out of respect for all those in whose company Marguerite had lived. + +Then we called on Julie Duprat, who told us the sad incident which she +had witnessed, shedding real tears at the remembrance of her friend. + +Lastly, we went to Marguerite's grave, on which the first rays of the +April sun were bringing the first leaves into bud. + +One duty remained to Armand--to return to his father. He wished me to +accompany him. + +We arrived at C., where I saw M. Duval, such as I had imagined him from +the portrait his son had made of him, tall, dignified, kindly. + +He welcomed Armand with tears of joy, and clasped my hand +affectionately. I was not long in seeing that the paternal sentiment was +that which dominated all others in his mind. + +His daughter, named Blanche, had that transparence of eyes, that +serenity of the mouth, which indicates a soul that conceives only +holy thoughts and lips that repeat only pious words. She welcomed her +brother's return with smiles, not knowing, in the purity of her youth, +that far away a courtesan had sacrificed her own happiness at the mere +invocation of her name. + +I remained for some time in their happy family, full of indulgent care +for one who brought them the convalescence of his heart. + +I returned to Paris, where I wrote this story just as it had been told +me. It has only one merit, which will perhaps be denied it; that is, +that it is true. + +I do not draw from this story the conclusion that all women like +Marguerite are capable of doing all that she did--far from it; but +I have discovered that one of them experienced a serious love in the +course of her life, that she suffered for it, and that she died of it. I +have told the reader all that I learned. It was my duty. + +I am not the apostle of vice, but I would gladly be the echo of noble +sorrow wherever I bear its voice in prayer. + +The story of Marguerite is an exception, I repeat; had it not been an +exception, it would not have been worth the trouble of writing it. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Camille (La Dame aux Camilias), by +Alexandre Dumas, fils + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CAMILLE (LA DAME AUX CAMILIAS) *** + +***** This file should be named 1608.txt or 1608.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/1/6/0/1608/ + +Produced by Dianne Bean + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS*Ver.04.29.93*END* + + + + + +Etext scanned by Dianne Bean using OmniPage Pro software donated +by Caere. + + + + + +CAMILLE (LA DAME AUX CAMILIAS) + +by ALEXANDRE DUMAS fils + + + + +Chapter I + +In my opinion, it is impossible to create characters until one +has spent a long time in studying men, as it is impossible to +speak a language until it has been seriously acquired. Not being +old enough to invent, I content myself with narrating, and I beg +the reader to assure himself of the truth of a story in which all +the characters, with the exception of the heroine, are still +alive. Eye-witnesses of the greater part of the facts which I +have collected are to be found in Paris, and I might call upon +them to confirm me if my testimony is not enough. And, thanks to +a particular circumstance, I alone can write these things, for I +alone am able to give the final details, without which it would +have been impossible to make the story at once interesting and +complete. + +This is how these details came to my knowledge. On the 12th of +March, 1847, I saw in the Rue Lafitte a great yellow placard +announcing a sale of furniture and curiosities. The sale was to +take place on account of the death of the owner. The owner's name +was not mentioned, but the sale was to be held at 9, Rue d'Antin, +on the 16th, from 12 to 5. The placard further announced that the +rooms and furniture could be seen on the 13th and 14th. + +I have always been very fond of curiosities, and I made up my +mind not to miss the occasion, if not of buying some, at all +events of seeing them. Next day I called at 9, Rue d'Antin. + +It was early in the day, and yet there were already a number of +visitors, both men and women, and the women, though they were +dressed in cashmere and velvet, and had their carriages waiting +for them at the door, gazed with astonishment and admiration at +the luxury which they saw before them. + +I was not long in discovering the reason of this astonishment and +admiration, for, having begun to examine things a little +carefully, I discovered without difficulty that I was in the +house of a kept woman. Now, if there is one thing which women in +society would like to see (and there were society women there), +it is the home of those women whose carriages splash their own +carriages day by day, who, like them, side by side with them, +have their boxes at the Opera and at the Italiens, and who parade +in Paris the opulent insolence of their beauty, their diamonds, +and their scandal. + +This one was dead, so the most virtuous of women could enter even +her bedroom. Death had purified the air of this abode of splendid +foulness, and if more excuse were needed, they had the excuse +that they had merely come to a sale, they knew not whose. They +had read the placards, they wished to see what the placards had +announced, and to make their choice beforehand. What could be +more natural? Yet, all the same, in the midst of all these +beautiful things, they could not help looking about for some +traces of this courtesan's life, of which they had heard, no +doubt, strange enough stories. + +Unfortunately the mystery had vanished with the goddess, and, for +all their endeavours, they discovered only what was on sale since +the owner's decease, and nothing of what had been on sale during +her lifetime. For the rest, there were plenty of things worth +buying. The furniture was superb; there were rosewood and buhl +cabinets and tables, Sevres and Chinese vases, Saxe statuettes, +satin, velvet, lace; there was nothing lacking. + +I sauntered through the rooms, following the inquisitive ladies +of distinction. They entered a room with Persian hangings, and I +was just going to enter in turn, when they came out again almost +immediately, smiling, and as if ashamed of their own curiosity. I +was all the more eager to see the room. It was the dressing-room, +laid out with all the articles of toilet, in which the dead +woman's extravagance seemed to be seen at its height. + +On a large table against the wall, a table three feet in width +and six in length, glittered all the treasures of Aucoc and +Odiot. It was a magnificent collection, and there was not one of +those thousand little things so necessary to the toilet of a +woman of the kind which was not in gold or silver. Such a +collection could only have been got together little by little, +and the same lover had certainly not begun and ended it. + +Not being shocked at the sight of a kept woman's dressing-room, I +amused myself with examining every detail, and I discovered that +these magnificently chiselled objects bore different initials and +different coronets. I looked at one after another, each recalling +a separate shame, and I said that God had been merciful to the +poor child, in not having left her to pay the ordinary penalty, +but rather to die in the midst of her beauty and luxury, before +the coming of old age, the courtesan's first death. + +Is there anything sadder in the world than the old age of vice, +especially in woman? She preserves no dignity, she inspires no +interest. The everlasting repentance, not of the evil ways +followed, but of the plans that have miscarried, the money that +has been spent in vain, is as saddening a thing as one can well +meet with. I knew an aged woman who had once been "gay," whose +only link with the past was a daughter almost as beautiful as she +herself had been. This poor creature to whom her mother had never +said, "You are my child," except to bid her nourish her old age +as she herself had nourished her youth, was called Louise, and, +being obedient to her mother, she abandoned herself without +volition, without passion, without pleasure, as she would have +worked at any other profession that might have been taught her. + +The constant sight of dissipation, precocious dissipation, in +addition to her constant sickly state, had extinguished in her +mind all the knowledge of good and evil that God had perhaps +given her, but that no one had ever thought of developing. I +shall always remember her, as she passed along the boulevards +almost every day at the same hour, accompanied by her mother as +assiduously as a real mother might have accompanied her daughter. +I was very young then, and ready to accept for myself the easy +morality of the age. I remember, however, the contempt and +disgust which awoke in me at the sight of this scandalous +chaperoning. Her face, too, was inexpressibly virginal in its +expression of innocence and of melancholy suffering. She was like +a figure of Resignation. + +One day the girl's face was transfigured. In the midst of all the +debauches mapped out by her mother, it seemed to her as if God +had left over for her one happiness. And why indeed should God, +who had made her without strength, have left her without +consolation, under the sorrowful burden of her life? One day, +then, she realized that she was to have a child, and all that +remained to her of chastity leaped for joy. The soul has strange +refuges. Louise ran to tell the good news to her mother. It is a +shameful thing to speak of, but we are not telling tales of +pleasant sins; we are telling of true facts, which it would be +better, no doubt, to pass over in silence, if we did not believe +that it is needful from time to time to reveal the martyrdom of +those who are condemned without bearing, scorned without judging; +shameful it is, but this mother answered the daughter that they +had already scarce enough for two, and would certainly not have +enough for three; that such children are useless, and a lying-in +is so much time lost. + +Next day a midwife, of whom all we will say is that she was a +friend of the mother, visited Louise, who remained in bed for a +few days, and then got up paler and feebler than before. + +Three months afterward a man took pity on her and tried to heal +her, morally and physically; but the last shock had been too +violent, and Louise died of it. The mother still lives; how? God +knows. + +This story returned to my mind while I looked at the silver +toilet things, and a certain space of time must have elapsed +during these reflections, for no one was left in the room but +myself and an attendant, who, standing near the door, was +carefully watching me to see that I did not pocket anything. + +I went up to the man, to whom I was causing so much anxiety. +"Sir," I said, "can you tell me the name of the person who +formerly lived here?" + +"Mademoiselle Marguerite Gautier." + +I knew her by name and by sight. + +"What!" I said to the attendant; "Marguerite Gautier is dead?" + +"Yes, sir." + +"When did she die?" + +"Three weeks ago, I believe." + +"And why are the rooms on view?" + +"The creditors believe that it will send up the prices. People +can see beforehand the effect of the things; you see that induces +them to buy." + +"She was in debt, then?" + +"To any extent, sir." + +"But the sale will cover it?" + +"And more too." + +"Who will get what remains over?" + +"Her family." + +"She had a family?" + +"It seems so." + +"Thanks." + +The attendant, reassured as to my intentions, touched his hat, +and I went out. + +"Poor girl!" I said to myself as I returned home; "she must have +had a sad death, for, in her world, one has friends only when one +is perfectly well." And in spite of myself I began to feel +melancholy over the fate of Marguerite Gautier. + +It will seem absurd to many people, but I have an unbounded +sympathy for women of this kind, and I do not think it necessary +to apologize for such sympathy. + +One day, as I was going to the Prefecture for a passport, I saw +in one of the neighbouring streets a poor girl who was being +marched along by two policemen. I do not know what was the +matter. All I know is that she was weeping bitterly as she kissed +an infant only a few months old, from whom her arrest was to +separate her. Since that day I have never dared to despise a +woman at first sight. + + + +Chapter 2 + +The sale was to take place on the 16th. A day's interval had been +left between the visiting days and the sale, in order to give +time for taking down the hangings, curtains, etc. I had just +returned from abroad. It was natural that I had not heard of +Marguerite's death among the pieces of news which one's friends +always tell on returning after an absence. Marguerite was a +pretty woman; but though the life of such women makes sensation +enough, their death makes very little. They are suns which set as +they rose, unobserved. Their death, when they die young, is heard +of by all their lovers at the same moment, for in Paris almost +all the lovers of a well-known woman are friends. A few +recollections are exchanged, and everybody's life goes on as if +the incident had never occurred, without so much as a tear. + +Nowadays, at twenty-five, tears have become so rare a thing that +they are not to be squandered indiscriminately. It is the most +that can be expected if the parents who pay for being wept over +are wept over in return for the price they pay. + +As for me, though my initials did not occur on any of +Marguerite's belongings, that instinctive indulgence, that +natural pity that I have already confessed, set me thinking over +her death, more perhaps than it was worth thinking over. I +remembered having often met Marguerite in the Bois, where she +went regularly every day in a little blue coupe drawn by two +magnificent bays, and I had noticed in her a distinction quite +apart from other women of her kind, a distinction which was +enhanced by a really exceptional beauty. + +These unfortunate creatures whenever they go out are always +accompanied by somebody or other. As no man cares to make himself +conspicuous by being seen in their company, and as they are +afraid of solitude, they take with them either those who are not +well enough off to have a carriage, or one or another of those +elegant, ancient ladies, whose elegance is a little inexplicable, +and to whom one can always go for information in regard to the +women whom they accompany. + +In Marguerite's case it was quite different. She was always alone +when she drove in the Champs-Elysees, lying back in her carriage +as much as possible, dressed in furs in winter, and in summer +wearing very simple dresses; and though she often passed people +whom she knew, her smile, when she chose to smile, was seen only +by them, and a duchess might have smiled in just such a manner. +She did not drive to and fro like the others, from the Rond-Point +to the end of the Champs-Elysees. She drove straight to the Bois. +There she left her carriage, walked for an hour, returned to her +carriage, and drove rapidly home. + +All these circumstances which I had so often witnessed came back +to my memory, and I regretted her death as one might regret the +destruction of a beautiful work of art. + +It was impossible to see more charm in beauty than in that of +Marguerite. Excessively tall and thin, she had in the fullest +degree the art of repairing this oversight of Nature by the mere +arrangement of the things she wore. Her cashmere reached to the +ground, and showed on each side the large flounces of a silk +dress, and the heavy muff which she held pressed against her +bosom was surrounded by such cunningly arranged folds that the +eye, however exacting, could find no fault with the contour of +the lines. Her head, a marvel, was the object of the most +coquettish care. It was small, and her mother, as Musset would +say, seemed to have made it so in order to make it with care. + +Set, in an oval of indescribable grace, two black eyes, +surmounted by eyebrows of so pure a curve that it seemed as if +painted; veil these eyes with lovely lashes, which, when drooped, +cast their shadow on the rosy hue of the cheeks; trace a +delicate, straight nose, the nostrils a little open, in an ardent +aspiration toward the life of the senses; design a regular mouth, +with lips parted graciously over teeth as white as milk; colour +the skin with the down of a peach that no hand has touched, and +you will have the general aspect of that charming countenance. +The hair, black as jet, waving naturally or not, was parted on +the forehead in two large folds and draped back over the head, +leaving in sight just the tip of the ears, in which there +glittered two diamonds, worth four to five thousand francs each. +How it was that her ardent life had left on Marguerite's face the +virginal, almost childlike expression, which characterized it, is +a problem which we can but state, without attempting to solve it. + +Marguerite had a marvellous portrait of herself, by Vidal, the +only man whose pencil could do her justice. I had this portrait +by me for a few days after her death, and the likeness was so +astonishing that it has helped to refresh my memory in regard to +some points which I might not otherwise have remembered. + +Some among the details of this chapter did not reach me until +later, but I write them here so as not to be obliged to return to +them when the story itself has begun. + +Marguerite was always present at every first night, and passed +every evening either at the theatre or the ball. Whenever there +was a new piece she was certain to be seen, and she invariably +had three things with her on the ledge of her ground-floor box: +her opera-glass, a bag of sweets, and a bouquet of camellias. + +For twenty-five days of the month the camellias were white, and +for five they were red; no one ever knew the reason of this +change of colour, which I mention though I can not explain it; it +was noticed both by her friends and by the habitue's of the +theatres to which she most often went. She was never seen with +any flowers but camellias. At the florist's, Madame Barjon's, she +had come to be called "the Lady of the Camellias," and the name +stuck to her. + +Like all those who move in a certain set in Paris, I knew that +Marguerite had lived with some of the most fashionable young men +in society, that she spoke of it openly, and that they themselves +boasted of it; so that all seemed equally pleased with one +another. Nevertheless, for about three years, after a visit to +Bagnees, she was said to be living with an old duke, a foreigner, +enormously rich, who had tried to remove her as far as possible +from her former life, and, as it seemed, entirely to her own +satisfaction. + +This is what I was told on the subject. In the spring of 1847 +Marguerite was so ill that the doctors ordered her to take the +waters, and she went to Bagneres. Among the invalids was the +daughter of this duke; she was not only suffering from the same +complaint, but she was so like Marguerite in appearance that they +might have been taken for sisters; the young duchess was in the +last stage of consumption, and a few days after Marguerite's +arrival she died. One morning, the duke, who had remained at +Bagneres to be near the soil that had buried a part of his heart, +caught sight of Marguerite at a turn of the road. He seemed to +see the shadow of his child, and going up to her, he took her +hands, embraced and wept over her, and without even asking her +who she was, begged her to let him love in her the living image +of his dead child. Marguerite, alone at Bagneres with her maid, +and not being in any fear of compromising herself, granted the +duke's request. Some people who knew her, happening to be at +Bagneres, took upon themselves to explain Mademoiselle Gautier's +true position to the duke. It was a blow to the old man, for the +resemblance with his daughter was ended in one direction, but it +was too late. She had become a necessity to his heart, his only +pretext, his only excuse, for living. He made no reproaches, he +had indeed no right to do so, but he asked her if she felt +herself capable of changing her mode of life, offering her in +return for the sacrifice every compensation that she could +desire. She consented. + +It must be said that Marguerite was just then very ill. The past +seemed to her sensitive nature as if it were one of the main +causes of her illness, and a sort of superstition led her to hope +that God would restore to her both health and beauty in return +for her repentance and conversion. By the end of the summer, the +waters, sleep, the natural fatigue of long walks, had indeed more +or less restored her health. The duke accompanied her to Paris, +where he continued to see her as he had done at Bagneres. + +This liaison, whose motive and origin were quite unknown, caused +a great sensation, for the duke, already known for his immense +fortune, now became known for his prodigality. All this was set +down to the debauchery of a rich old man, and everything was +believed except the truth. The father's sentiment for Marguerite +had, in truth, so pure a cause that anything but a communion of +hearts would have seemed to him a kind of incest, and he had +never spoken to her a word which his daughter might not have +heard. + +Far be it from me to make out our heroine to be anything but what +she was. As long as she remained at Bagneres, the promise she had +made to the duke had not been hard to keep, and she had kept it; +but, once back in Paris, it seemed to her, accustomed to a life +of dissipation, of balls, of orgies, as if the solitude, only +interrupted by the duke's stated visits, would kill her with +boredom, and the hot breath of her old life came back across her +head and heart. + +We must add that Marguerite had returned more beautiful than she +had ever been; she was but twenty, and her malady, sleeping but +not subdued, continued to give her those feverish desires which +are almost always the result of diseases of the chest. + +It was a great grief to the duke when his friends, always on the +lookout for some scandal on the part of the woman with whom, it +seemed to them, he was compromising himself, came to tell him, +indeed to prove to him, that at times when she was sure of not +seeing him she received other visits, and that these visits were +often prolonged till the following day. On being questioned, +Marguerite admitted everything to the duke, and advised him, +without arriere-pensee, to concern himself with her no longer, +for she felt incapable of carrying out what she had undertaken, +and she did not wish to go on accepting benefits from a man whom +she was deceiving. The duke did not return for a week; it was all +he could do, and on the eighth day he came to beg Marguerite to +let him still visit her, promising that he would take her as she +was, so long as he might see her, and swearing that he would +never utter a reproach against her, not though he were to die of +it. + +This, then, was the state of things three months after +Marguerite's return; that is to say, in November or December, +1842. + + + +Chapter 3 + +At one o'clock on the 16th I went to the Rue d'Antin. The voice +of the auctioneer could be heard from the outer door. The rooms +were crowded with people. There were all the celebrities of the +most elegant impropriety, furtively examined by certain great +ladies who had again seized the opportunity of the sale in order +to be able to see, close at hand, women whom they might never +have another occasion of meeting, and whom they envied perhaps in +secret for their easy pleasures. The Duchess of F. elbowed Mlle. +A., one of the most melancholy examples of our modern courtesan; +the Marquis de T. hesitated over a piece of furniture the price +of which was being run high by Mme. D., the most elegant and +famous adulteress of our time; the Duke of Y., who in Madrid is +supposed to be ruining himself in Paris, and in Paris to be +ruining himself in Madrid, and who, as a matter of fact, never +even reaches the limit of his income, talked with Mme. M., one of +our wittiest story-tellers, who from time to time writes what she +says and signs what she writes, while at the same time he +exchanged confidential glances with Mme. de N., a fair ornament +of the Champs-Elysees, almost always dressed in pink or blue, and +driving two big black horses which Tony had sold her for 10,000 +francs, and for which she had paid, after her fashion; finally, +Mlle. R., who makes by her mere talent twice what the women of +the world make by their dot and three times as much as the others +make by their amours, had come, in spite of the cold, to make +some purchases, and was not the least looked at among the crowd. + +We might cite the initials of many more of those who found +themselves, not without some mutual surprise, side by side in one +room. But we fear to weary the reader. We will only add that +everyone was in the highest spirits, and that many of those +present had known the dead woman, and seemed quite oblivious of +the fact. There was a sound of loud laughter; the auctioneers +shouted at the top of their voices; the dealers who had filled +the benches in front of the auction table tried in vain to obtain +silence, in order to transact their business in peace. Never was +there a noisier or a more varied gathering. + +I slipped quietly into the midst of this tumult, sad to think of +when one remembered that the poor creature whose goods were being +sold to pay her debts had died in the next room. Having come +rather to examine than to buy, I watched the faces of the +auctioneers, noticing how they beamed with delight whenever +anything reached a price beyond their expectations. Honest +creatures, who had speculated upon this woman's prostitution, who +had gained their hundred per cent out of her, who had plagued +with their writs the last moments of her life, and who came now +after her death to gather in at once the fruits of their +dishonourable calculations and the interest on their shameful +credit, How wise were the ancients in having only one God for +traders and robbers! + +Dresses, cashmeres, jewels, were sold with incredible rapidity. +There was nothing that I cared for, and I still waited. All at +once I heard: "A volume, beautifully bound, gilt-edged, entitled +Manon Lescaut. There is something written on the first page. Ten +francs." + +"Twelve," said a voice after a longish silence. + +"Fifteen," I said. + +Why? I did not know. Doubtless for the something written. + +"Fifteen," repeated the auctioneer. + +"Thirty," said the first bidder in a tone which seemed to defy +further competition. + +It had now become a struggle. "Thirty-five," I cried in the same +tone. + +"Forty." + +"Fifty." + +"Sixty." + +"A hundred." + +If I had wished to make a sensation I should certainly have +succeeded, for a profound silence had ensued, and people gazed at +me as if to see what sort of a person it was, who seemed to be so +determined to possess the volume. + +The accent which I had given to my last word seemed to convince +my adversary; he preferred to abandon a conflict which could only +have resulted in making me pay ten times its price for the +volume, and, bowing, he said very gracefully, though indeed a +little late: + +"I give way, sir." + +Nothing more being offered, the book was assigned to me. + +As I was afraid of some new fit of obstinacy, which my amour +propre might have sustained somewhat better than my purse, I +wrote down my name, had the book put on one side, and went out. I +must have given considerable food for reflection to the witnesses +of this scene, who would nodoubt ask themselves what my purpose +could have been in paying a hundred francs for a book which I +could have had anywhere for ten, or, at the outside, fifteen. + +An hour after, I sent for my purchase. On the first page was +written in ink, in an elegant hand, an inscription on the part of +the giver. It consisted of these words: + +Manon to Marguerite. + +Humility. + +It was signed Armand Duval. + +What was the meaning of the word Humility? Was Manon to recognise +in Marguerite, in the opinion of M. Armand Duval, her superior in +vice or in affection? The second interpretation seemed the more +probable, for the first would have been an impertinent piece of +plain speaking which Marguerite, whatever her opinion of herself, +would never have accepted. + +I went out again, and thought no more of the book until at night, +when I was going to bed. + +Manon Lescaut is a touching story. I know every detail of it, and +yet whenever I come across the volume the same sympathy always +draws me to it; I open it, and for the hundredth time I live over +again with the heroine of the Abbe Prevost. Now this heroine is +so true to life that I feel as if I had known her; and thus the +sort of comparison between her and Marguerite gave me an unusual +inclination to read it, and my indulgence passed into pity, +almost into a kind of love for the poor girl to whom I owed the +volume. Manon died in the desert, it is true, but in the arms of +the man who loved her with the whole energy of his soul; who, +when she was dead, dug a grave for her, and watered it with his +tears, and buried his heart in it; while Marguerite, a sinner +like Manon, and perhaps converted like her, had died in a +sumptuous bed (it seemed, after what I had seen, the bed of her +past), but in that desert of the heart, a more barren, a vaster, +a more pitiless desert than that in which Manon had found her +last resting-place. + +Marguerite, in fact, as I had found from some friends who knew of +the last circumstances of her life, had not a single real friend +by her bedside during the two months of her long and painful +agony. + +Then from Manon and Marguerite my mind wandered to those whom I +knew, and whom I saw singing along the way which led to just such +another death. Poor souls! if it is not right to love them, is it +not well to pity them? You pity the blind man who has never seen +the daylight, the deaf who has never heard the harmonies of +nature, the dumb who has never found a voice for his soul, and, +under a false cloak of shame, you will not pity this blindness of +heart, this deafness of soul, this dumbness of conscience, which +sets the poor afflicted creature beside herself and makes her, in +spite of herself, incapable of seeing what is good, of bearing +the Lord, and of speaking the pure language of love and faith. + +Hugo has written Marion Delorme, Musset has written Bernerette, +Alexandre Dumas has written Fernande, the thinkers and poets of +all time have brought to the courtesan the offering of their +pity, and at times a great man has rehabilitated them with his +love and even with his name. If I insist on this point, it is +because many among those who have begun to read me will be ready +to throw down a book in which they will fear to find an apology +for vice and prostitution; and the author's age will do +something, no doubt, to increase this fear. Let me undeceive +those who think thus, and let them go on reading, if nothing but +such a fear hinders them. + +I am quite simply convinced of a certain principle, which is: For +the woman whose education has not taught her what is right, God +almost always opens two ways which lead thither the ways of +sorrow and of love. They are hard; those who walk in them walk +with bleeding feet and torn hands, but they also leave the +trappings of vice upon the thorns of the wayside, and reach the +journey's end in a nakedness which is not shameful in the sight +of the Lord. + +Those who meet these bold travellers ought to succour them, and +to tell all that they have met them, for in so doing they point +out the way. It is not a question of setting at the outset of +life two sign-posts, one bearing the inscription "The Right Way," +the other the inscription "The Wrong Way," and of saying to those +who come there, "Choose." One must needs, like Christ, point out +the ways which lead from the second road to the first, to those +who have been easily led astray; and it is needful that the +beginning of these ways should not be too painful nor appear too +impenetrable. + +Here is Christianity with its marvellous parable of the Prodigal +Son to teach us indulgence and pardon. Jesus was full of love for +souls wounded by the passions of men; he loved to bind up their +wounds and to find in those very wounds the balm which should +heal them. Thus he said to the Magdalen: "Much shall be forgiven +thee because thou hast loved much," a sublimity of pardon which +can only have called forth a sublime faith. + +Why do we make ourselves more strict than Christ? Why, holding +obstinately to the opinions of the world, which hardens itself in +order that it may be thought strong, do we reject, as it rejects, +souls bleeding at wounds by which, like a sick man's bad blood, +the evil of their past may be healed, if only a friendly hand is +stretched out to lave them and set them in the convalescence of +the heart? + +It is to my own generation that I speak, to those for whom the +theories of M. de Voltaire happily exist no longer, to those who, +like myself, realize that humanity, for these last fifteen years, +has been in one of its most audacious moments of expansion. The +science of good and evil is acquired forever; faith is +refashioned, respect for sacred things has returned to us, and if +the world has not all at once become good, it has at least become +better. The efforts of every intelligent man tend in the same +direction, and every strong will is harnessed to the same +principle: Be good, be young, be true! Evil is nothing but +vanity, let us have the pride of good, and above all let us never +despair. Do not let us despise the woman who is neither mother, +sister, maid, nor wife. Do not let us limit esteem to the family +nor indulgence to egoism. Since "there is more joy in heaven over +one sinner that repenteth than over ninety and nine just persons +that need no repentance," let us give joy to heaven. Heaven will +render it back to us with usury. Let us leave on our way the alms +of pardon for those whom earthly desires have driven astray, whom +a divine hope shall perhaps save, and, as old women say when they +offer you. some homely remedy of their own, if it does no good it +will do no harm. + +Doubtless it must seem a bold thing to attempt to deduce these +grand results out of the meagre subject that I deal with; but I +am one of those who believe that all is in little. The child is +small, and he includes the man; the brain is narrow, and it +harbours thought; the eye is but a point, and it covers leagues. + + + +Chapter 4 + +Two days after, the sale was ended. It had produced 3.50,000 +francs. The creditors divided among them two thirds, and the +family, a sister and a grand-nephew, received the remainder. + +The sister opened her eyes very wide when the lawyer wrote to her +that she had inherited 50,000 francs. The girl had not seen her +sister for six or seven years, and did not know what had become +of her from the moment when she had disappeared from home. She +came up to Paris in haste, and great was the astonishment of +those who had known Marguerite when they saw as her only heir a +fine, fat country girl, who until then had never left her +village. She had made the fortune at a single stroke, without +even knowing the source of that fortune. She went back, I heard +afterward, to her countryside, greatly saddened by her sister's +death, but with a sadness which was somewhat lightened by the +investment at four and a half per cent which she had been able to +make. + +All these circumstances, often repeated in Paris, the mother city +of scandal, had begun to be forgotten, and I was even little by +little forgetting the part I had taken in them, when a new +incident brought to my knowledge the whole of Marguerite's life, +and acquainted me with such pathetic details that I was taken +with the idea of writing down the story which I now write. + +The rooms, now emptied of all their furniture, had been to let +for three or four days when one morning there was a ring at my +door. + +My servant, or, rather, my porter, who acted as my servant, went +to the door and brought me a card, saying that the person who had +given it to him wished to see me. + +I glanced at the card and there read these two words: Armand +Duval. + +I tried to think where I had seen the name, and remembered the +first leaf of the copy of Manon Lescaut. What could the person +who had given the book to Marguerite want of me? I gave orders to +ask him in at once. + +I saw a young man, blond, tall, pale, dressed in a travelling +suit which looked as if he had not changed it for some days, and +had not even taken the trouble to brush it on arriving at Paris, +for it was covered with dust. + +M. Duval was deeply agitated; he made no attempt to conceal his +agitation, and it was with tears in his eyes and a trembling +voice that he said to me: + +"Sir, I beg you to excuse my visit and my costume; but young +people are not very ceremonious with one another, and I was so +anxious to see you to-day that I have not even gone to the hotel +to which I have sent my luggage, and have rushed straight here, +fearing that, after all, I might miss you, early as it is." + +I begged M. Duval to sit down by the fire; he did so, and, taking +his handkerchief from his pocket, hid his face in it for a +moment. + +"You must be at a loss to understand," he went on, sighing sadly, +"for what purpose an unknown visitor, at such an hour, in such a +costume, and in tears, can have come to see you. I have simply +come to ask of you a great service." + +"Speak on, sir, I am entirely at your disposal." + +"You were present at the sale of Marguerite Gautier?" + +At this word the emotion, which he had got the better of for an +instant, was too much for him, and he was obliged to cover his +eyes with his hand. + +"I must seem to you very absurd," he added, "but pardon me, and +believe that I shall never forget the patience with which you +have listened to me." + +"Sir," I answered, "if the service which I can render you is able +to lessen your trouble a little, tell me at once what I can do +for you, and you will find me only too happy to oblige you." + +M. Duval's sorrow was sympathetic, arid in spite of myself I felt +the desire of doing him a kindness. Thereupon he said to me: + +"You bought something at Marguerite's sale?" + +"Yes, a book." + +"Manon Lescaut?" + +"Precisely." + +"Have you the book still?" + +"It is in my bedroom." + +On hearing this, Armand Duval seemed to be relieved of a great +weight, and thanked me as if I had already rendered him a service +merely by keeping the book. + +I got up and went into my room to fetch the book, which I handed +to him. + +"That is it indeed," he said, looking at the inscription on the +first page and turning over the leaves; "that is it in deed," and +two big tears fell on the pages. "Well, sir," said he, lifting +his head, and no longer trying to hide from me that he had wept +and was even then on the point of weeping, "do you value this +book very greatly?" + +"Why?" + +"Because I have come to ask you to give it up to me." + +"Pardon my curiosity, but was it you, then, who gave it to +Marguerite Gautier?" + +"It was!" + +"The book is yours, sir; take it back. I am happy to be able to +hand it over to you." + +"But," said M. Duval with some embarrassment, "the least I can do +is to give you in return the price which you paid for it." + +"Allow me to offer it to you. The price of a single volume in a +sale of that kind is a mere nothing, and I do not remember how +much I gave for it." + +"You gave one hundred francs." + +"True," I said, embarrassed in my turn, "how do you know?" + +"It is quite simple. I hoped to reach Paris in time for the sale, +and I only managed to get here this morning. I was absolutely +resolved to have something which had belonged to her, and I +hastened to the auctioneer and asked him to allow me to see the +list of the things sold and of the buyers' names. I saw that this +volume had been bought by you, and I decided to ask you to give +it up to me, though the price you had set upon it made me fear +that you might yourself have some souvenir in connection with the +possession of the book." + +As he spoke, it was evident that he was afraid I had known +Marguerite as he had known her. I hastened to reassure him. + +"I knew Mlle. Gautier only by sight," I said; "her death made on +me the impression that the death of a pretty woman must always +make on a young man who had liked seeing her. I wished to buy +something at her sale, and I bid higher and higher for this book +out of mere obstinacy and to annoy some one else, who was equally +keen to obtain it, and who seemed to defy me to the contest. I +repeat, then, that the book is yours, and once more I beg you to +accept it; do not treat me as if I were an auctioneer, and let it +be the pledge between us of a longer and more intimate +acquaintance." + +"Good," said Armand, holding out his hand and pressing mine; "I +accept, and I shall be grateful to you all my life." + +I was very anxious to question Armand on the subject of +Marguerite, for the inscription in the book, the young man's +hurried journey, his desire to possess the volume, piqued my +curiosity; but I feared if I questioned my visitor that I might +seem to have refused his money only in order to have the right to +pry into his affairs. + +It was as if he guessed my desire, for he said to me: + +"Have you read the volume?" + +"All through." + +"What did you think of the two lines that I wrote in it?" + +"I realized at once that the woman to whom you had given the +volume must have been quite outside the ordinary category, for I +could not take those two lines as a mere empty compliment." + +"You were right. That woman was an angel. See, read this letter." +And he handed to me a paper which seemed to have been many times +reread. + +I opened it, and this is what it contained: + +"MY DEAR ARMAND:--I have received your letter. You are still +good, and I thank God for it. Yes, my friend, I am ill, and with +one of those diseases that never relent; but the interest you +still take in me makes my suffering less. I shall not live long +enough, I expect, to have the happiness of pressing the hand +which has written the kind letter I have just received; the words +of it would be enough to cure me, if anything could cure me. I +shall not see you, for I am quite near death, and you are +hundreds of leagues away. My poor friend! your Marguerite of old +times is sadly changed. It is better perhaps for you not to see +her again than to see her as she is. You ask if I forgive you; +oh, with all my heart, friend, for the way you hurt me was only a +way of proving the love you had for me. I have been in bed for a +month, and I think so much of your esteem that I write every day +the journal of my life, from the moment we left each other to the +moment when I shall be able to write no longer. If the interest +you take in me is real, Armand, when you come back go and see +Julie Duprat. She will give you my journal. You will find in it +the reason and the excuse for what has passed between us. Julie +is very good to me; we often talk of you together. She was there +when your letter came, and we both cried over it. + +"If you had not sent me any word, I had told her to give you +those papers when you returned to France. Do not thank me for it. +This daily looking back on the only happy moments of my life does +me an immense amount of good, and if you will find in reading it +some excuse for the past. I, for my part, find a continual solace +in it. I should like to leave you something which would always +remind you of me, but everything here has been seized, and I have +nothing of my own. + +"Do you understand, my friend? I am dying, and from my bed I can +hear a man walking to and fro in the drawing-room; my creditors +have put him there to see that nothing is taken away, and that +nothing remains to me in case I do not die. I hope they will wait +till the end before they begin to sell. + +"Oh, men have no pity! or rather, I am wrong, it is God who is +just and inflexible! + +"And now, dear love, you will come to my sale, and you will buy +something, for if I put aside the least thing for you, they might +accuse you of embezzling seized goods. + +"It is a sad life that I am leaving! + +"It would be good of God to let me see you again before I die. +According to all probability, good-bye, my friend. Pardon me if I +do not write a longer letter, but those who say they are going to +cure me wear me out with bloodletting, and my hand refuses to +write any more. + + "MARGUERITE GAUTIER." + +The last two words were scarcely legible. I returned the letter +to Armand, who had, no doubt, read it over again in his mind +while I was reading it on paper, for he said to me as he took it: + +"Who would think that a kept woman could have written that?" And, +overcome by recollections, he gazed for some time at the writing +of the letter, which he finally carried to his lips. + +"And when I think," he went on, "that she died before I could see +her, and that I shall never see her again, when I think that she +did for me what no sister would ever have done, I can not forgive +myself for having left her to die like that. Dead! Dead and +thinking of me, writing and repeating my name, poor dear +Marguerite!" + +And Armand, giving free outlet to his thoughts and his tears, +held out his hand to me, and continued: + +"People would think it childish enough if they saw me lament like +this over a dead woman such as she; no one will ever know what I +made that woman suffer, how cruel I have been to her! how good, +how resigned she was! I thought it was I who had to forgive her, +and to-day I feel unworthy of the forgiveness which she grants +me. Oh, I would give ten years of my life to weep at her feet for +an hour!" + +It is always difficult to console a sorrow that is unknown to +one, and nevertheless I felt so lively a sympathy for the young +man, he made me so frankly the confidant of his distress, that I +believed a word from me would not be indifferent to him, and I +said: + +"Have you no parents, no friends? Hope. Go and see them; they +will console you. As for me, I can only pity you." + +"It is true," he said, rising and walking to and fro in the room, +"I am wearying you. Pardon me, I did not reflect how little my +sorrow must mean to you, and that I am intruding upon you +something which can not and ought not to interest you at all." + +"You mistake my meaning. I am entirely at your service; only I +regret my inability to calm your distress. If my society and that +of my friends can give you any distraction, if, in short, you +have need of me, no matter in what way, I hope you will realize +how much pleasure it will give me to do anything for you." + +"Pardon, pardon," said he; "sorrow sharpens the sensations. Let +me stay here for a few minutes longer, long enough to dry my +eyes, so that the idlers in the street may not look upon it as a +curiosity to see a big fellow like me crying. You have made me +very happy by giving me this book. I do not know how I can ever +express my gratitude to you." + +"By giving me a little of your friendship," said I, "and by +telling me the cause of your suffering. One feels better while +telling what one suffers." + +"You are right. But to-day I have too much need of tears; I can +not very well talk. One day I will tell you the whole story, and +you will see if I have reason for regretting the poor girl. And +now," he added, rubbing his eyes for the last time, and looking +at himself in the glass, "say that you do not think me too +absolutely idiotic, and allow me to come back and see you another +time." + +He cast on me a gentle and amiable look. I was near embracing +him. As for him, his eyes again began to fill with tears; he saw +that I perceived it and turned away his head. + +"Come," I said, "courage." + +"Good-bye," he said. + +And, making a desperate effort to restrain his tears, he rushed +rather than went out of the room. + +I lifted the curtain of my window, and saw him get into the +cabriolet which awaited him at the door; but scarcely was he +seated before he burst into tears and hid his face in his +pocket-handkerchief. + + + +Chapter 5 + +A good while elapsed before I heard anything more of Armand, but, +on the other hand, I was constantly hearing of Marguerite. + +I do not know if you have noticed, if once the name of anybody +who might in the natural course of things have always remained +unknown, or at all events indifferent to you, should he mentioned +before you, immediately details begin to group themselves about +the name, and you find all your friends talking to you about +something which they have never mentioned to you before. You +discover that this person was almost touching you and has passed +close to you many times in your life without your noticing it; +you find coincidences in the events which are told you, a real +affinity with certain events of your own existence. I was not +absolutely at that point in regard to Marguerite, for I had seen +and met her, I knew her by sight and by reputation; nevertheless, +since the moment of the sale, her name came to my ears so +frequently, and, owing to the circumstance that I have mentioned +in the last chapter, that name was associated with so profound a +sorrow, that my curiosity increased in proportion with my +astonishment. The consequence was that whenever I met friends to +whom I had never breathed the name of Marguerite, I always began +by saying: + +"Did you ever know a certain Marguerite Gautier?" + +"The Lady of the Camellias?" + +"Exactly." + +"Oh, very well!" + +The word was sometimes accompanied by a smile which could leave +no doubt as to its meaning. + +"Well, what sort of a girl was she?" + +"A good sort of girl." + +"Is that all?" + +"Oh, yes; more intelligence and perhaps a little more heart than +most." + +"Do you know anything particular about her?" + +"She ruined Baron de G." + +"No more than that?" + +"She was the mistress of the old Duke of . . ." + +"Was she really his mistress?" + +"So they say; at all events, he gave her a great deal of money." + +The general outlines were always the same. Nevertheless I was +anxious to find out something about the relations between +Marguerite and Armand. Meeting one day a man who was constantly +about with known women, I asked him: "Did you know Marguerite +Gautier?" + +The answer was the usual: "Very well." + +"What sort of a girl was she?" + +"A fine, good girl. I was very sorry to hear of her death." + +"Had she not a lover called Armand Duval?" + +"Tall and blond?" + +"Yes. + +"It is quite true." + +"Who was this Armand?" + +"A fellow who squandered on her the little money he had, and then +had to leave her. They say he was quite wild about it." + +"And she?" + +"They always say she was very much in love with him, but as girls +like that are in love. It is no good to ask them for what they +can not give." + +"What has become of Armand?" + +"I don't know. We knew him very little. He was with Marguerite +for five or six months in the country. When she came back, he had +gone." + +"And you have never seen him since?" + +"Never." + +I, too, had not seen Armand again. I was beginning to ask myself +if, when he had come to see me, the recent news of Marguerite's +death had not exaggerated his former love, and consequently his +sorrow, and I said to myself that perhaps he had already +forgotten the dead woman, and along with her his promise to come +and see me again. This supposition would have seemed probable +enough in most instances, but in Armand's despair there had been +an accent of real sincerity, and, going from one extreme to +another, I imagined that distress had brought on an illness, and +that my not seeing him was explained by the fact that he was ill, +perhaps dead. + +I was interested in the young man in spite of myself. Perhaps +there was some selfishness in this interest; perhaps I guessed at +some pathetic love story under all this sorrow; perhaps my desire +to know all about it had much to do with the anxiety which +Armand's silence caused me. Since M. Duval did not return to see +me, I decided to go and see him. A pretext was not difficult to +find; unluckily I did not know his address, and no one among +those whom I questioned could give it to me. + +I went to the Rue d'Antin; perhaps Marguerite's porter would know +where Armand lived. There was a new porter; he knew as little +about it as I. I then asked in what cemetery Mlle. Gautier had +been buried. It was the Montmartre Cemetery. It was now the month +of April; the weather was fine, the graves were not likely to +look as sad and desolate as they do in winter; in short, it was +warm enough for the living to think a little of the dead, and pay +them a visit. I went to the cemetery, saying to myself: "One +glance at Marguerite's grave, and I shall know if Armand's sorrow +still exists, and perhaps I may find out what has become of him." + +I entered the keeper's lodge, and asked him if on the 22nd of +February a woman named Marguerite Gautier had not been buried in +the Montmartre Cemetery. He turned over the pages of a big book +in which those who enter this last resting-place are inscribed +and numbered, and replied that on the 22nd of February, at 12 +o'clock, a woman of that name had been buried. + +I asked him to show me the grave, for there is no finding one's +way without a guide in this city of the dead, which has its +streets like a city of the living. The keeper called over a +gardener, to whom he gave the necessary instructions; the +gardener interrupted him, saying: "I know, I know.--It is not +difficult to find that grave," he added, turning to me. + +"Why?" + +"Because it has very different flowers from the others." + +"Is it you who look after it?" + +"Yes, sir; and I wish all relations took as much trouble about +the dead as the young man who gave me my orders." + +After several turnings, the gardener stopped and said to me: +"Here we are." + +I saw before me a square of flowers which one would never have +taken for a grave, if it had not been for a white marble slab +bearing a name. + +The marble slab stood upright, an iron railing marked the limits +of the ground purchased, and the earth was covered with white +camellias. "What do you say to that?" said the gardener. + +"It is beautiful." + +"And whenever a camellia fades, I have orders to replace it." + +"Who gave you the order?" + +"A young gentleman, who cried the first time he came here; an old +pal of hers, I suppose, for they say she was a gay one. Very +pretty, too, I believe. Did you know her, sir?" "Yes." + +"Like the other?" said the gardener, with a knowing smile. "No, I +never spoke to her." + +"And you come here, too! It is very good of you, for those that +come to see the poor girl don't exactly cumber the cemetery." + +"Doesn't anybody come?" + +"Nobody, except that young gentleman who came once." + +"Only once?" + +"Yes, sir." + +"He never came back again?" + +"No, but he will when he gets home." + +"He is away somewhere?" + +"Yes." + +"Do you know where he is?" + +"I believe he has gone to see Mlle. Gautier's sister." + +"What does he want there?" + +"He has gone to get her authority to have the corpse dug up again +and put somewhere else." + +"Why won't he let it remain here?" + +"You know, sir, people have queer notions about dead folk. We see +something of that every day. The ground here was only bought for +five years, and this young gentleman wants a perpetual lease and +a bigger plot of ground; it will be better in the new part." + +"What do you call the new part?" + +"The new plots of ground that are for sale, there to the left. If +the cemetery had always been kept like it is now, there wouldn't +be the like of it in the world; but there is still plenty to do +before it will be quite all it should be. And then people are so +queer!" + +"What do you mean?" + +"I mean that there are people who carry their pride even here. +Now, this Demoiselle Gautier, it appears she lived a bit free, if +you'll excuse my saying so. Poor lady, she's dead now; there's no +more of her left than of them that no one has a word to say +against. We water them every day. Well, when the relatives of the +folk that are buried beside her found out the sort of person she +was, what do you think they said? That they would try to keep her +out from here, and that there ought to be a piece of ground +somewhere apart for these sort of women, like there is for the +poor. Did you ever hear of such a thing? I gave it to them +straight, I did: well-to-do folk who come to see their dead four +times a year, and bring their flowers themselves, and what +flowers! and look twice at the keep of them they pretend to cry +over, and write on their tombstones all about the tears they +haven't shed, and come and make difficulties about their +neighbours. You may believe me or not, sir, I never knew the +young lady; I don't know what she did. Well, I'm quite in love +with the poor thing; I look after her well, and I let her have +her camellias at an honest price. She is the dead body that I +like the best. You see, sir, we are obliged to love the dead, for +we are kept so busy, we have hardly time to love anything else." + +I looked at the man, and some of my readers will understand, +without my needing to explain it to them, the emotion which I +felt on hearing him. He observed it, no doubt, for he went on: + +"They tell me there were people who ruined themselves over that +girl, and lovers that worshipped her; well, when I think there +isn't one of them that so much as buys her a flower now, that's +queer, sir, and sad. And, after all, she isn't so badly off, for +she has her grave to herself, and if there is only one who +remembers her, he makes up for the others. But we have other poor +girls here, just like her and just her age, and they are just +thrown into a pauper's grave, and it breaks my heart when I hear +their poor bodies drop into the earth. And not a soul thinks +about them any more, once they are dead! 'Tisn't a merry trade, +ours, especially when we have a little heart left. What do you +expect? I can't help it. I have a fine, strapping girl myself; +she's just twenty, and when a girl of that age comes here I think +of her, and I don't care if it's a great lady or a vagabond, I +can't help feeling it a bit. But I am taking up your time, sir, +with my tales, and it wasn't to hear them you came here. I was +told to show you Mlle. Gautier's grave; here you have it. Is +there anything else I can do for you?" + +"Do you know M. Armand Duval's address?" I asked. + +"Yes; he lives at Rue de --; at least, that's where I always go +to get my money for the flowers you see there." + +"Thanks, my good man." + +I gave one more look at the grave covered with flowers, half +longing to penetrate the depths of the earth and see what the +earth had made of the fair creature that had been cast to it; +then I walked sadly away. + +"Do you want to see M. Duval, sir?" said the gardener, who was +walking beside me. + +"Yes." + +"Well, I am pretty sure he is not back yet, or he would have been +here already." + +"You don't think he has forgotten Marguerite?" + +"I am not only sure he hasn't, but I would wager that he wants to +change her grave simply in order to have one more look at her." + +"Why do you think that?" + +"The first word he said to me when he came to the cemetery was: +'How can I see her again?' That can't be done unless there is a +change of grave, and I told him all about the formalities that +have to be attended to in getting it done; for, you see, if you +want to move a body from one grave to another you must have it +identified, and only the family can give leave for it under the +direction of a police inspector. That is why M. Duval has gone to +see Mlle. Gautier's sister, and you may be sure his first visit +will be for me." + +We had come to the cemetery gate. I thanked the gardener again, +putting a few coins into his hand, and made my way to the address +he had given me. + +Armand had not yet returned. I left word for him, begging him to +come and see me as soon as he arrived, or to send me word where I +could find him. + +Next day, in the morning, I received a letter from Duval, telling +me of his return, and asking me to call on him, as he was so worn +out with fatigue that it was impossible for him to go out. + + + +Chapter 6 + +I found Armand in bed. On seeing me he held out a burning hand. +"You are feverish," I said to him. "It is nothing, the fatigue of +a rapid journey; that is all." "You have been to see Marguerite's +sister?" "Yes; who told you?" "I knew it. Did you get what you +wanted?" + +"Yes; but who told you of my journey, and of my reason for taking +it?" + +"The gardener of the cemetery." + +"You have seen the tomb?" + +I scarcely dared reply, for the tone in which the words were +spoken proved to me that the speaker was still possessed by the +emotion which I had witnessed before, and that every time his +thoughts or speech travelled back to that mournful subject +emotion would still, for a long time to come, prove stronger than +his will. I contented myself with a nod of the head. + +"He has looked after it well?" continued Armand. Two big tears +rolled down the cheeks of the sick man, and he turned away his +head to hide them from me. I pretended not to see them, and tried +to change the conversation. "You have been away three weeks," I +said. + +Armand passed his hand across his eyes and replied, "Exactly +three weeks." + +"You had a long journey." + +"Oh, I was not travelling all the time. I was ill for a fortnight +or I should have returned long ago; but I had scarcely got there +when I took this fever, and I was obliged to keep my room." + +"And you started to come back before you were really well?" + +"If I had remained in the place for another week, I should have +died there." + +"Well, now you are back again, you must take care of yourself; +your friends will come and look after you; myself, first of all, +if you will allow me." + +"I shall get up in a couple of hours." + +"It would be very unwise." + +"I must." + +"What have you to do in such a great hurry?" + +"I must go to the inspector of police." + +"Why do you not get one of your friends to see after the matter? +It is likely to make you worse than you are now." + +"It is my only chance of getting better. I must see her. Ever +since I heard of her death, especially since I saw her grave, I +have not been able to sleep. I can not realize that this woman, +so young and so beautiful when I left her, is really dead. I must +convince myself of it. I must see what God has done with a being +that I have loved so much, and perhaps the horror of the sight +will cure me of my despair. Will you accompany me, if it won't be +troubling you too much?" + +"What did her sister say about it?" + +"Nothing. She seemed greatly surprised that a stranger wanted to +buy a plot of ground and give Marguerite a new grave, and she +immediately signed the authorization that I asked her for." + +"Believe me, it would be better to wait until you are quite +well." + +"Have no fear; I shall be quite composed. Besides, I should +simply go out of my mind if I were not to carry out a resolution +which I have set myself to carry out. I swear to you that I shall +never be myself again until I have seen Marguerite. It is perhaps +the thirst of the fever, a sleepless night's dream, a moment's +delirium; but though I were to become a Trappist, like M. de +Rance', after having seen, I will see." + +"I understand," I said to Armand, "and I am at your service. Have +you seen Julie Duprat?" + +"Yes, I saw her the day I returned, for the first time." + +"Did she give you the papers that Marguerite had left for you?" + +Armand drew a roll of papers from under his pillow, and +immediately put them back. + +"I know all that is in these papers by heart," he said. "For +three weeks I have read them ten times over every day. You shall +read them, too, but later on, when I am calmer, and can make you +understand all the love and tenderness hidden away in this +confession. For the moment I want you to do me a service." + +"What is it?" + +"Your cab is below?" + +"Yes. + +"Well, will you take my passport and ask if there are any letters +for me at the poste restante? My father and sister must have +written to me at Paris, and I went away in such haste that I did +not go and see before leaving. When you come back we will go +together to the inspector of police, and arrange for to-morrow's +ceremony." + +Armand handed me his passport, and I went to Rue Jean Jacques +Rousseau. There were two letters addressed to Duval. I took them +and returned. When I re-entered the room Armand was dressed and +ready to go out. + +"Thanks," he said, taking the letters. "Yes," he added, after +glancing at the addresses, "they are from my father and sister. +They must have been quite at a loss to understand my silence." + +He opened the letters, guessed at rather than read them, for each +was of four pages; and a moment after folded them up. "Come," he +said, "I will answer tomorrow." + +We went to the police station, and Armand handed in the +permission signed by Marguerite's sister. He received in return a +letter to the keeper of the cemetery, and it was settled that the +disinterment was to take place next day, at ten o'clock, that I +should call for him an hour before, and that we should go to the +cemetery together. + +I confess that I was curious to be present, and I did not sleep +all night. judging from the thoughts which filled my brain, it +must have been a long night for Armand. When I entered his room +at nine on the following morning he was frightfully pale, but +seemed calm. He smiled and held out his hand. His candles were +burned out; and before leaving he took a very heavy letter +addressed to his father, and no doubt containing an account of +that night's impressions. + +Half an hour later we were at Montmartre. The police inspector +was there already. We walked slowly in the direction of +Marguerite's grave. The inspector went in front; Armand and I +followed a few steps behind. + +From time to time I felt my companion's arm tremble convulsively, +as if he shivered from head to feet. I looked at him. He +understood the look, and smiled at me; we had not exchanged a +word since leaving the house. + +Just before we reached the grave, Armand stopped to wipe his +face, which was covered with great drops of sweat. I took +advantage of the pause to draw in a long breath, for I, too, felt +as if I had a weight on my chest. + +What is the origin of that mournful pleasure which we find in +sights of this kind? When we reached the grave the gardener had +removed all the flower-pots, the iron railing had been taken +away, and two men were turning up the soil. + +Armand leaned against a tree and watched. All his life seemed to +pass before his eyes. Suddenly one of the two pickaxes struck +against a stone. At the sound Armand recoiled, as at an electric +shock, and seized my hand with such force as to give me pain. + +One of the grave-diggers took a shovel and began emptying out the +earth; then, when only the stones covering the coffin were left, +he threw them out one by one. + +I scrutinized Armand, for every moment I was afraid lest the +emotions which he was visibly repressing should prove too much +for him; but he still watched, his eyes fixed and wide open, like +the eyes of a madman, and a slight trembling of the cheeks and +lips were the only signs of the violent nervous crisis under +which he was suffering. + +As for me, all I can say is that I regretted having come. + +When the coffin was uncovered the inspector said to the +grave-digger: "Open it." They obeyed, as if it were the most +natural thing in the world. + +The coffin was of oak, and they began to unscrew the lid. The +humidity of the earth had rusted the screws, and it was not +without some difficulty that the coffin was opened. A painful +odour arose in spite of the aromatic plants with which it was +covered. + +"O my God, my God!" murmured Armand, and turned paler than +before. + +Even the grave-digger drew back. + +A great white shroud covered the corpse, closely outlining some +of its contours. This shroud was almost completely eaten away at +one end, and left one of the feet visible. + +I was nearly fainting, and at the moment of writing these lines I +see the whole scene over again in all its imposing reality. + +"Quick," said the inspector. Thereupon one of the men put out his +hand, began to unsew the shroud, and taking hold of it by one end +suddenly laid bare the face of Marguerite. + +It was terrible to see, it is horrible to relate. The eyes were +nothing but two holes, the lips had disappeared, vanished, and +the white teeth were tightly set. The black hair, long and dry, +was pressed tightly about the forehead, and half veiled the green +hollows of the cheeks; and yet I recognised in this face the +joyous white and rose face that I had seen so often. + +Armand, unable to turn away his eyes, had put the handkerchief to +his mouth and bit it. + +For my part, it was as if a circle of iron tightened about my +head, a veil covered my eyes, a rumbling filled my ears, and all +I could do was to unstop a smelling bottle which I happened to +have with me, and to draw in long breaths of it. + +Through this bewilderment I heard the inspector say to Duval, "Do +you identify?" + +"Yes," replied the young man in a dull voice. + +"Then fasten it up and take it away," said the inspector. + +The grave-diggers put back the shroud over the face of the +corpse, fastened up the coffin, took hold of each end of it, and +began to carry it toward the place where they had been told to +take it. + +Armand did not move. His eyes were fixed upon the empty grave; he +was as white as the corpse which we had just seen. He looked as +if he had been turned to stone. + +I saw what was coming as soon as the pain caused by the spectacle +should have abated and thus ceased to sustain him. I went up to +the inspector. "Is this gentleman's presence still necessary?" I +said, pointing to Armand. + +"No," he replied, "and I should advise you to take him away. He +looks ill." + +"Come," I said to Armand, taking him by the arm. + +"What?" he said, looking at me as if he did not recognise me. + +"It is all over," I added. "You must come, my friend; you are +quite white; you are cold. These emotions will be too much for +you." + +"You are right. Let us go," he answered mechanically, but without +moving a step. + +I took him by the arm and led him along. He let himself be guided +like a child, only from time to time murmuring, "Did you see her +eyes?" and he turned as if the vision had recalled her. + +Nevertheless, his steps became more irregular; he seemed to walk +by a series of jerks; his teeth chattered; his hands were cold; a +violent agitation ran through his body. I spoke to him; he did +not answer. He was just able to let himself be led along. A cab +was waiting at the gate. It was only just in time. Scarcely had +he seated himself, when the shivering became more violent, and he +had an actual attack of nerves, in the midst of which his fear of +frightening me made him press my hand and whisper: "It is +nothing, nothing. I want to weep." + +His chest laboured, his eyes were injected with blood, but no +tears came. I made him smell the salts which I had with me, and +when we reached his house only the shivering remained. + +With the help of his servant I put him to bed, lit a big fire in +his room, and hurried off to my doctor, to whom I told all that +had happened. He hastened with me. + +Armand was flushed and delirious; he stammered out disconnected +words, in which only the name of Marguerite could be distinctly +heard. + +"Well?" I said to the doctor when he had examined the patient. + +"Well, he has neither more nor less than brain fever, and very +lucky it is for him, for I firmly believe (God forgive me!) that +he would have gone out of his mind. Fortunately, the physical +malady will kill the mental one, and in a month's time he will be +free from the one and perhaps from the other." + + + +Chapter 7 + +Illnesses like Armand's have one fortunate thing about them: they +either kill outright or are very soon overcome. A fortnight after +the events which I have just related Armand was convalescent, and +we had already become great friends. During the whole course of +his illness I had hardly left his side. + +Spring was profuse in its flowers, its leaves, its birds, its +songs; and my friend's window opened gaily upon his garden, from +which a reviving breath of health seemed to come to him. The +doctor had allowed him to get up, and we often sat talking at the +open window, at the hour when the sun is at its height, from +twelve to two. I was careful not to refer to Marguerite, fearing +lest the name should awaken sad recollections hidden under the +apparent calm of the invalid; but Armand, on the contrary, seemed +to delight in speaking of her, not as formerly, with tears in his +eyes, but with a sweet smile which reassured me as to the state +of his mind. + +I had noticed that ever since his last visit to the cemetery, and +the sight which had brought on so violent a crisis, sorrow seemed +to have been overcome by sickness, and Marguerite's death no +longer appeared to him under its former aspect. A kind of +consolation had sprung from the certainty of which he was now +fully persuaded, and in order to banish the sombre picture which +often presented itself to him, he returned upon the happy +recollections of his liaison with Marguerite, and seemed resolved +to think of nothing else. + +The body was too much weakened by the attack of fever, and even +by the process of its cure, to permit him any violent emotions, +and the universal joy of spring which wrapped him round carried +his thoughts instinctively to images of joy. He had always +obstinately refused to tell his family of the danger which he had +been in, and when he was well again his father did not even know +that he had been ill. + +One evening we had sat at the window later than usual; the +weather had been superb, and the sun sank to sleep in a twilight +dazzling with gold and azure. Though we were in Paris, the +verdure which surrounded us seemed to shut us off from the world, +and our conversation was only now and again disturbed by the +sound of a passing vehicle. + +"It was about this time of the year, on the evening of a day like +this, that I first met Marguerite," said Armand to me, as if he +were listening to his own thoughts rather than to what I was +saying. I did not answer. Then turning toward me, he said: + +"I must tell you the whole story; you will make a book out of it; +no one will believe it, but it will perhaps be interesting to +do." + +"You will tell me all about it later on, my friend," I said to +him; "you are not strong enough yet." + +"It is a warm evening, I have eaten my ration of chicken," he +said to me, smiling; "I have no fever, we have nothing to do, I +will tell it to you now." + +"Since you really wish it, I will listen." + +This is what he told me, and I have scarcely changed a word of +the touching story. + +Yes (Armand went on, letting his head sink back on the chair), +yes, it was just such an evening as this. I had spent the day in +the country with one of my friends, Gaston R--. We returned to +Paris in the evening, and not knowing what to do we went to the +Varietes. We went out during one of the entr'actes, and a tall +woman passed us in the corridor, to whom my friend bowed. + +"Whom are you bowing to?" I asked. + +"Marguerite Gautier," he said. + +"She seems much changed, for I did not recognise her," I said, +with an emotion that you will soon understand. + +"She has been ill; the poor girl won't last long." + +I remember the words as if they had been spoken to me yesterday. + +I must tell you, my friend, that for two years the sight of this +girl had made a strange impression on me whenever I came across +her. Without knowing why, I turned pale and my heart beat +violently. I have a friend who studies the occult sciences, and +he would call what I experienced "the affinity of fluids"; as for +me, I only know that I was fated to fall in love with Marguerite, +and that I foresaw it. + +It is certainly the fact that she made a very definite impression +upon me, that many of my friends had noticed it and that they had +been much amused when they saw who it was that made this +impression upon me. + +The first time I ever saw her was in the Place de la Bourse, +outside Susse's; an open carriage was stationed there, and a +woman dressed in white got down from it. A murmur of admiration +greeted her as she entered the shop. As for me, I was rivetted to +the spot from the moment she went in till the moment when she +came out again. I could see her through the shop windows +selecting what she had come to buy. I might have gone in, but I +dared not. I did not know who she was, and I was afraid lest she +should guess why I had come in and be offended. Nevertheless, I +did not think I should ever see her again. + +She was elegantly dressed; she wore a muslin dress with many +flounces, an Indian shawl embroidered at the corners with gold +and silk flowers, a straw hat, a single bracelet, and a heavy +gold chain, such as was just then beginning to be the fashion. + +She returned to her carriage and drove away. One of the shopmen +stood at the door looking after his elegant customer's carriage. +I went up to him and asked him what was the lady's name. + +"Mademoiselle Marguerite Gautier," he replied. I dared not ask +him for her address, and went on my way. + +The recollection of this vision, for it was really a vision, +would not leave my mind like so many visions I had seen, and I +looked everywhere for this royally beautiful woman in white. + +A few days later there was a great performance at the Opera +Comique. The first person I saw in one of the boxes was +Marguerite Gautier. + +The young man whom I was with recognised her immediately, for he +said to me, mentioning her name: "Look at that pretty girl." + +At that moment Marguerite turned her opera-glass in our direction +and, seeing my friend, smiled and beckoned to him to come to her. + +"I will go and say 'How do you do?' to her," he said, "and will +be back in a moment." + +"I could not help saying "Happy man!" + +"Why?" + +"To go and see that woman." + +"Are you in love with her?" + +"No," I said, flushing, for I really did not know what to say; +"but I should very much like to know her." + +"Come with me. I will introduce you." + +"Ask her if you may." + +"Really, there is no need to be particular with her; come." + +What he said troubled me. I feared to discover that Marguerite +was not worthy of the sentiment which I felt for her. + +In a book of Alphonse Karr entitles Am Rauchen, there is a man +who one evening follows a very elegant woman, with whom he had +fallen in love with at first sight on account of her beauty. Only +to kiss her hand he felt that he had the strength to undertake +anything, the will to conquer anything, the courage to achieve +anything. He scarcely dares glance at the trim ankle which she +shows as she holds her dress out of the mud. While he is dreaming +of all that he would do to possess this woman, she stops at the +corner of the street and asks if he will come home with her. He +turns his head, crosses the street, and goes sadly back to his +own house. + +I recalled the story, and, having longed to suffer for this +woman, I was afraid that she would accept me too promptly and +give me at once what I fain would have purchased by long waiting +or some great sacrifice. We men are built like that, and it is +very fortunate that the imagination lends so much poetry to the +senses, and that the desires of the body make thus such +concession to the dreams of the soul. If any one had said to me, +You shall have this woman to-night and be killed tomorrow, I +would have accepted. If any one had said to me, you can be her +lover for ten pounds, I would have refused. I would have cried +like a child who sees the castle he has been dreaming about +vanish away as he awakens from sleep. + +All the same, I wished to know her; it was my only means of +making up my mind about her. I therefore said to my friend that I +insisted on having her permission to be introduced to her, and I +wandered to and fro in the corridors, saying to myself that in a +moment's time she was going to see me, and that I should not know +which way to look. I tried (sublime childishness of love!) to +string together the words I should say to her. + +A moment after my friend returned. "She is expecting us," he +said. + +"Is she alone?" I asked. + +"With another woman." + +"There are no men?" + +"No." + +"Come, then." + +My friend went toward the door of the theatre. + +"That is not the way," I said. + +"We must go and get some sweets. She asked me for some." + +We went into a confectioner's in the passage de l'Opera. I would +have bought the whole shop, and I was looking about to see what +sweets to choose, when my friend asked for a pound of raisins +glaces. + +"Do you know if she likes them?" + +"She eats no other kind of sweets; everybody knows it. + +"Ah," he went on when we had left the shop, "do you know what +kind of woman it is that I am going to introduce you to? Don't +imagine it is a duchess. It is simply a kept woman, very much +kept, my dear fellow; don't be shy, say anything that comes into +your head." + +"Yes, yes," I stammered, and I followed him, saying to myself +that I should soon cure myself of my passion. + +When I entered the box Marguerite was in fits of laughter. I +would rather that she had been sad. My friend introduced me; +Marguerite gave me a little nod, and said, "And my sweets?" + +"Here they are." + +She looked at me as she took them. I dropped my eyes and blushed. + +She leaned across to her neighbour and said something in her ear, +at which both laughed. Evidently I was the cause of their mirth, +and my embarrassment increased. At that time I had as mistress a +very affectionate and sentimental little person, whose sentiment +and whose melancholy letters amused me greatly. I realized the +pain I must have given her by what I now experienced, and for +five minutes I loved her as no woman was ever loved. + +Marguerite ate her raisins glaces without taking any more notice +of me. The friend who had introduced me did not wish to let me +remain in so ridiculous a position. + +"Marguerite," he said, "you must not be surprised if M. Duval +says nothing: you overwhelm him to such a degree that he can not +find a word to say." + +"I should say, on the contrary, that he has only come with you +because it would have bored you to come here by yourself." + +"If that were true," I said, "I should not have begged Ernest to +ask your permission to introduce me." + +"Perhaps that was only in order to put off the fatal moment." + +However little one may have known women like Marguerite, one can +not but know the delight they take in pretending to be witty and +in teasing the people whom they meet for the first time. It is no +doubt a return for the humiliations which they often have to +submit to on the part of those whom they see every day. + +To answer them properly, one requires a certain knack, and I had +not had the opportunity of acquiring it; besides, the idea that I +had formed of Marguerite accentuated the effects of her mockery. +Nothing that dame from her was indifferent to me. I rose to my +feet, saying in an altered voice, which I could not entirely +control: + +"If that is what you think of me, madame, I have only to ask your +pardon for my indiscretion, and to take leave of you with the +assurance that it shall not occur again." + +Thereupon I bowed and quitted the box. I had scarcely closed the +door when I heard a third peal of laughter. It would not have +been well for anybody who had elbowed me at that moment. + +I returned to my seat. The signal for raising the curtain was +given. Ernest came back to his place beside me. + +"What a way you behaved!" he said, as he sat down. "They will +think you are mad." + +"What did Marguerite say after I had gone?" + +"She laughed, and said she had never seen any one so funny. But +don't look upon it as a lost chance; only do not do these women +the honour of taking them seriously. They do not know what +politeness and ceremony are. It is as if you were to offer +perfumes to dogs--they would think it smelled bad, and go and +roll in the gutter." + +"After all, what does it matter to me?" I said, affecting to +speak in a nonchalant way. "I shall never see this woman again, +and if I liked her before meeting her, it is quite different now +that I know her." + +"Bah! I don't despair of seeing you one day at the back of her +box, and of bearing that you are ruining yourself for her. +However, you are right, she hasn't been well brought up; but she +would be a charming mistress to have." + +Happily, the curtain rose and my friend was silent. I could not +possibly tell you what they were acting. All that I remember is +that from time to time I raised my eyes to the box I had quitted +so abruptly, and that the faces of fresh visitors succeeded one +another all the time. + +I was far from having given up thinking about Marguerite. Another +feeling had taken possession of me. It seemed to me that I had +her insult and my absurdity to wipe out; I said to myself that if +I spent every penny I had, I would win her and win my right to +the place I had abandoned so quickly. + +Before the performance was over Marguerite and her friend left +the box. I rose from my seat. + +"Are you going?" said Ernest. + +"Yes." + +"Why?" + +At that moment he saw that the box was empty. + +"Go, go," he said, "and good luck, or rather better luck." + +I went out. + +I heard the rustle of dresses, the sound of voices, on the +staircase. I stood aside, and, without being seen, saw the two +women pass me, accompanied by two young men. At the entrance to +the theatre they were met by a footman. + +"Tell the coachman to wait at the door of the Cafe' Anglais," +said Marguerite. "We will walk there." + +A few minutes afterward I saw Marguerite from the street at a +window of one of the large rooms of the restaurant, pulling the +camellias of her bouquet to pieces, one by one. One of the two +men was leaning over her shoulder and whispering in her ear. I +took up my position at the Maison-d'or, in one of the first-floor +rooms, and did not lose sight of the window for an instant. At +one in the morning Marguerite got into her carriage with her +three friends. I took a cab and followed them. The carriage +stopped at No. 9, Rue d'Antin. Marguerite got out and went in +alone. It was no doubt a mere chance, but the chance filled me +with delight. + +From that time forward, I often met Marguerite at the theatre or +in the Champs-Elysees. Always there was the same gaiety in her, +the same emotion in me. + +At last a fortnight passed without my meeting her. I met Gaston +and asked after her. + +"Poor girl, she is very ill," he answered. + +"What is the matter?" + +"She is consumptive, and the sort of life she leads isn't exactly +the thing to cure her. She has taken to her bed; she is dying." + +The heart is a strange thing; I was almost glad at hearing it. + +Every day I went to ask after her, without leaving my name or my +card. I heard she was convalescent and had gone to Bagneres. + +Time went by, the impression, if not the memory, faded gradually +from my mind. I travelled; love affairs, habits, work, took the +place of other thoughts, and when I recalled this adventure I +looked upon it as one of those passions which one has when one is +very young, and laughs at soon afterward. + +For the rest, it was no credit to me to have got the better of +this recollection, for I had completely lost sight of Marguerite, +and, as I told you, when she passed me in the corridor of the +Varietes, I did not recognise her. She was veiled, it is true; +but, veiled though she might have been two years earlier, I +should not have needed to see her in order to recognise her: I +should have known her intuitively. All the same, my heart began +to beat when I knew that it was she; and the two years that had +passed since I saw her, and what had seemed to be the results of +that separation, vanished in smoke at the mere touch of her +dress. + + + +Chapter 8 + +However (continued Armand after a pause), while I knew myself to +be still in love with her, I felt more sure of myself, and part +of my desire to speak to Marguerite again was a wish to make her +see that I was stronger than she. + +How many ways does the heart take, how many reasons does it +invent for itself, in order to arrive at what it wants! + +I could not remain in the corridor, and I returned to my place in +the stalls, looking hastily around to see what box she was in. +She was in a ground-floor box, quite alone. She had changed, as I +have told you, and no longer wore an indifferent smile on her +lips. She had suffered; she was still suffering. Though it was +April, she was still wearing a winter costume, all wrapped up in +furs. + +I gazed at her so fixedly that my eyes attracted hers. She looked +at me for a few seconds, put up her opera-glass to see me better, +and seemed to think she recognised me, without being quite sure +who I was, for when she put down her glasses, a smile, that +charming, feminine salutation, flitted across her lips, as if to +answer the bow which she seemed to expect; but I did not respond, +so as to have an advantage over her, as if I had forgotten, while +she remembered. Supposing herself mistaken,, she looked away. + +The curtain went up. I have often seen Marguerite at the theatre. +I never saw her pay the slightest attention to what was being +acted. As for me, the performance interested me equally little, +and I paid no attention to anything but her, though doing my +utmost to keep her from noticing it. + +Presently I saw her glancing across at the person who was in the +opposite box; on looking, I saw a woman with whom I was quite +familiar. She had once been a kept woman, and had tried to go on +the stage, had failed, and, relying on her acquaintance with +fashionable people in Paris, had gone into business and taken a +milliner's shop. I saw in her a means of meeting with Marguerite, +and profited by a moment in which she looked my way to wave my +hand to her. As I expected, she beckoned to me to come to her +box. + +Prudence Duvernoy (that was the milliner's auspicious name) was +one of those fat women of forty with whom one requires very +little diplomacy to make them understand what one wants to know, +especially when what one wants to know is as simple as what I had +to ask of her. + +I took advantage of a moment when she was smiling across at +Marguerite to ask her, "Whom are you looking at?" + +"Marguerite Gautier." + +"You know her?" + +"Yes, I am her milliner, and she is a neighbour of mine." + +"Do you live in the Rue d'Antin?" + +"No. 7. The window of her dressing-room looks on to the window of +mine." + +"They say she is a charming girl." + +"Don't you know her?" + +"No, but I should like to." + +"Shall I ask her to come over to our box?" + +"No, I would rather for you to introduce me to her." + +"At her own house?" + +"Yes. + +"That is more difficult." + +"Why?" + +"Because she is under the protection of a jealous old duke." + +"'Protection' is charming." + +"Yes, protection," replied Prudence. "Poor old man, he would be +greatly embarrassed to offer her anything else." + +Prudence then told me how Marguerite had made the acquaintance of +the duke at Bagneres. + +"That, then," I continued, "is why she is alone here?" + +"Precisely." + +"But who will see her home?" + +"He will." + +"He will come for her?" + +"In a moment." + +"And you, who is seeing you home?" + +"No one." + +"May I offer myself?" + +"But you are with a friend, are you not?" + +"May we offer, then?" + +"Who is your friend?" + +"A charming fellow, very amusing. He will be delighted to make +your acquaintance." + +"Well, all right; we will go after this piece is over, for I know +the last piece." + +"With pleasure; I will go and tell my friend." + +"Go, then. Ah," added Prudence, as I was going, "there is the +duke just coming into Marguerite's box." + +I looked at him. A man of about seventy had sat down behind her, +and was giving her a bag of sweets, into which she dipped at +once, smiling. Then she held it out toward Prudence, with a +gesture which seemed to say, "Will you have some?" + +"No," signalled Prudence. + +Marguerite drew back the bag, and, turning, began to talk with +the duke. + +It may sound childish to tell you all these details, but +everything relating to Marguerite is so fresh in my memory that I +can not help recalling them now. + +I went back to Gaston and told him of the arrangement I had made +for him and for me. He agreed, and we left our stalls to go round +to Mme. Duvernoy's box. We had scarcely opened the door leading +into the stalls when we had to stand aside to allow Marguerite +and the duke to pass. I would have given ten years of my life to +have been in the old man's place. + +When they were on the street he handed her into a phaeton, which +he drove himself, and they were whirled away by two superb +horses. + +We returned to Prudence's box, and when the play was over we took +a cab and drove to 7, Rue d'Antin. At the door, Prudence asked us +to come up and see her showrooms, which we had never seen, and of +which she seemed very proud. You can imagine how eagerly I +accepted. It seemed to me as if I was coming nearer and nearer to +Marguerite. I soon turned the conversation in her direction. + +"The old duke is at your neighbours," I said to Prudence. + +"Oh, no; she is probably alone." + +"But she must be dreadfully bored," said Gaston. + +"We spend most of our evening together, or she calls to me when +she comes in. She never goes to bed before two in the morning. +She can't sleep before that." + +"Why?" + +"Because she suffers in the chest, and is almost always +feverish." + +"Hasn't she any lovers?" I asked. + +"I never see any one remain after I leave; I don't say no one +ever comes when I am gone. Often in the evening I meet there a +certain Comte de N., who thinks he is making some headway by +calling on her at eleven in the evening, and by sending her +jewels to any extent; but she can't stand him. She makes a +mistake; he is very rich. It is in vain that I say to her from +time to time, 'My dear child, there's the man for you.' She, who +generally listens to me, turns her back and replies that he is +too stupid. Stupid, indeed, he is; but it would be a position for +her, while this old duke might die any day. Old men are egoists; +his family are always reproaching him for his affection for +Marguerite; there are two reasons why he is likely to leave her +nothing. I give her good advice, and she only says it will be +plenty of time to take on the count when the duke is dead. It +isn't all fun," continued Prudence, "to live like that. I know +very well it wouldn't suit me, and I should soon send the old man +about his business. He is so dull; he calls her his daughter; +looks after her like a child; and is always in the way. I am sure +at this very moment one of his servants is prowling about in the +street to see who comes out, and especially who goes in." + +"Ah, poor Marguerite!" said Gaston, sitting down to the piano and +playing a waltz. "I hadn't a notion of it, but I did notice she +hasn't been looking so gay lately." + +"Hush," said Prudence, listening. Gaston stopped. + +"She is calling me, I think." + +We listened. A voice was calling, "Prudence!" + +"Come, now, you must go," said Mme. Duvernoy. + +"Ah, that is your idea of hospitality," said Gaston, laughing; +"we won't go till we please." + +"Why should we go?" + +"I am going over to Marguerite's." + +"We will wait here." + +"You can't." + +"Then we will go with you." + +"That still less." + +"I know Marguerite," said Gaston; I can very well pay her a +call." + +"But Armand doesn't know her." + +"I will introduce him." + +"Impossible." + +We again heard Marguerite's voice calling to Prudence, who rushed +to her dressing-room window. I followed with Gaston as she opened +the window. We hid ourselves so as not to be seen from outside. + +"I have been calling you for ten minutes," said Marguerite from +her window, in almost an imperious tone of voice. + +"What do you want?" + +"I want you to come over at once." + +"Why?" + +"Because the Comte de N. is still here, and he is boring me to +death." + +"I can't now." + +"What is hindering you?" + +"There are two young fellows here who won't go." + +"Tell them that you must go out." + +"I have told them." + +"Well, then, leave them in the house. They will soon go when they +see you have gone." + +"They will turn everything upside down." + +"But what do they want?" + +"They want to see you." + +"What are they called?" + +"You know one, M. Gaston R." + +"Ah, yes, I know him. And the other?" + +"M. Armand Duval; and you don't know him." + +"No, but bring them along. Anything is better than the count. I +expect you. Come at once." + +Marguerite closed her window and Prudence hers. Marguerite, who +had remembered my face for a moment, did not remember my name. I +would rather have been remembered to my disadvantage than thus +forgotten. + +"I knew," said Gaston, "that she would be delighted to see us." + +"Delighted isn't the word," replied Prudence, as she put on her +hat and shawl. "She will see you in order to get rid of the +count. Try to be more agreeable than he is, or (I know +Marguerite) she will put it all down to me." + +We followed Prudence downstairs. I trembled; it seemed to me that +this visit was to have a great influence on my life. I was still +more agitated than on the evening when I was introduced in the +box at the Opera Comique. As we reached the door that you know, +my heart beat so violently that I was hardly able to think. + +We heard the sound of a piano. Prudence rang. The piano was +silent. A woman who looked more like a companion than a servant +opened the door. We went into the drawing-room, and from that to +the boudoir, which was then just as you have seen it since. A +young man was leaning against the mantel-piece. Marguerite, +seated at the piano, let her fingers wander over the notes, +beginning scraps of music without finishing them. The whole scene +breathed boredom, the man embarrassed by the consciousness of his +nullity, the woman tired of her dismal visitor. At the voice of +Prudence, Marguerite rose, and coming toward us with a look of +gratitude to Mme. Duvernoy, said: + +"Come in, and welcome." + + + +Chapter 9 + +"Good-evening, my dear Gaston," said Marguerite to my companion. +"I am very glad to see you. Why didn't you come to see me in my +box at the Varietes?" + +"I was afraid it would be indiscreet." + +"Friends," and Marguerite lingered over the word, as if to +intimate to those who were present that in spite of the familiar +way in which she greeted him, Gaston was not and never had been +anything more than a friend, "friends are always welcome." + +"Then, will you permit me to introduce M. Armand Duval?" + +"I had already authorized Prudence to do so." + +"As far as that goes, madame," I said, bowing, and succeeding in +getting more or less intelligible sounds out of my throat, "I +have already had the honour of being introduced to you." + +Marguerite's beautiful eyes seemed to be looking back in memory, +but she could not, or seemed not to, remember. + +"Madame," I continued, "I am grateful to you for having forgotten +the occasion of my first introduction, for I was very absurd and +must have seemed to you very tiresome. It was at the Opera +Comique, two years ago; I was with Ernest de --." + +"Ah, I remember," said Marguerite, with a smile. "It was not you +who were absurd; it was I who was mischievous, as I still am, but +somewhat less. You have forgiven me?" + +And she held out her hand, which I kissed. + +"It is true," she went on; "you know I have the bad habit of +trying to embarrass people the first time I meet them. It is very +stupid. My doctor says it is because I am nervous and always ill; +believe my doctor." + +"But you seem quite well." + +"Oh! I have been very ill." + +"I know." + +"Who told you?" + +"Every one knew it; I often came to inquire after you, and I was +happy to hear of your convalescence." + +"They never gave me your card." + +"I did not leave it." + +"Was it you, then, who called every day while I was ill, and +would never leave your name?" + +"Yes, it was I." + +"Then you are more than indulgent, you are generous. You, count, +wouldn't have done that," said she, turning toward M. de N., +after giving me one of those looks in which women sum up their +opinion of a man. + +"I have only known you for two months," replied the count. + +"And this gentleman only for five minutes. You always say +something ridiculous." + +Women are pitiless toward those whom they do not care for. The +count reddened and bit his lips. + +I was sorry for him, for he seemed, like myself, to be in love, +and the bitter frankness of Marguerite must have made him very +unhappy, especially in the presence of two strangers. + +"You were playing the piano when we came in," I said, in order to +change the conversation. "Won't you be so good as to treat me as +an old acquaintance and go on?" + +"Oh," said she, flinging herself on the sofa and motioning to us +to sit down, "Gaston knows what my music is like. It is all very +well when I am alone with the count, but I won't inflict such a +punishment on you." + +"You show me that preference?" said M. de N., with a smile which +he tried to render delicately ironical. + +"Don't reproach me for it. It is the only one." It was fated that +the poor man was not to say a single word. He cast a really +supplicating glance at Marguerite. + +"Well, Prudence," she went on, "have you done what I asked you to +do?" + +"Yes. + +"All right. You will tell me about it later. We must talk over +it; don't go before I can speak with you." + +"We are doubtless intruders," I said, "and now that we, or rather +I, have had a second introduction, to blot out the first, it is +time for Gaston and me to be going." + +"Not in the least. I didn't mean that for you. I want you to +stay." + +The count took a very elegant watch out of his pocket and looked +at the time. "I must be going to my club," he said. Marguerite +did not answer. The count thereupon left his position by the +fireplace and going up to her, said: "Adieu, madame." + +Marguerite rose. "Adieu, my dear count. Are you going already?" + +"Yes, I fear I am boring you." + +"You are not boring me to-day more than any other day. When shall +I be seeing you?" + +"When you permit me." + +"Good-bye, then." + +It was cruel, you will admit. Fortunately, the count had +excellent manners and was very good-tempered. He merely kissed +Marguerite's hand, which she held out to him carelessly enough, +and, bowing to us, went out. + +As he crossed the threshold, he cast a glance at Prudence. She +shrugged her shoulders, as much as to say: + +"What do you expect? I have done all I could." + +"Nanine!" cried Marguerite. "Light M. le Comte to the door." + +We heard the door open and shut. + +"At last," cried Marguerite, coming back, "he has gone! That man +gets frightfully on my nerves!" + +"My dear child," said Prudence, "you really treat him too badly, +and he is so good and kind to you. Look at this watch on the +mantel-piece, that he gave you: it must have cost him at least +three thousand francs, I am sure." + +And Mme. Duvernoy began to turn it over, as it lay on the +mantel-piece, looking at it with covetous eyes. + +"My dear," said Marguerite, sitting down to the piano, "when I +put on one side what he gives me and on the other what he says to +me, it seems to me that he buys his visits very cheap." + +"The poor fellow is in love with you." + +"If I had to listen to everybody who was in love with me, I +shouldn't have time for my dinner." + +And she began to run her fingers over the piano, and then, +turning to us, she said: + +"What will you take? I think I should like a little punch." + +"And I could eat a little chicken," said Prudence. "Suppose we +have supper?" + +"That's it, let's go and have supper," said Gaston. + +"No, we will have supper here." + +She rang, and Nanine appeared. + +"Send for some supper." + +"What must I get?" + +"Whatever you like, but at once, at once." + +Nanine went out. + +"That's it," said Marguerite, jumping like a child, "we'll have +supper. How tiresome that idiot of a count is!" + +The more I saw her, the more she enchanted me. She was +exquisitely beautiful. Her slenderness was a charm. I was lost in +contemplation. + +What was passing in my mind I should have some difficulty in +explaining. I was full of indulgence for her life, full of +admiration for her beauty. The proof of disinterestedness that +she gave in not accepting a rich and fashionable young man, ready +to waste all his money upon her, excused her in my eyes for all +her faults in the past. + +There was a kind of candour in this woman. You could see she was +still in the virginity of vice. Her firm walk, her supple figure, +her rosy, open nostrils, her large eyes, slightly tinged with +blue, indicated one of those ardent natures which sbed around +them a sort of voluptuous perfume, like Eastern vials, which, +close them as tightly as you will, still let some of their +perfume escape. Finally, whether it was simple nature or a breath +of fever, there passed from time to time in the eyes of this +woman a glimmer of desire, giving promise of a very heaven for +one whom she should love. But those who had loved Marguerite were +not to be counted, nor those whom she had loved. + +In this girl there was at once the virgin whom a mere nothing had +turned into a courtesan, and the courtesan whom a mere nothing +would have turned into the most loving and the purest of virgins. +Marguerite had still pride and independence, two sentiments +which, if they are wounded, can be the equivalent of a sense of +shame. I did not speak a word; my soul seemed to have passed into +my heart and my heart into my eyes. + +"So," said she all at once, "it was you who came to inquire after +me when I was ill?" + +"Yes." + +"Do you know, it was quite splendid of you! How can I thank you +for it?" + +"By allowing me to come and see you from time to time." + +"As often as you like, from five to six, and from eleven to +twelve. Now, Gaston, play the Invitation A la Valse." + +"Why?" + +"To please me, first of all, and then because I never can manage +to play it myself." + +"What part do you find difficult?" + +"The third part, the part in sharps." + +Gaston rose and went to the piano, and began to play the +wonderful melody of Weber, the music of which stood open before +him. + +Marguerite, resting one hand on the piano, followed every note on +the music, accompanying it in a low voice, and when Gaston had +come to the passage which she had mentioned to him, she sang out, +running her fingers along the top of the piano: + +"Do, re, mi, do, re, fa, mi, re; that is what I can not do. Over +again." + +Gaston began over again, after which Marguerite said: + +"Now, let me try." + +She took her place and began to play; but her rebellious fingers +always came to grief over one of the notes. + +"Isn't it incredible," she said, exactly like a child, "that I +can not succeed in playing that passage? Would you believe that I +sometimes spend two hours of the morning over it? And when I +think that that idiot of a count plays it without his music, and +beautifully, I really believe it is that that makes me so furious +with him." And she began again, always with the same result. + +"The devil take Weber, music, and pianos!" she cried, throwing +the music to the other end of the room. "How can I play eight +sharps one after another?" She folded her arms and looked at us, +stamping her foot. The blood flew to her cheeks, and her lips +half opened in a slight cough. + +"Come, come," said Prudence, who had taken off her hat and was +smoothing her hair before the glass, "you will work yourself into +a rage and do yourself harm. Better come and have supper; for my +part, I am dying of hunger." + +Marguerite rang the bell, sat down to the piano again, and began +to hum over a very risky song, which she accompanied without +difficulty. Gaston knew the song, and they gave a sort of duet. + +"Don't sing those beastly things," I said to Marguerite, +imploringly. + +"Oh, how proper you are!" she said, smiling and giving me her +hand. "It is not for myself, but for you." + +Marguerite made a gesture as if to say, "Oh, it is long since +that I have done with propriety!" At that moment Nanine appeared. + +"Is supper ready?" asked Marguerite. "Yes, madame, in one +moment." + +"Apropos," said Prudence to me, "you have not looked round; come, +and I will show you." As you know, the drawing-room was a marvel. + +Marguerite went with us for a moment; then she called Gaston and +went into the dining-room with him to see if supper was ready. + +"Ah," said Prudence, catching sight of a little Saxe figure on a +side-table, "I never knew you had this little gentleman." + +"Which?" + +"A little shepherd holding a bird-cage." + +"Take it, if you like it." + + +"I won't deprive you of it." + +"I was going to give it to my maid. I think it hideous; but if +you like it, take it." + +Prudence only saw the present, not the way in which it was given. +She put the little figure on one side, and took me into the +dressing-room, where she showed me two miniatures hanging side by +side, and said: + +"That is the Comte de G., who was very much in love with +Marguerite; it was he who brought her out. Do you know him?" + +"No. And this one?" I inquired, pointing to the other miniature. + +"That is the little Vicomte de L. He was obliged to disappear." + +"Why?" + +"Because he was all but ruined. That's one, if you like, who +loved Marguerite." + +"And she loved him, too, no doubt?" + +"She is such a queer girl, one never knows. The night he went +away she went to the theatre as usual, and yet she had cried when +he said good-bye to her." + +Just then Nanine appeared, to tell us that supper was served. + +When we entered the dining-room, Marguerite was leaning against +the wall, and Gaston, holding her hands, was speaking to her in a +low voice. + +"You are mad," replied Marguerite. "You know quite well that I +don't want you. It is no good at the end of two years to make +love to a woman like me. With us, it is at once, or never. Come, +gentlemen, supper!" + +And, slipping away from Gaston, Marguerite made him sit on her +right at table, me on her left, then called to Nanine: + +"Before you sit down, tell them in the kitchen not to open to +anybody if there is a ring." + +This order was given at one o'clock in the morning. + +We laughed, drank, and ate freely at this supper. In a short +while mirth had reached its last limit, and the words that seem +funny to a certain class of people, words that degrade the mouth +that utters them, were heard from time to time, amidst the +applause of Nanine, of Prudence, and of Marguerite. Gaston was +thoroughly amused; he was a very good sort of fellow, but +somewhat spoiled by the habits of his youth. For a moment I tried +to forget myself, to force my heart and my thoughts to become +indifferent to the sight before me, and to take my share of that +gaiety which seemed like one of the courses of the meal. But +little by little I withdrew from the noise; my glass remained +full, and I felt almost sad as I saw this beautiful creature of +twenty drinking, talking like a porter, and laughing the more +loudly the more scandalous was the joke. + +Nevertheless, this hilarity, this way of talking and drinking, +which seemed to me in the others the mere results of bad company +or of bad habits, seemed in Marguerite a necessity of forgetting, +a fever, a nervous irritability. At every glass of champagne her +cheeks would flush with a feverish colour, and a cough, hardly +perceptible at the beginning of supper, became at last so violent +that she was obliged to lean her head on the back of her chair +and hold her chest in her hands every time that she coughed. I +suffered at the thought of the injury to so frail a constitution +which must come from daily excesses like this. At length, +something which I had feared and foreseen happened. Toward the +end of supper Marguerite was seized by a more violent fit of +coughing than any she had had while I was there. It seemed as if +her chest were being torn in two. The poor girl turned crimson, +closed her eyes under the pain, and put her napkin to her lips. +It was stained with a drop of blood. She rose and ran into her +dressing-room. + +"What is the matter with Marguerite?" asked Gaston. + +"She has been laughing too much, and she is spitting blood. Oh, +it is nothing; it happens to her every day. She will be back in a +minute. Leave her alone. She prefers it." + +I could not stay still; and, to the consternation of Prudence and +Nanine, who called to me to come back, I followed Marguerite." + + + +Chapter 10 + +The room to which she had fled was lit only by a single candle. +She lay back on a great sofa, her dress undone, holding one hand +on her heart, and letting the other hang by her side. On the +table was a basin half full of water, and the water was stained +with streaks of blood. + +Very pale, her mouth half open, Marguerite tried to recover +breath. Now and again her bosom was raised by a long sigh, which +seemed to relieve her a little, and for a few seconds she would +seem to be quite comfortable. + +I went up to her; she made no movement, and I sat down and took +the hand which was lying on the sofa. + +"Ah! it is you," she said, with a smile. + +I must have looked greatly agitated, for she added: + +"Are you unwell, too?" + +"No, but you: do you still suffer?" + +"Very little;" and she wiped off with her handkerchief the tears +which the coughing had brought to her eyes; "I am used to it +now." + +"You are killing yourself, madame," I said to her in a moved +voice. "I wish I were a friend, a relation of yours, that I might +keep you from doing yourself harm like this." + +"Ah! it is really not worth your while to alarm yourself," she +replied in a somewhat bitter tone; "see how much notice the +others take of me! They know too well that there is nothing to be +done." + +Thereupon she got up, and, taking the candle, put it on the +mantel-piece and looked at herself in the glass. + +"How pale I am!" she said, as she fastened her dress and passed +her fingers over her loosened hair. "Come, let us go back to +supper. Are you coming?" + +I sat still and did not move. + +She saw how deeply I had been affected by the whole scene, and, +coming up to me, held out her hand, saying: + +"Come now, let us go." + +I took her hand, raised it to my lips, and in spite of myself two +tears fell upon it. + +"Why, what a child you are!" she said, sitting down by my side +again. "You are crying! What is the matter?" + +"I must seem very silly to you, but I am frightfully troubled by +what I have just seen." + +"You are very good! What would you have of me? I can not sleep. I +must amuse myself a little. And then, girls like me, what does it +matter, one more or less? The doctors tell me that the blood I +spit up comes from my throat; I pretend to believe them; it is +all I can do for them." + +"Listen, Marguerite," I said, unable to contain myself any +longer; "I do not know what influence you are going to have over +my life, but at this present moment there is no one, not even my +sister, in whom I feel the interest which I feel in you. It has +been just the same ever since I saw you. Well, for Heaven's sake, +take care of yourself, and do not live as you are living now." + +"If I took care of myself I should die. All that supports me is +the feverish life I lead. Then, as for taking care of oneself, +that is all very well for women with families and friends; as for +us, from the moment we can no longer serve the vanity or the +pleasure of our lovers, they leave us, and long nights follow +long days. I know it. I was in bed for two months, and after +three weeks no one came to see me." + +"It is true I am nothing to you," I went on, "but if you will let +me, I will look after you like a brother, I will never leave your +side, and I will cure you. Then, when you are strong again, you +can go back to the life you are leading, if you choose; but I am +sure you will come to prefer a quiet life, which will make you +happier and keep your beauty unspoiled." + +"You think like that to-night because the wine has made you sad, +but you would never have the patience that you pretend to." + +"Permit me to say, Marguerite, that you were ill for two months, +and that for two months I came to ask after you every day." + +"It is true, but why did you not come up?" + +"Because I did not know you then." + +"Need you have been so particular with a girl like me?" + +"One must always be particular with a woman; it is what I feel, +at least." + +"So you would look after me?" + +"Yes." + +"You would stay by me all day?" + +"Yes. + +"And even all night?" + +"As long as I did not weary you." + +"And what do you call that?" + +"Devotion." + +"And what does this devotion come from?" + +"The irresistible sympathy which I have for you." + +"So you are in love with me? Say it straight out, it is much more +simple." + +"It is possible; but if I am to say it to you one day, it is not +to-day." + +"You will do better never to say it." + +"Why?" + +"Because only one of two things can come of it." + +"What?" + +"Either I shall not accept: then you will have a grudge against +me; or I shall accept: then you will have a sorry mistress; a +woman who is nervous, ill, sad, or gay with a gaiety sadder than +grief, a woman who spits blood and spends a hundred thousand +francs a year. That is all very well for a rich old man like the +duke, but it is very bad for a young man like you, and the proof +of it is that all the young lovers I have had have very soon left +me." I did not answer; I listened. This frankness, which was +almost a kind of confession, the sad life, of which I caught some +glimpse through the golden veil which covered it, and whose +reality the poor girl sought to escape in dissipation, drink, and +wakefulness, impressed me so deeply that I could not utter a +single word. + +"Come," continued Marguerite, "we are talking mere childishness. +Give me your arm and let us go back to the dining-room. They +won't know what we mean by our absence." + +"Go in, if you like, but allow me to stay here." + +"Why?" + +"Because your mirth hurts me." + +"Well, I will be sad." + +"Marguerite, let me say to you something which you have no doubt +often heard, so often that the habit of hearing it has made you +believe it no longer, but which is none the less real, and which +I will never repeat." + +"And that is . . . ?" she said, with the smile of a young mother +listening to some foolish notion of her child. + +"It is this, that ever since I have seen you, I know not why, you +have taken a place in my life; that, if I drive the thought of +you out of my mind, it always comes back; that when I met you +to-day, after not having seen you for two years, you made a +deeper impression on my heart and mind than ever; that, now that +you have let me come to see you, now that I know you, now that I +know all that is strange in you, you have become a necessity of +my life, and you will drive me mad, not only if you will not love +me, but if you will not let me love you." + +"But, foolish creature that you are, I shall say to you, like +Mme. D., 'You must be very rich, then!' Why, you don't know that +I spend six or seven thousand francs a month, and that I could +not live without it; you don't know, my poor friend, that I +should ruin you in no time, and that your family would cast you +off if you were to live with a woman like me. Let us be friends, +good friends, but no more. Come and see me, we will laugh and +talk, but don't exaggerate what I am worth, for I am worth very +little. You have a good heart, you want some one to love you, you +are too young and too sensitive to live in a world like mine. +Take a married woman. You see, I speak to you frankly, like a +friend." + +"But what the devil are you doing there?" cried Prudence, who had +come in without our bearing her, and who now stood just inside +the door, with her hair half coming down and her dress undone. I +recognised the hand of Gaston. + +"We are talking sense," said Marguerite; "leave us alone; we will +be back soon." + +"Good, good! Talk, my children," said Prudence, going out and +closing the door behind her, as if to further empbasize the tone +in which she had said these words. + +"Well, it is agreed," continued Marguerite, when we were alone, +"you won't fall in love with me?" + +"I will go away." + +"So much as that?" + +I had gone too far to draw back; and I was really carried away. +This mingling of gaiety, sadness, candour, prostitution, her very +malady, which no doubt developed in her a sensitiveness to +impressions, as well as an irritability of nerves, all this made +it clear to me that if from the very beginning I did not +completely dominate her light and forgetful nature, she was lost +to me. + +"Come, now, do you seriously mean what you say?" she said. + +"Seriously." + +"But why didn't you say it to me sooner?" + +"When could I have said it?" + +"The day after you had been introduced to me at the Opera +Comique." + +"I thought you would have received me very badly if I had come to +see you." + +"Why?" + +"Because I had behaved so stupidly." + +"That's true. And yet you were already in love with me." + +"Yes." + +"And that didn't hinder you from going to bed and sleeping quite +comfortably. One knows what that sort of love means." + +"There you are mistaken. Do you know what I did that evening, +after the Opera Comique?" + +"No." + +"I waited for you at the door of the Cafe Anglais. I followed the +carriage in which you and your three friends were, and when I saw +you were the only one to get down, and that you went in alone, I +was very happy." + +Marguerite began to laugh. + +"What are you laughing at?" + +"Nothing." + +"Tell me, I beg of you, or I shall think you are still laughing +at me." + +"You won't be cross?" + +"What right have I to be cross?" + +"Well, there was a sufficient reason why I went in alone." + +"What?" + +"Some one was waiting for me here." + +If she had thrust a knife into me she would not have hurt me +more. I rose, and holding out my hand, "Goodbye," said I. + +"I knew you would be cross," she said; "men are frantic to know +what is certain to give them pain." + +"But I assure you," I added coldly, as if wishing to prove how +completely I was cured of my passion, "I assure you that I am not +cross. It was quite natural that some one should be waiting for +you, just as it is quite natural that I should go from here at +three in the morning." + +"Have you, too, some one waiting for you?" + +"No, but I must go." + +"Good-bye, then." + +"You send me away?" + +"Not the least in the world." + +"Why are you so unkind to me?" + +"How have I been unkind to you?" + +"In telling me that some one was waiting for you." + +"I could not help laughing at the idea that you had been so happy +to see me come in alone when there was such a good reason for +it." + +"One finds pleasure in childish enough things, and it is too bad +to destroy such a pleasure when, by simply leaving it alone, one +can make somebody so happy." + +"But what do you think I am? I am neither maid nor duchess. I +didn't know you till to-day, and I am not responsible to you for +my actions. Supposing one day I should become your mistress, you +are bound to know that I have had other lovers besides you. If +you make scenes of jealousy like this before, what will it be +after, if that after should ever exist? I never met any one like +you." + +"That is because no one has ever loved you as I love you." + +"Frankly, then, you really love me?" + +"As much as it is possible to love, I think." + +"And that has lasted since--?" + +"Since the day I saw you go into Susse's, three years ago. + +"Do you know, that is tremendously fine? Well, what am to do in +return?" + +"Love me a little," I said, my heart beating so that I could +hardly speak; for, in spite of the half-mocking smiles with which +she had accompanied the whole conversation, it seemed to me that +Marguerite began to share my agitation, and that the hour so long +awaited was drawing near. + +"Well, but the duke?" + +"What duke?" + +"My jealous old duke." + +"He will know nothing." + +"And if he should?" + +"He would forgive you." + +"Ah, no, he would leave me, and what would become of me?" + +"You risk that for some one else." + +"How do you know?" "By the order you gave not to admit any one +to-night." "It is true; but that is a serious friend." + +"For whom you care nothing, as you have shut your door against +him at such an hour." + +"It is not for you to reproach me, since it was in order to +receive you, you and your friend." + +Little by little I had drawn nearer to Marguerite. I had put my +arms about her waist, and I felt her supple body weigh lightly on +my clasped hands. + +"If you knew how much I love you!" I said in a low voice. "Really +true?" + +"I swear it." + +"Well, if you will promise to do everything I tell you, without a +word, without an opinion, without a question, perhaps I will say +yes." + +"I will do everything that you wish!" + +"But I forewarn you I must be free to do as I please, without +giving you the slightest details what I do. I have long wished +for a young lover, who should be young and not self-willed, +loving without distrust, loved without claiming the right to it. +I have never found one. Men, instead of being satisfied in +obtaining for a long time what they scarcely hoped to obtain +once, exact from their mistresses a full account of the present, +the past, and even the future. As they get accustomed to her, +they want to rule her, and the more one gives them the more +exacting they become. If I decide now on taking a new lover, he +must have three very rare qualities: he must be confiding, +submissive, and discreet." + +"Well, I will be all that you wish." + +"We shall see." + +"When shall we see?" + +"Later on." + +"Why?" + +"Because," said Marguerite, releasing herself from my arms, and, +taking from a great bunch of red camellias a single camellia, she +placed it in my buttonhole, "because one can not always carry out +agreements the day they are signed." + +"And when shall I see you again?" I said, clasping her in my +arms. + +"When this camellia changes colour." + +"When will it change colour?" + +"To-morrow night between eleven and twelve. Are you satisfied?" + +"Need you ask me?" + +"Not a word of this either to your friend or to Prudence, or to +anybody whatever." + +"I promise." + +"Now, kiss me, and we will go back to the dining-room." + +She held up her lips to me, smoothed her hair again, and we went +out of the room, she singing, and I almost beside myself. + +In the next room she stopped for a moment and said to me in a low +voice: + +"It must seem strange to you that I am ready to take you at a +moment's notice. Shall I tell you why? It is," she continued, +taking my hand and placing it against her heart so that I could +feel how rapidly and violently it palpitated; "it is because I +shall not live as long as others, and I have promised myself to +live more quickly." + +"Don't speak to me like that, I entreat you." + +"Oh, make yourself easy," she continued, laughing; "however short +a time I have to live, I shall live longer than you will love +me!" + +And she went singing into the dining-room. + +"Where is Nanine?" she said, seeing Gaston and Prudence alone. + +"She is asleep in your room, waiting till you are ready to go to +bed," replied Prudence. + +"Poor thing, I am killing her! And now gentlemen, it is time to +go." + +Ten minutes after, Gaston and I left the house. Marguerite shook +hands with me and said good-bye. Prudence remained behind. + +"Well," said Gaston, when we were in the street, "what do you +think of Marguerite?" + +"She is an angel, and I am madly in love with her." "So I +guessed; did you tell her so?" + +"Yes." + +"And did she promise to believe you?" + +"No." + +"She is not like Prudence." + +"Did she promise to?" + +"Better still, my dear fellow. You wouldn't think it; but she is +still not half bad, poor old Duvernoy!" + + + +Chapter 11 + +At this point Armand stopped. + +"Would you close the window for me?" he said. "I am beginning to +feel cold. Meanwhile, I will get into bed." + +I closed the window. Armand, who was still very weak, took off +his dressing-gown and lay down in bed, resting his head for a few +moments on the pillow, like a man who is tired by much talking or +disturbed by painful memories. + +"Perhaps you have been talking too much," I said to him. "Would +you rather for me to go and leave you to sleep? You can tell me +the rest of the story another day." + +"Are you tired of listening to it?" + +"Quite the contrary." + +"Then I will go on. If you left me alone, I should not sleep." + +When I returned home (he continued, without needing to pause and +recollect himself, so fresh were all the details in his mind), I +did not go to bed, but began to reflect over the day's adventure. +The meeting, the introduction, the promise of Marguerite, had +followed one another so rapidly, and so unexpectedly, that there +were moments when it seemed to me I had been dreaming. +Nevertheless, it was not the first time that a girl like +Marguerite had promised herself to a man on the morrow of the day +on which he had asked for the promise. + +Though, indeed, I made this reflection, the first impression +produced on me by my future mistress was so strong that it still +persisted. I refused obstinately to see in her a woman like other +women, and, with the vanity so common to all men, I was ready to +believe that she could not but share the attraction which drew me +to her. + +Yet, I had before me plenty of instances to the contrary, and I +had often heard that the affection of Marguerite was a thing to +be had more or less dear, according to the season. + +But, on the other hand, how was I to reconcile this reputation +with her constant refusal of the young count whom we had found at +her house? You may say that he was unattractive to her, and that, +as she was splendidly kept by the duke, she would be more likely +to choose a man who was attractive to her, if she were to take +another lover. If so, why did she not choose Gaston, who was +rich, witty, and charming, and why did she care for me, whom she +had thought so ridiculous the first time she had seen me? + +It is true that there are events of a moment which tell more than +the courtship of a year. Of those who were at the supper, I was +the only one who had been concerned at her leaving the table. I +had followed her, I had been so affected as to be unable to hide +it from her, I had wept as I kissed her hand. This circumstance, +added to my daily visits during the two months of her illness, +might have shown her that I was somewhat different from the other +men she knew, and perhaps she had said to herself that for a love +which could thus manifest itself she might well do what she had +done so often that it had no more consequence for her. + +All these suppositions, as you may see, were improbable enough; +but whatever might have been the reason of her consent, one thing +was certain, she had consented. + +Now, I was in love with Marguerite. I had nothing more to ask of +her. Nevertheless, though she was only a kept woman, I had so +anticipated for myself, perhaps to poetize it a little, a +hopeless love, that the nearer the moment approached when I +should have nothing more to hope, the more I doubted. I did not +close my eyes all night. + +I scarcely knew myself. I was half demented. Now, I seemed to +myself not handsome or rich or elegant enough to possess such a +woman, now I was filled with vanity at the thought of it; then I +began to fear lest Marguerite had no more than a few days' +caprice for me, and I said to myself that since we should soon +have to part, it would be better not to keep her appointment, but +to write and tell her my fears and leave her. From that I went on +to unlimited hope, unbounded confidence. I dreamed incredible +dreams of the future; I said to myself that she should owe to me +her moral and physical recovery, that I should spend my whole +life with her, and that her love should make me happier than all +the maidenly loves in the world. + +But I can not repeat to you the thousand thoughts that rose from +my heart to my head, and that only faded away with the sleep that +came to me at daybreak. + +When I awoke it was two o'clock. The weather was superb. I don't +think life ever seemed to me so beautiful and so full of +possibilities. The memories of the night before came to me +without shadow or hindrance, escorted gaily by the hopes of the +night to come. From time to time my heart leaped with love and +joy in my breast. A sweet fever thrilled me. I thought no more of +the reasons which had filled my mind before I slept. I saw only +the result, I thought only of the hour when I was to see +Marguerite again. + +It was impossible to stay indoors. My room seemed too small to +contain my happiness. I needed the whole of nature to unbosom +myself. + +I went out. Passing by the Rue d'Antin, I saw Marguerite's coupe' +waiting for her at the door. I went toward the Champs-Elysees. I +loved all the people whom I met. Love gives one a kind of +goodness. + +After I had been walking for an hour from the Marly horses to the +Rond-Point, I saw Marguerite's carriage in the distance; I +divined rather than recognised it. As it was turning the corner +of the Champs-Elysees it stopped, and a tall young man left a +group of people with whom he was talking and came up to her. They +talked for a few moments; the young man returned to his friends, +the horses set out again, and as I came near the group I +recognised the one who had spoken to Marguerite as the Comte de +G., whose portrait I had seen and whom Prudence had indicated to +me as the man to whom Marguerite owed her position. It was to him +that she had closed her doors the night before; I imagined that +she had stopped her carriage in order to explain to him why she +had done so, and I hoped that at the same time she had found some +new pretext for not receiving him on the following night. + +How I spent the rest of the day I do not know; I walked, smoked, +talked, but what I said, whom I met, I had utterly forgotten by +ten o'clock in the evening. + +All I remember is that when I returned home, I spent three hours +over my toilet, and I looked at my watch and my clock a hundred +times, which unfortunately both pointed to the same hour. + +When it struck half past ten, I said to myself that it was time +to go. + +I lived at that time in the Rue de Provence; I followed the Rue +du Mont-Blanc, crossed the Boulevard, went up the Rue +Louis-le-Grand, the Rue de Port-Mahon, and the Rue d'Antin. I +looked up at Marguerite's windows. There was a light. I rang. I +asked the porter if Mlle. Gautier was at home. He replied that +she never came in before eleven or a quarter past eleven. I +looked at my watch. I intended to come quite slowly, and I had +come in five minutes from the Rue de Provence to the Rue d'Antin. + +I walked to and fro in the street; there are no shops, and at +that hour it is quite deserted. In half an hour's time + +Marguerite arrived. She looked around her as she got down from +her coupe', as if she were looking for some one. The carriage +drove off; the stables were not at the house. Just as Marguerite +was going to ring, I went up to her and said, "Good-evening." + +"Ah, it is you," she said, in a tone that by no means reassured +me as to her pleasure in seeing me. + +"Did you not promise me that I might come and see you to-day?" + +"Quite right. I had forgotten." + +This word upset all the reflections I had had during the day. +Nevertheless, I was beginning to get used to her ways, and I did +not leave her, as I should certainly have done once. We entered. +Nanine had already opened the door. + +"Has Prudence come?" said Marguerite. + +"No, madame." + +"Say that she is to be admitted as soon as she comes. But first +put out the lamp in the drawing-room, and if any one comes, say +that I have not come back and shall not be coming back." + +She was like a woman who is preoccupied with something, and +perhaps annoyed by an unwelcome guest. I did not know what to do +or say. Marguerite went toward her bedroom; I remained where I +was. + +"Come," she said. + +She took off her hat and her velvet cloak and threw them on the +bed, then let herself drop into a great armchair beside the fire, +which she kept till the very beginning of summer, and said to me +as she fingered her watch-chain: + +"Well, what news have you got for me?" + +"None, except that I ought not to have come to-night." + +"Why?" + +"Because you seem vexed, and no doubt I am boring you." + +"You are not boring me; only I am not well; I have been suffering +all day. I could not sleep, and I have a frightful headache." + +"Shall I go away and let you go to bed?" + +"Oh, you can stay. If I want to go to bed I don't mind your being +here." + +At that moment there was a ring. + +"Who is coming now?" she said, with an impatient movement. + +A few minutes after there was another ring. + +"Isn't there any one to go to the door? I shall have to go." She +got up and said to me, "Wait here." + +She went through the rooms, and I heard her open the outer door. +I listened. + +The person whom she had admitted did not come farther than the +dining-room. At the first word I recognised the voice of the +young Comte de N. + +"How are you this evening?" he said. + +"Not well," replied Marguerite drily. + +"Am I disturbing you?" + +"Perhaps. + +"How you receive me! What have I done, my dear Marguerite?" + +"My dear friend, you have done nothing. I am ill; I must go to +bed, so you will be good enough to go. It is sickening not to be +able to return at night without your making your appearance five +minutes afterward. What is it you want? For me to be your +mistress? Well, I have already told you a hundred times, No; you +simply worry me, and you might as well go somewhere else. I +repeat to you to-day, for the last time, I don't want to have +anything to do with you; that's settled. Good-bye. Here's Nanine +coming in; she can light you to the door. Good-night." + +Without adding another word, or listening to what the young man +stammered out, Marguerite returned to the room and slammed the +door. Nanine entered a moment after. + +"Now understand," said Marguerite, "you are always to say to that +idiot that I am not in, or that I will not see him. I am tired +out with seeing people who always want the same thing; who pay me +for it, and then think they are quit of me. If those who are +going to go in for our hateful business only knew what it really +was they would sooner be chambermaids. But no, vanity, the desire +of having dresses and carriages and diamonds carries us away; one +believes what one hears, for here, as elsewhere, there is such a +thing as belief, and one uses up one's heart, one's body, one's +beauty, little by little; one is feared like a beast of prey, +scorned like a pariah, surrounded by people who always take more +than they give; and one fine day one dies like a dog in a ditch, +after having ruined others and ruined one's self." + +"Come, come, madame, be calm," said Nanine; "your nerves are a +bit upset to-night." + +"This dress worries me," continued Marguerite, unhooking her +bodice; "give me a dressing-gown. Well, and Prudence?" + +"She has not come yet, but I will send her to you, madame, the +moment she comes." + +"There's one, now," Marguerite went on, as she took off her dress +and put on a white dressing-gown, "there's one who knows very +well how to find me when she is in want of me, and yet she can't +do me a service decently. She knows I am waiting for an answer. +She knows how anxious I am, and I am sure she is going about on +her own account, without giving a thought to me." + +"Perhaps she had to wait." + +"Let us have some punch." + +"It will do you no good, madame," said Nanine. + +"So much the better. Bring some fruit, too, and a pate or a wing +of chicken; something or other, at once. I am hungry." + +Need I tell you the impression which this scene made upon me, or +can you not imagine it? + +"You are going to have supper with me," she said to me; +"meanwhile, take a book. I am going into my dressing-room for a +moment." + +She lit the candles of a candelabra, opened a door at the foot of +the bed, and disappeared. + +I began to think over this poor girl's life, and my love for her +was mingled with a great pity. I walked to and fro in the room, +thinking over things, when Prudence entered. + +"Ah, you here?"' she said, "where is Marguerite?" + +"In her dressing-room." + +"I will wait. By the way, do you know she thinks you charming?" + +"No." + +"She hasn't told you?" + +"Not at all." + +"How are you here?" + +"I have come to pay her a visit." + +"At midnight?" + +"Why not?" + +"Farceur!" + +"She has received me, as a matter of fact, very badly." + +"She will receive you better by and bye." + +"Do you think so?" + +"I have some good news for her." + +"No harm in that. So she has spoken to you about me?" + +"Last night, or rather to-night, when you and your friend went. +By the way, what is your friend called? Gaston R., his name is, +isn't it?" + +"Yes," said I, not without smiling, as I thought of what Gaston +had confided to me, and saw that Prudence scarcely even knew his +name. + +"He is quite nice, that fellow; what does he do?" + +"He has twenty-five thousand francs a year." + +"Ah, indeed! Well, to return to you. Marguerite asked me all +about you: who you were, what you did, what mistresses you had +had; in short, everything that one could ask about a man of your +age. I told her all I knew, and added that you were a charming +young man. That's all." + +"Thanks. Now tell me what it was she wanted to say to you last +night." + +"Nothing at all. It was only to get rid of the count; but I have +really something to see her about to-day, and I am bringing her +an answer now." + +At this moment Marguerite reappeared from her dressing-room, +wearing a coquettish little nightcap with bunches of yellow +ribbons, technically known as "cabbages." She looked ravishing. +She had satin slippers on her bare feet, and was in the act of +polishing her nails. + +"Well," she said, seeing Prudence, "have you seen the duke?" + +"Yes, indeed." + +"And what did he say to you?" + +"He gave me--" + +"How much?" + +"Six thousand." + +"Have you got it?" + +"Yes. + +"Did he seem put out?" + +"No." + +"Poor man!" + +This "Poor man!" was said in a tone impossible to render. +Marguerite took the six notes of a thousand francs. + +"It was quite time," she said. "My dear Prudence, are you in want +of any money?" + +"You know, my child, it is the 15th in a couple of days, so if +you could lend me three or four hundred francs, you would do me a +real service." + +"Send over to-morrow; it is too late to get change now." + +"Don't forget." + +"No fear. Will you have supper with us?" + +"No, Charles is waiting for me." + +"You are still devoted to him?" + +"Crazy, my dear! I will see you to-morrow. Good-bye, Armand." + +Mme. Duvernoy went out. + +Marguerite opened the drawer of a side-table and threw the +bank-notes into it. + +"Will you permit me to get into bed?" she said with a smile, as +she moved toward the bed. + +"Not only permit, but I beg of you." + +She turned back the covering and got into bed. + +"Now," said she, "come and sit down by me, and let's have a +talk." + +Prudence was right: the answer that she had brought to Marguerite +had put her into a good humour. + +"Will you forgive me for my bad temper tonight?" she said, taking +my hand. + +"I am ready to forgive you as often as you like." + +"And you love me?" + +"Madly." + +"In spite of my bad disposition?" + +"In spite of all." + +"You swear it?" + +"Yes," I said in a whisper. + +Nanine entered, carrying plates, a cold chicken, a bottle of +claret, and some strawberries. + +"I haven't had any punch made," said Nanine; "claret is better +for you. Isn't it, sir?" + +"Certainly," I replied, still under the excitement of +Marguerite's last words, my eyes fixed ardently upon her. + +"Good," said she; "put it all on the little table, and draw it up +to the bed; we will help ourselves. This is the third night you +have sat up, and you must be in want of sleep. Go to bed. I don't +want anything more." + +"Shall I lock the door?" + +"I should think so! And above all, tell them not to admit anybody +before midday." + + + +Chapter 12 + +At five o'clock in the morning, as the light began to appear +through the curtains, Marguerite said to me: "Forgive me if I +send you away; but I must. The duke comes every morning; they +will tell him, when he comes, that I am asleep, and perhaps he +will wait until I wake." + +I took Marguerite's head in my hands; her loosened hair streamed +about her; I gave her a last kiss, saying: "When shall I see you +again?" + +"Listen," she said; "take the little gilt key on the mantelpiece, +open that door; bring me back the key and go. In the course of +the day you shall have a letter, and my orders, for you know you +are to obey blindly." + +"Yes; but if I should already ask for something?" + +"What?" + +"Let me have that key." + +"What you ask is a thing I have never done for any one." + +"Well, do it for me, for I swear to you that I don't love you as +the others have loved you." + +"Well, keep it; but it only depends on me to make it useless to +you, after all." + +"How?" + +"There are bolts on the door." + +"Wretch!" + +"I will have them taken off." + +"You love, then, a little?" + +"I don't know how it is, but it seems to me as if I do! Now, go; +I can't keep my eyes open." + +I held her in my arms for a few seconds and then went. + +The streets were empty, the great city was still asleep, a sweet +freshness circulated in the streets that a few hours later would +be filled with the noise of men. It seemed to me as if this +sleeping city belonged to me; I searched my memory for the names +of those whose happiness I had once envied; and I could not +recall one without finding myself the happier. + +To be loved by a pure young girl, to be the first to reveal to +her the strange mystery of love, is indeed a great happiness, but +it is the simplest thing in the world. To take captive a heart +which has had no experience of attack, is to enter an unfortified +and ungarrisoned city. Education, family feeling, the sense of +duty, the family, are strong sentinels, but there are no +sentinels so vigilant as not to be deceived by a girl of sixteen +to whom nature, by the voice of the man she loves, gives the +first counsels of love, all the more ardent because they seem so +pure. + +The more a girl believes in goodness, the more easily will she +give way, if not to her lover, at least to love, for being +without mistrust she is without force, and to win her love is a +triumph that can be gained by any young man of five-and-twenty. +See how young girls are watched and guarded! The walls of +convents are not high enough, mothers have no locks strong +enough, religion has no duties constant enough, to shut these +charming birds in their cages, cages not even strewn with +flowers. Then how surely must they desire the world which is +hidden from them, how surely must they find it tempting, how +surely must they listen to the first voice which comes to tell +its secrets through their bars, and bless the hand which is the +first to raise a corner of the mysterious veil! + +But to be really loved by a courtesan: that is a victory of +infinitely greater difficulty. With them the body has worn out +the soul, the senses have burned up the heart, dissipation has +blunted the feelings. They have long known the words that we say +to them, the means we use; they have sold the love that they +inspire. They love by profession, and not by instinct. They are +guarded better by their calculations than a virgin by her mother +and her convent; and they have invented the word caprice for that +unbartered love which they allow themselves from time to time, +for a rest, for an excuse, for a consolation, like usurers, who +cheat a thousand, and think they have bought their own redemption +by once lending a sovereign to a poor devil who is dying of +hunger without asking for interest or a receipt. + +Then, when God allows love to a courtesan, that love, which at +first seems like a pardon, becomes for her almost without +penitence. When a creature who has all her past to reproach +herself with is taken all at once by a profound, sincere, +irresistible love, of which she had never felt herself capable; +when she has confessed her love, how absolutely the man whom she +loves dominates her! How strong he feels with his cruel right to +say: You do no more for love than you have done for money. They +know not what proof to give. A child, says the fable, having +often amused himself by crying "Help! a wolf!" in order to +disturb the labourers in the field, was one day devoured by a +Wolf, because those whom he had so often deceived no longer +believed in his cries for help. It is the same with these unhappy +women when they love seriously. They have lied so often that no +one will believe them, and in the midst of their remorse they are +devoured by their love. + +Hence those great devotions, those austere retreats from the +world, of which some of them have given an example. + +But when the man who inspires this redeeming love is great enough +in soul to receive it without remembering the past, when he gives +himself up to it, when, in short, he loves as he is loved, this +man drains at one draught all earthly emotions, and after such a +love his heart will be closed to every other. + +I did not make these reflections on the morning when I returned +home. They could but have been the presentiment of what was to +happen to me, and, despite my love for Marguerite, I did not +foresee such consequences. I make these reflections to-day. Now +that all is irrevocably ended, they a rise naturally out of what +has taken place. + +But to return to the first day of my liaison. When I reached home +I was in a state of mad gaiety. As I thought of how the barriers +which my imagination had placed between Marguerite and myself had +disappeared, of how she was now mine; of the place I now had in +her thoughts, of the key to her room which I had in my pocket, +and of my right to use this key, I was satisfied with life, proud +of myself, and I loved God because he had let such things be. + +One day a young man is passing in the street, he brushes against +a woman, looks at her, turns, goes on his way. He does not know +the woman, and she has pleasures, griefs, loves, in which he has +no part. He does not exist for her, and perhaps, if he spoke to +her, she would only laugh at him, as Marguerite had laughed at +me. Weeks, months, years pass, and all at once, when they have +each followed their fate along a different path, the logic of +chance brings them face to face. The woman becomes the man's +mistress and loves him. How? why? Their two existences are +henceforth one; they have scarcely begun to know one another when +it seems as if they had known one another always, and all that +had gone before is wiped out from the memory of the two lovers. +It is curious, one must admit. + +As for me, I no longer remembered how I had lived before that +night. My whole being was exalted into joy at the memory of the +words we had exchanged during that first night. Either Marguerite +was very clever in deception, or she had conceived for me one of +those sudden passions which are revealed in the first kiss, and +which die, often enough, as suddenly as they were born. + +The more I reflected the more I said to myself that Marguerite +had no reason for feigning a love which she did not feel, and I +said to myself also that women have two ways of loving, one of +which may arise from the other: they love with the heart or with +the senses. Often a woman takes a lover in obedience to the mere +will of the senses, and learns without expecting it the mystery +of immaterial love, and lives henceforth only through her heart; +often a girl who has sought in marriage only the union of two +pure affections receives the sudden revelation of physical love, +that energetic conclusion of the purest impressions of the soul. + +In the midst of these thoughts I fell asleep; I was awakened by a +letter from Marguerite containing these words: + +"Here are my orders: To-night at the Vaudeville. + +"Come during the third entr'acte." + +I put the letter into a drawer, so that I might always have it at +band in case I doubted its reality, as I did from time to time. + +She did not tell me to come to see her during the day, and I +dared not go; but I had so great a desire to see her before the +evening that I went to the Champs-Elysees, where I again saw her +pass and repass, as I had on the previous day. + +At seven o'clock I was at the Vaudeville. Never had I gone to a +theatre so early. The boxes filled one after another. Only one +remained empty, the stage box. At the beginning of the third act +I heard the door of the box, on which my eyes had been almost +constantly fixed, open, and Marguerite appeared. She came to the +front at once, looked around the stalls, saw me, and thanked me +with a look. + +That night she was marvellously beautiful. Was I the cause of +this coquetry? Did she love me enough to believe that the more +beautiful she looked the happier I should be? I did not know, but +if that had been her intention she certainly succeeded, for when +she appeared all heads turned, and the actor who was then on the +stage looked to see who had produced such an effect on the +audience by her mere presence there. + +And I had the key of this woman's room, and in three or four +hours she would again be mine! + +People blame those who let themselves be ruined by actresses and +kept women; what astonishes me is that twenty times greater +follies are not committed for them. One must have lived that +life, as I have, to know how much the little vanities which they +afford their lovers every day help to fasten deeper into the +heart, since we have no other word for it, the love which he has +for them. + +Prudence next took her place in the box, and a man, whom I +recognised as the Comte de G., seated himself at the back. As I +saw him, a cold shiver went through my heart. + +Doubtless Marguerite perceived the impression made on me by the +presence of this man, for she smiled to me again, and, turning +her back to the count, appeared to be very attentive to the play. +At the third entr'acte she turned and said two words: the count +left the box, and Marguerite beckoned to me to come to her. + +"Good-evening," she said as I entered, holding out her hand. + +"Good-evening," I replied to both Marguerite and Prudence. + +"Sit down." + +"But I am taking some one's place. Isn't the Comte de G. coming +back?" + +"Yes; I sent him to fetch some sweets, so that we could talk by +ourselves for a moment. Mme. Duvernoy is in the secret." + +"Yes, my children," said she; "have no fear. I shall say +nothing." + +"What is the matter with you to-night?" said Marguerite, rising +and coming to the back of the box and kissing me on the forehead. + +"I am not very well." + +"You should go to bed," she replied, with that ironical air which +went so well with her delicate and witty face. + +"Where?" + +"At home." + +"You know that I shouldn't be able to sleep there." + +"Well, then, it won't do for you to come and be pettish here +because you have seen a man in my box." + +"It is not for that reason." + +"Yes, it is. I know; and you are wrong, so let us say no more +about it. You will go back with Prudence after the theatre, and +you will stay there till I call. Do you understand?" + +"Yes." + +How could I disobey? + +"You still love me?" + +"Can you ask?" + +"You have thought of me?" + +"All day long." + +"Do you know that I am really afraid that I shall get very fond +of you? Ask Prudence." + +"Ah," said she, "it is amazing!" + +"Now, you must go back to your seat. The count will be coming +back, and there is nothing to be gained by his finding you here." + +"Because you don't like seeing him." + +"No; only if you had told me that you wanted to come to the +Vaudeville to-night I could have got this box for you as well as +he." + +"Unfortunately, he got it for me without my asking him, and he +asked me to go with him; you know well enough that I couldn't +refuse. All I could do was to write and tell you where I was +going, so that you could see me, and because I wanted to see you +myself; but since this is the way you thank me, I shall profit by +the lesson." + +"I was wrong; forgive me." + +"Well and good; and now go back nicely to your place, and, above +all, no more jealousy." + +She kissed me again, and I left the box. In the passage I met the +count coming back. I returned to my seat. + +After all, the presence of M. de G. in Marguerite's box was the +most natural thing in the world. He had been her lover, he sent +her a box, he accompanied her to the theatre; it was all quite +natural, and if I was to have a mistress like Marguerite I should +have to get used to her ways. + +Nonetheless, I was very unhappy all the rest of the evening, and +went away very sadly after having seen Prudence, the count, and +Marguerite get into the carriage, which was waiting for them at +the door. + +However, a quarter of an hour later I was at Prudence's. She had +only just got in. + + + +Chapter 13 + +"You have come almost as quickly as we," said Prudence. + +"Yes," I answered mechanically. "Where is Marguerite?" + +"At home." + +"Alone?" + +"With M. de G." + +I walked to and fro in the room. + +"Well, what is the matter?" + +"Do you think it amuses me to wait here till M. de G. leaves +Marguerite's?" + +"How unreasonable you are! Don't you see that Marguerite can't +turn the count out of doors? M. de G. has been with her for a +long time; he has always given her a lot of money; he still does. +Marguerite spends more than a hundred thousand francs a year; she +has heaps of debts. The duke gives her all that she asks for, but +she does not always venture to ask him for all that she is in +want of. It would never do for her to quarrel with the count, who +is worth to her at least ten thousand francs a year. Marguerite +is very fond of you, my dear fellow, but your liaison with her, +in her interests and in yours, ought not to be serious. You with +your seven or eight thousand francs a year, what could you do +toward supplying all the luxuries which a girl like that is in +need of? It would not be enough to keep her carriage. Take +Marguerite for what she is, for a good, bright, pretty girl; be +her lover for a month, two months; give her flowers, sweets, +boxes at the theatre; but don't get any other ideas into your +head, and don't make absurd scenes of jealousy. You know whom you +have to do with; Marguerite isn't a saint. She likes you, you are +very fond of her; let the rest alone. You amaze me when I see you +so touchy; you have the most charming mistress in Paris. She +receives you in the greatest style, she is covered with diamonds, +she needn't cost you a penny, unless you like, and you are not +satisfied. My dear fellow, you ask too much!" + +"You are right, but I can't help it; the idea that that man is +her lover hurts me horribly." + +"In the first place," replied Prudence; "is he still her lover? +He is a man who is useful to her, nothing more. She has closed +her doors to him for two days; he came this morning--she could +not but accept the box and let him accompany her. He saw her +home; he has gone in for a moment, he is not staying, because you +are waiting here. All that, it seems to me, is quite natural. +Besides, you don't mind the duke." + +"Yes; but he is an old man, and I am sure that Marguerite is not +his mistress. Then, it is all very well to accept one liaison, +but not two. Such easiness in the matter is very like +calculation, and puts the man who consents to it, even out of +love, very much in the category of those who, in a lower stage of +society, make a trade of their connivance, and a profit of their +trade." + +"Ah, my dear fellow, how old-fashioned you are! How many of the +richest and most fashionable men of the best families I have seen +quite ready to do what I advise you to do, and without an effort, +without shame, without remorse, Why, one sees it every day. How +do you suppose the kept women in Paris could live in the style +they do, if they had not three or four lovers at once? No single +fortune, however large, could suffice for the expenses of a woman +like Marguerite. A fortune of five hundred thousand francs a year +is, in France, an enormous fortune; well, my dear friend, five +hundred thousand francs a year would still be too little, and for +this reason: a man with such an income has a large house, horses, +servants, carriages; he shoots, has friends, often he is married, +he has children, he races, gambles, travels, and what not. All +these habits are so much a part of his position that he can not +forego them without appearing to have lost all his money, and +without causing scandal. Taking it all round, with five hundred +thousand francs a year he can not give a woman more than forty or +fifty thousand francs in the year, and that is already a good +deal. Well, other lovers make up for the rest of her expenses. +With Marguerite, it is still more convenient; she has chanced by +a miracle on an old man worth ten millions, whose wife and +daughter are dead; who has only some nephews, themselves rich, +and who gives her all she wants without asking anything in +return. But she can not ask him for more than seventy thousand +francs a year; and I am sure that if she did ask for more, +despite his health and the affection he has for her he would not +give it to her. + +"All the young men of twenty or thirty thousand francs a year at +Paris, that is to say, men who have only just enough to live on +in the society in which they mix, know perfectly well, when they +are the lovers of a woman like Marguerite, that she could not so +much as pay for the rooms she lives in and the servants who wait +upon her with what they give her. They do not say to her that +they know it; they pretend not to see anything, and when they +have had enough of it they go their way. If they have the vanity +to wish to pay for everything they get ruined, like the fools +they are, and go and get killed in Africa, after leaving a +hundred thousand francs of debt in Paris. Do you think a woman is +grateful to them for it? Far from it. She declares that she has +sacrificed her position for them, and that while she was with +them she was losing money. These details seem to you shocking? +Well, they are true. You are a very nice fellow; I like you very +much. I have lived with these women for twenty years; I know what +they are worth, and I don't want to see you take the caprice that +a pretty girl has for you too seriously. + +"Then, besides that," continued Prudence; "admit that Marguerite +loves you enough to give up the count or the duke, in case one of +them were to discover your liaison and to tell her to choose +between him and you, the sacrifice that she would make for you +would be enormous, you can not deny it. What equal sacrifice +could you make for her, on your part, and when you had got tired +of her, what could you do to make up for what you had taken from +her? Nothing. You would have cut her off from the world in which +her fortune and her future were to be found; she would have given +you her best years, and she would be forgotten. Either you would +be an ordinary man, and, casting her past in her teeth, you would +leave her, telling her that you were only doing like her other +lovers, and you would abandon her to certain misery; or you would +be an honest man, and, feeling bound to keep her by you, you +would bring inevitable trouble upon yourself, for a liaison which +is excusable in a young man, is no longer excusable in a man of +middle age. It becomes an obstacle to every thing; it allows +neither family nor ambition, man's second and last loves. Believe +me, then, my friend, take things for what they are worth, and do +not give a kept woman the right to call herself your creditor, no +matter in what." + +It was well argued, with a logic of which I should have thought +Prudence incapable. I had nothing to reply, except that she was +right; I took her hand and thanked her for her counsels. + +"Come, come," said she, "put these foolish theories to flight, +and laugh over them. Life is pleasant, my dear fellow; it all +depends on the colour of the glass through which one sees it. Ask +your friend Gaston; there's a man who seems to me to understand +love as I understand it. All that you need think of, unless you +are quite a fool, is that close by there is a beautiful girl who +is waiting impatiently for the man who is with her to go, +thinking of you, keeping the whole night for you, and who loves +you, I am certain. Now, come to the window with me, and let us +watch for the count to go; he won't be long in leaving the coast +clear." + +Prudence opened the window, and we leaned side by side over the +balcony. She watched the few passers, I reflected. All that she +had said buzzed in my head, and I could not help feeling that she +was right; but the genuine love which I had for Marguerite had +some difficulty in accommodating itself to such a belief. I +sighed from time to time, at which Prudence turned, and shrugged +her shoulders like a physician who has given up his patient. + +"How one realizes the shortness of life," I said to myself, "by +the rapidity of sensations! I have only known Marguerite for two +days, she has only been my mistress since yesterday, and she has +already so completely absorbed my thoughts, my heart, and my life +that the visit of the Comte de G. is a misfortune for me." + +At last the count came out, got into his carriage and +disappeared. Prudence closed the window. At the same instant +Marguerite called to us: + +"Come at once," she said; "they are laying the table, and we'll +have supper." + +When I entered, Marguerite ran to me, threw her arms around my +neck and kissed me with all her might. + +"Are we still sulky?" she said to me. + +"No, it is all over," replied Prudence. "I have given him a +talking to, and he has promised to be reasonable." + +"Well and good." + +In spite of myself I glanced at the bed; it was not unmade. As +for Marguerite, she was already in her white dressing-gown. We +sat down to table. + +Charm, sweetness, spontaneity, Marguerite had them all, and I was +forced from time to time to admit that I had no right to ask of +her anything else; that many people would be very happy to be in +my place; and that, like Virgil's shepherd, I had only to enjoy +the pleasures that a god, or rather a goddess, set before me. + +I tried to put in practice the theories of Prudence, and to be as +gay as my two companions; but what was natural in them was on my +part an effort, and the nervous laughter, whose source they did +not detect, was nearer to tears than to mirth. + +At last the supper was over and I was alone with Marguerite. She +sat down as usual on the hearthrug before the fire and gazed +sadly into the flames. What was she thinking of? I know not. As +for me, I looked at her with a mingling of love and terror, as I +thought of all that I was ready to suffer for her sake. + +"Do you know what I am thinking of?" + +"No." + +"Of a plan that has come into my head." + +"And what is this plan?" + +"I can't tell you yet, but I can tell you what the result would +be. The result would be that in a month I should be free, I +should have no more debts, and we could go and spend the summer +in the country." + +"And you can't tell me by what means?" + +"No, only love me as I love you, and all will succeed." + +"And have you made this plan all by yourself?" + +"Yes. "And you will carry it out all by yourself?" + +"I alone shall have the trouble of it," said Marguerite, with a +smile which I shall never forget, "but we shall both partake its +benefits." + +I could not help flushing at the word benefits; I thought of +Manon Lescaut squandering with Desgrieux the money of M. de B. + +I replied in a hard voice, rising from my seat: + +"You must permit me, my dear Marguerite, to share only the +benefits of those enterprises which I have conceived and carried +out myself." + +"What does that mean?" + +"It means that I have a strong suspicion that M. de G. is to be +your associate in this pretty plan, of which I can accept neither +the cost nor the benefits + +"What a child you are! I thought you loved me. I was mistaken; +all right." + +She rose, opened the piano and began to play the Invitation a la +Valse, as far as the famous passage in the major which always +stopped her. Was it through force of habit, or was it to remind +me of the day when we first met? All I know is that the melody +brought back that recollection, and, coming up to her, I took her +head between my hands and kissed her. "You forgive me?" I said. + +"You see I do," she answered; "but observe that we are only at +our second day, and already I have had to forgive you something. +Is this how you keep your promise of blind obedience?" + +"What can I do, Marguerite? I love you too much and I am jealous +of the least of your thoughts. What you proposed to me just now +made me frantic with delight, but the mystery in its carrying out +hurts me dreadfully." + +"Come, let us reason it out," she said, taking both my hands and +looking at me with a charming smile which it was impossible to +resist, "You love me, do you not? and you would gladly spend two +or three months alone with me in the country? I too should be +glad of this solitude a deux, and not only glad of it, but my +health requires it. I can not leave Paris for such a length of +time without putting my affairs in order, and the affairs of a +woman like me are always in great confusion; well, I have found a +way to reconcile everything, my money affairs and my love for +you; yes, for you, don't laugh; I am silly enough to love you! +And here you are taking lordly airs and talking big words. Child, +thrice child, only remember that I love you, and don't let +anything disturb you. Now, is it agreed?" + +"I agree to all you wish, as you know." + +"Then, in less than a month's time we shall be in some village, +walking by the river side, and drinking milk. Does it seem +strange that Marguerite Gautier should speak to you like that? +The fact is, my friend, that when this Paris life, which seems to +make me so happy, doesn't burn me, it wearies me, and then I have +sudden aspirations toward a calmer existence which might recall +my childhood. One has always had a childhood, whatever one +becomes. Don't be alarmed; I am not going to tell you that I am +the daughter of a colonel on half-pay, and that I was brought up +at Saint-Denis. I am a poor country girl, and six years ago I +could not write my own name. You are relieved, aren't you? Why is +it you are the first whom I have ever asked to share the joy of +this desire of mine? I suppose because I feel that you love me +for myself and not for yourself, while all the others have only +loved me for themselves. + +"I have often been in the country, but never as I should like to +go there. I count on you for this easy happiness; do not be +unkind, let me have it. Say this to yourself: 'She will never +live to be old, and I should some day be sorry for not having +done for her the first thing she asked of me, such an easy thing +to do!'" + +What could I reply to such words, especially with the memory of a +first night of love, and in the expectation of a second? + +An hour later I held Marguerite in my arms, and, if she had asked +me to commit a crime, I would have obeyed her. + +At six in the morning I left her, and before leaving her I said: +"Till to-night!" She kissed me more warmly than ever, but said +nothing. + +During the day I received a note containing these words: + +"DEAR CHILD: I am not very well, and the doctor has ordered +quiet. I shall go to bed early to-night and shall not see you. +But, to make up, I shall expect you to-morrow at twelve. I love +you." + +My first thought was: She is deceiving me! + +A cold sweat broke out on my forehead, for I already loved this +woman too much not to be overwhelmed by the suspicion. And yet, I +was bound to expect such a thing almost any day with Marguerite, +and it had happened to me often enough with my other mistresses, +without my taking much notice of it. What was the meaning of the +hold which this woman had taken upon my life? + +Then it occurred to me, since I had the key, to go and see her as +usual. In this way I should soon know the truth, and if I found a +man there I would strike him in the face. + +Meanwhile I went to the Champs-Elysees. I waited there four +hours. She did not appear. At night I went into all the theatres +where she was accustomed to go. She was in none of them. + +At eleven o'clock I went to the Rue d'Antin. There was no light +in Marguerite's windows. All the same, I rang. The porter asked +me where I was going. + +"To Mlle. Gautier's," I said. + +"She has not come in." + +"I will go up and wait for her." + +"There is no one there." + +Evidently I could get in, since I had the key, but, fearing +foolish scandal, I went away. Only I did not return home; I could +not leave the street, and I never took my eyes off Marguerite's +house. It seemed to me that there was still something to be found +out, or at least that my suspicions were about to be confirmed. + +About midnight a carriage that I knew well stopped before No. 9. +The Comte de G. got down and entered the house, after sending +away the carriage. For a moment I hoped that the same answer +would be given to him as to me, and that I should see him come +out; but at four o'clock in the morning I was still awaiting him. + +I have suffered deeply during these last three weeks, but that is +nothing, I think, in comparison with what I suffered that night. + + + +Chapter 14 + +When I reached home I began to cry like a child. There is no man +to whom a woman has not been unfaithful, once at least, and who +will not know what I suffered. + +I said to myself, under the weight of these feverish resolutions +which one always feels as if one had the force to carry out, that +I must break with my amour at once, and I waited impatiently for +daylight in order to set out forthwith to rejoin my father and my +sister, of whose love at least I was certain, and certain that +that love would never be betrayed. + +However, I did not wish to go away without letting Marguerite +know why I went. Only a man who really cares no more for his +mistress leaves her without writing to her. I made and remade +twenty letters in my head. I had had to do with a woman like all +other women of the kind. I had been poetizing too much. She had +treated me like a school-boy, she had used in deceiving me a +trick which was insultingly simple. My self-esteem got the upper +hand. I must leave this woman without giving her the satisfaction +of knowing that she had made me suffer, and this is what I wrote +to her in my most elegant handwriting and with tears of rage and +sorrow in my eyes: + +"MY DEAR MARGUERITE: I hope that your indisposition yesterday was +not serious. I came, at eleven at night, to ask after you, and +was told that you had not come in. M. de G. was more fortunate, +for he presented himself shortly afterward, and at four in the +morning he had not left. + +"Forgive me for the few tedious hours that I have given you, and +be assured that I shall never forget the happy moments which I +owe to you. + +"I should have called to-day to ask after you, but I intend going +back to my father's. + +"Good-bye, my dear Marguerite. I am not rich enough to love you +as I would nor poor enough to love you as you would. Let us then +forget, you a name which must be indifferent enough to you, I a +happiness which has become impossible. + +"I send back your key, which I have never used, and which might +be useful to you, if you are often ill as you were yesterday." + +As you will see, I was unable to end my letter without a touch of +impertinent irony, which proved how much in love I still was. + +I read and reread this letter ten times over; then the thought of +the pain it would give to Marguerite calmed me a little. I tried +to persuade myself of the feelings which it professed; and when +my servant came to my room at eight o'clock, I gave it to him and +told him to take it at once. + +"Shall I wait for an answer?" asked Joseph (my servant, like all +servants, was called Joseph). + +"If they ask whether there is a reply, you will say that you +don't know, and wait." + +I buoyed myself up with the hope that she would reply. Poor, +feeble creatures that we are! All the time that my servant was +away I was in a state of extreme agitation. At one moment I would +recall how Marguerite had given herself to me, and ask myself by +what right I wrote her an impertinent letter, when she could +reply that it was not M. de G. who supplanted me, but I who had +supplanted M. de G.: a mode of reasoning which permits many women +to have many lovers. At another moment I would recall her +promises, and endeavour to convince myself that my letter was +only too gentle, and that there were not expressions forcible +enough to punish a woman who laughed at a love like mine. Then I +said to myself that I should have done better not to have written +to her, but to have gone to see her, and that then I should have +had the pleasure of seeing the tears that she would shed. +Finally, I asked myself what she would reply to me; already +prepared to believe whatever excuse she made. + +Joseph returned. + +"Well?" I said to him. + +"Sir," said he, "madame was not up, and still asleep, but as soon +as she rings the letter will be taken to her, and if there is any +reply it will be sent." + +She was asleep! + +Twenty times I was on the point of sending to get the letter +back, but every time I said to myself: "Perhaps she will have got +it already, and it would look as if I have repented of sending +it." + +As the hour at which it seemed likely that she would reply came +nearer, I regretted more and more that I had written. The clock +struck, ten, eleven, twelve. At twelve I was on the point of +keeping the appointment as if nothing had happened. In the end I +could see no way out of the circle of fire which closed upon me. + +Then I began to believe, with the superstition which people have +when they are waiting, that if I went out for a little while, I +should find an answer when I got back. I went out under the +pretext of going to lunch. + +Instead of lunching at the Cafe Foy, at the corner of the +Boulevard, as I usually did, I preferred to go to the Palais +Royal and so pass through the Rue d'Antin. Every time that I saw +a woman at a distance, I fancied it was Nanine bringing me an +answer. I passed through the Rue d'Antin without even coming +across a commissionaire. I went to Very's in the Palais Royal. +The waiter gave me something to eat, or rather served up to me +whatever he liked, for I ate nothing. In spite of myself, my eyes +were constantly fixed on the clock. I returned home, certain that +I should find a letter from Marguerite. + +The porter had received nothing, but I still hoped in my servant. +He had seen no one since I went out. + +If Marguerite had been going to answer me she would have answered +long before. + +Then I began to regret the terms of my letter; I should have said +absolutely nothing, and that would undoubtedly have aroused her +suspicions, for, finding that I did not keep my appointment, she +would have inquired the reason of my absence, and only then I +should have given it to her. Thus, she would have had to +exculpate herself, and what I wanted was for her to exculpate +herself. I already realized that I should have believed whatever +reasons she had given me, and anything was better than not to see +her again. + +At last I began to believe that she would come to see me herself; +but hour followed hour, and she did not come. + +Decidedly Marguerite was not like other women, for there are few +who would have received such a letter as I had just written +without answering it at all. + +At five, I hastened to the Champs-Elysees. "If I meet her," I +thought, "I will put on an indifferent air, and she will be +convinced that I no longer think about her." + +As I turned the corner of the Rue Royale, I saw her pass in her +carriage. The meeting was so sudden that I turned pale. I do not +know if she saw my emotion; as for me, I was so agitated that I +saw nothing but the carriage. + +I did not go any farther in the direction of the Champs-Elysees. +I looked at the advertisements of the theatres, for I had still a +chance of seeing her. There was a first night at the Palais +Royal. Marguerite was sure to be there. I was at the theatre by +seven. The boxes filled one after another, but Marguerite was not +there. I left the Palais Royal and went to all the theatres where +she was most often to be seen: to the Vaudeville, the Varietes, +the Opera Comique. She was nowhere. + +Either my letter had troubled her too much for her to care to go +to the theatre, or she feared to come across me, and so wished to +avoid an explanation. So my vanity was whispering to me on the +boulevards, when I met Gaston, who asked me where I had been. + +"At the Palais Royal." + +"And I at the Opera," said he; "I expected to see you there." + +"Why?" + +"Because Marguerite was there." + +"Ah, she was there?" + +"Yes. + +"Alone?" + +"No; with another woman." + +"That all?" + +"The Comte de G. came to her box for an instant; but she went off +with the duke. I expected to see you every moment, for there was +a stall at my side which remained empty the whole evening, and I +was sure you had taken it." + +"But why should I go where Marguerite goes?" + +"Because you are her lover, surely!" + +"Who told you that?" + +"Prudence, whom I met yesterday. I give you my congratulations, +my dear fellow; she is a charming mistress, and it isn't +everybody who has the chance. Stick to her; she will do you +credit." + +These simple reflections of Gaston showed me how absurd had been +my susceptibilities. If I had only met him the night before and +he had spoken to me like that, I should certainly not have +written the foolish letter which I had written. + +I was on the point of calling on Prudence, and of sending her to +tell Marguerite that I wanted to speak to her; but I feared that +she would revenge herself on me by saying that she could not see +me, and I returned home, after passing through the Rue d'Antin. +Again I asked my porter if there was a letter for me. Nothing! +She is waiting to see if I shall take some fresh step, and if I +retract my letter of to-day, I said to myself as I went to bed; +but, seeing that I do not write, she will write to me to-morrow. + +That night, more than ever, I reproached myself for what I had +done. I was alone, unable to sleep, devoured by restlessness and +jealousy, when by simply letting things take their natural course +I should have been with Marguerite, hearing the delicious words +which I had heard only twice, and which made my ears burn in my +solitude. + +The most frightful part of the situation was that my judgment was +against me; as a matter of fact, everything went to prove that +Marguerite loved me. First, her proposal to spend the summer with +me in the country, then the certainty that there was no reason +why she should be my mistress, since my income was insufficient +for her needs and even for her caprices. There could not then +have been on her part anything but the hope of finding in me a +sincere affection, able to give her rest from the mercenary loves +in whose midst she lived; and on the very second day I had +destroyed this hope, and paid by impertinent irony for the love +which I had accepted during two nights. What I had done was +therefore not merely ridiculous, it was indelicate. I had not +even paid the woman, that I might have some right to find fault +with her; withdrawing after two days, was I not like a parasite +of love, afraid of having to pay the bill of the banquet? What! I +had only known Marguerite for thirty-six hours; I had been her +lover for only twenty-four; and instead of being too happy that +she should grant me all that she did, I wanted to have her all to +myself, and to make her sever at one stroke all her past +relations which were the revenue of her future. What had I to +reproach in her? Nothing. She had written to say she was unwell, +when she might have said to me quite crudely, with the hideous +frankness of certain women, that she had to see a lover; and, +instead of believing her letter, instead of going to any street +in Paris except the Rue d'Antin, instead of spending the evening +with my friends, and presenting myself next day at the appointed +hour, I was acting the Othello, spying upon her, and thinking to +punish her by seeing her no more. But, on the contrary, she ought +to be enchanted at this separation. She ought to find me +supremely foolish, and her silence was not even that of rancour; +it was contempt. + +I might have made Marguerite a present which would leave no doubt +as to my generosity and permit me to feel properly quits of her, +as of a kept woman, but I should have felt that I was offending +by the least appearance of trafficking, if not the love which she +had for me, at all events the love which I had for her, and since +this love was so pure that it could admit no division, it could +not pay by a present, however generous, the happiness that it had +received, however short that happiness had been. + +That is what I said to myself all night long, and what I was +every moment prepared to go and say to Marguerite. When the day +dawned I was still sleepless. I was in a fever. I could think of +nothing but Marguerite. + +As you can imagine, it was time to take a decided step, and +finish either with the woman or with one's scruples, if, that is, +she would still be willing to see me. But you know well, one is +always slow in taking a decided step; so, unable to remain within +doors and not daring to call on Marguerite, I made one attempt in +her direction, an attempt that I could always look upon as a mere +chance if it succeeded. + +It was nine o'clock, and I went at once to call upon Prudence, +who asked to what she owed this early visit. I dared not tell her +frankly what brought me. I replied that I had gone out early in +order to reserve a place in the diligence for C., where my father +lived. + +"You are fortunate," she said, "in being able to get away from +Paris in this fine weather." + +I looked at Prudence, asking myself whether she was laughing at +me, but her face was quite serious. + +"Shall you go and say good-bye to Marguerite?" she continued, as +seriously as before. + +"No." + +"You are quite right." + +"You think so?" + +"Naturally. Since you have broken with her, why should you see +her again?" + +"You know it is broken off?" + +"She showed me your letter." + +"What did she say about it?" + +"She said: 'My dear Prudence, your protege is not polite; one +thinks such letters, one does not write them."' + +"In what tone did she say that?" + +"Laughingly, and she added: "He has had supper with me twice, and +hasn't even called."' + +That, then, was the effect produced by my letter and my jealousy. +I was cruelly humiliated in the vanity of my affection. + +"What did she do last night?" + +"She went to the opera." + +"I know. And afterward?" + +"She had supper at home." + +"Alone?" + +"With the Comte de G., I believe." + +So my breaking with her had not changed one of her habits. It is +for such reasons as this that certain people say to you: Don't +have anything more to do with the woman; she cares nothing about +you. + +"Well, I am very glad to find that Marguerite does not put +herself out for me," I said with a forced smile. + +"She has very good reason not to. You have done what you were +bound to do. You have been more reasonable than she, for she was +really in love with you; she did nothing but talk of you. I don't +know what she would not have been capable of doing." + +"Why hasn't she answered me, if she was in love with me?" + +"Because she realizes she was mistaken in letting herself love +you. Women sometimes allow you to be unfaithful to their love; +they never allow you to wound their self-esteem; and one always +wounds the self-esteem of a woman when, two days after one has +become her lover, one leaves her, no matter for what reason. I +know Marguerite; she would die sooner than reply." + +"What can I do, then?" + +"Nothing. She will forget you, you will forget her, and neither +will have any reproach to make against the other." + +"But if I write and ask her forgiveness?" + +"Don't do that, for she would forgive you." + +I could have flung my arms round Prudence's neck. + +A quarter of an hour later I was once more in my own quarters, +and I wrote to Marguerite: + +"Some one, who repents of a letter that he wrote yesterday and +who will leave Paris to-morrow if you do not forgive him, wishes +to know at what hour he might lay his repentance at your feet. + +"When can he find you alone? for, you know, confessions must be +made without witnesses." + +I folded this kind of madrigal in prose, and sent it by Joseph, +who handed it to Marguerite herself; she replied that she would +send the answer later. + +I only went out to have a hasty dinner, and at eleven in the +evening no reply had come. I made up my mind to endure it no +longer, and to set out next day. In consequence of this +resolution, and convinced that I should not sleep if I went to +bed, I began to pack up my things. + + + +Chapter 15 + +It was hardly an hour after Joseph and I had begun preparing for +my departure, when there was a violent ring at the door. + +"Shall I go to the door?" said Joseph. + +"Go," I said, asking myself who it could be at such an hour, and +not daring to believe that it was Marguerite. + +"Sir," said Joseph coming back to me, "it is two ladies." + +"It is we, Armand," cried a voice that I recognised as that of +Prudence. + +I came out of my room. Prudence was standing looking around the +place; Marguerite, seated on the sofa, was meditating. I went to +her, knelt down, took her two hands, and, deeply moved, said to +her, "Pardon." + +She kissed me on the forehead, and said: + +"This is the third time that I have forgiven you." + +"I should have gone away to-morrow." + +"How can my visit change your plans? I have not come to hinder +you from leaving Paris. I have come because I had no time to +answer you during the day, and I did not wish to let you think +that I was angry with you. Prudence didn't want me to come; she +said that I might be in the way." + +"You in the way, Marguerite! But how?" + +"Well, you might have had a woman here," said Prudence, "and it +would hardly have been amusing for her to see two more arrive." + +During this remark Marguerite looked at me attentively. + +"My dear Prudence," I answered, "you do not know what you are +saying." + +"What a nice place you've got!" Prudence went on. "May we see the +bedroom?" + +"Yes." + +Prudence went into the bedroom, not so much to see it as to make +up for the foolish thing which she had just said, and to leave +Marguerite and me alone. + +"Why did you bring Prudence?" I asked her. + +"Because she was at the theatre with me, and because when I leave +here I want to have some one to see me home." + +"Could not I do?" + +"Yes, but, besides not wishing to put you out, I was sure that if +you came as far as my door you would want to come up, and as I +could not let you, I did not wish to let you go away blaming me +for saying 'No.'" + +"And why could you not let me come up?" + +"Because I am watched, and the least suspicion might do me the +greatest harm." + +"Is that really the only reason?" + +"If there were any other, I would tell you; for we are not to +have any secrets from one another now." + +"Come, Marguerite, I am not going to take a roundabout way of +saying what I really want to say. Honestly, do you care for me a +little?" + +"A great deal." + +"Then why did you deceive me?" + +"My friend, if I were the Duchess So and So, if I had two hundred +thousand francs a year, and if I were your mistress and had +another lover, you would have the right to ask me; but I am Mlle. +Marguerite Gautier, I am forty thousand francs in debt, I have +not a penny of my own, and I spend a hundred thousand francs a +year. Your question becomes unnecessary and my answer useless." + +"You are right," I said, letting my head sink on her knees; "but +I love you madly." + +"Well, my friend, you must either love me a little less or +understand me a little better. Your letter gave me a great deal +of pain. If I had been free, first of all I would not have seen +the count the day before yesterday, or, if I had, I should have +come and asked your forgiveness as you ask me now, and in future +I should have had no other lover but you. I fancied for a moment +that I might give myself that happiness for six months; you would +not have it; you insisted on knowing the means. Well, good +heavens, the means were easy enough to guess! In employing them I +was making a greater sacrifice for you than you imagine. I might +have said to you, 'I want twenty thousand francs'; you were in +love with me and you would have found them, at the risk of +reproaching me for it later on. I preferred to owe you nothing; +you did not understand the scruple, for such it was. Those of us +who are like me, when we have any heart at all, we give a meaning +and a development to words and things unknown to other women; I +repeat, then, that on the part of Marguerite Gautier the means +which she used to pay her debts without asking you for the money +necessary for it, was a scruple by which you ought to profit, +without saying anything. If you had only met me to-day, you would +be too delighted with what I promised you, and you would not +question me as to what I did the day before yesterday. We are +sometimes obliged to buy the satisfaction of our souls at the +expense of our bodies, and we suffer still more, when, afterward, +that satisfaction is denied us." + +I listened, and I gazed at Marguerite with admiration. When I +thought that this marvellous creature, whose feet I had once +longed to kiss, was willing to let me take my place in her +thoughts, my part in her life, and that I was not yet content +with what she gave me, I asked if man's desire has indeed limits +when, satisfied as promptly as mine had been, it reached after +something further. + +"Truly," she continued, "we poor creatures of chance have +fantastic desires and inconceivable loves. We give ourselves now +for one thing, now for another. There are men who ruin themselves +without obtaining the least thing from us; there are others who +obtain us for a bouquet of flowers. Our hearts have their +caprices; it is their one distraction and their one excuse. I +gave myself to you sooner than I ever did to any man, I swear to +you; and do you know why? Because when you saw me spitting blood +you took my hand; because you wept; because you are the only +human being who has ever pitied me. I am going to say a mad thing +to you: I once had a little dog who looked at me with a sad look +when I coughed; that is the only creature I ever loved. When he +died I cried more than when my mother died. It is true that for +twelve years of her life she used to beat me. Well, I loved you +all at once, as much as my dog. If men knew what they can have +for a tear, they would be better loved and we should be less +ruinous to them. + +"Your letter undeceived me; it showed me that you lacked the +intelligence of the heart; it did you more harm with me than +anything you could possibly have done. It was jealousy certainly, +but ironical and impertinent jealousy. I was already feeling sad +when I received your letter. I was looking forward to seeing you +at twelve, to having lunch with you, and wiping out, by seeing +you, a thought which was with me incessantly, and which, before I +knew you, I had no difficulty in tolerating. + +"Then," continued Marguerite, "you were the only person before +whom it seemed to me, from the first, that I could think and +speak freely. All those who come about women like me have an +interest in calculating their slightest words, in thinking of the +consequences of their most insignificant actions. Naturally we +have no friends. We have selfish lovers who spend their fortunes, +riot on us, as they say, but on their own vanity. For these +people we have to be merry when they are merry, well when they +want to sup, sceptics like themselves. We are not allowed to have +hearts, under penalty of being hooted down and of ruining our +credit. + +"We no longer belong to ourselves. We are no longer beings, but +things. We stand first in their self-esteem, last in their +esteem. We have women who call themselves our friends, but they +are friends like Prudence, women who were once kept and who have +still the costly tastes that their age does not allow them to +gratify. Then they become our friends, or rather our guests at +table. Their friendship is carried to the point of servility, +never to that of disinterestedness. Never do they give you advice +which is not lucrative. It means little enough to them that we +should have ten lovers extra, as long as they get dresses or a +bracelet out of them, and that they can drive in our carriage +from time to time or come to our box at the theatre. They have +our last night's bouquets, and they borrow our shawls. They never +render us a service, however slight, without seeing that they are +paid twice its value. You yourself saw when Prudence brought me +the six thousand francs that I had asked her to get from the +duke, how she borrowed five hundred francs, which she will never +pay me back, or which she will pay me in hats, which will never +be taken out of their boxes. + +"We can not, then, have, or rather I can not have more than one +possible kind of happiness, and this is, sad as I sometimes am, +suffering as I always am, to find a man superior enough not to +ask questions about my life, and to be the lover of my +impressions rather than of my body. Such a man I found in the +duke; but the duke is old, and old age neither protects nor +consoles. I thought I could accept the life which he offered me; +but what would you have? I was dying of ennui, and if one is +bound to be consumed, it is as well to throw oneself into the +flames as to be asphyxiated with charcoal. + +"Then I met you, young, ardent, happy, and I tried to make you +the man I had longed for in my noisy solitude. What I loved in +you was not the man who was, but the man who was going to be. You +do not accept the position, you reject it as unworthy of you; you +are an ordinary lover. Do like the others; pay me, and say no +more about it." + +Marguerite, tired out with this long confession, threw herself +back on the sofa, and to stifle a slight cough put up her +handkerchief to her lips, and from that to her eyes. + +"Pardon, pardon," I murmured. "I understood it all, but I wanted +to have it from your own lips, my beloved Marguerite. Forget the +rest and remember only one thing: that we belong to one another, +that we are young, and that we love. Marguerite, do with me as +you will; I am your slave, your dog, but in the name of heaven +tear up the letter which I wrote to you and do not make me leave +you to-morrow; it would kill me." + +Marguerite drew the letter from her bosom, and handing it to me +with a smile of infinite sweetness, said: + +"Here it is. I have brought it back." + +I tore the letter into fragments and kissed with tears the hand +that gave it to me. + +At this moment Prudence reappeared. + +"Look here, Prudence; do you know what he wants?" said +Marguerite. + +"He wants you to forgive him." + +"Precisely." + +"And you do?" + +"One has to; but he wants more than that." + +"What, then?" + +"He wants to have supper with us." + +"And do you consent?" + +"What do you think?" + +"I think that you are two children who haven't an atom of sense +between you; but I also think that I am very hungry, and that the +sooner you consent the sooner we shall have supper." + +"Come," said Marguerite, "there is room for the three of us in my +carriage." + +"By the way," she added, turning to me, "Nanine will be gone to +bed. You must open the door; take my key, and try not to lose it +again." + +I embraced Marguerite until she was almost stifled. + +Thereupon Joseph entered. + +"Sir," he said, with the air of a man who is very well satisfied +with himself, "the luggage is packed." + +"All of it?" + +"Yes, sir." + +"Well, then, unpack it again; I am not going." + + + +Chapter 16 + +I might have told you of the beginning of this liaison in a few +lines, but I wanted you to see every step by which we came, I to +agree to whatever Marguerite wished, Marguerite to be unable to +live apart from me. + +It was the day after the evening when she came to see me that I +sent her Manon Lescaut. + +From that time, seeing that I could not change my mistress's +life, I changed my own. I wished above all not to leave myself +time to think over the position I had accepted, for, in spite of +myself, it was a great distress to me. Thus my life, generally so +calm, assumed all at once an appearance of noise and disorder. +Never believe, however disinterested the love of a kept woman may +be, that it will cost one nothing. Nothing is so expensive as +their caprices, flowers, boxes at the theatre, suppers, days in +the country, which one can never refuse to one's mistress. + +As I have told you, I had little money. My father was, and still +is, receveur general at C. He has a great reputation there for +loyalty, thanks to which he was able to find the security which +he needed in order to attain this position. + +It is worth forty thousand francs a year, and during the ten +years that he has had it, he has paid off the security and put +aside a dowry for my sister. My father is the most honourable man +in the world. When my mother died, she left six thousand francs a +year, which he divided between my sister and myself on the very +day when he received his appointment; then, when I was +twenty-one, he added to this little income an annual allowance of +five thousand francs, assuring me that with eight thousand francs +a year I might live very happily at Paris, if, in addition to +this, I would make a position for myself either in law or +medicine. I came to Paris, studied law, was called to the bar, +and, like many other young men, put my diploma in my pocket, and +let myself drift, as one so easily does in Paris. + +My expenses were very moderate; only I used up my year's income +in eight months, and spent the four summer months with my father, +which practically gave me twelve thousand francs a year, and, in +addition, the reputation of a good son. For the rest, not a penny +of debt. + +This, then, was my position when I made the acquaintance of +Marguerite. You can well understand that, in spite of myself, my +expenses soon increased. Marguerite's nature was very capricious, +and, like so many women, she never regarded as a serious expense +those thousand and one distractions which made up her life. So, +wishing to spend as much time with me as possible, she would +write to me in the morning that she would dine with me, not at +home, but at some restaurant in Paris or in the country. I would +call for her, and we would dine and go on to the theatre, often +having supper as well; and by the end of the evening I had spent +four or five louis, which came to two or three thousand francs a +month, which reduced my year to three months and a half, and made +it necessary for me either to go into debt or to leave +Marguerite. I would have consented to anything except the latter. + +Forgive me if I give you all these details, but you will see that +they were the cause of what was to follow. What I tell you is a +true and simple story, and I leave to it all the naivete of its +details and all the simplicity of its developments. + +I realized then that as nothing in the world would make me forget +my mistress, it was needful for me to find some way of meeting +the expenses into which she drew me. Then, too, my love for her +had so disturbing an influence upon me that every moment I spent +away from Marguerite was like a year, and that I felt the need of +consuming these moments in the fire of some sort of passion, and +of living them so swiftly as not to know that I was living them. + +I began by borrowing five or six thousand francs on my little +capital, and with this I took to gambling. Since gambling houses +were destroyed gambling goes on everywhere. Formerly, when one +went to Frascati, one had the chance of making a fortune; one +played against money, and if one lost, there was always the +consolation of saying that one might have gained; whereas now, +except in the clubs, where there is still a certain rigour in +regard to payments, one is almost certain, the moment one gains a +considerable sum, not to receive it. You will readily understand +why. Gambling is only likely to be carried on by young people +very much in need of money and not possessing the fortune +necessary for supporting the life they lead; they gamble, then, +and with this result; or else they gain, and then those who lose +serve to pay for their horses and mistresses, which is very +disagreeable. Debts are contracted, acquaintances begun about a +green table end by quarrels in which life or honour comes to +grief; and though one may be an honest man, one finds oneself +ruined by very honest men, whose only defect is that they have +not two hundred thousand francs a year. + +I need not tell you of those who cheat at play, and of how one +hears one fine day of their hasty disappearance and tardy +condemnation. + +I flung myself into this rapid, noisy, and volcanic life, which +had formerly terrified me when I thought of it, and which. had +become for me the necessary complement of my love for Marguerite. +What else could I have done? + +The nights that I did not spend in the Rue d'Antin, if I had +spent them alone in my own room, I could not have slept. Jealousy +would have kept me awake, and inflamed my blood and my thoughts; +while gambling gave a new turn to the fever which would otherwise +have preyed upon my heart, and fixed it upon a passion which laid +hold on me in spite of myself, until the hour struck when I might +go to my mistress. Then, and by this I knew the violence of my +love, I left the table without a moment's hesitation, whether I +was winning or losing, pitying those whom I left behind because +they would not, like me, find their real happiness in leaving it. +For the most of them, gambling was a necessity; for me, it was a +remedy. Free of Marguerite, I should have been free of gambling. + +Thus, in the midst of all that, I preserved a considerable amount +of self-possession; I lost only what I was able to pay, and +gained only what I should have been able to lose. + +For the rest, chance was on my side. I made no debts, and I spent +three times as much money as when I did not gamble. It was +impossible to resist an existence which gave me an easy means of +satisfying the thousand caprices of Marguerite. As for her, she +continued to love me as much, or even more than ever. + +As I told you, I began by being allowed to stay only from +midnight to six o'clock, then I was asked sometimes to a box in +the theatre, then she sometimes came to dine with me. One morning +I did not go till eight, and there came a day when I did not go +till twelve. + +But, sooner than the moral metamorphosis, a physical +metamorphosis came about in Marguerite. I had taken her cure in +hand, and the poor girl, seeing my aim, obeyed me in order to +prove her gratitude. I had succeeded without effort or trouble in +almost isolating her from her former habits. My doctor, whom I +had made her meet, had told me that only rest and calm could +preserve her health, so that in place of supper and sleepless +nights, I succeeded in substituting a hygienic regime and regular +sleep. In spite of herself, Marguerite got accustomed to this new +existence, whose salutary effects she already realized. She began +to spend some of her evenings at home, or, if the weather was +fine, she wrapped herself in a shawl, put on a veil, and we went +on foot, like two children, in the dim alleys of the +Champs-Elysees. She would come in tired, take a light supper, and +go to bed after a little music or reading, which she had never +been used to do. The cough, which every time that I heard it +seemed to go through my chest, had almost completely disappeared. + +At the end of six weeks the count was entirely given up, and only +the duke obliged me to conceal my liaison with Marguerite, and +even he was sent away when I was there, under the pretext that +she was asleep and had given orders that she was not to be +awakened. + +The habit or the need of seeing me which Marguerite had now +contracted had this good result: that it forced me to leave the +gaming-table just at the moment when an adroit gambler would have +left it. Settling one thing against another, I found myself in +possession of some ten thousand francs, which seemed to me an +inexhaustible capital. + +The time of the year when I was accustomed to join my father and +sister had now arrived, and I did not go; both of them wrote to +me frequently, begging me to come. To these letters I replied as +best I could, always repeating that I was quite well and that I +was not in need of money, two things which, I thought, would +console my father for my delay in paying him my annual visit. + +Just then, one fine day in summer, Marguerite was awakened by the +sunlight pouring into her room, and, jumping out of bed, asked me +if I would take her into the country for the whole day. + +We sent for Prudence, and all three set off, after Marguerite had +given Nanine orders to tell the duke that she had taken advantage +of the fine day to go into the country with Mme. Duvernoy. + +Besides the presence of Mme. Duvernoy being needful on account of +the old duke, Prudence was one of those women who seem made on +purpose for days in the country. With her unchanging good-humour +and her eternal appetite, she never left a dull moment to those +whom she was with, and was perfectly happy in ordering eggs, +cherries, milk, stewed rabbit, and all the rest of the +traditional lunch in the country. + +We had now only to decide where we should go. It was once more +Prudence who settled the difficulty. + +"Do you want to go to the real country?" she asked. + +"Yes." + +"Well, let us go to Bougival, at the Point du Jour, at Widow +Arnould's. Armand, order an open carriage." + +An hour and a half later we were at Widow Arnould's. + +Perhaps you know the inn, which is a hotel on week days and a tea +garden on Sundays. There is a magnificent view from the garden, +which is at the height of an ordinary first floor. On the left +the Aqueduct of Marly closes in the horizon, on the right one +looks across bill after hill; the river, almost without current +at that spot, unrolls itself like a large white watered ribbon +between the plain of the Gabillons and the island of Croissy, +lulled eternally by the trembling of its high poplars and the +murmur of its willows. Beyond, distinct in the sunlight, rise +little white houses, with red roofs, and manufactories, which, at +that distance, put an admirable finish to the landscape. Beyond +that, Paris in the mist! As Prudence had told us, it was the real +country, and, I must add, it was a real lunch. + +It is not only out of gratitude for the happiness I owe it, but +Bougival, in spite of its horrible name, is one of the prettiest +places that it is possible to imagine. I have travelled a good +deal, and seen much grander things, but none more charming than +this little village gaily seated at the foot of the hill which +protects it. + +Mme. Arnould asked us if we would take a boat, and Marguerite and +Prudence accepted joyously. + +People have always associated the country with love, and they +have done well; nothing affords so fine a frame for the woman +whom one loves as the blue sky, the odours, the flowers, the +breeze, the shining solitude of fields, or woods. However much +one loves a woman, whatever confidence one may have in her, +whatever certainty her past may offer us as to her future, one is +always more or less jealous. If you have been in love, you must +have felt the need of isolating from this world the being in whom +you would live wholly. It seems as if, however indifferent she +may be to her surroundings, the woman whom one loves loses +something of her perfume and of her unity at the contact of men +and things. As for me, I experienced that more than most. Mine +was not an ordinary love; I was as much in love as an ordinary +creature could be, but with Marguerite Gautier; that is to say, +that at Paris, at every step, I might elbow the man who had +already been her lover or who was about to, while in the country, +surrounded by people whom we had never seen and who had no +concern with us, alone with nature in the spring-time of the +year, that annual pardon, and shut off from the noise of the +city, I could hide my love, and love without shame or fear. + +The courtesan disappeared little by little. I had by me a young +and beautiful woman, whom I loved, and who loved me, and who was +called Marguerite; the past had no more reality and the future no +more clouds. The sun shone upon my mistress as it might have +shone upon the purest bride. We walked together in those charming +spots which seemed to have been made on purpose to recall the +verses of Lamartine or to sing the melodies of Scudo. Marguerite +was dressed in white, she leaned on my arm, saying over to me +again under the starry sky the words she had said to me the day +before, and far off the world went on its way, without darkening +with its shadow the radiant picture of our youth and love. + +That was the dream that the hot sun brought to me that day +through the leaves of the trees, as, lying on the grass of the +island on which we had landed, I let my thought wander, free from +the human links that had bound it, gathering to itself every hope +that came in its way. + +Add to this that from the place where I was I could see on the +shore a charming little house of two stories, with a semicircular +railing; through the railing, in front of the house, a green +lawn, smooth as velvet, and behind the house a little wood full +of mysterious retreats, where the moss must efface each morning +the pathway that had been made the day before. Climbing flowers +clung about the doorway of this uninhabited house, mounting as +high as the first story. + +I looked at the house so long that I began by thinking of it as +mine, so perfectly did it embody the dream that I was dreaming; I +saw Marguerite and myself there, by day in the little wood that +covered the hillside, in the evening seated on the grass, and I +asked myself if earthly creatures had ever been so happy as we +should be. + +"What a pretty house!" Marguerite said to me, as she followed the +direction of my gaze and perhaps of my thought. + +"Where?" asked Prudence. + +"Yonder," and Marguerite pointed to the house in question. + +"Ah, delicious!" replied Prudence. "Do you like it?" + +"Very much." + +"Well, tell the duke to take it for you; he would do so, I am +sure. I'll see about it if you like." + +Marguerite looked at me, as if to ask me what I thought. My dream +vanished at the last words of Prudence, and brought me back to +reality so brutally that I was still stunned with the fall. + +"Yes, yes, an excellent idea," I stammered, not knowing what I +was saying. + +"Well, I will arrange that," said Marguerite, freeing my hand, +and interpreting my words according to her own desire. "Let us go +and see if it is to let." + +The house was empty, and to let for two thousand francs. + +"Would you be happy here?" she said to me. + +"Am I sure of coming here?" + +"And for whom else should I bury myself here, if not for you?" + +"Well, then, Marguerite, let me take it myself." + +"You are mad; not only is it unnecessary, but it would be +dangerous. You know perfectly well that I have no right to accept +it save from one man. Let me alone, big baby, and say nothing." + +"That means," said Prudence, "that when I have two days free I +will come and spend them with you." + +We left the house, and started on our return to Paris, talking +over the new plan. I held Marguerite in my arms, and as I got +down from the carriage, I had already begun to look upon her +arrangement with less critical eyes. + + + +Chapter 17 + +Next day Marguerite sent me away very early, saying that the duke +was coming at an early hour, and promising to write to me the +moment he went, and to make an appointment for the evening. In +the course of the day I received this note: + + "I am going to Bougival with the duke; be at Prudence's to-night +at eight." + +At the appointed hour Marguerite came to me at Mme. Duvernoy's. +"Well, it is all settled," she said, as she entered. "The house +is taken?" asked Prudence. "Yes; he agreed at once." + +I did not know the duke, but I felt ashamed of deceiving him. + +"But that is not all," continued Marguerite. + +"What else is there?" + +"I have been seeing about a place for Armand to stay." + +"In the same house?" asked Prudence, laughing. + +"No, at Point du Jour, where we had dinner, the duke and I. While +he was admiring the view, I asked Mme. Arnould (she is called +Mme. Arnould, isn't she?) if there were any suitable rooms, and +she showed me just the very thing: salon, anteroom, and bed-room, +at sixty francs a month; the whole place furnished in a way to +divert a hypochondriac. I took it. Was I right?" I flung my arms +around her neck and kissed her. + +"It will be charming," she continued. "You have the key of the +little door, and I have promised the duke the key of the front +door, which he will not take, because he will come during the day +when he comes. I think, between ourselves, that he is enchanted +with a caprice which will keep me out of Paris for a time, and so +silence the objections of his family. However, he has asked me +how I, loving Paris as I do, could make up my mind to bury myself +in the country. I told him that I was ill, and that I wanted +rest. He seemed to have some difficulty in believing me. The poor +old man is always on the watch. We must take every precaution, my +dear Armand, for he will have me watched while I am there; and it +isn't only the question of his taking a house for me, but he has +my debts to pay, and unluckily I have plenty. Does all that suit +you?" + +"Yes," I answered, trying to quiet the scruples which this way of +living awoke in me from time to time. + +"We went all over the house, and we shall have everything +perfect. The duke is going to look after every single thing. Ah, +my dear," she added, kissing me, "you're in luck; it's a +millionaire who makes your bed for you." + +"And when shall you move into the house?" inquired Prudence. + +"As soon as possible." + +"Will you take your horses and carriage?" + +"I shall take the whole house, and you can look after my place +while I am away." + +A week later Marguerite was settled in her country house, and I +was installed at Point du Jour. + +Then began an existence which I shall have some difficulty in +describing to you. At first Marguerite could not break entirely +with her former habits, and, as the house was always en fete, all +the women whom she knew came to see her. For a whole month there +was not a day when Marguerite had not eight or ten people to +meals. Prudence, on her side, brought down all the people she +knew, and did the honours of the house as if the house belonged +to her. + +The duke's money paid for all that, as you may imagine; but from +time to time Prudence came to me, asking for a note for a +thousand francs, professedly on behalf of Marguerite. You know I +had won some money at gambling; I therefore immediately handed +over to Prudence what she asked for Marguerite, and fearing lest +she should require more than I possessed, I borrowed at Paris a +sum equal to that which I had already borrowed and paid back. I +was then once more in possession of some ten thousand francs, +without reckoning my allowance. However, Marguerite's pleasure in +seeing her friends was a little moderated when she saw the +expense which that pleasure entailed, and especially the +necessity she was sometimes in of asking me for money. The duke, +who had taken the house in order that Marguerite might rest +there, no longer visited it, fearing to find himself in the midst +of a large and merry company, by whom he did not wish to be seen. +This came about through his having once arrived to dine +tete-a-tete with Marguerite, and having fallen upon a party of +fifteen, who were still at lunch at an hour when he was prepared +to sit down to dinner. He had unsuspectingly opened the +dining-room door, and had been greeted by a burst of laughter, +and had had to retire precipitately before the impertinent mirth +of the women who were assembled there. + +Marguerite rose from table, and joined the duke in the next room, +where she tried, as far as possible, to induce him to forget the +incident, but the old man, wounded in his dignity, bore her a +grudge for it, and could not forgive her. He said to her, +somewhat cruelly, that he was tired of paying for the follies of +a woman who could not even have him treated with respect under +his own roof, and he went away in great indignation. + +Since that day he had never been heard of. + +In vain Marguerite dismissed her guests, changed her way of life; +the duke was not to be heard of. I was the gainer in so, far that +my mistress now belonged to me more completely, and my dream was +at length realized. Marguerite could not be without me. Not +caring what the result might be, she publicly proclaimed our +liaison, and I had come to live entirely at her house. The +servants addressed me officially as their master. + +Prudence had strictly sermonized Marguerite in regard to her new +manner of life; but she had replied that she loved me, that she +could not live without me, and that, happen what might, she would +not sacrifice the pleasure of having me constantly with her, +adding that those who were not satisfied with this arrangement +were free to stay away. So much I had heard one day when Prudence +had said to Marguerite that she had something very important to +tell her, and I had listened at the door of the room into which +they had shut themselves. + +Not long after, Prudence returned again. I was at the other end +of the garden when she arrived, and she did not see me. I had no +doubt, from the way in which Marguerite came to meet her, that +another similar conversation was going to take place, and I was +anxious to hear what it was about. The two women shut themselves +into a boudoir, and I put myself within hearing. + +"Well?" said Marguerite. + +"Well, I have seen the duke." + +"What did he say?" + +"That he would gladly forgive you in regard to the scene which +took place, but that he has learned that you are publicly living +with M. Armand Duval, and that he will never forgive that. 'Let +Marguerite leave the young man,' he said to me, 'and, as in the +past, I will give her all that she requires; if not, let her ask +nothing more from me.'" + +"And you replied?" + +"That I would report his decision to you, and I promised him that +I would bring you into a more reasonable frame of mind. Only +think, my dear child, of the position that you are losing, and +that Armand can never give you. He loves you with all his soul, +but he has no fortune capable of supplying your needs, and he +will be bound to leave you one day, when it will be too late and +when the duke will refuse to do any more for you. Would you like +me to speak to Armand?" + +Marguerite seemed to be thinking, for she answered nothing. My +heart beat violently while I waited for her reply. + +"No," she answered, "I will not leave Armand, and I will not +conceal the fact that I am living with him. It is folly no doubt, +but I love him. What would you have me do? And then, now that he +has got accustomed to be always with me, he would suffer too +cruelly if he had to leave me so much as an hour a day. Besides, +I have not such a long time to live that I need make myself +miserable in order to please an old man whose very sight makes me +feel old. Let him keep his money; I will do without it." + +"But what will you do?" + +"I don't in the least know." + +Prudence was no doubt going to make some reply, but I entered +suddenly and flung myself at Marguerite's feet, covering her +hands with tears in my joy at being thus loved. + +"My life is yours, Marguerite; you need this man no longer. Am I +not here? Shall I ever leave you, and can I ever repay you for +the happiness that you give me? No more barriers, my Marguerite; +we love; what matters all the rest?" + +"Oh yes, I love you, my Armand," she murmured, putting her two +arms around my neck. "I love you as I never thought I should ever +love. We will be happy; we will live quietly, and I will say +good-bye forever to the life for which I now blush. You won't +ever reproach me for the past? Tell me!" + +Tears choked my voice. I could only reply by clasping Marguerite +to my heart. + +"Well," said she, turning to Prudence, and speaking in a broken +voice, "you can report this scene to the duke, and you can add +that we have no longer need of him." + +From that day forth the duke was never referred to. Marguerite +was no longer the same woman that I had known. She avoided +everything that might recall to me the life which she had been +leading when I first met her. Never did wife or sister surround +husband or brother with such loving care as she had for me. Her +nature was morbidly open to all impressions and accessible to all +sentiments. She had broken equally with her friends and with her +ways, with her words and with her extravagances. Any one who had +seen us leaving the house to go on the river in the charming +little boat which I had bought would never have believed that the +woman dressed in white, wearing a straw hat, and carrying on her +arm a little silk pelisse to protect her against the damp of the +river, was that Marguerite Gautier who, only four months ago, had +been the talk of the town for the luxury and scandal of her +existence. + +Alas, we made haste to be happy, as if we knew that we were not +to be happy long. + +For two months we had not even been to Paris. No one came to see +us, except Prudence and Julie Duprat, of whom I have spoken to +you, and to whom Marguerite was afterward to give the touching +narrative that I have there. + +I passed whole days at the feet of my mistress. We opened the +windows upon the garden, and, as we watched the summer ripening +in its flowers and under the shadow of the trees, we breathed +together that true life which neither Marguerite nor I had ever +known before. + +Her delight in the smallest things was like that of a child. +There were days when she ran in the garden, like a child of ten, +after a butterfly or a dragon-fly. This courtesan who had cost +more money in bouquets than would have kept a whole family in +comfort, would sometimes sit on the grass for an hour, examining +the simple flower whose name she bore. + +It was at this time that she read Manon Lescaut, over and over +again. I found her several times making notes in the book, and +she always declared that when a woman loves, she can not do as +Manon did. + +The duke wrote to her two or three times. She recognised the +writing and gave me the letters without reading them. Sometimes +the terms of these letters brought tears to my eyes. He had +imagined that by closing his purse to Marguerite, he would bring +her back to him; but when he had perceived the uselessness of +these means, he could hold out no longer; he wrote and asked that +he might see her again, as before, no matter on what conditions. + +I read these urgent and repeated letters, and tore them in +pieces, without telling Marguerite what they contained and +without advising her to see the old man again, though I was half +inclined to, so much did I pity him, but I was afraid lest, if I +so advised her she should think that I wished the duke, not +merely to come and see her again, but to take over the expenses +of the house; I feared, above all, that she might think me +capable of shirking the responsibilities of every consequence to +which her love for me might lead her. + +It thus came about that the duke, receiving no reply, ceased to +write, and that Marguerite and I continued to live together +without giving a thought to the future. + + + +Chapter 18 + +It would be difficult to give you all the details of our new +life. It was made up of a series of little childish events, +charming for us but insignificant to any one else. You know what +it is to be in love with a woman, you know how it cuts short the +days, and with what loving listlessness one drifts into the +morrow. You know that forgetfulness of everything which comes of +a violent confident, reciprocated love. Every being who is not +the beloved one seems a useless being in creation. One regrets +having cast scraps of one's heart to other women, and one can not +believe in the possibility of ever pressing another hand than +that which one holds between one's hands. The mind admits neither +work nor remembrance; nothing, in short, which can distract it +from the one thought in which it is ceaselessly absorbed. Every +day one discovers in one's mistress a new charm and unknown +delights. Existence itself is but the unceasing accomplishment of +an unchanging desire; the soul is but the vestal charged to feed +the sacred fire of love. + +We often went at night-time to sit in the little wood above the +house; there we listened to the cheerful harmonies of evening, +both of us thinking of the coming hours which should leave us to +one another till the dawn of day. At other times we did not get +up all day; we did not even let the sunlight enter our room. + +The curtains were hermetically closed, and for a moment the +external world did not exist for us. Nanine alone had the right +to open our door, but only to bring in our meals and even these +we took without getting up, interrupting them with laughter and +gaiety. To that succeeded a brief sleep, for, disappearing into +the depths of our love, we were like two divers who only come to +the surface to take breath. + +Nevertheless, I surprised moments of sadness, even tears, in +Marguerite; I asked her the cause of her trouble, and she +answered: + +"Our love is not like other loves, my Armand. You love me as if I +had never belonged to another, and I tremble lest later on, +repenting of your love, and accusing me of my past, you should +let me fall back into that life from which you have taken me. I +think that now that I have tasted of another life, I should die +if I went back to the old one. Tell me that you will never leave +me!" + +"I swear it!" + +At these words she looked at me as if to read in my eyes whether +my oath was sincere; then flung herself into my arms, and, hiding +her head in my bosom, said to me: "You don't know how much I love +you!" + +One evening, seated on the balcony outside the window, we looked +at the moon which seemed to rise with difficulty out of its bed +of clouds, and we listened to the wind violently rustling the +trees; we held each other's hands, and for a whole quarter of an +hour we had not spoken, when Marguerite said to me: + +"Winter is at hand. Would you like for us to go abroad?" + +"Where?" + +"To Italy." + +"You are tired of here?" + +"I am afraid of the winter; I am particularly afraid of your +return to Paris." + +"Why?" + +"For many reasons." + +And she went on abruptly, without giving me her reasons for +fears: + +"Will you go abroad? I will sell all that I have; we will go and +live there, and there will be nothing left of what I was; no one +will know who I am. Will you?" + +"By all means, if you like, Marguerite, let us travel," I said. +"But where is the necessity of selling things which you will be +glad of when we return? I have not a large enough fortune to +accept such a sacrifice; but I have enough for us to be able to +travel splendidly for five or six months, if that will amuse you +the least in the world." + +"After all, no," she said, leaving the window and going to sit +down on the sofa at the other end of the room. "Why should we +spend money abroad? I cost you enough already, here." + +"You reproach me, Marguerite; it isn't generous." + +"Forgive me, my friend," she said, giving me her hand. "This +thunder weather gets on my nerves; I do not say what I intend to +say." + +And after embracing me she fell into a long reverie. + +Scenes of this kind often took place, and though I could not +discover their cause, I could not fail to see in Marguerite signs +of disquietude in regard to the future. She could not doubt my +love, which increased day by day, and yet I often found her sad, +without being able to get any explanation of the reason, except +some physical cause. Fearing that so monotonous a life was +beginning to weary her, I proposed returning to Paris; but she +always refused, assuring me that she could not be so happy +anywhere as in the country. + +Prudence now came but rarely; but she often wrote letters which I +never asked to see, though, every time they came, they seemed to +preoccupy Marguerite deeply. I did not know what to think. + +One day Marguerite was in her room. I entered. She was writing. +"To whom are you writing?" I asked. "To Prudence. Do you want to +see what I am writing?" + +I had a horror of anything that might look like suspicion, and I +answered that I had no desire to know what she was writing; and +yet I was certain that letter would have explained to me the +cause of her sadness. + +Next day the weather was splendid.' Marguerite proposed to me to +take the boat and go as far as the island of Croissy. She seemed +very cheerful; when we got back it was five o'clock. + +"Mme. Duvernoy has been here," said Nanine, as she saw us enter. +"She has gone again?" asked Marguerite. + +"Yes, madame, in the carriage; she said it was arranged." + +"Quite right," said Marguerite sharply. "Serve the dinner." + +Two days afterward there came a letter from Prudence, and for a +fortnight Marguerite seemed to have got rid of her mysterious +gloom, for which she constantly asked my forgiveness, now that it +no longer existed. Still, the carriage did not return. + +"How is it that Prudence does not send you back your carriage?" I +asked one day. + +"One of the horses is ill, and there are some repairs to be done. +It is better to have that done while we are here, and don't need +a carriage, than to wait till we get back to Paris." + +Prudence came two days afterward, and confirmed what Marguerite +had said. The two women went for a walk in the garden, and when I +joined them they changed the conversation. That night, as she was +going, Prudence complained of the cold and asked Marguerite to +lend her a shawl. + +So a month passed, and all the time Marguerite was more joyous +and more affectionate than she ever had been. Nevertheless, the +carriage did not return, the shawl had not been sent back, and I +began to be anxious in spite of myself, and as I knew in which +drawer Marguerite put Prudence's letters, I took advantage of a +moment when she was at the other end of the garden, went to the +drawer, and tried to open it; in vain, for it was locked. When I +opened the drawer in which the trinkets and diamonds were usually +kept, these opened without resistance, but the jewel cases had +disappeared, along with their contents no doubt. + +A sharp fear penetrated my heart. I might indeed ask Marguerite +for the truth in regard to these disappearances, but it was +certain that she would not confess it. + +"My good Marguerite," I said to her, "I am going to ask your +permission to go to Paris. They do not know my address, and I +expect there are letters from my father waiting for me. I have no +doubt he is concerned; I ought to answer him." + +"Go, my friend," she said; "but be back early." I went straight +to Prudence. + +"Come," said I, without beating about the bush, "tell me frankly, +where are Marguerite's horses?" + +"Sold." + +"The shawl?" + +"Sold." + +"The diamonds?" + +"Pawned." + +"And who has sold and pawned them?" + +"Why did you not tell me?" + +"Because Marguerite made me promise not to." + +"And why did you not ask me for money?" + +"Because she wouldn't let me." + +"And where has this money gone?" + +"In payments." + +"Is she much in debt?" + +"Thirty thousand francs, or thereabouts. Ah, my dear fellow, +didn't I tell you? You wouldn't believe me; now you are +convinced. The upholsterer whom the duke had agreed to settle +with was shown out of the house when he presented himself, and +the duke wrote next day to say that he would answer for nothing +in regard to Mlle. Gautier. This man wanted his money; he was +given part payment out of the few thousand francs that I got from +you; then some kind souls warned him that his debtor had been +abandoned by the duke and was living with a penniless young man; +the other creditors were told the same; they asked for their +money, and seized some of the goods. Marguerite wanted to sell +everything, but it was too late, and besides I should have +opposed it. But it was necessary to pay, and in order not to ask +you for money, she sold her horses and her shawls, and pawned her +jewels. Would you like to see the receipts and the pawn tickets?" + +And Prudence opened the drawer and showed me the papers. + +"Ah, you think," she continued, with the insistence of a woman +who can say, I was right after all, "ah, you think it is enough +to be in love, and to go into the country and lead a dreamy, +pastoral life. No, my friend, no. By the side of that ideal life, +there is a material life, and the purest resolutions are held to +earth by threads which seem slight enough, but which are of iron, +not easily to be broken. If Marguerite has not been unfaithful to +you twenty times, it is because she has an exceptional nature. It +is not my fault for not advising her to, for I couldn't bear to +see the poor girl stripping herself of everything. She wouldn't; +she replied that she loved you, and she wouldn't be unfaithful to +you for anything in the world. All that is very pretty, very +poetical, but one can't pay one's creditors in that coin, and now +she can't free herself from debt, unless she can raise thirty +thousand francs." + +"All right, I will provide that amount." + +"You will borrow it?" + +"Good heavens! Why, yes!" + +"A fine thing that will be to do; you will fall out with your +father, cripple your resources, and one doesn't find thirty +thousand francs from one day to another. Believe me, my dear +Armand, I know women better than you do; do not commit this +folly; you will be sorry for it one day. Be reasonable. I don't +advise you to leave Marguerite, but live with her as you did at +the beginning. Let her find the means to get out of this +difficulty. The duke will come back in a little while. The Comte +de N., if she would take him, he told me yesterday even, would +pay all her debts, and give her four or five thousand francs a +month. He has two hundred thousand a year. It would be a position +for her, while you will certainly be obliged to leave her. Don't +wait till you are ruined, especially as the Comte de N. is a +fool, and nothing would prevent your still being Marguerite's +lover. She would cry a little at the beginning, but she would +come to accustom herself to it, and you would thank me one day +for what you had done. Imagine that Marguerite is married, and +deceive the husband; that is all. I have already told you all +this once, only at that time it was merely advice, and now it is +almost a necessity." + +What Prudence said was cruelly true. + +"This is how it is," she went on, putting away the papers she had +just shown me; "women like Marguerite always foresee that some +one will love them, never that they will love; otherwise they +would put aside money, and at thirty they could afford the luxury +of having a lover for nothing. If I had only known once what I +know now! In short, say nothing to Marguerite, and bring her back +to Paris. You have lived with her alone for four or five months; +that is quite enough. Shut your eyes now; that is all that any +one asks of you. At the end of a fortnight she will take the +Comte de N., and she will save up during the winter, and next +summer you will begin over again. That is how things are done, my +dear fellow!" + +And Prudence appeared to be enchanted with her advice, which I +refused indignantly. + +Not only my love and my dignity would not let me act thus, but I +was certain that, feeling as she did now, Marguerite would die +rather than accept another lover. + +"Enough joking," I said to Prudence; "tell me exactly how much +Marguerite is in need of." + +"I have told you: thirty thousand francs." + +"And when does she require this sum?" + +"Before the end of two months." + +"She shall have it." + +Prudence shrugged her shoulders. + +"I will give it to you," I continued, "but you must swear to me +that you will not tell Marguerite that I have given it to you." + +"Don't be afraid." + +"And if she sends you anything else to sell or pawn, let me +know." + +"There is no danger. She has nothing left." + +I went straight to my own house to see if there were any letters +from my father. There were four. + + + +Chapter 19 + +In his first three letters my father inquired the cause of my +silence; in the last he allowed me to see that he had heard of my +change of life, and informed me that he was about to come and see +me. + +I have always had a great respect and a sincere affection for my +father. I replied that I had been travelling for a short time, +and begged him to let me know beforehand what day he would +arrive, so that I could be there to meet him. + +I gave my servant my address in the country, telling him to bring +me the first letter that came with the postmark of C., then I +returned to Bougival. + +Marguerite was waiting for me at the garden gate. She looked at +me anxiously. Throwing her arms round my neck, she said to me: +"Have you seen Prudence?" + +"No." + +"You were a long time in Paris." + +"I found letters from my father to which I had to reply." + +A few minutes afterward Nanine entered, all out of breath. +Marguerite rose and talked with her in whispers. When Nanine had +gone out Marguerite sat down by me again and said, taking my +hand: + +"Why did you deceive me? You went to see Prudence." + +"Who told you?" + +"Nanine." + +"And how did she know?" + +"She followed you." + +"You told her to follow me?" + +"Yes. I thought that you must have had a very strong motive for +going to Paris, after not leaving me for four months. I was +afraid that something might happen to you, or that you were +perhaps going to see another woman." + +"Child!" + +"Now I am relieved. I know what you have done, but I don't yet +know what you have been told." + +I showed Marguerite my father's letters. + +"That is not what I am asking you about. What I want to know is +why you went to see Prudence." + +"To see her." + +"That's a lie, my friend." + +"Well, I went to ask her if the horse was any better, and if she +wanted your shawl and your jewels any longer." + +Marguerite blushed, but did not answer. + +"And," I continued, "I learned what you had done with your +horses, shawls, and jewels." + +"And you are vexed?" + +"I am vexed that it never occurred to you to ask me for what you +were in want of." + +"In a liaison like ours, if the woman has any sense of dignity at +all, she ought to make every possible sacrifice rather than ask +her lover for money and so give a venal character to her love. +You love me, I am sure, but you do not know on how slight a +thread depends the love one has for a woman like me. Who knows? +Perhaps some day when you were bored or worried you would fancy +you saw a carefully concerted plan in our liaison. Prudence is a +chatterbox. What need had I of the horses? It was an economy to +sell them. I don't use them and I don't spend anything on their +keep; if you love me, I ask nothing more, and you will love me +just as much without horses, or shawls, or diamonds." + +All that was said so naturally that the tears came to my eyes as +I listened. + +"But, my good Marguerite," I replied, pressing her hands +lovingly, "you knew that one day I should discover the sacrifice +you had made, and that the moment I discovered it I should allow +it no longer." + +"But why?" + +"Because, my dear child, I can not allow your affection for me to +deprive you of even a trinket. I too should not like you to be +able, in a moment when you were bored or worried, to think that +if you were living with somebody else those moments would not +exist; and to repent, if only for a minute, of living with me. In +a few days your horses, your diamonds, and your shawls shall be +returned to you. They are as necessary to you as air is to life, +and it may be absurd, but I like you better showy than simple." + +"Then you no longer love me." + +"Foolish creature!" + +"If you loved me, you would let me love you my own way; on the +contrary, you persist in only seeing in me a woman to whom luxury +is indispensable, and whom you think you are always obliged to +pay. You are ashamed to accept the proof of my love. In spite of +yourself, you think of leaving me some day, and you want to put +your disinterestedness beyond risk of suspicion. You are right, +my friend, but I had better hopes." + +And Marguerite made a motion to rise; I held her, and said to +her: + +"I want you to be happy and to have nothing to reproach me for, +that is all." + +"And we are going to be separated!" + +"Why, Marguerite, who can separate us?" I cried. + +"You, who will not let me take you on your own level, but insist +on taking me on mine; you, who wish me to keep the luxury in the +midst of which I have lived, and so keep the moral distance which +separates us; you, who do not believe that my affection is +sufficiently disinterested to share with me what you have, though +we could live happily enough on it together, and would rather +ruin yourself, because you are still bound by a foolish +prejudice. Do you really think that I could compare a carriage +and diamonds with your love? Do you think that my real happiness +lies in the trifles that mean so much when one has nothing to +love, but which become trifling indeed when one has? You will pay +my debts, realize your estate, and then keep me? How long will +that last? Two or three months, and then it will be too late to +live the life I propose, for then you will have to take +everything from me, and that is what a man of honour can not do; +while now you have eight or ten thousand francs a year, on which +we should be able to live. I will sell the rest of what I do not +want, and with this alone I will make two thousand francs a year. +We will take a nice little flat in which we can both live. In the +summer we will go into the country, not to a house like this, but +to a house just big enough for two people. You are independent, I +am free, we are young; in heaven's name, Armand, do not drive me +back into the life I had to lead once!" + +I could not answer. Tears of gratitude and love filled my eyes, +and I flung myself into Marguerite's arms. + +"I wanted," she continued, "to arrange everything without telling +you, pay all my debts, and take a new flat. In October we should +have been back in Paris, and all would have come out; but since +Prudence has told you all, you will have to agree beforehand, +instead of agreeing afterward. Do you love me enough for that?" + +It was impossible to resist such devotion. I kissed her hands +ardently, and said: + +"I will do whatever you wish." + +It was agreed that we should do as she had planned. Thereupon, +she went wild with delight; danced, sang, amused herself with +calling up pictures of her new flat in all its simplicity, and +began to consult me as to its position and arrangement. I saw how +happy and proud she was of this resolution, which seemed as if it +would bring us into closer and closer relationship, and I +resolved to do my own share. In an instant I decided the whole +course of my life. I put my affairs in order, and made over to +Marguerite the income which had come to me from my mother, and +which seemed little enough in return for the sacrifice which I +was accepting. There remained the five thousand francs a year +from my father; and, whatever happened, I had always enough to +live on. I did not tell Marguerite what I had done, certain as I +was that she would refuse the gift. This income came from a +mortgage of sixty thousand francs on a house that I had never +even seen. All that I knew was that every three months my +father's solicitor, an old friend of the family, handed over to +me seven hundred and fifty francs in return for my receipt. + +The day when Marguerite and I came to Paris to look for a flat, I +went to this solicitor and asked him what had to be done in order +to make over this income to another person. The good man imagined +I was ruined, and questioned me as to the cause of my decision. +As I knew that I should be obliged, sooner or later, to say in +whose favour I made this transfer, I thought it best to tell him +the truth at once. He made none of the objections that his +position as friend and solicitor authorized him to make, and +assured me that he would arrange the whole affair in the best way +possible. Naturally, I begged him to employ the greatest +discretion in regard to my father, and on leaving him I rejoined +Marguerite, who was waiting for me at Julie Duprat's, where she +had gone in preference to going to listen to the moralizings of +Prudence. + +We began to look out for flats. All those that we saw seemed to +Marguerite too dear, and to me too simple. However, we finally +found, in one of the quietest parts of Paris, a little house, +isolated from the main part of the building. Behind this little +house was a charming garden, surrounded by walls high enough to +screen us from our neighbours, and low enough not to shut off our +own view. It was better than our expectations. + +While I went to give notice at my own flat, Marguerite went to +see a business agent, who, she told me, had already done for one +of her friends exactly what she wanted him to do for her. She +came on to the Rue de Provence in a state of great delight. The +man had promised to pay all her debts, to give her a receipt for +the amount, and to hand over to her twenty thousand francs, in +return for the whole of her furniture. You have seen by the +amount taken at the sale that this honest man would have gained +thirty thousand francs out of his client. + +We went back joyously to Bougival, talking over our projects for +the future, which, thanks to our heedlessness, and especially to +our love, we saw in the rosiest light. + +A week later, as we were having lunch, Nanine came to tell us +that my servant was asking for me. "Let him come in," I said. + +"Sir," said he, "your father has arrived in Paris, and begs you +to return at once to your rooms, where he is waiting for you." + +This piece of news was the most natural thing in the world, yet, +as we heard it, Marguerite and I looked at one another. We +foresaw trouble. Before she had spoken a word, I replied to her +thought, and, taking her hand, I said, "Fear nothing." + +"Come back as soon as possible," whispered Marguerite, embracing +me; "I will wait for you at the window." + +I sent on Joseph to tell my father that I was on my way. Two +hours later I was at the Rue de Provence. + + + +Chapter 20 + +My father was seated in my room in his dressing-gown; he was +writing, and I saw at once, by the way in which he raised his +eyes to me when I came in, that there was going to be a serious +discussion. I went up to him, all the same, as if I had seen +nothing in his face, embraced him, and said: + +"When did you come, father?" + +"Last night." + +"Did you come straight here, as usual?" + +"Yes." + +"I am very sorry not to have been here to receive you." + +I expected that the sermon which my father's cold face threatened +would begin at once; but he said nothing, sealed the letter which +he had just written, and gave it to Joseph to post. + +When we were alone, my father rose, and leaning against the +mantel-piece, said to me: + +"My dear Armand, we have serious matters to discuss." + +"I am listening, father." + +"You promise me to be frank?" + +"Am I not accustomed to be so?" + +"Is it not true that you are living with a woman called +Marguerite Gautier?" + +"Yes." + +"Do you know what this woman was?" + +"A kept woman." + +"And it is for her that you have forgotten to come and see your +sister and me this year?" + +"Yes, father, I admit it." + +"You are very much in love with this woman?" + +"You see it, father, since she has made me fail in duty toward +you, for which I humbly ask your forgiveness to-day." + +My father, no doubt, was not expecting such categorical answers, +for he seemed to reflect a moment, and then said to me: + +"You have, of course, realized that you can not always live like +that?" + +"I fear so, father, but I have not realized it." + +"But you must realize," continued my father, in a dryer tone, +"that I, at all events, should not permit it." + +"I have said to myself that as long as I did nothing contrary to +the respect which I owe to the traditional probity of the family +I could live as I am living, and this has reassured me somewhat +in regard to the fears I have had." + +Passions are formidable enemies to sentiment. I was prepared for +every struggle, even with my father, in order that I might keep +Marguerite. + +"Then, the moment is come when you must live otherwise." + +"Why, father?" + +"Because you are doing things which outrage the respect that you +imagine you have for your family." + +"I don't follow your meaning." + +"I will explain it to you. Have a mistress if you will; pay her +as a man of honour is bound to pay the woman whom he keeps, by +all means; but that you should come to forget the most sacred +things for her, that you should let the report of your scandalous +life reach my quiet countryside, and set a blot on the honourable +name that I have given you, it can not, it shall not be." + +"Permit me to tell you, father, that those who have given you +information about me have been ill-informed. I am the lover of +Mlle. Gautier; I live with her; it is the most natural thing in +the world. I do not give Mlle. Gautier the name you have given +me; I spend on her account what my means allow me to spend; I +have no debts; and, in short, I am not in a position which +authorizes a father to say to his son what you have just said to +me." + +"A father is always authorized to rescue his son out of evil +paths. You have not done any harm yet, but you will do it." + +"Father!" + +"Sir, I know more of life than you do. There are no entirely pure +sentiments except in perfectly chaste women. Every Manon can have +her own Des Grieux, and times are changed. It would be useless +for the world to grow older if it did not correct its ways. You +will leave your mistress." + +"I am very sorry to disobey you, father, but it is impossible." + +"I will compel you to do so." + +"Unfortunately, father, there no longer exists a Sainte +Marguerite to which courtesans can be sent, and, even if there +were, I would follow Mlle. Gautier if you succeeded in having her +sent there. What would you have? Perhaps am in the wrong, but I +can only be happy as long as I am the lover of this woman." + +"Come, Armand, open your eyes. Recognise that it is your father +who speaks to you, your father who has always loved you, and who +only desires your happiness. Is it honourable for you to live +like husband and wife with a woman whom everybody has had?" + +"What does it matter, father, if no one will any more? What does +it matter, if this woman loves me, if her whole life is changed +through the love which she has for me and the love which I have +for her? What does it matter, if she has become a different +woman?" + +"Do you think, then, sir, that the mission of a man of honour is +to go about converting lost women? Do you think that God has +given such a grotesque aim to life, and that the heart should +have any room for enthusiasm of that kind? What will be the end +of this marvellous cure, and what will you think of what you are +saying to-day by the time you are forty? You will laugh at this +love of yours, if you can still laugh, and if it has not left too +serious a trace in your past. What would you be now if your +father had had your ideas and had given up his life to every +impulse of this kind, instead of rooting himself firmly in +convictions of honour and steadfastness? Think it over, Armand, +and do not talk any more such absurdities. Come, leave this +woman; your father entreats you." + +I answered nothing. + +"Armand," continued my father, "in the name of your sainted +mother, abandon this life, which you will forget more easily than +you think. You are tied to it by an impossible theory. You are +twenty-four; think of the future. You can not always love this +woman, who also can not always love you. You both exaggerate your +love. You put an end to your whole career. One step further, and +you will no longer be able to leave the path you have chosen, and +you will suffer all your life for what you have done in your +youth. Leave Paris. Come and stay for a month or two with your +sister and me. Rest in our quiet family affection will soon heal +you of this fever, for it is nothing else. Meanwhile, your +mistress will console herself; she will take another lover; and +when you see what it is for which you have all but broken with +your father, and all but lost his love, you will tell me that I +have done well to come and seek you out, and you will thank me +for it. Come, you will go with me, Armand, will you not?" I felt +that my father would be right if it had been any other woman, but +I was convinced that he was wrong with regard to Marguerite. +Nevertheless, the tone in which he said these last words was so +kind, so appealing, that I dared not answer. + +"Well?" said he in a trembling voice. + +"Well, father, I can promise nothing," I said at last; "what you +ask of me is beyond my power. Believe me," I continued, seeing +him make an impatient movement, "you exaggerate the effects of +this liaison. Marguerite is a different kind of a woman from what +you think. This love, far from leading me astray, is capable, on +the contrary, of setting me in the right direction. Love always +makes a man better, no matter what woman inspires it. If you knew +Marguerite, you would understand that I am in no danger. She is +as noble as the noblest of women. There is as much +disinterestedness in her as there is cupidity in others." + +"All of which does not prevent her from accepting the whole of +your fortune, for the sixty thousand francs which come to you +from your mother, and which you are giving her, are, understand +me well, your whole fortune." + +My father had probably kept this peroration and this threat for +the last stroke. I was firmer before these threats than before +his entreaties. + +"Who told you that I was handing this sum to her?" I asked. + +"My solicitor. Could an honest man carry out such a procedure +without warning me? Well, it is to prevent you from ruining +yourself for a prostitute that I am now in Paris. Your mother, +when she died, left you enough to live on respectably, and not to +squander on your mistresses." + +"I swear to you, father, that Marguerite knew nothing of this +transfer." + +"Why, then, do you make it?" + +"Because Marguerite, the woman you calumniate, and whom you wish +me to abandon, is sacrificing all that she possesses in order to +live with me." + +"And you accept this sacrifice? What sort of a man are you, sir, +to allow Mlle. Gautier to sacrifice anything for you? Come, +enough of this. You will leave this woman. Just now I begged you; +now I command you. I will have no such scandalous doings in my +family. Pack up your things and get ready to come with me." + +"Pardon me, father," I said, "but I shall not come." + +"And why?" + +"Because I am at an age when no one any longer obeys a command." + +My father turned pale at my answer. + +"Very well, sir," he said, "I know what remains to be done." + +He rang and Joseph appeared. + +"Have my things taken to the Hotel de Paris," he said to my +servant. And thereupon he went to his room and finished dressing. +When he returned, I went up to him. + +"Promise me, father," I said, "that you will do nothing to give +Marguerite pain?" + +My father stopped, looked at me disdainfully, and contented +himself with saying, "I believe you are mad." After this he went +out, shutting the door violently after him. + +I went downstairs, took a cab, and returned to Bougival. + +Marguerite was waiting for me at the window. + + + +Chapter 21 + +"At last you have come," she said, throwing her arms round my +neck. "But how pale you are!" + +I told her of the scene with my father. + +"My God! I was afraid of it," she said. "When Joseph came to tell +you of your father's arrival I trembled as if he had brought news +of some misfortune. My poor friend, I am the cause of all your +distress. You will be better off, perhaps, if you leave me and do +not quarrel with your father on my account. He knows that you are +sure to have a mistress, and he ought to be thankful that it is +I, since I love you and do not want more of you than your +position allows. Did you tell him how we had arranged our +future?" + +"Yes; that is what annoyed him the most, for he saw how much we +really love one another." + +"What are we to do, then?" + +"Hold together, my good Marguerite, and let the storm pass over." + +"Will it pass?" + +"It will have to." + +"But your father will not stop there." + +"What do you suppose he can do?" + +"How do I know? Everything that a father can do to make his son +obey him. He will remind you of my past life, and will perhaps do +me the honour of inventing some new story, so that you may give +me up." + +"You know that I love you." + +"Yes, but what I know, too, is that, sooner or later, you will +have to obey your father, and perhaps you will end by believing +him." + +"No, Marguerite. It is I who will make him believe me. Some of +his friends have been telling him tales which have made him +angry; but he is good and just, he will change his first +impression; and then, after all, what does it matter to me?" + +"Do not say that, Armand. I would rather anything should happen +than that you should quarrel with your family; wait till after +to-day, and to-morrow go back to Paris. Your father, too, will +have thought it over on his side, and perhaps you will both come +to a better understanding. Do not go against his principles, +pretend to make some concessions to what he wants; seem not to +care so very much about me, and he will let things remain as they +are. Hope, my friend, and be sure of one thing, that whatever +happens, Marguerite will always be yours." + +"You swear it?" + +"Do I need to swear it?" + +How sweet it is to let oneself be persuaded by the voice that one +loves! Marguerite and I spent the whole day in talking over our +projects for the future, as if we felt the need of realizing them +as quickly as possible. At every moment we awaited some event, +but the day passed without bringing us any new tidings. + +Next day I left at ten o'clock, and reached the hotel about +twelve. My father had gone out. + +I went to my own rooms, hoping that he had perhaps gone there. No +one had called. I went to the solicitor's. No one was there. I +went back to the hotel, and waited till six. M. Duval did not +return, and I went back to Bougival. + +I found Marguerite not waiting for me, as she had been the day +before, but sitting by the fire, which the weather still made +necessary. She was so absorbed in her thoughts that I came close +to her chair without her hearing me. When I put my lips to her +forehead she started as if the kiss had suddenly awakened her. + +"You frightened me," she said. "And your father?" + +"I have not seen him. I do not know what it means. He was not at +his hotel, nor anywhere where there was a chance of my finding +him." + +"Well, you must try again to-morrow." + +"I am very much inclined to wait till he sends for me. I think I +have done all that can be expected of me." + +"No, my friend, it is not enough; you must call on your father +again, and you must call to-morrow." + +"Why to-morrow rather than any other day?" + +"Because," said Marguerite, and it seemed to me that she blushed +slightly at this question, "because it will show that you are the +more keen about it, and he will forgive us the sooner." + +For the remainder of the day Marguerite was sad and preoccupied. +I had to repeat twice over everything I said to her to obtain an +answer. She ascribed this preoccupation to her anxiety in regard +to the events which had happened during the last two days. I +spent the night in reassuring her, and she sent me away in the +morning with an insistent disquietude that I could not explain to +myself. + +Again my father was absent, but he had left this letter for me: + +"If you call again to-day, wait for me till four. If I am not in +by four, come and dine with me to-morrow. I must see you." + +I waited till the hour he had named, but he did not appear. I +returned to Bougival. + +The night before I had found Marguerite sad; that night I found +her feverish and agitated. On seeing me, she flung her arms +around my neck, but she cried for a long time in my arms. I +questioned her as to this sudden distress, which alarmed me by +its violence. She gave me no positive reason, but put me off with +those evasions which a woman resorts to when she will not tell +the truth. + +When she was a little calmed down, I told her the result of my +visit, and I showed her my father's letter, from which, I said, +we might augur well. At the sight of the letter and on hearing my +comment, her tears began to flow so copiously that I feared an +attack of nerves, and, calling Nanine, I put her to bed, where +she wept without a word, but held my hands and kissed them every +moment. + +I asked Nanine if, during my absence, her mistress had received +any letter or visit which could account for the state in which I +found her, but Nanine replied that no one had called and nothing +had been sent. + +Something, however, had occurred since the day before, something +which troubled me the more because Marguerite concealed it from +me. + +In the evening she seemed a little calmer, and, making me sit at +the foot of the bed, she told me many times how much she loved +me. She smiled at me, but with an effort, for in spite of herself +her eyes were veiled with tears. + +I used every means to make her confess the real cause of her +distress, but she persisted in giving me nothing but vague +reasons, as I have told you. At last she fell asleep in my arms, +but it was the sleep which tires rather than rests the body. From +time to time she uttered a cry, started up, and, after assuring +herself that I was beside her, made me swear that I would always +love her. + +I could make nothing of these intermittent paroxysms of distress, +which went on till morning. Then Marguerite fell into a kind of +stupor. She had not slept for two nights. + +Her rest was of short duration, for toward eleven she awoke, and, +seeing that I was up, she looked about her, crying: + +"Are you going already?" + +"No," said I, holding her hands; "but I wanted to let you sleep +on. It is still early." + +"What time are you going to Paris?" + +"At four." + +"So soon? But you will stay with me till then?" + +"Of course. Do I not always?" + +"I am so glad! Shall we have lunch?" she went on absentmindedly. + +"If you like." + +"And then you will be nice to me till the very moment you go?" + +"Yes; and I will come back as soon as I can." + +"You will come back?" she said, looking at me with haggard eyes. + +"Naturally." + +"Oh, yes, you will come back to-night. I shall wait for you, as I +always do, and you will love me, and we shall be happy, as we +have been ever since we have known each other." + +All these words were said in such a strained voice, they seemed +to hide so persistent and so sorrowful a thought, that I trembled +every moment lest Marguerite should become delirious. + +"Listen," I said. "You are ill. I can not leave you like this. I +will write and tell my father not to expect me." + +"No, no," she cried hastily, "don't do that. Your father will +accuse me of hindering you again from going to see him when he +wants to see you; no, no, you must go, you must! Besides, I am +not ill. I am quite well. I had a bad dream and am not yet fully +awake." + +From that moment Marguerite tried to seem more cheerful. There +were no more tears. + +When the hour came for me to go, I embraced her and asked her if +she would come with me as far as the train; I hoped that the walk +would distract her and that the air would do her good. I wanted +especially to be with her as long as possible. + +She agreed, put on her cloak and took Nanine with her, so as not +to return alone. Twenty times I was on the point of not going. +But the hope of a speedy return, and the fear of offending my +father still more, sustained me, and I took my place in the +train. + +"Till this evening!" I said to Marguerite, as I left her. She did +not reply. + +Once already she had not replied to the same words, and the Comte +de G., you will remember, had spent the night with her; but that +time was so far away that it seemed to have been effaced from my +memory, and if I had any fear, it was certainly not of Marguerite +being unfaithful to me. Reaching Paris, I hastened off to see +Prudence, intending to ask her to go and keep Marguerite company, +in the hope that her mirth and liveliness would distract her. I +entered without being announced, and found Prudence at her +toilet. + +"Ah!" she said, anxiously; "is Marguerite with you?" + +"No." + +"How is she?" + +"She is not well." + +"Is she not coming?" + +"Did you expect her?" + +Madame Duvernoy reddened, and replied, with a certain constraint: + +"I only meant that since you are at Paris, is she not coming to +join you?" + +"No." + +I looked at Prudence; she cast down her eyes, and I read in her +face the fear of seeing my visit prolonged. + +"I even came to ask you, my dear Prudence, if you have nothing to +do this evening, to go and see Marguerite; you will be company +for her, and you can stay the night. I never saw her as she was +to-day, and I am afraid she is going to be ill." + +"I am dining in town," replied Prudence, "and I can't go and see +Marguerite this evening. I will see her tomorrow." + +I took leave of Mme. Duvernoy, who seemed almost as preoccupied +as Marguerite, and went on to my father's; his first glance +seemed to study me attentively. He held out his hand. + +"Your two visits have given me pleasure, Armand," he said; "they +make me hope that you have thought over things on your side as I +have on mine." + +"May I ask you, father, what was the result of your reflection?" + +"The result, my dear boy, is that I have exaggerated the +importance of the reports that had been made to me, and that I +have made up my mind to be less severe with you." + +"What are you saying, father?" I cried joyously. + +"I say, my dear child, that every young man must have his +mistress, and that, from the fresh information I have had, I +would rather see you the lover of Mlle. Gautier than of any one +else." + +"My dear father, how happy you make me!" + +We talked in this manner for some moments, and then sat down to +table. My father was charming all dinner time. + +I was in a hurry to get back to Bougival to tell Marguerite about +this fortunate change, and I looked at the clock every moment. + +"You are watching the time," said my father, "and you are +impatient to leave me. O young people, how you always sacrifice +sincere to doubtful affections!" + +"Do not say that, father; Marguerite loves me, I am sure of it." + +My father did not answer; he seemed to say neither yes nor no. + +He was very insistent that I should spend the whole evening with +him and not go till the morning; but Marguerite had not been well +when I left her. I told him of it, and begged his permission to +go back to her early, promising to come again on the morrow. + +The weather was fine; he walked with me as far as the station. +Never had I been so happy. The future appeared as I had long +desired to see it. I had never loved my father as I loved him at +that moment. + +Just as I was leaving him, he once more begged me to stay. I +refused. + +"You are really very much in love with her?" he asked. + +"Madly." + +"Go, then," and he passed his hand across his forehead as if to +chase a thought, then opened his mouth as if to say something; +but he only pressed my hand, and left me hurriedly, saying: + +"Till to-morrow, then!" + + + +Chapter 22 + +It seemed to me as if the train did not move. I reached Bougival +at eleven. + +Not a window in the house was lighted up, and when I rang no one +answered the bell. It was the first time that such a thing had +occurred to me. At last the gardener came. I entered. Nanine met +me with a light. I went to Marguerite's room. + +"Where is madame?" + +"Gone to Paris," replied Nanine. + +"To Paris!" + +"Yes, sir." + +"When?" + +"An hour after you." + +"She left no word for me?" + +"Nothing." + +Nanine left me. + +Perhaps she had some suspicion or other, I thought, and went to +Paris to make sure that my visit to my father was not an excuse +for a day off. Perhaps Prudence wrote to her about something +important. I said to myself when I was alone; but I saw Prudence; +she said nothing to make me suppose that she had written to +Marguerite. + +All at once I remembered Mme. Duvernoy's question, "Isn't she +coming to-day?" when I had said that Marguerite was ill. I +remembered at the same time how embarrassed Prudence had appeared +when I looked at her after this remark, which seemed to indicate +an appointment. I remembered, too, Marguerite's tears all day +long, which my father's kind reception had rather put out of my +mind. From this moment all the incidents grouped themselves about +my first suspicion, and fixed it so firmly in my mind that +everything served to confirm it, even my father's kindness. + +Marguerite had almost insisted on my going to Paris; she had +pretended to be calmer when I had proposed staying with her. Had +I fallen into some trap? Was Marguerite deceiving me? Had she +counted on being back in time for me not to perceive her absence, +and had she been detained by chance? Why had she said nothing to +Nanine, or why had she not written? What was the meaning of those +tears, this absence, this mystery? + +That is what I asked myself in affright, as I stood in the vacant +room, gazing at the clock, which pointed to midnight, and seemed +to say to me that it was too late to hope for my mistress's +return. Yet, after all the arrangements we had just made, after +the sacrifices that had been offered and accepted, was it likely +that she was deceiving me? No. I tried to get rid of my first +supposition. + +Probably she had found a purchaser for her furniture, and she had +gone to Paris to conclude the bargain. She did not wish to tell +me beforehand, for she knew that, though I had consented to it, +the sale, so necessary to our future happiness, was painful to +me, and she feared to wound my self-respect in speaking to me +about it. She would rather not see me till the whole thing was +done, and that was evidently why Prudence was expecting her when +she let out the secret. Marguerite could not finish the whole +business to-day, and was staying the night with Prudence, or +perhaps she would come even now, for she must know bow anxious I +should be, and would not wish to leave me in that condition. But, +if so, why those tears? No doubt, despite her love for me, the +poor girl could not make up her mind to give up all the luxury in +which she had lived until now, and for which she had been so +envied, without crying over it. I was quite ready to forgive her +for such regrets. I waited for her impatiently, that I might say +to her, as I covered her with kisses, that I had guessed the +reason of her mysterious absence. + +Nevertheless, the night went on, and Marguerite did not return. + +My anxiety tightened its circle little by little, and began to +oppress my head and heart. Perhaps something had happened to her. +Perhaps she was injured, ill, dead. Perhaps a messenger would +arrive with the news of some dreadful accident. Perhaps the +daylight would find me with the same uncertainty and with the +same fears. + +The idea that Marguerite was perhaps unfaithful to me at the very +moment when I waited for her in terror at her absence did not +return to my mind. There must be some cause, independent of her +will, to keep her away from me, and the more I thought, the more +convinced I was that this cause could only be some mishap or +other. O vanity of man, coming back to us in every form! + +One o'clock struck. I said to myself that I would wait another +hour, but that at two o'clock, if Marguerite had not returned, I +would set out for Paris. Meanwhile I looked about for a book, for +I dared not think. Manon Lescaut was open on the table. It seemed +to me that here and there the pages were wet as if with tears. I +turned the leaves over and then closed the book, for the letters +seemed to me void of meaning through the veil of my doubts. + +Time went slowly. The sky was covered with clouds. An autumn rain +lashed the windows. The empty bed seemed at moments to assume the +aspect of a tomb. I was afraid. + +I opened the door. I listened, and heard nothing but the voice of +the wind in the trees. Not a vehicle was to be seen on the road. +The half hour sounded sadly from the church tower. + +I began to fear lest some one should enter. It seemed to me that +only a disaster could come at that hour and under that sombre +sky. + +Two o'clock struck. I still waited a little. Only the sound of +the bell troubled the silence with its monotonous and rhythmical +stroke. + +At last I left the room, where every object had assumed that +melancholy aspect which the restless solitude of the heart gives +to all its surroundings. + +In the next room I found Nanine sleeping over her work. At the +sound of the door, she awoke and asked if her mistress had come +in. + +"No; but if she comes in, tell her that I was so anxious that I +had to go to Paris." + +"At this hour?" + +"Yes. + +"But how? You won't find a carriage." + +"I will walk." + +"But it is raining." + +"No matter." + +"But madame will be coming back, or if she doesn't come it will +be time enough in the morning to go and see what has kept her. +You will be murdered on the way." + +"There is no danger, my dear Nanine; I will see you to-morrow." + +The good girl went and got me a cloak, put it over my shoulders, +and offered to wake up Mme. Arnould to see if a vehicle could be +obtained; but I would hear of nothing, convinced as I was that I +should lose, in a perhaps fruitless inquiry, more time than I +should take to cover half the road. Besides, I felt the need of +air and physical fatigue in order to cool down the over- +excitement which possessed me. + +I took the key of the flat in the Rue d'Antin, and after saying +good-bye to Nanine, who came with me as far as the gate, I set +out. + +At first I began to run, but the earth was muddy with rain, and I +fatigued myself doubly. At the end of half an hour I was obliged +to stop, and I was drenched with sweat. I recovered my breath and +went on. The night was so dark that at every step I feared to +dash myself against one of the trees on the roadside, which rose +up sharply before me like great phantoms rushing upon me. + +I overtook one or two wagons, which I soon left behind. A +carriage was going at full gallop toward Bougival. As it passed +me the hope came to me that Marguerite was in it. I stopped and +cried out, "Marguerite! Marguerite!" But no one answered and the +carriage continued its course. I watched it fade away in the +distance, and then started on my way again. I took two hours to +reach the Barriere de l'Etoile. The sight of Paris restored my +strength, and I ran the whole length of the alley I had so often +walked. + +That night no one was passing; it was like going through the +midst of a dead city. The dawn began to break. When I reached the +Rue d'Antin the great city stirred a little before quite +awakening. Five o'clock struck at the church of Saint Roch at the +moment when I entered Marguerite's house. I called out my name to +the porter, who had had from me enough twenty-franc pieces to +know that I had the right to call on Mlle. Gautier at five in the +morning. I passed without difficulty. I might have asked if +Marguerite was at home, but he might have said "No," and I +preferred to remain in doubt two minutes longer, for, as long as +I doubted, there was still hope. + +I listened at the door, trying to discover a sound, a movement. +Nothing. The silence of the country seemed to be continued here. +I opened the door and entered. All the curtains were hermetically +closed. I drew those of the dining-room and went toward the +bed-room and pushed open the door. I sprang at the curtain cord +and drew it violently. The curtain opened, a faint light made its +way in. I rushed to the bed. It was empty. + +I opened the doors one after another. I visited every room. No +one. It was enough to drive one mad. + +I went into the dressing-room, opened the window, and called +Prudence several times. Mme. Duvernoy's window remained closed. + +I went downstairs to the porter and asked him if Mlle. Gautier +had come home during the day. + +"Yes," answered the man; "with Mme. Duvernoy." + +"She left no word for me?" + +"No." + +"Do you know what they did afterward?" + +"They went away in a carriage." + +"What sort of a carriage?" + +"A private carriage." + +What could it all mean? + +I rang at the next door. + +"Where are you going, sir?" asked the porter, when he had opened +to me. + +"To Mme. Duvernoy's." + +"She has not come back." + +"You are sure?" + +"Yes, sir; here's a letter even, which was brought for her last +night and which I have not yet given her." + +And the porter showed me a letter which I glanced at +mechanically. I recognised Marguerite's writing. I took the +letter. It was addressed, "To Mme. Duvernoy, to forward to M. +Duval." + +"This letter is for me," I said to the porter, as I showed him +the address. + +"You are M. Duval?" he replied. + +"Yes. + +"Ah! I remember. You often came to see Mme. Duvernoy." + +When I was in the street I broke the seal of the letter. If a +thunder-bolt had fallen at my feet I should have been less +startled than I was by what I read. + +"By the time you read this letter, Armand, I shall be the +mistress of another man. All is over between us. + +"Go back to your father, my friend, and to your sister, and +there, by the side of a pure young girl, ignorant of all our +miseries, you will soon forget what you would have suffered +through that lost creature who is called Marguerite Gautier, whom +you have loved for an instant, and who owes to you the only happy +moments of a life which, she hopes, will not be very long now." + +When I had read the last word, I thought I should have gone mad. +For a moment I was really afraid of falling in the street. A +cloud passed before my eyes and my blood beat in my temples. At +last I came to myself a little. I looked about me, and was +astonished to see the life of others continue without pausing at +my distress. + +I was not strong enough to endure the blow alone. Then I +remembered that my father was in the same city, that I might be +with him in ten minutes, and that, whatever might be the cause of +my sorrow, he would share it. + +I ran like a madman, like a thief, to the Hotel de Paris; I found +the key in the door of my father's room; I entered. He was +reading. He showed so little astonishment at seeing me, that it +was as if he was expecting me. I flung myself into his arms +without saying a word. I gave him Marguerite's letter, and, +falling on my knees beside his bed, I wept hot tears. + + + +Chapter 23 + +When the current of life had resumed its course, I could not +believe that the day which I saw dawning would not be like those +which had preceded it. There were moments when I fancied that +some circumstance, which I could not recollect, had obliged me to +spend the night away from Marguerite, but that, if I returned to +Bougival, I should find her again as anxious as I had been, and +that she would ask me what had detained me away from her so long. + +When one's existence has contracted a habit, such as that of this +love, it seems impossible that the habit should be broken without +at the same time breaking all the other springs of life. I was +forced from time to time to reread Marguerite's letter, in order +to convince myself that I had not been dreaming. + +My body, succumbing to the moral shock, was incapable of +movement. Anxiety, the night walk, and the morning's news had +prostrated me. My father profited by this total prostration of +all my faculties to demand of me a formal promise to accompany +him. I promised all that he asked, for I was incapable of +sustaining a discussion, and I needed some affection to help me +to live, after what had happened. I was too thankful that my +father was willing to console me under such a calamity. + +All that I remember is that on that day, about five o'clock, he +took me with him in a post-chaise. Without a word to me, he had +had my luggage packed and put up behind the chaise with his own, +and so he carried me off. I did not realize what I was doing +until the town had disappeared and the solitude of the road +recalled to me the emptiness of my heart. Then my tears again +began to flow. + +My father had realized that words, even from him, would do +nothing to console me, and he let me weep without saying a word, +only sometimes pressing my hand, as if to remind me that I had a +friend at my side. + +At night I slept a little. I dreamed of Marguerite. + +I woke with a start, not recalling why I was in the carriage. +Then the truth came back upon me, and I let my head sink on my +breast. I dared not say anything to my father. I was afraid he +would say, "You see I was right when I declared that this woman +did not love you." But he did not use his advantage, and we +reached C. without his having said anything to me except to speak +of matters quite apart from the event which had occasioned my +leaving Paris. + +When I embraced my sister, I remembered what Marguerite had said +about her in her letter, and I saw at once how little my sister, +good as she was, would be able to make me forget my mistress. + +Shooting had begun, and my father thought that it would be a +distraction for me. He got up shooting parties with friends and +neighbours. I went without either reluctance or enthusiasm, with +that sort of apathy into which I had sunk since my departure. + +We were beating about for game and I was given my post. I put +down my unloaded gun at my side, and meditated. I watched the +clouds pass. I let my thought wander over the solitary plains, +and from time to time I heard some one call to me and point to a +hare not ten paces off. None of these details escaped my father, +and he was not deceived by my exterior calm. He was well aware +that, broken as I now was, I should some day experience a +terrible reaction, which might be dangerous, and, without seeming +to make any effort to console me, he did his utmost to distract +my thoughts. + +My sister, naturally, knew nothing of what had happened, and she +could not understand how it was that I, who had formerly been so +lighthearted, had suddenly become so sad and dreamy. + +Sometimes, surprising in the midst of my sadness my father's +anxious scrutiny, I pressed his hand as if to ask him tacitly to +forgive me for the pain which, in spite of myself, I was giving +him. + +Thus a month passed, but at the end of that time I could endure +it no longer. The memory of Marguerite pursued me unceasingly. I +had loved, I still loved this woman so much that I could not +suddenly become indifferent to her. I had to love or to hate her. +Above all, whatever I felt for her, I had to see her again, and +at once. This desire possessed my mind, and with all the violence +of a will which had begun to reassert itself in a body so long +inert. + +It was not enough for me to see Marguerite in a month, a week. I +had to see her the very next day after the day when the thought +had occurred to me; and I went to my father and told him that I +had been called to Paris on business, but that I should return +promptly. No doubt he guessed the reason of my departure, for he +insisted that I should stay, but, seeing that if I did not carry +out my intention the consequences, in the state in which I was, +might be fatal, he embraced me, and begged me, almost, with +tears, to return without delay. + +I did not sleep on the way to Paris. Once there, what was I going +to do? I did not know; I only knew that it must be something +connected with Marguerite. I went to my rooms to change my +clothes, and, as the weather was fine and it was still early, I +made my way to the Champs-Elysees. At the end of half an hour I +saw Marguerite's carriage, at some distance, coming from the +Rond-Point to the Place de la Concorde. She had repurchased her +horses, for the carriage was just as I was accustomed to see it, +but she was not in it. Scarcely had I noticed this fact, when +looking around me, I saw Marguerite on foot, accompanied by a +woman whom I had never seen. + +As she passed me she turned pale, and a nervous smile tightened +about her lips. For my part, my heart beat violently in my +breast; but I succeeded in giving a cold expression to my face, +as I bowed coldly to my former mistress, who just then reached +her carriage, into which she got with her friend. + +I knew Marguerite: this unexpected meeting must certainly have +upset her. No doubt she had heard that I had gone away, and had +thus been reassured as to the consequences of our rupture; but, +seeing me again in Paris, finding herself face to face with me, +pale as I was, she must have realized that I had not returned +without purpose, and she must have asked herself what that +purpose was. + +If I had seen Marguerite unhappy, if, in revenging myself upon +her, I could have come to her aid, I should perhaps have forgiven +her, and certainly I should have never dreamt of doing her an +injury. But I found her apparently happy, some one else had +restored to her the luxury which I could not give her; her +breaking with me seemed to assume a character of the basest +self-interest; I was lowered in my own esteem as well as in my +love. I resolved that she should pay for what I had suffered. + +I could not be indifferent to what she did, consequently what +would hurt her the most would be my indifference; it was, +therefore, this sentiment which I must affect, not only in her +eyes, but in the eyes of others. + +I tried to put on a smiling countenance, and I went to call on +Prudence. The maid announced me, and I had to wait a few minutes +in the drawing-room. At last Mme. Duvernoy appeared and asked me +into her boudoir; as I seated myself I heard the drawing-room +door open, a light footstep made the floor creak and the front +door was closed violently. + +"I am disturbing you," I said to Prudence. + +"Not in the least. Marguerite was there. When she heard you +announced, she made her escape; it was she who has just gone +out." + +"Is she afraid of me now?" + +"No. but she is afraid that you would not wish to see her." + +"But why?" I said, drawing my breath with difficulty, for I was +choked with emotion. "The poor girl left me for her carriage, her +furniture, and her diamonds; she did quite right, and I don't +bear her any grudge. I met her to-day," I continued carelessly. + +"Where?" asked Prudence, looking at me and seeming to ask herself +if this was the same man whom she had known so madly in love. + +"In the Champs-Elysees. She was with another woman, very pretty. +Who is she?" + +"What was she like?" + +"Blonde, slender, with side curls; blue eyes; very elegant." + +"Ali! It was Olympe; she is really very pretty." + +"Whom does she live with?" + +"With nobody; with anybody." + +"Where does she live?" + +"Rue Troncliet, No.--. Do you want to make love to her?" + +"One never knows." + +"And Marguerite?" + +"I should hardly tell you the truth if I said I think no more +about her; but I am one of those with whom everything depends on +the way in which one breaks with them. Now Marguerite ended with +me so lightly that I realize I was a great fool to have been as +much in love with her as I was, for I was really very much in +love with that girl." + +You can imagine the way in which I said that; the sweat broke out +on my forehead. + +"She was very fond of you, you know, and she still is; the proof +is, that after meeting you to-day, she came straight to tell me +about it. When she got here she was all of a tremble; I thought +she was going to faint." + +"Well, what did she say?" + +"She said, 'He is sure to come here,' and she begged me to ask +you to forgive her." + +"I have forgiven her, you may tell her. She was a good girl; but, +after all, like the others, and I ought to have expected what +happened. I am even grateful to her, for I see now what would +have happened if I had lived with her altogether. It was +ridiculous." + +"She will be very glad to find that you take it so well. It was +quite time she left you, my dear fellow. The rascal of an agent +to whom she had offered to sell her furniture went around to her +creditors to find out how much she owed; they took fright, and in +two days she would have been sold up." + +"And now it is all paid?" + +"More or less." + +"And who has supplied the money?" + +"The Comte de N. Ah, my dear friend, there are men made on +purpose for such occasions. To cut a long story short he gave her +twenty thousand francs, but he has had his way at last. He knows +quite well that Marguerite is not in love with him; but he is +very nice with her all the same. As you have seen, he has +repurchased her horses, he has taken her jewels out of pawn, and +he gives her as much money as the duke used to give her; if she +likes to live quietly, he will stay with her a long time." + +"And what is she doing? Is she living in Paris altogether?" + +"She would never go back to Bougival after you went. I had to go +myself and see after all her things, and yours, too. I made a +package of them and you can send here for them. You will find +everything, except a little case with your initials. Marguerite +wanted to keep it. If you really want it, I will ask her for it." + +"Let her keep it," I stammered, for I felt the tears rise from my +heart to my eyes at the recollection of the village where I had +been so happy, and at the thought that Marguerite cared to keep +something which had belonged to me and would recall me to her. If +she had entered at that moment my thoughts of vengeance would +have disappeared, and I should have fallen at her feet. + +"For the rest," continued Prudence, "I never saw her as she is +now; she hardly takes any sleep, she goes to all the balls, she +goes to suppers, she even drinks. The other day, after a supper, +she had to stay in bed for a week; and when the doctor let her +get up, she began again at the risk of her life. Shall you go and +see her?" + +"What is the good? I came to see you, because you have always +been charming to me, and I knew you before I ever knew +Marguerite. I owe it to you that I have been her lover, and also, +don't I, that I am her lover no longer?" + +"Well, I did all I could to get her away from you, and I believe +you will be thankful to me later on." + +I owe you a double gratitude," I added, rising, for I was +disgusted with the woman, seeing her take every word I said to +her as if it were serious. + +"You are going?" + +"Yes." + +I had learned enough. + +"When shall I be seeing you?" + +"Soon. Good-bye." + +"Good-bye." + +Prudence saw me to the door, and I went back to my own rooms with +tears of rage in my eyes and a desire for vengeance in my heart. + +So Marguerite was no different from the others; so the steadfast +love that she had had for me could not resist the desire of +returning to her former life, and the need of having a carriage +and plunging into dissipation. So I said to myself, as I lay +awake at night though if I had reflected as calmly as I professed +to I should have seen in this new and turbulent life of +Marguerite the attempt to silence a constant thought, a ceaseless +memory. Unfortunately, evil passion had the upper hand, and I +only sought for some means of avenging myself on the poor +creature. Oh, how petty and vile is man when he is wounded in one +of his narrow passions! + +This Olympe whom I had seen was, if not a friend of Marguerite, +at all events the woman with whom she was most often seen since +her return to Paris. She was going to give a ball, and, as I took +it for granted that Marguerite would be there, I tried to get an +invitation and succeeded. + +When, full of my sorrowful emotions, I arrived at the ball, it +was already very animated. They were dancing, shouting even, and +in one of the quadrilles I perceived Marguerite dancing with the +Comte de N., who seemed proud of showing her off, as if he said +to everybody: "This woman is mine." + +I leaned against the mantel-piece just opposite Marguerite and +watched her dancing. Her face changed the moment she caught sight +of me. I saluted her casually with a glance of the eyes and a +wave of the hand. + +When I reflected that after the ball she would go home, not with +me but with that rich fool, when I thought of what would follow +their return, the blood rose to my face, and I felt the need of +doing something to trouble their relations. + +After the contredanse I went up to the mistress of the house, who +displayed for the benefit of her guests a dazzling bosom and +magnificent shoulders. She was beautiful, and, from the point of +view of figure, more beautiful than Marguerite. I realized this +fact still more clearly from certain glances which Marguerite +bestowed upon her while I was talking with her. The man who was +the lover of such a woman might well be as proud as M. de N., and +she was beautiful enough to inspire a passion not less great than +that which Marguerite had inspired in me. At that moment she had +no lover. It would not be difficult to become so; it depended +only on showing enough money to attract her attention. + +I made up my mind. That woman should be my mistress. I began by +dancing with her. Half an hour afterward, Marguerite, pale as +death, put on her pelisse and left the ball. + + + +Chapter 24 + +It was something already, but it was not enough. I saw the hold +which I had upon this woman, and I took a cowardly advantage of +it. + +When I think that she is dead now, I ask myself if God will ever +forgive me for the wrong I did her. + +After the supper, which was noisy as could be, there was +gambling. I sat by the side of Olympe and put down my money so +recklessly that she could not but notice me. In an instant I had +gained one hundred and fifty or two hundred louis, which I spread +out before me on the table, and on which she fastened her eyes +greedily. + +I was the only one not completely absorbed by the game, and able +to pay her some attention. All the rest of the night I gained, +and it was I who gave her money to play, for she had lost all she +had before her and probably all she had in the house. + +At five in the morning, the guests departed. I had gained three +hundred louis. + +All the players were already on their way downstairs; I was the +only one who had remained behind, and as I did not know any of +them, no one noticed it. Olympe herself was lighting the way, and +I was going to follow the others, when, turning back, I said to +her: + +"I must speak to you." + +"To-morrow," she said. + +"No, now." + +"What have you to say?" + +"You will see." + +And I went back into the room. + +"You have lost," I said. + +"Yes. + +"All that you had in the house?" + +She hesitated. + +"Be frank." + +"Well, it is true." + +"I have won three hundred louis. Here they are, if you will let +me stay here to-night." + +And I threw the gold on the table. + +"And why this proposition?" + +"Because I am in love with you, of course." + +"No, but because you love Marguerite, and you want to have your +revenge upon her by becoming my lover. You don't deceive a woman +like me, my dear friend; unluckily, I am still too young and too +good-looking to accept the part that you offer me." + +"So you refuse?" + +"Yes. + +"Would you rather take me for nothing? It is I who wouldn't +accept then. Think it over, my dear Olympe; if I had sent some +one to offer you these three hundred louis on my behalf, on the +conditions I attach to them, you would have accepted. I preferred +to speak to you myself. Accept without inquiring into my reasons; +say to yourself that you are beautiful, and that there is nothing +surprising in my being in love with you." + +Marguerite was a woman in the same position as Olympe, and yet I +should never have dared say to her the first time I met her what +I had said to the other woman. I loved Marguerite. I saw in her +instincts which were lacking in the other, and at the very moment +in which I made my bargain, I felt a disgust toward the woman +with whom I was making it. + +She accepted, of course, in the end, and at midday I left her +house as her lover; but I quitted her without a recollection of +the caresses and of the words of love which she had felt bound to +shower upon me in return for the six thousand francs which I left +with her. And yet there were men who had ruined themselves for +that woman. + +From that day I inflicted on Marguerite a continual persecution. +Olympe and she gave up seeing one another, as you might imagine. +I gave my new mistress a carriage and jewels. I gambled, I +committed every extravagance which could be expected of a man in +love with such a woman as Olympe. The report of my new +infatuation was immediately spread abroad. + +Prudence herself was taken in, and finally thought that I had +completely forgotten Marguerite. Marguerite herself, whether she +guessed my motive or was deceived like everybody else, preserved +a perfect dignity in response to the insults which I heaped upon +her daily. Only, she seemed to suffer, for whenever I met her she +was more and more pale, more and more sad. My love for her, +carried to the point at which it was transformed into hatred, +rejoiced at the sight of her daily sorrow. Often, when my cruelty +toward her became infamous, Marguerite lifted upon me such +appealing eyes that I blushed for the part I was playing, and was +ready to implore her forgiveness. + +But my repentance was only of a moment's duration, and Olympe, +who had finally put aside all self-respect, and discovered that +by annoying Marguerite she could get from me whatever she wanted, +constantly stirred up my resentment against her, and insulted her +whenever she found an opportunity, with the cowardly persistence +of a woman licensed by the authority of a man. + +At last Marguerite gave up going to balls or theatres, for fear +of meeting Olympe and me. Then direct impertinences gave way to +anonymous letters, and there was not a shameful thing which I did +not encourage my mistress to relate and which I did not myself +relate in reference to Marguerite. + +To reach such a point I must have been literally mad. I was like +a man drunk upon bad wine, who falls into one of those nervous +exaltations in which the hand is capable of committing a crime +without the head knowing anything about it. In the midst of it +all I endured a martyrdom. The not disdainful calm, the not +contemptuous dignity with which Marguerite responded to all my +attacks, and which raised her above me in my own eyes, enraged me +still more against her. + +One evening Olympe had gone somewhere or other, and had met +Marguerite, who for once had not spared the foolish creature, so +that she had had to retire in confusion. Olympe returned in a +fury, and Marguerite fainted and had to be carried out. Olympe +related to me what had happened, declared that Marguerite, seeing +her alone, had revenged herself upon her because she was my +mistress, and that I must write and tell her to respect the woman +whom I loved, whether I was present or absent. + +I need not tell you that I consented, and that I put into the +letter which I sent to her address the same day, everything +bitter, shameful, and cruel that I could think of. + +This time the blow was more than the unhappy creature could +endure without replying. I felt sure that an answer would come, +and I resolved not to go out all day. About two there was a ring, +and Prudence entered. + +I tried to assume an indifferent air as I asked her what had +brought her; but that day Mme. Duvernoy was not in a laughing +humour, and in a really moved voice she said to me that since my +return, that is to say for about three weeks, I had left no +occasion untried which could give pain to Marguerite, that she +was completely upset by it, and that the scene of last night and +my angry letter of the morning had forced her to take to her bed. +In short, without making any reproach, Marguerite sent to ask me +for a little pity, since she had no longer the moral or physical +strength to endure what I was making her suffer. + +"That Mlle. Gautier," I said to Prudence, "should turn me out of +her own house is quite reasonable, but that she should insult the +woman whom I love, under the pretence that this woman is my +mistress, is a thing I will never permit." + +"My friend," said Prudence, "you are under the influence of a +woman who has neither heart nor sense; you are in love with her, +it is true, but that is not a reason for torturing a woman who +can not defend herself." + +"Let Mlle. Gautier send me her Comte de N. and the sides will be +equal." + +"You know very well that she will not do that. So, my dear +Armand, let her alone. If you saw her you would be ashamed of the +way in which you are treating her. She is white, she coughs--she +won't last long now." + +And Prudence held out her hand to me, adding: + +"Come and see her; it will make her very happy." + +"I have no desire to meet M. de N." + +"M. de N. is never there. She can not endure him." + +"If Marguerite wishes to see me, she knows where I live; let her +come to see me, but, for my part, I will never put foot in the +Rue d'Antin." + +"Will you receive her well?" + +"Certainly." + +"Well, I am sure that she will come." + +"Let her come." + +"Shall you be out to-day?" + +"I shall be at home all the evening." + +"I will tell her." + +And Prudence left me. + +I did not even write to tell Olympe not to expect me. I never +troubled much about her, scarcely going to see her one night a +week. She consoled herself, I believe, with an actor from some +theatre or other. + +I went out for dinner and came back almost immediately. I had a +fire lit in my room and I told Joseph he could go out. + +I can give you no idea of the different impressions which +agitated me during the hour in which I waited; but when, toward +nine o'clock, I heard a ring, they thronged together into one +such emotion, that, as I opened the door, I was obliged to lean +against the wall to keep myself from falling. + +Fortunately the anteroom was in half darkness, and the change in +my countenance was less visible. Marguerite entered. + +She was dressed in black and veiled. I could scarcely recognise +her face through the veil. She went into the drawing-room and +raised her veil. She was pale as marble. + +"I am here, Armand," she said; "you wished to see me and I have +come." + +And letting her head fall on her hands, she burst into tears. + +I went up to her. + +"What is the matter?" I said to her in a low voice. + +She pressed my hand without a word, for tears still veiled her +voice. But after a few minutes, recovering herself a little, she +said to me: + +"You have been very unkind to me, Armand, and I have done nothing +to you." + +"Nothing?" I answered, with a bitter smile. + +"Nothing but what circumstances forced me to do." + +I do not know if you have ever in your life experienced, or if +you will ever experience, what I felt at the sight of Marguerite. + +The last time she had come to see me she had sat in the same +place where she was now sitting; only, since then, she had been +the mistress of another man, other kisses than mine had touched +her lips, toward which, in spite of myself, my own reached out, +and yet I felt that I loved this woman as much, more perhaps, +than I had ever loved her. + +It was difficult for me to begin the conversation on the subject +which brought her. Marguerite no doubt realized it, for she went +on: + +"I have come to trouble you, Armand, for I have two things to +ask: pardon for what I said yesterday to Mlle. Olympe, and pity +for what you are perhaps still ready to do to me. Intentionally +or not, since your return you have given me so much pain that I +should be incapable now of enduring a fourth part of what I have +endured till now. You will have pity on me, won't you? And you +will understand that a man who is not heartless has other nobler +things to do than to take his revenge upon a sick and sad woman +like me. See, take my hand. I am in a fever. I left my bed to +come to you, and ask, not for your friendship, but for your +indifference." + +I took Marguerite's hand. It was burning, and the poor woman +shivered under her fur cloak. + +I rolled the arm-chair in which she was sitting up to the fire. + +"Do you think, then, that I did not suffer," said I, "on that +night when, after waiting for you in the country, I came to look +for you in Paris, and found nothing but the letter which nearly +drove me mad? How could you have deceived me, Marguerite, when I +loved you so much? + +"Do not speak of that, Armand; I did not come to speak of that. I +wanted to see you only not an enemy, and I wanted to take your +hand once more. You have a mistress; she is young, pretty, you +love her they say. Be happy with her and forget me." + +"And you. You are happy, no doubt?" + +"Have I the face of a happy woman, Armand? Do not mock my sorrow, +you, who know better than any one what its cause and its depth +are." + +"It only depended on you not to have been unhappy at all, if you +are as you say." + +"No, my friend; circumstances were stronger than my will. I +obeyed, not the instincts of a light woman, as you seem to say, +but a serious necessity, and reasons which you will know one day, +and which will make you forgive me." + +"Why do you not tell me those reasons to-day?" + +"Because they would not bring about an impossible reunion between +us, and they would separate you perhaps from those from whom you +must not be separated." + +"Who do you mean?" + +"I can not tell you." + +"Then you are lying to me." + +Marguerite rose and went toward the door. I could not behold this +silent and expressive sorrow without being touched, when I +compared in my mind this pale and weeping woman with the madcap +who had made fun of me at the Opera Comique. + +"You shall not go," I said, putting myself in front of the door. + +"Why?" + +"Because, in spite of what you have done to me, I love you +always, and I want you to stay here." + +"To turn me out to-morrow? No; it is impossible. Our destinies +are separate; do not try to reunite them. You will despise me +perhaps, while now you can only hate me." + +"No, Marguerite," I cried, feeling all my love and all my desire +reawaken at the contact of this woman. "No, I will forget +everything, and we will be happy as we promised one another that +we would be." + +Marguerite shook her head doubtfully, and said: + +"Am I not your slave, your dog? Do with me what you will. Take +me; I am yours." + +And throwing off her cloak and hat, she flung them on the sofa, +and began hurriedly to undo the front of her dress, for, by one +of those reactions so frequent in her malady, the blood rushed to +her head and stifled her. A hard, dry cough followed. + +"Tell my coachman," she said, "to go back with the carriage." + +I went down myself and sent him away. When I returned Marguerite +was lying in front of the fire, and her teeth chattered with the +cold. + +I took her in my arms. I undressed her, without her making a +movement, and carried her, icy cold, to the bed. Then I sat +beside her and tried to warm her with my caresses. She did not +speak a word, but smiled at me. + +It was a strange night. All Marguerite's life seemed to have +passed into the kisses with which she covered me, and I loved her +so much that in my transports of feverish love I asked myself +whether I should not kill her, so that she might never belong to +another. + +A month of love like that, and there would have remained only the +corpse of heart or body. + +The dawn found us both awake. Marguerite was livid white. She did +not speak a word. From time to time, big tears rolled from her +eyes, and stayed upon her cheeks, shining like diamonds. Her thin +arms opened, from time to time, to hold me fast, and fell back +helplessly upon the bed. + +For a moment it seemed to me as if I could forget all that had +passed since I had left Bougival, and I said to Marguerite: + +"Shall we go away and leave Paris?" + +"No, no!" she said, almost with affright; "we should be too +unhappy. I can do no more to make you happy, but while there is a +breath of life in me, I will be the slave of your fancies. At +whatever hour of the day or night you will, come, and I will be +yours; but do not link your future any more with mine, you would +be too unhappy and you would make me too unhappy. I shall still +be pretty for a while; make the most of it, but ask nothing +more." + +When she had gone, I was frightened at the solitude in which she +left me. Two hours afterward I was still sitting on the side of +the bed, looking at the pillow which kept the imprint of her +form, and asking myself what was to become of me, between my love +and my jealousy. + +At five o'clock, without knowing what I was going to do, I went +to the Rue d'Antin. + +Nanine opened to me. + +"Madame can not receive you," she said in an embarrassed way. + +"Why?" + +"Because M. le Comte de N. is there, and he has given orders to +let no one in." + +"Quite so," I stammered; "I forgot." + +I went home like a drunken man, and do you know what I did during +the moment of jealous delirium which was long enough for the +shameful thing I was going to do? I said to myself that the woman +was laughing at me; I saw her alone with the count, saying over +to him the same words that she had said to me in the night, and +taking a five-hundred-franc note I sent it to her with these +words: + +"You went away so suddenly that I forgot to pay you. Here is the +price of your night." + +Then when the letter was sent I went out as if to free myself +from the instantaneous remorse of this infamous action. + +I went to see Olympe, whom I found trying on dresses, and when we +were alone she sang obscene songs to amuse me. She was the very +type of the shameless, heartless, senseless courtesan, for me at +least, for perhaps some men might have dreamed of her as I +dreamed of Marguerite. She asked me for money. I gave it to her, +and, free then to go, I returned home. + +Marguerite had not answered. + +I need not tell you in what state of agitation I spent the next +day. At half past nine a messenger brought me an envelope +containing my letter and the five-hundred-franc note, not a word +more. + +"Who gave you this?" I asked the man. + +"A lady who was starting with her maid in the next mail for +Boulogne, and who told me not to take it until the coach was out +of the courtyard." + +I rushed to the Rue d'Antin. + +"Madame left for England at six o'clock," said the porter. + +There was nothing to hold me in Paris any longer, neither hate +nor love. I was exhausted by this series of shocks. One of my +friends was setting out on a tour in the East. I told my father I +should like to accompany him; my father gave me drafts and +letters of introduction, and eight or ten days afterward I +embarked at Marseilles. + +It was at Alexandria that I learned from an attache at the +embassy, whom I had sometimes seen at Marguerite's, that the poor +girl was seriously ill. + +I then wrote her the letter which she answered in the way you +know; I received it at Toulon. + +I started at once, and you know the rest. + +Now you have only to read a few sheets which Julie Duprat gave +me; they are the best commentary on what I have just told you. + + + +Chapter 25 + +Armand, tired by this long narrative, often interrupted by his +tears, put his two hands over his forehead and closed his eyes to +think, or to try to sleep, after giving me the pages written by +the hand of Marguerite. A few minutes after, a more rapid +breathing told me that Armand slept, but that light sleep which +the least sound banishes. + +This is what I read; I copy it without adding or omitting a +syllable: + +To-day is the 15th December. I have been ill three or four days. +This morning I stayed in bed. The weather is dark, I am sad; +there is no one by me. I think of you, Armand. And you, where are +you, while I write these lines? Far from Paris, far, far, they +tell me, and perhaps you have already forgotten Marguerite. Well, +be happy; I owe you the only happy moments in my life. + +I can not help wanting to explain all my conduct to you, and I +have written you a letter; but, written by a girl like me, such a +letter might seem to be a lie, unless death had sanctified it by +its authority, and, instead of a letter, it were a confession. + +To-day I am ill; I may die of this illness, for I have always had +the presentiment that I shall die young. My mother died of +consumption, and the way I have always lived could but increase +the only heritage she ever left me. But I do not want to die +without clearing up for you everything about me; that is, if, +when you come back, you will still trouble yourself about the +poor girl whom you loved before you went away. + +This is what the letter contained; I shall like writing it over +again, so as to give myself another proof of my own +justification. + +You remember, Armand, how the arrival of your father surprised us +at Bougival; you remember the involuntary fright that his arrival +caused me, and the scene which took place between you and him, +which you told me of in the evening. + +Next day, when you were at Paris, waiting for your father, and he +did not return, a man came to the door and handed in a letter +from M. Duval. + +His letter, which I inclose with this, begged me, in the most +serious terms, to keep you away on the following day, on some +excuse or other, and to see your father, who wished to speak to +me, and asked me particularly not to say anything to you about +it. + +You know how I insisted on your returning to Paris next day. + +You had only been gone an hour when your father presented +himself. I won't say what impression his severe face made upon +me. Your father had the old theory that a courtesan is a being +without heart or reason, a sort of machine for coining gold, +always ready, like the machine, to bruise the hand that gives her +everything, and to tear in pieces, without pity or discernment, +those who set her in motion. + +Your father had written me a very polite letter, in order that I +might consent to see him; he did not present himself quite as he +had written. His manner at first was so stiff, insolent, and even +threatening, that I had to make him understand that I was in my +own house, and that I had no need to render him an account of my +life, except because of the sincere affection which I had for his +son. + +M. Duval calmed down a little, but still went on to say that he +could not any longer allow his son to ruin himself over me; that +I was beautiful, it was true, but, however beautiful I might be, +I ought not to make use of my beauty to spoil the future of a +young man by such expenditure as I was causing. + +At that there was only one thing to do, to show him the proof +that since I was your mistress I had spared no sacrifice to be +faithful to you without asking for more money than you had to +give me. I showed him the pawn tickets, the receipts of the +people to whom I had sold what I could not pawn; I told him of my +resolve to part with my furniture in order to pay my debts, and +live with you without being a too heavy expense. I told him of +our happiness, of how you had shown me the possibility of a +quieter and happier life, and he ended by giving in to the +evidence, offering me his hand, and asking pardon for the way in +which he had at first approached me. + +Then he said to me: + +"So, madame, it is not by remonstrances or by threats, but by +entreaties, that I must endeavour to obtain from you a greater +sacrifice than you have yet made for my son." + +I trembled at this beginning. + +Your father came over to me, took both my hands, and continued in +an affectionate voice: + +"My child, do not take what I have to say to you amiss; only +remember that there are sometimes in life cruel necessities for +the heart, but that they must be submitted to. You are good, your +soul has generosity unknown to many women who perhaps despise +you, and are less worthy than you. But remember that there is not +only the mistress, but the family; that besides love there are +duties; that to the age of passion succeeds the age when man, if +he is to be respected, must plant himself solidly in a serious +position. My son has no fortune, and yet he is ready to abandon +to you the legacy of his mother. If he accepted from you the +sacrifice which you are on the point of making, his honour and +dignity would require him to give you, in exchange for it, this +income, which would always put you out of danger of adversity. +But he can not accept this sacrifice, because the world, which +does not know you, would give a wrong interpretation to this +acceptance, and such an interpretation must not tarnish the name +which we bear. No one would consider whether Armand loves you, +whether you love him, whether this mutual love means happiness to +him and redemption to you; they would see only one thing, that +Armand Duval allowed a kept woman (forgive me, my child, for what +I am forced to say to you) to sell all she had for him. Then the +day of reproaches and regrets would arrive, be sure, for you or +for others, and you would both bear a chain that you could not +sever. What would you do then? Your youth would be lost, my son's +future destroyed; and I, his father, should receive from only one +of my children the recompense that I look for from both. + +"You are young, beautiful, life will console you; you are noble, +and the memory of a good deed will redeem you from many past +deeds. During the six months that he has known you Armand has +forgotten me. I wrote to him four times, and he has never once +replied. I might have died and he not known it! + +"Whatever may be your resolution of living otherwise than as you +have lived, Armand, who loves you, will never consent to the +seclusion to which his modest fortune would condemn you, and to +which your beauty does not entitle you. Who knows what he would +do then! He has gambled, I know; without telling you of it, I +know also, but, in a moment of madness, he might have lost part +of what I have saved, during many years, for my daughter's +portion, for him, and for the repose of my old age. What might +have happened may yet happen. + +"Are you sure, besides, that the life which you are giving up for +him will never again come to attract you? Are you sure, you who +have loved him, that you will never love another? Would you +not-suffer on seeing the hindrances set by your love to your +lover's life, hindrances for which you would be powerless to +console him, if, with age, thoughts of ambition should succeed to +dreams of love? Think over all that, madame. You love Armand; +prove it to him by the sole means which remains to you of yet +proving it to him, by sacrificing your love to his future. No +misfortune has yet arrived, but one will arrive, and perhaps a +greater one than those which I foresee. Armand might become +jealous of a man who has loved you; he might provoke him, fight, +be killed. Think, then, what you would suffer in the presence of +a father who should call on you to render an account for the life +of his son! + +"Finally, my dear child, let me tell you all, for I have not yet +told you all, let me tell you what has brought me to Paris. I +have a daughter, as I have told you, young, beautiful, pure as an +angel. She loves, and she, too, has made this love the dream of +her life. I wrote all that to Armand, but, absorbed in you, he +made no reply. Well, my daughter is about to marry. She is to +marry the man whom she loves; she enters an honourable family, +which requires that mine has to be no less honourable. The family +of the man who is to become my son-in-law has learned what manner +of life Armand is leading in Paris, and has declared to me that +the marriage must be broken off if Armand continues this life. +The future of a child who has done nothing against you, and who +has the right of looking forward to a happy future, is in your +hands. Have you the right, have you the strength, to shatter it? +In the name of your love and of your repentance, Marguerite, +grant me the happiness of my child." + +I wept silently, my friend, at all these reflections which I had +so often made, and which, in the mouth of your father, took a yet +more serious reality. I said to myself all that your father dared +not say to me, though it had come to his lips twenty times: that +I was, after all, only a kept woman, and that whatever excuse I +gave for our liaison, it would always look like calculation on my +part; that my past life left me no right to dream of such a +future, and that I was accepting responsibilities for which my +habits and reputation were far from giving any guarantee. In +short, I loved you, Armand. + +The paternal way in which M. Duval had spoken to me; the pure +memories that he awakened in me; the respect of this old man, +which I would gain; yours, which I was sure of gaining later on: +all that called up in my heart thoughts which raised me in my own +eyes with a sort of holy pride, unknown till then. When I thought +that one day this old man, who was now imploring me for the +future of his son, would bid his daughter mingle my name with her +prayers, as the name of a mysterious friend, I seemed to become +transformed, and I felt a pride in myself. + +The exaltation of the moment perhaps exaggerated the truth of +these impressions, but that was what I felt, friend, and these +new feelings silenced the memory of the happy days I had spent +with you. + +"Tell me, sir," I said to your father, wiping away my tears, "do +you believe that I love your son?" + +"Yes," said M. Duval. + +"With a disinterested love?" + +"Yes. + +"Do you believe that I had made this love the hope, the dream, +the forgiveness--of my life?" + +"Implicitly." + +"Well, sir, embrace me once, as you would embrace your daughter, +and I swear to you that that kiss, the only chaste kiss I have +ever had, will make me strong against my love, and that within a +week your son will be once more at your side, perhaps unhappy for +a time, but cured forever." + +"You are a noble child," replied your father, kissing me on the +forehead, "and you are making an attempt for which God will +reward you; but I greatly fear that you will have no influence +upon my son." + +"Oh, be at rest, sir; he will hate me." + +I had to set up between us, as much for me as for you, an +insurmountable barrier. + +I wrote to Prudence to say that I accepted the proposition of the +Comte de N., and that she was to tell him that I would sup with +her and him. I sealed the letter, and, without telling him what +it contained, asked your father to have it forwarded to its +address on reaching Paris. + +He inquired of me what it contained. + +"Your son's welfare," I answered. + +Your father embraced me once more. I felt two grateful tears on +my forehead, like the baptism of my past faults, and at the +moment when I consented to give myself up to another man I glowed +with pride at the thought of what I was redeeming by this new +fault. + +It was quite natural, Armand. You told me that your father was +the most honest man in the world. + +M. Duval returned to his carriage, and set out for Paris. + +I was only a woman, and when I saw you again I could not help +weeping, but I did not give way. + +Did I do right? That is what I ask myself to-day, as I lie ill in +my bed, that I shall never leave, perhaps, until I am dead. + +You are witness of what I felt as the hour of our separation +approached; your father was no longer there to support me, and +there was a moment when I was on the point of confessing +everything to you, so terrified was I at the idea that you were +going to bate and despise me. + +One thing which you will not believe, perhaps, Armand, is that I +prayed God to give me strength; and what proves that he accepted +my sacrifice is that he gave me the strength for which I prayed. + +At supper I still had need of aid, for I could not think of what +I was going to do, so much did I fear that my courage would fail +me. Who would ever have said that I, Marguerite Gautier, would +have suffered so at the mere thought of a new lover? I drank for +forgetfulness, and when I woke next day I was beside the count. + +That is the whole truth, friend. judge me and pardon me, as I +have pardoned you for all the wrong that you have done me since +that day. + + + +Chapter 26 + +What followed that fatal night you know as well as I; but what +you can not know, what you can not suspect, is what I have +suffered since our separation. + +I heard that your father had taken you away with him, but I felt +sure that you could not live away from me for long, and when I +met you in the Champs-Elysees, I was a little upset, but by no +means surprised. + +Then began that series of days; each of them brought me a fresh +insult from you. I received them all with a kind of joy, for, +besides proving to me that you still loved me, it seemed to me as +if the more you persecuted me the more I should be raised in your +eyes when you came to know the truth. + +Do not wonder at my joy in martyrdom, Armand; your love for me +had opened my heart to noble enthusiasm. + +Still, I was not so strong as that quite at once. + +Between the time of the sacrifice made for you and the time of +your return a long while elapsed, during which I was obliged to +have recourse to physical means in order not to go mad, and in +order to be blinded and deafened in the whirl of life into which +I flung myself. Prudence has told you (has she not?) how I went +to all the fetes and balls and orgies. I had a sort of hope that +I should kill myself by all these excesses, and I think it will +not be long before this hope is realized. My health naturally got +worse and worse, and when I sent Mme. Duvernoy to ask you for +pity I was utterly worn out, body and soul. + +I will not remind you, Armand, of the return you made for the +last proof of love that I gave you, and of the outrage by which +you drove away a dying woman, who could not resist your voice +when you asked her for a night of love, and who, like a fool, +thought for one instant that she might again unite the past with +the present. You had the right to do what you did, Armand; people +have not always put so high a price on a night of mine! + +I left everything after that. Olympe has taken my place with the +Comte de N., and has told him, I hear, the reasons for my leaving +him. The Comte de G. was at London. He is one of those men who +give just enough importance to making love to women like me for +it to be an agreeable pastime, and who are thus able to remain +friends with women, not hating them because they have never been +jealous of them, and he is, too, one of those grand seigneurs who +open only a part of their hearts to us, but the whole of their +purses. It was of him that I immediately thought. I joined him in +London. He received me as kindly as possible, but he was the +lover there of a woman in society, and he feared to compromise +himself if he were seen with me. He introduced me to his friends, +who gave a supper in my honour, after which one of them took me +home with him. + +What else was there for me to do, my friend? If I had killed +myself it would have burdened your life, which ought to be happy, +with a needless remorse; and then, what is the good of killing +oneself when one is so near dying already? + +I became a body without a soul, a thing without a thought; I +lived for some time in that automatic way; then I returned to +Paris, and asked after you; I heard then that you were gone on a +long voyage. There was nothing left to hold me to life. My +existence became what it had been two years before I knew you. I +tried to win back the duke, but I had offended him too deeply. +Old men are not patient, no doubt because they realize that they +are not eternal. I got weaker every day. I was pale and sad and +thinner than ever. Men who buy love examine the goods before +taking them. At Paris there were women in better health, and not +so thin as I was; I was rather forgotten. That is all the past up +to yesterday. + +Now I am seriously ill. I have written to the duke to ask him for +money, for I have none, and the creditors have returned, and come +to me with their bills with pitiless perseverance. Will the duke +answer? Why are you not in Paris, Armand? You would come and see +me, and your visits would do me good. + +December 20. + +The weather is horrible; it is snowing, and I am alone. I have +been in such a fever for the last three days that I could not +write you a word. No news, my friend; every day I hope vaguely +for a letter from you, but it does not come, and no doubt it will +never come. Only men are strong enough not to forgive. The duke +has not answered. + +Prudence is pawning my things again. + +I have been spitting blood all the time. Oh, you would be sorry +for me if you could see me. You are indeed happy to be under a +warm sky, and not, like me, with a whole winter of ice on your +chest. To-day I got up for a little while, and looked out through +the curtains of my window, and watched the life of Paris passing +below, the life with which I have now nothing more to do. I saw +the faces of some people I knew, passing rapidly, joyous and +careless. Not one lifted his eyes to my window. However, a few +young men have come to inquire for me. Once before I was ill, and +you, though you did not know me, though you had had nothing from +me but an impertinence the day I met you first, you came to +inquire after me every day. We spent six months together. I had +all the love for you that a woman's heart can hold and give, and +you are far away, you are cursing me, and there is not a word of +consolation from you. But it is only chance that has made you +leave me, I am sure, for if you were at Paris, you would not +leave my bedside. + +December 25. + +My doctor tells me I must not write every day. And indeed my +memories only increase my fever, but yesterday I received a +letter which did me good, more because of what it said than by +the material help which it contained. I can write to you, then, +to-day. This letter is from your father, and this is what it +says: + +"MADAME: I have just learned that you are ill. If I were at Paris +I would come and ask after you myself; if my son were here I +would send him; but I can not leave C., and Armand is six or +seven hundred leagues from here; permit me, then, simply to write +to you, madame, to tell you how pained I am to hear of your +illness, and believe in my sincere wishes for your speedy +recovery. + +One of my good friends, M. H., will call on you; will you kindly +receive him? I have intrusted him with a commission, the result +of which I await impatiently. "Believe me, madame, + + "Yours most faithfully." + +This is the letter he sent me. Your father has a noble heart; +love him well, my friend, for there are few men so worthy of +being loved. This paper signed by his name has done me more good +than all the prescriptions of our great doctor. + +This morning M. H. called. He seemed much embarrassed by the +delicate mission which M. Duval had intrusted to him. As a matter +of fact, he came to bring me three thousand francs from your +father. I wanted to refuse at first, but M. H. told me that my +refusal would annoy M. Duval, who had authorized him to give me +this sum now, and later on whatever I might need. I accepted it, +for, coming from your father, it could not be exactly taking +alms. If I am dead when you come back, show your father what I +have written for him, and tell him that in writing these lines +the poor woman to whom he was kind enough to write so consoling a +letter wept tears of gratitude and prayed God for him. + +January 4. + +I have passed some terrible days. I never knew the body could +suffer so. Oh, my past life! I pay double for it now. + +There has been some one to watch by me every night; I can not +breathe. What remains of my poor existence is shared between +being delirious and coughing. + +The dining-room is full of sweets and all sorts of presents that +my friends have brought. Some of them, I dare say, are hoping +that I shall be their mistress later on. If they could see what +sickness has made of me, they would go away in terror. + +Prudence is giving her New Year's presents with those I have +received. + +There is a thaw, and the doctor says that I may go out in a few +days if the fine weather continues. + +January 8. + +I went out yesterday in my carriage. The weather was lovely. The +Champs-Elysees was full of people. It was like the first smile of +spring. Everything about me had a festal air. I never knew before +that a ray of sunshine could contain so much joy, sweetness, and +consolation. + +I met almost all the people I knew, all happy, all absorbed in +their pleasures. How many happy people don't even know that they +are happy! Olympe passed me in an elegant carriage that M. de N. +has given her. She tried to insult me by her look. She little +knows how far I am from such things now. A nice fellow, whom I +have known for a long time, asked me if I would have supper with +him and one of his friends, who, he said, was very anxious to +make my acquaintance. I smiled sadly and gave him my hand, +burning with fever. I never saw such an astonished countenance. + +I came in at four, and had quite an appetite for my dinner. Going +out has done me good. If I were only going to get well! How the +sight of the life and happiness of others gives a desire of life +to those who, only the night before, in the solitude of their +soul and in the shadow of their sick-room, only wanted to die +soon! + +January 10. + +The hope of getting better was only a dream. I am back in bed +again, covered with plasters which burn me. If I were to offer +the body that people paid so dear for once, how much would they +give, I wonder, to-day? + +We must have done something very wicked before we were born, or +else we must be going to be very happy indeed when we are dead, +for God to let this life have all the tortures of expiation and +all the sorrows of an ordeal. + +January 12. + +I am always ill. + +The Comte de N. sent me some money yesterday. I did not keep it. +I won't take anything from that man. It is through him that you +are not here. + +Oh, that good time at Bougival! Where is it now? + +If I come out of this room alive I will make a pilgrimage to the +house we lived in together, but I will never leave it until I am +dead. + +Who knows if I shall write to you to-morrow? + +January 25. + +I have not slept for eleven nights. I am suffocated. I imagine +every moment that I am going to die. The doctor has forbidden me +to touch a pen. Julie Duprat, who is looking after me, lets me +write these few lines to you. Will you not come back before I +die? Is it all over between us forever? It seems to me as if I +should get well if you came. What would be the good of getting +well? + +January 28. + +This morning I was awakened by a great noise. Julie, who slept in +my room, ran into the dining-room. I heard men's voices, and hers +protesting against them in vain. She came back crying. + +They had come to seize my things. I told her to let what they +call justice have its way. The bailiff came into my room with his +hat on. He opened the drawers, wrote down what he saw, and did +not even seem to be aware that there was a dying woman in the bed +that fortunately the charity of the law leaves me. + +He said, indeed, before going, that I could appeal within nine +days, but he left a man behind to keep watch. My God! what is to +become of me? This scene has made me worse than I was before. +Prudence wanted to go and ask your father's friend for money, but +I would not let her. + +I received your letter this morning. I was in need of it. Will my +answer reach you in time? Will you ever see me again? This is a +happy day, and it has made me forget all the days I have passed +for the last six weeks. I seem as if I am better, in spite of the +feeling of sadness under the impression of which I replied to +you. + +After all, no one is unhappy always. + +When I think that it may happen to me not to die, for you to come +back, for me to see the spring again, for you still to love me, +and for us to begin over again our last year's life! + +Fool that I am! I can scarcely hold the pen with which I write to +you of this wild dream of my heart. + +Whatever happens, I loved you well, Armand, and I would have died +long ago if I had not had the memory of your love to help me and +a sort of vague hope of seeing you beside me again. + +February 4. + +The Comte de G. has returned. His mistress has been unfaithful to +him. He is very sad; he was very fond of her. He came to tell me +all about it. The poor fellow is in rather a bad way as to money; +all the same, he has paid my bailiff and sent away the man. + +I talked to him about you, and he promised to tell you about me. +I forgot that I had been his mistress, and he tried to make me +forget it, too. He is a good friend. + +The duke sent yesterday to inquire after me, and this morning he +came to see me. I do not know how the old man still keeps alive. +He remained with me three hours and did not say twenty words. Two +big tears fell from his eyes when he saw how pale I was. The +memory of his daughter's death made him weep, no doubt. He will +have seen her die twice. His back was bowed, his head bent toward +the ground, his lips drooping, his eyes vacant. Age and sorrow +weigh with a double weight on his worn-out body. He did not +reproach me. It looked as if he rejoiced secretly to see the +ravages that disease had made in me. He seemed proud of being +still on his feet, while I, who am still young, was broken down +by suffering. + +The bad weather has returned. No one comes to see me. Julie +watches by me as much as she can. Prudence, to whom I can no +longer give as much as I used to, begins to make excuses for not +coming. + +Now that I am so near death, in spite of what the doctors tell +me, for I have several, which proves that I am getting worse, I +am almost sorry that I listened to your father; if I had known +that I should only be taking a year of your future, I could not +have resisted the longing to spend that year with you, and, at +least, I should have died with a friend to hold my hand. It is +true that if we had lived together this year, I should not have +died so soon. + +God's will be done! + +February 5. + +Oh, come, come, Armand! I suffer horribly; I am going to die, O +God! I was so miserable yesterday that I wanted to spend the +evening, which seemed as if it were going to be as long as the +last, anywhere but at home. The duke came in the morning. It +seems to me as if the sight of this old man, whom death has +forgotten, makes me die faster. + +Despite the burning fever which devoured me, I made them dress me +and take me to the Vaudeville. Julie put on some rouge for me, +without which I should have looked like a corpse. I had the box +where I gave you our first rendezvous. All the time I had my eyes +fixed on the stall where you sat that day, though a sort of +country fellow sat there, laughing loudly at all the foolish +things that the actors said. I was half dead when they brought me +home. I coughed and spat blood all the night. To-day I can not +speak, I can scarcely move my arm. My God! My God! I am going to +die! I have been expecting it, but I can not get used to the +thought of suffering more than I suffer now, and if-- + +After this the few characters traced by Marguerite were +indecipherable, and what followed was written by Julie Duprat. + +February 18. + +MONSIEUR ARMAND: + +Since the day that Marguerite insisted on going to the theatre +she has got worse and worse. She has completely lost her voice, +and now the use of her limbs. + +What our poor friend suffers is impossible to say. I am not used +to emotions of this kind, and I am in a state of constant fright. + +How I wish you were here! She is almost always delirious; but +delirious or lucid, it is always your name that she pronounces, +when she can speak a word. + +The doctor tells me that she is not here for long. Since she got +so ill the old duke has not returned. He told the doctor that the +sight was too much for him. + +Mme. Duvernoy is not behaving well. This woman, who thought she +could get more money out of Marguerite, at whose expense she was +living almost completely, has contracted liabilities which she +can not meet, and seeing that her neighbour is no longer of use +to her, she does not even come to see her. Everybody is +abandoning her. M. de G., prosecuted for his debts, has had to +return to London. On leaving, he sent us more money; he has done +all he could, but they have returned to seize the things, and the +creditors are only waiting for her to die in order to sell +everything. + +I wanted to use my last resources to put a stop to it, but the +bailiff told me it was no use, and that there are other seizures +to follow. Since she must die, it is better to let everything go +than to save it for her family, whom she has never cared to see, +and who have never cared for her. You can not conceive in the +midst of what gilded misery the poor thing is dying. Yesterday we +had absolutely no money. Plate, jewels, shawls, everything is in +pawn; the rest is sold or seized. Marguerite is still conscious +of what goes on around her, and she suffers in body, mind, and +heart. Big tears trickle down her cheeks, so thin and pale that +you would never recognise the face of her whom you loved so much, +if you could see her. She has made me promise to write to you +when she can no longer write, and I write before her. She turns +her eyes toward me, but she no longer sees me; her eyes are +already veiled by the coming of death; yet she smiles, and all +her thoughts, all her soul are yours, I am sure. + +Every time the door opens her eyes brighten, and she thinks you +are going to come in; then, when she sees that it is not you, her +face resumes its sorrowful expression, a cold sweat breaks out +over it, and her cheek-bones flush. + +February 19, midnight. + +What a sad day we have had to-day, poor M. Armand! This morning +Marguerite was stifling; the doctor bled her, and her voice has +returned to her a while. The doctor begged her to see a priest. +She said "Yes," and he went himself to fetch an abbe' from Saint +Roch. + +Meanwhile Marguerite called me up to her bed, asked me to open a +cupboard, and pointed out a cap and a long chemise covered with +lace, and said in a feeble voice: + +"I shall die as soon as I have confessed. Then you will dress me +in these things; it is the whim of a dying woman.? + +Then she embraced me with tears and added: + +"I can speak, but I am stifled when I speak; I am stifling. Air!" + +I burst into tears, opened the window, and a few minutes +afterward the priest entered. I went up to him; when he knew +where he was, he seemed afraid of being badly received. + +"Come in boldly, father," I said to him. + +He stayed a very short time in the room, and when he came out he +said to me: + +"She lived a sinner, and she will die a Christian." + +A few minutes afterward he returned with a choir boy bearing a +crucifix, and a sacristan who went before them ringing the bell +to announce that God was coming to the dying one. + +They went all three into the bed-room where so many strange words +have been said, but was now a sort of holy tabernacle. + +I fell on my knees. I do not know how long the impression of what +I saw will last, but I do not think that, till my turn comes, any +human thing can make so deep an impression on me. + +The priest anointed with holy oil the feet and hands and forehead +of the dying woman, repeated a short prayer, and Marguerite was +ready to set out for the heaven to which I doubt not she will go, +if God has seen the ordeal of her life and the sanctity of her +death. + +Since then she has not said a word or made a movement. Twenty +times I should have thought her dead if I had not heard her +breathing painfully. + +February 20, 5 P.M. + +All is over. + +Marguerite fell into her last agony at about two o'clock. Never +did a martyr suffer such torture, to judge by the cries she +uttered. Two or three times she sat upright in the bed, as if she +would hold on to her life, which was escaping toward God. + +Two or three times also she said your name; then all was silent, +and she fell back on the bed exhausted. Silent tears flowed from +her eyes, and she was dead. + +Then I went up to her; I called her, and as she did not answer I +closed her eyes and kissed her on the forehead. + +Poor, dear Marguerite, I wish I were a holy woman that my kiss +might recommend you to God. + +Then I dressed her as she had asked me to do. I went to find a +priest at Saint Roch, I burned two candles for her, and I prayed +in the church for an hour. + +I gave the money she left to the poor. + +I do not know much about religion, but I think that God will know +that my tears were genuine, my prayers fervent, my alms-giving +sincere, and that he will have pity on her who, dying young and +beautiful, has only had me to close her eyes and put her in her +shroud. + +February 22. + +The burial took place to-day. Many of Marguerite's friends came +to the church. Some of them wept with sincerity. When the funeral +started on the way to Montmartre only two men followed it: the +Comte de G., who came from London on purpose, and the duke, who +was supported by two footmen. + +I write you these details from her house, in the midst of my +tears and under the lamp which burns sadly beside a dinner which +I can not touch, as you can imagine, but which Nanine has got for +me, for I have eaten nothing for twenty-four hours. + +My life can not retain these sad impressions for long, for my +life is not my own any more than Marguerite's was hers; that is +why I give you all these details on the very spot where they +occurred, in the fear, if a long time elapsed between them and +your return, that I might not be able to give them to you with +all their melancholy exactitude. + + + +Chapter 27 + +"You have read it?" said Armand, when I had finished the +manuscript. + +"I understand what you must have suffered, my friend, if all that +I read is true." + +"My father confirmed it in a letter." + +We talked for some time over the sad destiny which had been +accomplished, and I went home to rest a little. + +Armand, still sad, but a little relieved by the narration of his +story, soon recovered, and we went together to pay a visit to +Prudence and to Julie Duprat. + +Prudence had become bankrupt. She told us that Marguerite was the +cause of it; that during her illness she had lent her a lot of +money in the form of promissory notes, which she could not pay, +Marguerite having died without having returned her the money, and +without having given her a receipt with which she could present +herself as a creditor. + +By the help of this fable, which Mme. Duvernoy repeated +everywhere in order to account for her money difficulties, she +extracted a note for a thousand francs from Armand, who did not +believe it, but who pretended to, out of respect for all those in +whose company Marguerite had lived. + +Then we called on Julie Duprat, who told us the sad incident +which she had witnessed, shedding real tears at the remembrance +of her friend. + +Lastly, we went to Marguerite's grave, on which the first rays of +the April sun were bringing the first leaves into bud. + +One duty remained to Armand--to return to his father. He wished +me to accompany him. + +We arrived at C., where I saw M. Duval, such as I had imagined +him from the portrait his son had made of him, tall, dignified, +kindly. + +He welcomed Armand with tears of joy, and clasped my hand +affectionately. I was not long in seeing that the paternal +sentiment was that which dominated all others in his mind. + +His daughter, named Blanche, had that transparence of eyes, that +serenity of the mouth, which indicates a soul that conceives only +holy thoughts and lips that repeat only pious words. She welcomed +her brother's return with smiles, not knowing, in the purity of +her youth, that far away a courtesan had sacrificed her own +happiness at the mere invocation of her name. + +I remained for some time in their happy family, full of indulgent +care for one who brought them the convalescence of his heart. + +I returned to Paris, where I wrote this story just as it had been +told me. It has only one merit, which will perhaps be denied it; +that is, that it is true. + +I do not draw from this story the conclusion that all women like +Marguerite are capable of doing all that she did--far from it; +but I have discovered that one of them experienced a serious love +in the course of her life, that she suffered for it, and that she +died of it. I have told the reader all that I learned. It was my +duty. + +I am not the apostle of vice, but I would gladly be the echo of +noble sorrow wherever I bear its voice in prayer. + +The story of Marguerite is an exception, I repeat; had it not +been an exception, it would not have been worth the trouble of +writing it. + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg Etext of Camille[La Dame aux Camilias] by Dumas + diff --git a/old/1998-09-09-cmlle10.zip b/old/1998-09-09-cmlle10.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..18b9a1a --- /dev/null +++ b/old/1998-09-09-cmlle10.zip diff --git a/old/2017-02-18-1608.txt b/old/2017-02-18-1608.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..287a161 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/2017-02-18-1608.txt @@ -0,0 +1,8470 @@ +Project Gutenberg's Camille (La Dame aux Camilias), by Alexandre Dumas, fils + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Camille (La Dame aux Camilias) + +Author: Alexandre Dumas, fils + +Posting Date: September 26, 2008 [EBook #1608] +Release Date: January, 1999 +Last Updated: July 3, 2016 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CAMILLE (LA DAME AUX CAMILIAS) *** + + + + +Produced by Dianne Bean + + + + + +CAMILLE (LA DAME AUX CAMILIAS) + +By Alexandre Dumas, fils + + + + +Chapter 1 + +In my opinion, it is impossible to create characters until one has spent +a long time in studying men, as it is impossible to speak a language +until it has been seriously acquired. Not being old enough to invent, I +content myself with narrating, and I beg the reader to assure himself of +the truth of a story in which all the characters, with the exception of +the heroine, are still alive. Eye-witnesses of the greater part of the +facts which I have collected are to be found in Paris, and I might call +upon them to confirm me if my testimony is not enough. And, thanks to a +particular circumstance, I alone can write these things, for I alone +am able to give the final details, without which it would have been +impossible to make the story at once interesting and complete. + +This is how these details came to my knowledge. On the 12th of March, +1847, I saw in the Rue Lafitte a great yellow placard announcing a sale +of furniture and curiosities. The sale was to take place on account of +the death of the owner. The owner's name was not mentioned, but the sale +was to be held at 9, Rue d'Antin, on the 16th, from 12 to 5. The placard +further announced that the rooms and furniture could be seen on the 13th +and 14th. + +I have always been very fond of curiosities, and I made up my mind not +to miss the occasion, if not of buying some, at all events of seeing +them. Next day I called at 9, Rue d'Antin. + +It was early in the day, and yet there were already a number of +visitors, both men and women, and the women, though they were dressed +in cashmere and velvet, and had their carriages waiting for them at the +door, gazed with astonishment and admiration at the luxury which they +saw before them. + +I was not long in discovering the reason of this astonishment and +admiration, for, having begun to examine things a little carefully, I +discovered without difficulty that I was in the house of a kept woman. +Now, if there is one thing which women in society would like to see (and +there were society women there), it is the home of those women whose +carriages splash their own carriages day by day, who, like them, side by +side with them, have their boxes at the Opera and at the Italiens, +and who parade in Paris the opulent insolence of their beauty, their +diamonds, and their scandal. + +This one was dead, so the most virtuous of women could enter even her +bedroom. Death had purified the air of this abode of splendid foulness, +and if more excuse were needed, they had the excuse that they had merely +come to a sale, they knew not whose. They had read the placards, they +wished to see what the placards had announced, and to make their choice +beforehand. What could be more natural? Yet, all the same, in the midst +of all these beautiful things, they could not help looking about for +some traces of this courtesan's life, of which they had heard, no doubt, +strange enough stories. + +Unfortunately the mystery had vanished with the goddess, and, for +all their endeavours, they discovered only what was on sale since +the owner's decease, and nothing of what had been on sale during her +lifetime. For the rest, there were plenty of things worth buying. The +furniture was superb; there were rosewood and buhl cabinets and tables, +Sevres and Chinese vases, Saxe statuettes, satin, velvet, lace; there +was nothing lacking. + +I sauntered through the rooms, following the inquisitive ladies of +distinction. They entered a room with Persian hangings, and I was just +going to enter in turn, when they came out again almost immediately, +smiling, and as if ashamed of their own curiosity. I was all the more +eager to see the room. It was the dressing-room, laid out with all the +articles of toilet, in which the dead woman's extravagance seemed to be +seen at its height. + +On a large table against the wall, a table three feet in width and six +in length, glittered all the treasures of Aucoc and Odiot. It was a +magnificent collection, and there was not one of those thousand little +things so necessary to the toilet of a woman of the kind which was not +in gold or silver. Such a collection could only have been got together +little by little, and the same lover had certainly not begun and ended +it. + +Not being shocked at the sight of a kept woman's dressing-room, I +amused myself with examining every detail, and I discovered that these +magnificently chiselled objects bore different initials and different +coronets. I looked at one after another, each recalling a separate +shame, and I said that God had been merciful to the poor child, in not +having left her to pay the ordinary penalty, but rather to die in +the midst of her beauty and luxury, before the coming of old age, the +courtesan's first death. + +Is there anything sadder in the world than the old age of vice, +especially in woman? She preserves no dignity, she inspires no interest. +The everlasting repentance, not of the evil ways followed, but of the +plans that have miscarried, the money that has been spent in vain, is +as saddening a thing as one can well meet with. I knew an aged woman who +had once been "gay," whose only link with the past was a daughter almost +as beautiful as she herself had been. This poor creature to whom her +mother had never said, "You are my child," except to bid her nourish her +old age as she herself had nourished her youth, was called Louise, and, +being obedient to her mother, she abandoned herself without volition, +without passion, without pleasure, as she would have worked at any other +profession that might have been taught her. + +The constant sight of dissipation, precocious dissipation, in addition +to her constant sickly state, had extinguished in her mind all the +knowledge of good and evil that God had perhaps given her, but that no +one had ever thought of developing. I shall always remember her, as +she passed along the boulevards almost every day at the same hour, +accompanied by her mother as assiduously as a real mother might have +accompanied her daughter. I was very young then, and ready to accept for +myself the easy morality of the age. I remember, however, the +contempt and disgust which awoke in me at the sight of this scandalous +chaperoning. Her face, too, was inexpressibly virginal in its expression +of innocence and of melancholy suffering. She was like a figure of +Resignation. + +One day the girl's face was transfigured. In the midst of all the +debauches mapped out by her mother, it seemed to her as if God had left +over for her one happiness. And why indeed should God, who had made her +without strength, have left her without consolation, under the sorrowful +burden of her life? One day, then, she realized that she was to have a +child, and all that remained to her of chastity leaped for joy. The soul +has strange refuges. Louise ran to tell the good news to her mother. +It is a shameful thing to speak of, but we are not telling tales of +pleasant sins; we are telling of true facts, which it would be better, +no doubt, to pass over in silence, if we did not believe that it is +needful from time to time to reveal the martyrdom of those who are +condemned without bearing, scorned without judging; shameful it is, but +this mother answered the daughter that they had already scarce enough +for two, and would certainly not have enough for three; that such +children are useless, and a lying-in is so much time lost. + +Next day a midwife, of whom all we will say is that she was a friend of +the mother, visited Louise, who remained in bed for a few days, and then +got up paler and feebler than before. + +Three months afterward a man took pity on her and tried to heal her, +morally and physically; but the last shock had been too violent, and +Louise died of it. The mother still lives; how? God knows. + +This story returned to my mind while I looked at the silver toilet +things, and a certain space of time must have elapsed during these +reflections, for no one was left in the room but myself and an +attendant, who, standing near the door, was carefully watching me to see +that I did not pocket anything. + +I went up to the man, to whom I was causing so much anxiety. "Sir," I +said, "can you tell me the name of the person who formerly lived here?" + +"Mademoiselle Marguerite Gautier." + +I knew her by name and by sight. + +"What!" I said to the attendant; "Marguerite Gautier is dead?" + +"Yes, sir." + +"When did she die?" + +"Three weeks ago, I believe." + +"And why are the rooms on view?" + +"The creditors believe that it will send up the prices. People can see +beforehand the effect of the things; you see that induces them to buy." + +"She was in debt, then?" + +"To any extent, sir." + +"But the sale will cover it?" + +"And more too." + +"Who will get what remains over?" + +"Her family." + +"She had a family?" + +"It seems so." + +"Thanks." + +The attendant, reassured as to my intentions, touched his hat, and I +went out. + +"Poor girl!" I said to myself as I returned home; "she must have had a +sad death, for, in her world, one has friends only when one is perfectly +well." And in spite of myself I began to feel melancholy over the fate +of Marguerite Gautier. + +It will seem absurd to many people, but I have an unbounded sympathy +for women of this kind, and I do not think it necessary to apologize for +such sympathy. + +One day, as I was going to the Prefecture for a passport, I saw in one +of the neighbouring streets a poor girl who was being marched along by +two policemen. I do not know what was the matter. All I know is that she +was weeping bitterly as she kissed an infant only a few months old, from +whom her arrest was to separate her. Since that day I have never dared +to despise a woman at first sight. + + + +Chapter 2 + +The sale was to take place on the 16th. A day's interval had been left +between the visiting days and the sale, in order to give time for taking +down the hangings, curtains, etc. I had just returned from abroad. It +was natural that I had not heard of Marguerite's death among the pieces +of news which one's friends always tell on returning after an absence. +Marguerite was a pretty woman; but though the life of such women makes +sensation enough, their death makes very little. They are suns which set +as they rose, unobserved. Their death, when they die young, is heard +of by all their lovers at the same moment, for in Paris almost all +the lovers of a well-known woman are friends. A few recollections are +exchanged, and everybody's life goes on as if the incident had never +occurred, without so much as a tear. + +Nowadays, at twenty-five, tears have become so rare a thing that they +are not to be squandered indiscriminately. It is the most that can be +expected if the parents who pay for being wept over are wept over in +return for the price they pay. + +As for me, though my initials did not occur on any of Marguerite's +belongings, that instinctive indulgence, that natural pity that I have +already confessed, set me thinking over her death, more perhaps than it +was worth thinking over. I remembered having often met Marguerite in the +Bois, where she went regularly every day in a little blue coupe drawn by +two magnificent bays, and I had noticed in her a distinction quite apart +from other women of her kind, a distinction which was enhanced by a +really exceptional beauty. + +These unfortunate creatures whenever they go out are always accompanied +by somebody or other. As no man cares to make himself conspicuous by +being seen in their company, and as they are afraid of solitude, they +take with them either those who are not well enough off to have a +carriage, or one or another of those elegant, ancient ladies, whose +elegance is a little inexplicable, and to whom one can always go for +information in regard to the women whom they accompany. + +In Marguerite's case it was quite different. She was always alone when +she drove in the Champs-Elysees, lying back in her carriage as much as +possible, dressed in furs in winter, and in summer wearing very simple +dresses; and though she often passed people whom she knew, her smile, +when she chose to smile, was seen only by them, and a duchess might +have smiled in just such a manner. She did not drive to and fro like the +others, from the Rond-Point to the end of the Champs-Elysees. She drove +straight to the Bois. There she left her carriage, walked for an hour, +returned to her carriage, and drove rapidly home. + +All these circumstances which I had so often witnessed came back to my +memory, and I regretted her death as one might regret the destruction of +a beautiful work of art. + +It was impossible to see more charm in beauty than in that of +Marguerite. Excessively tall and thin, she had in the fullest degree the +art of repairing this oversight of Nature by the mere arrangement of the +things she wore. Her cashmere reached to the ground, and showed on each +side the large flounces of a silk dress, and the heavy muff which she +held pressed against her bosom was surrounded by such cunningly arranged +folds that the eye, however exacting, could find no fault with the +contour of the lines. Her head, a marvel, was the object of the most +coquettish care. It was small, and her mother, as Musset would say, +seemed to have made it so in order to make it with care. + +Set, in an oval of indescribable grace, two black eyes, surmounted by +eyebrows of so pure a curve that it seemed as if painted; veil these +eyes with lovely lashes, which, when drooped, cast their shadow on the +rosy hue of the cheeks; trace a delicate, straight nose, the nostrils +a little open, in an ardent aspiration toward the life of the senses; +design a regular mouth, with lips parted graciously over teeth as white +as milk; colour the skin with the down of a peach that no hand +has touched, and you will have the general aspect of that charming +countenance. The hair, black as jet, waving naturally or not, was +parted on the forehead in two large folds and draped back over the head, +leaving in sight just the tip of the ears, in which there glittered two +diamonds, worth four to five thousand francs each. How it was that her +ardent life had left on Marguerite's face the virginal, almost childlike +expression, which characterized it, is a problem which we can but state, +without attempting to solve it. + +Marguerite had a marvellous portrait of herself, by Vidal, the only man +whose pencil could do her justice. I had this portrait by me for a few +days after her death, and the likeness was so astonishing that it has +helped to refresh my memory in regard to some points which I might not +otherwise have remembered. + +Some among the details of this chapter did not reach me until later, +but I write them here so as not to be obliged to return to them when the +story itself has begun. + +Marguerite was always present at every first night, and passed every +evening either at the theatre or the ball. Whenever there was a new +piece she was certain to be seen, and she invariably had three things +with her on the ledge of her ground-floor box: her opera-glass, a bag of +sweets, and a bouquet of camellias. + +For twenty-five days of the month the camellias were white, and for five +they were red; no one ever knew the reason of this change of colour, +which I mention though I can not explain it; it was noticed both by her +friends and by the habitue's of the theatres to which she most often +went. She was never seen with any flowers but camellias. At the +florist's, Madame Barjon's, she had come to be called "the Lady of the +Camellias," and the name stuck to her. + +Like all those who move in a certain set in Paris, I knew that +Marguerite had lived with some of the most fashionable young men in +society, that she spoke of it openly, and that they themselves +boasted of it; so that all seemed equally pleased with one another. +Nevertheless, for about three years, after a visit to Bagnees, she was +said to be living with an old duke, a foreigner, enormously rich, who +had tried to remove her as far as possible from her former life, and, as +it seemed, entirely to her own satisfaction. + +This is what I was told on the subject. In the spring of 1847 Marguerite +was so ill that the doctors ordered her to take the waters, and she went +to Bagneres. Among the invalids was the daughter of this duke; she +was not only suffering from the same complaint, but she was so like +Marguerite in appearance that they might have been taken for sisters; +the young duchess was in the last stage of consumption, and a few days +after Marguerite's arrival she died. One morning, the duke, who had +remained at Bagneres to be near the soil that had buried a part of his +heart, caught sight of Marguerite at a turn of the road. He seemed to +see the shadow of his child, and going up to her, he took her hands, +embraced and wept over her, and without even asking her who she was, +begged her to let him love in her the living image of his dead child. +Marguerite, alone at Bagneres with her maid, and not being in any fear +of compromising herself, granted the duke's request. Some people who +knew her, happening to be at Bagneres, took upon themselves to explain +Mademoiselle Gautier's true position to the duke. It was a blow to +the old man, for the resemblance with his daughter was ended in one +direction, but it was too late. She had become a necessity to his heart, +his only pretext, his only excuse, for living. He made no reproaches, +he had indeed no right to do so, but he asked her if she felt herself +capable of changing her mode of life, offering her in return for the +sacrifice every compensation that she could desire. She consented. + +It must be said that Marguerite was just then very ill. The past seemed +to her sensitive nature as if it were one of the main causes of her +illness, and a sort of superstition led her to hope that God would +restore to her both health and beauty in return for her repentance and +conversion. By the end of the summer, the waters, sleep, the natural +fatigue of long walks, had indeed more or less restored her health. The +duke accompanied her to Paris, where he continued to see her as he had +done at Bagneres. + +This liaison, whose motive and origin were quite unknown, caused a great +sensation, for the duke, already known for his immense fortune, +now became known for his prodigality. All this was set down to the +debauchery of a rich old man, and everything was believed except the +truth. The father's sentiment for Marguerite had, in truth, so pure a +cause that anything but a communion of hearts would have seemed to him a +kind of incest, and he had never spoken to her a word which his daughter +might not have heard. + +Far be it from me to make out our heroine to be anything but what she +was. As long as she remained at Bagneres, the promise she had made to +the duke had not been hard to keep, and she had kept it; but, once back +in Paris, it seemed to her, accustomed to a life of dissipation, of +balls, of orgies, as if the solitude, only interrupted by the duke's +stated visits, would kill her with boredom, and the hot breath of her +old life came back across her head and heart. + +We must add that Marguerite had returned more beautiful than she had +ever been; she was but twenty, and her malady, sleeping but not subdued, +continued to give her those feverish desires which are almost always the +result of diseases of the chest. + +It was a great grief to the duke when his friends, always on the lookout +for some scandal on the part of the woman with whom, it seemed to them, +he was compromising himself, came to tell him, indeed to prove to him, +that at times when she was sure of not seeing him she received other +visits, and that these visits were often prolonged till the following +day. On being questioned, Marguerite admitted everything to the duke, +and advised him, without arriere-pensee, to concern himself with her no +longer, for she felt incapable of carrying out what she had undertaken, +and she did not wish to go on accepting benefits from a man whom she was +deceiving. The duke did not return for a week; it was all he could do, +and on the eighth day he came to beg Marguerite to let him still visit +her, promising that he would take her as she was, so long as he might +see her, and swearing that he would never utter a reproach against her, +not though he were to die of it. + +This, then, was the state of things three months after Marguerite's +return; that is to say, in November or December, 1842. + + + +Chapter 3 + +At one o'clock on the 16th I went to the Rue d'Antin. The voice of the +auctioneer could be heard from the outer door. The rooms were crowded +with people. There were all the celebrities of the most elegant +impropriety, furtively examined by certain great ladies who had again +seized the opportunity of the sale in order to be able to see, close at +hand, women whom they might never have another occasion of meeting, and +whom they envied perhaps in secret for their easy pleasures. The Duchess +of F. elbowed Mlle. A., one of the most melancholy examples of our +modern courtesan; the Marquis de T. hesitated over a piece of furniture +the price of which was being run high by Mme. D., the most elegant and +famous adulteress of our time; the Duke of Y., who in Madrid is supposed +to be ruining himself in Paris, and in Paris to be ruining himself in +Madrid, and who, as a matter of fact, never even reaches the limit of +his income, talked with Mme. M., one of our wittiest story-tellers, who +from time to time writes what she says and signs what she writes, while +at the same time he exchanged confidential glances with Mme. de N., a +fair ornament of the Champs-Elysees, almost always dressed in pink +or blue, and driving two big black horses which Tony had sold her for +10,000 francs, and for which she had paid, after her fashion; finally, +Mlle. R., who makes by her mere talent twice what the women of the world +make by their dot and three times as much as the others make by their +amours, had come, in spite of the cold, to make some purchases, and was +not the least looked at among the crowd. + +We might cite the initials of many more of those who found themselves, +not without some mutual surprise, side by side in one room. But we fear +to weary the reader. We will only add that everyone was in the highest +spirits, and that many of those present had known the dead woman, and +seemed quite oblivious of the fact. There was a sound of loud laughter; +the auctioneers shouted at the top of their voices; the dealers who had +filled the benches in front of the auction table tried in vain to obtain +silence, in order to transact their business in peace. Never was there a +noisier or a more varied gathering. + +I slipped quietly into the midst of this tumult, sad to think of when +one remembered that the poor creature whose goods were being sold to pay +her debts had died in the next room. Having come rather to examine than +to buy, I watched the faces of the auctioneers, noticing how they +beamed with delight whenever anything reached a price beyond their +expectations. Honest creatures, who had speculated upon this woman's +prostitution, who had gained their hundred per cent out of her, who had +plagued with their writs the last moments of her life, and who came now +after her death to gather in at once the fruits of their dishonourable +calculations and the interest on their shameful credit, How wise were +the ancients in having only one God for traders and robbers! + +Dresses, cashmeres, jewels, were sold with incredible rapidity. There +was nothing that I cared for, and I still waited. All at once I heard: +"A volume, beautifully bound, gilt-edged, entitled Manon Lescaut. There +is something written on the first page. Ten francs." + +"Twelve," said a voice after a longish silence. + +"Fifteen," I said. + +Why? I did not know. Doubtless for the something written. + +"Fifteen," repeated the auctioneer. + +"Thirty," said the first bidder in a tone which seemed to defy further +competition. + +It had now become a struggle. "Thirty-five," I cried in the same tone. + +"Forty." + +"Fifty." + +"Sixty." + +"A hundred." + +If I had wished to make a sensation I should certainly have succeeded, +for a profound silence had ensued, and people gazed at me as if to see +what sort of a person it was, who seemed to be so determined to possess +the volume. + +The accent which I had given to my last word seemed to convince my +adversary; he preferred to abandon a conflict which could only have +resulted in making me pay ten times its price for the volume, and, +bowing, he said very gracefully, though indeed a little late: + +"I give way, sir." + +Nothing more being offered, the book was assigned to me. + +As I was afraid of some new fit of obstinacy, which my amour propre +might have sustained somewhat better than my purse, I wrote down my +name, had the book put on one side, and went out. I must have given +considerable food for reflection to the witnesses of this scene, who +would no doubt ask themselves what my purpose could have been in paying +a hundred francs for a book which I could have had anywhere for ten, or, +at the outside, fifteen. + +An hour after, I sent for my purchase. On the first page was written +in ink, in an elegant hand, an inscription on the part of the giver. It +consisted of these words: + +Manon to Marguerite. + +Humility. + +It was signed Armand Duval. + +What was the meaning of the word Humility? Was Manon to recognise in +Marguerite, in the opinion of M. Armand Duval, her superior in vice or +in affection? The second interpretation seemed the more probable, for +the first would have been an impertinent piece of plain speaking which +Marguerite, whatever her opinion of herself, would never have accepted. + +I went out again, and thought no more of the book until at night, when I +was going to bed. + +Manon Lescaut is a touching story. I know every detail of it, and yet +whenever I come across the volume the same sympathy always draws me to +it; I open it, and for the hundredth time I live over again with the +heroine of the Abbe Prevost. Now this heroine is so true to life that I +feel as if I had known her; and thus the sort of comparison between +her and Marguerite gave me an unusual inclination to read it, and my +indulgence passed into pity, almost into a kind of love for the poor +girl to whom I owed the volume. Manon died in the desert, it is true, +but in the arms of the man who loved her with the whole energy of his +soul; who, when she was dead, dug a grave for her, and watered it with +his tears, and buried his heart in it; while Marguerite, a sinner like +Manon, and perhaps converted like her, had died in a sumptuous bed (it +seemed, after what I had seen, the bed of her past), but in that desert +of the heart, a more barren, a vaster, a more pitiless desert than that +in which Manon had found her last resting-place. + +Marguerite, in fact, as I had found from some friends who knew of the +last circumstances of her life, had not a single real friend by her +bedside during the two months of her long and painful agony. + +Then from Manon and Marguerite my mind wandered to those whom I knew, +and whom I saw singing along the way which led to just such another +death. Poor souls! if it is not right to love them, is it not well to +pity them? You pity the blind man who has never seen the daylight, the +deaf who has never heard the harmonies of nature, the dumb who has never +found a voice for his soul, and, under a false cloak of shame, you will +not pity this blindness of heart, this deafness of soul, this dumbness +of conscience, which sets the poor afflicted creature beside herself +and makes her, in spite of herself, incapable of seeing what is good, of +bearing the Lord, and of speaking the pure language of love and faith. + +Hugo has written Marion Delorme, Musset has written Bernerette, +Alexandre Dumas has written Fernande, the thinkers and poets of all time +have brought to the courtesan the offering of their pity, and at times +a great man has rehabilitated them with his love and even with his name. +If I insist on this point, it is because many among those who have begun +to read me will be ready to throw down a book in which they will fear to +find an apology for vice and prostitution; and the author's age will do +something, no doubt, to increase this fear. Let me undeceive those +who think thus, and let them go on reading, if nothing but such a fear +hinders them. + +I am quite simply convinced of a certain principle, which is: For the +woman whose education has not taught her what is right, God almost +always opens two ways which lead thither the ways of sorrow and of love. +They are hard; those who walk in them walk with bleeding feet and torn +hands, but they also leave the trappings of vice upon the thorns of +the wayside, and reach the journey's end in a nakedness which is not +shameful in the sight of the Lord. + +Those who meet these bold travellers ought to succour them, and to tell +all that they have met them, for in so doing they point out the way. It +is not a question of setting at the outset of life two sign-posts, one +bearing the inscription "The Right Way," the other the inscription "The +Wrong Way," and of saying to those who come there, "Choose." One must +needs, like Christ, point out the ways which lead from the second +road to the first, to those who have been easily led astray; and it is +needful that the beginning of these ways should not be too painful nor +appear too impenetrable. + +Here is Christianity with its marvellous parable of the Prodigal Son to +teach us indulgence and pardon. Jesus was full of love for souls wounded +by the passions of men; he loved to bind up their wounds and to find in +those very wounds the balm which should heal them. Thus he said to the +Magdalen: "Much shall be forgiven thee because thou hast loved much," a +sublimity of pardon which can only have called forth a sublime faith. + +Why do we make ourselves more strict than Christ? Why, holding +obstinately to the opinions of the world, which hardens itself in +order that it may be thought strong, do we reject, as it rejects, souls +bleeding at wounds by which, like a sick man's bad blood, the evil of +their past may be healed, if only a friendly hand is stretched out to +lave them and set them in the convalescence of the heart? + +It is to my own generation that I speak, to those for whom the theories +of M. de Voltaire happily exist no longer, to those who, like myself, +realize that humanity, for these last fifteen years, has been in one of +its most audacious moments of expansion. The science of good and evil +is acquired forever; faith is refashioned, respect for sacred things has +returned to us, and if the world has not all at once become good, it has +at least become better. The efforts of every intelligent man tend in +the same direction, and every strong will is harnessed to the same +principle: Be good, be young, be true! Evil is nothing but vanity, let +us have the pride of good, and above all let us never despair. Do not +let us despise the woman who is neither mother, sister, maid, nor wife. +Do not let us limit esteem to the family nor indulgence to egoism. Since +"there is more joy in heaven over one sinner that repenteth than over +ninety and nine just persons that need no repentance," let us give joy +to heaven. Heaven will render it back to us with usury. Let us leave on +our way the alms of pardon for those whom earthly desires have driven +astray, whom a divine hope shall perhaps save, and, as old women say +when they offer you some homely remedy of their own, if it does no good +it will do no harm. + +Doubtless it must seem a bold thing to attempt to deduce these grand +results out of the meagre subject that I deal with; but I am one of +those who believe that all is in little. The child is small, and he +includes the man; the brain is narrow, and it harbours thought; the eye +is but a point, and it covers leagues. + + + +Chapter 4 + +Two days after, the sale was ended. It had produced 3.50,000 francs. The +creditors divided among them two thirds, and the family, a sister and a +grand-nephew, received the remainder. + +The sister opened her eyes very wide when the lawyer wrote to her that +she had inherited 50,000 francs. The girl had not seen her sister for +six or seven years, and did not know what had become of her from the +moment when she had disappeared from home. She came up to Paris in +haste, and great was the astonishment of those who had known Marguerite +when they saw as her only heir a fine, fat country girl, who until then +had never left her village. She had made the fortune at a single stroke, +without even knowing the source of that fortune. She went back, I heard +afterward, to her countryside, greatly saddened by her sister's death, +but with a sadness which was somewhat lightened by the investment at +four and a half per cent which she had been able to make. + +All these circumstances, often repeated in Paris, the mother city of +scandal, had begun to be forgotten, and I was even little by little +forgetting the part I had taken in them, when a new incident brought to +my knowledge the whole of Marguerite's life, and acquainted me with +such pathetic details that I was taken with the idea of writing down the +story which I now write. + +The rooms, now emptied of all their furniture, had been to let for three +or four days when one morning there was a ring at my door. + +My servant, or, rather, my porter, who acted as my servant, went to the +door and brought me a card, saying that the person who had given it to +him wished to see me. + +I glanced at the card and there read these two words: Armand Duval. + +I tried to think where I had seen the name, and remembered the first +leaf of the copy of Manon Lescaut. What could the person who had given +the book to Marguerite want of me? I gave orders to ask him in at once. + +I saw a young man, blond, tall, pale, dressed in a travelling suit which +looked as if he had not changed it for some days, and had not even taken +the trouble to brush it on arriving at Paris, for it was covered with +dust. + +M. Duval was deeply agitated; he made no attempt to conceal his +agitation, and it was with tears in his eyes and a trembling voice that +he said to me: + +"Sir, I beg you to excuse my visit and my costume; but young people are +not very ceremonious with one another, and I was so anxious to see you +to-day that I have not even gone to the hotel to which I have sent my +luggage, and have rushed straight here, fearing that, after all, I might +miss you, early as it is." + +I begged M. Duval to sit down by the fire; he did so, and, taking his +handkerchief from his pocket, hid his face in it for a moment. + +"You must be at a loss to understand," he went on, sighing sadly, "for +what purpose an unknown visitor, at such an hour, in such a costume, and +in tears, can have come to see you. I have simply come to ask of you a +great service." + +"Speak on, sir, I am entirely at your disposal." + +"You were present at the sale of Marguerite Gautier?" + +At this word the emotion, which he had got the better of for an instant, +was too much for him, and he was obliged to cover his eyes with his +hand. + +"I must seem to you very absurd," he added, "but pardon me, and believe +that I shall never forget the patience with which you have listened to +me." + +"Sir," I answered, "if the service which I can render you is able to +lessen your trouble a little, tell me at once what I can do for you, and +you will find me only too happy to oblige you." + +M. Duval's sorrow was sympathetic, and in spite of myself I felt the +desire of doing him a kindness. Thereupon he said to me: + +"You bought something at Marguerite's sale?" + +"Yes, a book." + +"Manon Lescaut?" + +"Precisely." + +"Have you the book still?" + +"It is in my bedroom." + +On hearing this, Armand Duval seemed to be relieved of a great weight, +and thanked me as if I had already rendered him a service merely by +keeping the book. + +I got up and went into my room to fetch the book, which I handed to him. + +"That is it indeed," he said, looking at the inscription on the first +page and turning over the leaves; "that is it in deed," and two big +tears fell on the pages. "Well, sir," said he, lifting his head, and no +longer trying to hide from me that he had wept and was even then on the +point of weeping, "do you value this book very greatly?" + +"Why?" + +"Because I have come to ask you to give it up to me." + +"Pardon my curiosity, but was it you, then, who gave it to Marguerite +Gautier?" + +"It was!" + +"The book is yours, sir; take it back. I am happy to be able to hand it +over to you." + +"But," said M. Duval with some embarrassment, "the least I can do is to +give you in return the price which you paid for it." + +"Allow me to offer it to you. The price of a single volume in a sale of +that kind is a mere nothing, and I do not remember how much I gave for +it." + +"You gave one hundred francs." + +"True," I said, embarrassed in my turn, "how do you know?" + +"It is quite simple. I hoped to reach Paris in time for the sale, and I +only managed to get here this morning. I was absolutely resolved to have +something which had belonged to her, and I hastened to the auctioneer +and asked him to allow me to see the list of the things sold and of +the buyers' names. I saw that this volume had been bought by you, and +I decided to ask you to give it up to me, though the price you had +set upon it made me fear that you might yourself have some souvenir in +connection with the possession of the book." + +As he spoke, it was evident that he was afraid I had known Marguerite as +he had known her. I hastened to reassure him. + +"I knew Mlle. Gautier only by sight," I said; "her death made on me the +impression that the death of a pretty woman must always make on a young +man who had liked seeing her. I wished to buy something at her sale, and +I bid higher and higher for this book out of mere obstinacy and to annoy +someone else, who was equally keen to obtain it, and who seemed to defy +me to the contest. I repeat, then, that the book is yours, and once more +I beg you to accept it; do not treat me as if I were an auctioneer, +and let it be the pledge between us of a longer and more intimate +acquaintance." + +"Good," said Armand, holding out his hand and pressing mine; "I accept, +and I shall be grateful to you all my life." + +I was very anxious to question Armand on the subject of Marguerite, for +the inscription in the book, the young man's hurried journey, his desire +to possess the volume, piqued my curiosity; but I feared if I questioned +my visitor that I might seem to have refused his money only in order to +have the right to pry into his affairs. + +It was as if he guessed my desire, for he said to me: + +"Have you read the volume?" + +"All through." + +"What did you think of the two lines that I wrote in it?" + +"I realized at once that the woman to whom you had given the volume +must have been quite outside the ordinary category, for I could not take +those two lines as a mere empty compliment." + +"You were right. That woman was an angel. See, read this letter." And he +handed to me a paper which seemed to have been many times reread. + +I opened it, and this is what it contained: + +"MY DEAR ARMAND:--I have received your letter. You are still good, and +I thank God for it. Yes, my friend, I am ill, and with one of those +diseases that never relent; but the interest you still take in me makes +my suffering less. I shall not live long enough, I expect, to have the +happiness of pressing the hand which has written the kind letter I have +just received; the words of it would be enough to cure me, if anything +could cure me. I shall not see you, for I am quite near death, and you +are hundreds of leagues away. My poor friend! your Marguerite of old +times is sadly changed. It is better perhaps for you not to see her +again than to see her as she is. You ask if I forgive you; oh, with all +my heart, friend, for the way you hurt me was only a way of proving the +love you had for me. I have been in bed for a month, and I think so much +of your esteem that I write every day the journal of my life, from the +moment we left each other to the moment when I shall be able to write +no longer. If the interest you take in me is real, Armand, when you come +back go and see Julie Duprat. She will give you my journal. You will +find in it the reason and the excuse for what has passed between us. +Julie is very good to me; we often talk of you together. She was there +when your letter came, and we both cried over it. + +"If you had not sent me any word, I had told her to give you those +papers when you returned to France. Do not thank me for it. This daily +looking back on the only happy moments of my life does me an immense +amount of good, and if you will find in reading it some excuse for the +past. I, for my part, find a continual solace in it. I should like to +leave you something which would always remind you of me, but everything +here has been seized, and I have nothing of my own. + +"Do you understand, my friend? I am dying, and from my bed I can hear +a man walking to and fro in the drawing-room; my creditors have put him +there to see that nothing is taken away, and that nothing remains to +me in case I do not die. I hope they will wait till the end before they +begin to sell. + +"Oh, men have no pity! or rather, I am wrong, it is God who is just and +inflexible! + +"And now, dear love, you will come to my sale, and you will buy +something, for if I put aside the least thing for you, they might accuse +you of embezzling seized goods. + +"It is a sad life that I am leaving! + +"It would be good of God to let me see you again before I die. According +to all probability, good-bye, my friend. Pardon me if I do not write a +longer letter, but those who say they are going to cure me wear me out +with bloodletting, and my hand refuses to write any more. + +"MARGUERITE GAUTIER." + + +The last two words were scarcely legible. I returned the letter to +Armand, who had, no doubt, read it over again in his mind while I was +reading it on paper, for he said to me as he took it: + +"Who would think that a kept woman could have written that?" And, +overcome by recollections, he gazed for some time at the writing of the +letter, which he finally carried to his lips. + +"And when I think," he went on, "that she died before I could see her, +and that I shall never see her again, when I think that she did for me +what no sister would ever have done, I can not forgive myself for having +left her to die like that. Dead! Dead and thinking of me, writing and +repeating my name, poor dear Marguerite!" + +And Armand, giving free outlet to his thoughts and his tears, held out +his hand to me, and continued: + +"People would think it childish enough if they saw me lament like this +over a dead woman such as she; no one will ever know what I made that +woman suffer, how cruel I have been to her! how good, how resigned +she was! I thought it was I who had to forgive her, and to-day I feel +unworthy of the forgiveness which she grants me. Oh, I would give ten +years of my life to weep at her feet for an hour!" + +It is always difficult to console a sorrow that is unknown to one, and +nevertheless I felt so lively a sympathy for the young man, he made me +so frankly the confidant of his distress, that I believed a word from me +would not be indifferent to him, and I said: + +"Have you no parents, no friends? Hope. Go and see them; they will +console you. As for me, I can only pity you." + +"It is true," he said, rising and walking to and fro in the room, "I +am wearying you. Pardon me, I did not reflect how little my sorrow must +mean to you, and that I am intruding upon you something which can not +and ought not to interest you at all." + +"You mistake my meaning. I am entirely at your service; only I regret +my inability to calm your distress. If my society and that of my friends +can give you any distraction, if, in short, you have need of me, no +matter in what way, I hope you will realize how much pleasure it will +give me to do anything for you." + +"Pardon, pardon," said he; "sorrow sharpens the sensations. Let me stay +here for a few minutes longer, long enough to dry my eyes, so that the +idlers in the street may not look upon it as a curiosity to see a big +fellow like me crying. You have made me very happy by giving me this +book. I do not know how I can ever express my gratitude to you." + +"By giving me a little of your friendship," said I, "and by telling me +the cause of your suffering. One feels better while telling what one +suffers." + +"You are right. But to-day I have too much need of tears; I can not very +well talk. One day I will tell you the whole story, and you will see if +I have reason for regretting the poor girl. And now," he added, rubbing +his eyes for the last time, and looking at himself in the glass, "say +that you do not think me too absolutely idiotic, and allow me to come +back and see you another time." + +He cast on me a gentle and amiable look. I was near embracing him. +As for him, his eyes again began to fill with tears; he saw that I +perceived it and turned away his head. + +"Come," I said, "courage." + +"Good-bye," he said. + +And, making a desperate effort to restrain his tears, he rushed rather +than went out of the room. + +I lifted the curtain of my window, and saw him get into the cabriolet +which awaited him at the door; but scarcely was he seated before he +burst into tears and hid his face in his pocket-handkerchief. + + + +Chapter 5 + +A good while elapsed before I heard anything more of Armand, but, on the +other hand, I was constantly hearing of Marguerite. + +I do not know if you have noticed, if once the name of anybody who might +in the natural course of things have always remained unknown, or at all +events indifferent to you, should be mentioned before you, immediately +details begin to group themselves about the name, and you find all your +friends talking to you about something which they have never mentioned +to you before. You discover that this person was almost touching you and +has passed close to you many times in your life without your noticing +it; you find coincidences in the events which are told you, a real +affinity with certain events of your own existence. I was not absolutely +at that point in regard to Marguerite, for I had seen and met her, I +knew her by sight and by reputation; nevertheless, since the moment +of the sale, her name came to my ears so frequently, and, owing to the +circumstance that I have mentioned in the last chapter, that name was +associated with so profound a sorrow, that my curiosity increased in +proportion with my astonishment. The consequence was that whenever I met +friends to whom I had never breathed the name of Marguerite, I always +began by saying: + +"Did you ever know a certain Marguerite Gautier?" + +"The Lady of the Camellias?" + +"Exactly." + +"Oh, very well!" + +The word was sometimes accompanied by a smile which could leave no doubt +as to its meaning. + +"Well, what sort of a girl was she?" + +"A good sort of girl." + +"Is that all?" + +"Oh, yes; more intelligence and perhaps a little more heart than most." + +"Do you know anything particular about her?" + +"She ruined Baron de G." + +"No more than that?" + +"She was the mistress of the old Duke of..." + +"Was she really his mistress?" + +"So they say; at all events, he gave her a great deal of money." + +The general outlines were always the same. Nevertheless I was anxious +to find out something about the relations between Marguerite and Armand. +Meeting one day a man who was constantly about with known women, I asked +him: "Did you know Marguerite Gautier?" + +The answer was the usual: "Very well." + +"What sort of a girl was she?" + +"A fine, good girl. I was very sorry to hear of her death." + +"Had she not a lover called Armand Duval?" + +"Tall and blond?" + +"Yes. + +"It is quite true." + +"Who was this Armand?" + +"A fellow who squandered on her the little money he had, and then had to +leave her. They say he was quite wild about it." + +"And she?" + +"They always say she was very much in love with him, but as girls like +that are in love. It is no good to ask them for what they can not give." + +"What has become of Armand?" + +"I don't know. We knew him very little. He was with Marguerite for five +or six months in the country. When she came back, he had gone." + +"And you have never seen him since?" + +"Never." + +I, too, had not seen Armand again. I was beginning to ask myself if, +when he had come to see me, the recent news of Marguerite's death had +not exaggerated his former love, and consequently his sorrow, and I +said to myself that perhaps he had already forgotten the dead woman, and +along with her his promise to come and see me again. This supposition +would have seemed probable enough in most instances, but in Armand's +despair there had been an accent of real sincerity, and, going from one +extreme to another, I imagined that distress had brought on an illness, +and that my not seeing him was explained by the fact that he was ill, +perhaps dead. + +I was interested in the young man in spite of myself. Perhaps there was +some selfishness in this interest; perhaps I guessed at some pathetic +love story under all this sorrow; perhaps my desire to know all about it +had much to do with the anxiety which Armand's silence caused me. +Since M. Duval did not return to see me, I decided to go and see him. A +pretext was not difficult to find; unluckily I did not know his address, +and no one among those whom I questioned could give it to me. + +I went to the Rue d'Antin; perhaps Marguerite's porter would know where +Armand lived. There was a new porter; he knew as little about it as I. +I then asked in what cemetery Mlle. Gautier had been buried. It was +the Montmartre Cemetery. It was now the month of April; the weather was +fine, the graves were not likely to look as sad and desolate as they do +in winter; in short, it was warm enough for the living to think a little +of the dead, and pay them a visit. I went to the cemetery, saying to +myself: "One glance at Marguerite's grave, and I shall know if Armand's +sorrow still exists, and perhaps I may find out what has become of him." + +I entered the keeper's lodge, and asked him if on the 22nd of February +a woman named Marguerite Gautier had not been buried in the Montmartre +Cemetery. He turned over the pages of a big book in which those who +enter this last resting-place are inscribed and numbered, and replied +that on the 22nd of February, at 12 o'clock, a woman of that name had +been buried. + +I asked him to show me the grave, for there is no finding one's way +without a guide in this city of the dead, which has its streets like a +city of the living. The keeper called over a gardener, to whom he gave +the necessary instructions; the gardener interrupted him, saying: +"I know, I know.--It is not difficult to find that grave," he added, +turning to me. + +"Why?" + +"Because it has very different flowers from the others." + +"Is it you who look after it?" + +"Yes, sir; and I wish all relations took as much trouble about the dead +as the young man who gave me my orders." + +After several turnings, the gardener stopped and said to me: "Here we +are." + +I saw before me a square of flowers which one would never have taken for +a grave, if it had not been for a white marble slab bearing a name. + +The marble slab stood upright, an iron railing marked the limits of the +ground purchased, and the earth was covered with white camellias. "What +do you say to that?" said the gardener. + +"It is beautiful." + +"And whenever a camellia fades, I have orders to replace it." + +"Who gave you the order?" + +"A young gentleman, who cried the first time he came here; an old pal +of hers, I suppose, for they say she was a gay one. Very pretty, too, I +believe. Did you know her, sir?" "Yes." + +"Like the other?" said the gardener, with a knowing smile. "No, I never +spoke to her." + +"And you come here, too! It is very good of you, for those that come to +see the poor girl don't exactly cumber the cemetery." + +"Doesn't anybody come?" + +"Nobody, except that young gentleman who came once." + +"Only once?" + +"Yes, sir." + +"He never came back again?" + +"No, but he will when he gets home." + +"He is away somewhere?" + +"Yes." + +"Do you know where he is?" + +"I believe he has gone to see Mlle. Gautier's sister." + +"What does he want there?" + +"He has gone to get her authority to have the corpse dug up again and +put somewhere else." + +"Why won't he let it remain here?" + +"You know, sir, people have queer notions about dead folk. We see +something of that every day. The ground here was only bought for five +years, and this young gentleman wants a perpetual lease and a bigger +plot of ground; it will be better in the new part." + +"What do you call the new part?" + +"The new plots of ground that are for sale, there to the left. If the +cemetery had always been kept like it is now, there wouldn't be the like +of it in the world; but there is still plenty to do before it will be +quite all it should be. And then people are so queer!" + +"What do you mean?" + +"I mean that there are people who carry their pride even here. Now, this +Demoiselle Gautier, it appears she lived a bit free, if you'll excuse my +saying so. Poor lady, she's dead now; there's no more of her left than +of them that no one has a word to say against. We water them every day. +Well, when the relatives of the folk that are buried beside her found +out the sort of person she was, what do you think they said? That they +would try to keep her out from here, and that there ought to be a piece +of ground somewhere apart for these sort of women, like there is for the +poor. Did you ever hear of such a thing? I gave it to them straight, I +did: well-to-do folk who come to see their dead four times a year, and +bring their flowers themselves, and what flowers! and look twice at the +keep of them they pretend to cry over, and write on their tombstones all +about the tears they haven't shed, and come and make difficulties about +their neighbours. You may believe me or not, sir, I never knew the young +lady; I don't know what she did. Well, I'm quite in love with the poor +thing; I look after her well, and I let her have her camellias at an +honest price. She is the dead body that I like the best. You see, sir, +we are obliged to love the dead, for we are kept so busy, we have hardly +time to love anything else." + +I looked at the man, and some of my readers will understand, without my +needing to explain it to them, the emotion which I felt on hearing him. +He observed it, no doubt, for he went on: + +"They tell me there were people who ruined themselves over that girl, +and lovers that worshipped her; well, when I think there isn't one of +them that so much as buys her a flower now, that's queer, sir, and +sad. And, after all, she isn't so badly off, for she has her grave to +herself, and if there is only one who remembers her, he makes up for the +others. But we have other poor girls here, just like her and just her +age, and they are just thrown into a pauper's grave, and it breaks my +heart when I hear their poor bodies drop into the earth. And not a soul +thinks about them any more, once they are dead! 'Tisn't a merry trade, +ours, especially when we have a little heart left. What do you expect? I +can't help it. I have a fine, strapping girl myself; she's just twenty, +and when a girl of that age comes here I think of her, and I don't care +if it's a great lady or a vagabond, I can't help feeling it a bit. But +I am taking up your time, sir, with my tales, and it wasn't to hear them +you came here. I was told to show you Mlle. Gautier's grave; here you +have it. Is there anything else I can do for you?" + +"Do you know M. Armand Duval's address?" I asked. + +"Yes; he lives at Rue de ----; at least, that's where I always go to get +my money for the flowers you see there." + +"Thanks, my good man." + +I gave one more look at the grave covered with flowers, half longing to +penetrate the depths of the earth and see what the earth had made of the +fair creature that had been cast to it; then I walked sadly away. + +"Do you want to see M. Duval, sir?" said the gardener, who was walking +beside me. + +"Yes." + +"Well, I am pretty sure he is not back yet, or he would have been here +already." + +"You don't think he has forgotten Marguerite?" + +"I am not only sure he hasn't, but I would wager that he wants to change +her grave simply in order to have one more look at her." + +"Why do you think that?" + +"The first word he said to me when he came to the cemetery was: 'How can +I see her again?' That can't be done unless there is a change of grave, +and I told him all about the formalities that have to be attended to in +getting it done; for, you see, if you want to move a body from one grave +to another you must have it identified, and only the family can give +leave for it under the direction of a police inspector. That is why M. +Duval has gone to see Mlle. Gautier's sister, and you may be sure his +first visit will be for me." + +We had come to the cemetery gate. I thanked the gardener again, putting +a few coins into his hand, and made my way to the address he had given +me. + +Armand had not yet returned. I left word for him, begging him to come +and see me as soon as he arrived, or to send me word where I could find +him. + +Next day, in the morning, I received a letter from Duval, telling me +of his return, and asking me to call on him, as he was so worn out with +fatigue that it was impossible for him to go out. + + + +Chapter 6 + +I found Armand in bed. On seeing me he held out a burning hand. "You +are feverish," I said to him. "It is nothing, the fatigue of a rapid +journey; that is all." "You have been to see Marguerite's sister?" "Yes; +who told you?" "I knew it. Did you get what you wanted?" + +"Yes; but who told you of my journey, and of my reason for taking it?" + +"The gardener of the cemetery." + +"You have seen the tomb?" + +I scarcely dared reply, for the tone in which the words were spoken +proved to me that the speaker was still possessed by the emotion which +I had witnessed before, and that every time his thoughts or speech +travelled back to that mournful subject emotion would still, for a long +time to come, prove stronger than his will. I contented myself with a +nod of the head. + +"He has looked after it well?" continued Armand. Two big tears rolled +down the cheeks of the sick man, and he turned away his head to hide +them from me. I pretended not to see them, and tried to change the +conversation. "You have been away three weeks," I said. + +Armand passed his hand across his eyes and replied, "Exactly three +weeks." + +"You had a long journey." + +"Oh, I was not travelling all the time. I was ill for a fortnight or I +should have returned long ago; but I had scarcely got there when I took +this fever, and I was obliged to keep my room." + +"And you started to come back before you were really well?" + +"If I had remained in the place for another week, I should have died +there." + +"Well, now you are back again, you must take care of yourself; your +friends will come and look after you; myself, first of all, if you will +allow me." + +"I shall get up in a couple of hours." + +"It would be very unwise." + +"I must." + +"What have you to do in such a great hurry?" + +"I must go to the inspector of police." + +"Why do you not get one of your friends to see after the matter? It is +likely to make you worse than you are now." + +"It is my only chance of getting better. I must see her. Ever since I +heard of her death, especially since I saw her grave, I have not been +able to sleep. I can not realize that this woman, so young and so +beautiful when I left her, is really dead. I must convince myself of it. +I must see what God has done with a being that I have loved so much, +and perhaps the horror of the sight will cure me of my despair. Will you +accompany me, if it won't be troubling you too much?" + +"What did her sister say about it?" + +"Nothing. She seemed greatly surprised that a stranger wanted to buy +a plot of ground and give Marguerite a new grave, and she immediately +signed the authorization that I asked her for." + +"Believe me, it would be better to wait until you are quite well." + +"Have no fear; I shall be quite composed. Besides, I should simply go +out of my mind if I were not to carry out a resolution which I have set +myself to carry out. I swear to you that I shall never be myself again +until I have seen Marguerite. It is perhaps the thirst of the fever, +a sleepless night's dream, a moment's delirium; but though I were to +become a Trappist, like M. de Rance', after having seen, I will see." + +"I understand," I said to Armand, "and I am at your service. Have you +seen Julie Duprat?" + +"Yes, I saw her the day I returned, for the first time." + +"Did she give you the papers that Marguerite had left for you?" + +Armand drew a roll of papers from under his pillow, and immediately put +them back. + +"I know all that is in these papers by heart," he said. "For three weeks +I have read them ten times over every day. You shall read them, too, but +later on, when I am calmer, and can make you understand all the love and +tenderness hidden away in this confession. For the moment I want you to +do me a service." + +"What is it?" + +"Your cab is below?" + +"Yes. + +"Well, will you take my passport and ask if there are any letters for me +at the poste restante? My father and sister must have written to me at +Paris, and I went away in such haste that I did not go and see before +leaving. When you come back we will go together to the inspector of +police, and arrange for to-morrow's ceremony." + +Armand handed me his passport, and I went to Rue Jean Jacques Rousseau. +There were two letters addressed to Duval. I took them and returned. +When I re-entered the room Armand was dressed and ready to go out. + +"Thanks," he said, taking the letters. "Yes," he added, after glancing +at the addresses, "they are from my father and sister. They must have +been quite at a loss to understand my silence." + +He opened the letters, guessed at rather than read them, for each was of +four pages; and a moment after folded them up. "Come," he said, "I will +answer tomorrow." + +We went to the police station, and Armand handed in the permission +signed by Marguerite's sister. He received in return a letter to the +keeper of the cemetery, and it was settled that the disinterment was to +take place next day, at ten o'clock, that I should call for him an hour +before, and that we should go to the cemetery together. + +I confess that I was curious to be present, and I did not sleep all +night. Judging from the thoughts which filled my brain, it must have +been a long night for Armand. When I entered his room at nine on the +following morning he was frightfully pale, but seemed calm. He smiled +and held out his hand. His candles were burned out; and before leaving +he took a very heavy letter addressed to his father, and no doubt +containing an account of that night's impressions. + +Half an hour later we were at Montmartre. The police inspector was there +already. We walked slowly in the direction of Marguerite's grave. The +inspector went in front; Armand and I followed a few steps behind. + +From time to time I felt my companion's arm tremble convulsively, as if +he shivered from head to feet. I looked at him. He understood the look, +and smiled at me; we had not exchanged a word since leaving the house. + +Just before we reached the grave, Armand stopped to wipe his face, which +was covered with great drops of sweat. I took advantage of the pause +to draw in a long breath, for I, too, felt as if I had a weight on my +chest. + +What is the origin of that mournful pleasure which we find in sights of +this kind? When we reached the grave the gardener had removed all the +flower-pots, the iron railing had been taken away, and two men were +turning up the soil. + +Armand leaned against a tree and watched. All his life seemed to pass +before his eyes. Suddenly one of the two pickaxes struck against a +stone. At the sound Armand recoiled, as at an electric shock, and seized +my hand with such force as to give me pain. + +One of the grave-diggers took a shovel and began emptying out the earth; +then, when only the stones covering the coffin were left, he threw them +out one by one. + +I scrutinized Armand, for every moment I was afraid lest the emotions +which he was visibly repressing should prove too much for him; but he +still watched, his eyes fixed and wide open, like the eyes of a madman, +and a slight trembling of the cheeks and lips were the only signs of the +violent nervous crisis under which he was suffering. + +As for me, all I can say is that I regretted having come. + +When the coffin was uncovered the inspector said to the grave-digger: +"Open it." They obeyed, as if it were the most natural thing in the +world. + +The coffin was of oak, and they began to unscrew the lid. The humidity +of the earth had rusted the screws, and it was not without some +difficulty that the coffin was opened. A painful odour arose in spite of +the aromatic plants with which it was covered. + +"O my God, my God!" murmured Armand, and turned paler than before. + +Even the grave-digger drew back. + +A great white shroud covered the corpse, closely outlining some of its +contours. This shroud was almost completely eaten away at one end, and +left one of the feet visible. + +I was nearly fainting, and at the moment of writing these lines I see +the whole scene over again in all its imposing reality. + +"Quick," said the inspector. Thereupon one of the men put out his hand, +began to unsew the shroud, and taking hold of it by one end suddenly +laid bare the face of Marguerite. + +It was terrible to see, it is horrible to relate. The eyes were nothing +but two holes, the lips had disappeared, vanished, and the white teeth +were tightly set. The black hair, long and dry, was pressed tightly +about the forehead, and half veiled the green hollows of the cheeks; and +yet I recognised in this face the joyous white and rose face that I had +seen so often. + +Armand, unable to turn away his eyes, had put the handkerchief to his +mouth and bit it. + +For my part, it was as if a circle of iron tightened about my head, a +veil covered my eyes, a rumbling filled my ears, and all I could do was +to unstop a smelling bottle which I happened to have with me, and to +draw in long breaths of it. + +Through this bewilderment I heard the inspector say to Duval, "Do you +identify?" + +"Yes," replied the young man in a dull voice. + +"Then fasten it up and take it away," said the inspector. + +The grave-diggers put back the shroud over the face of the corpse, +fastened up the coffin, took hold of each end of it, and began to carry +it toward the place where they had been told to take it. + +Armand did not move. His eyes were fixed upon the empty grave; he was as +white as the corpse which we had just seen. He looked as if he had been +turned to stone. + +I saw what was coming as soon as the pain caused by the spectacle should +have abated and thus ceased to sustain him. I went up to the inspector. +"Is this gentleman's presence still necessary?" I said, pointing to +Armand. + +"No," he replied, "and I should advise you to take him away. He looks +ill." + +"Come," I said to Armand, taking him by the arm. + +"What?" he said, looking at me as if he did not recognise me. + +"It is all over," I added. "You must come, my friend; you are quite +white; you are cold. These emotions will be too much for you." + +"You are right. Let us go," he answered mechanically, but without moving +a step. + +I took him by the arm and led him along. He let himself be guided like a +child, only from time to time murmuring, "Did you see her eyes?" and he +turned as if the vision had recalled her. + +Nevertheless, his steps became more irregular; he seemed to walk by a +series of jerks; his teeth chattered; his hands were cold; a violent +agitation ran through his body. I spoke to him; he did not answer. He +was just able to let himself be led along. A cab was waiting at the +gate. It was only just in time. Scarcely had he seated himself, when the +shivering became more violent, and he had an actual attack of nerves, in +the midst of which his fear of frightening me made him press my hand and +whisper: "It is nothing, nothing. I want to weep." + +His chest laboured, his eyes were injected with blood, but no tears +came. I made him smell the salts which I had with me, and when we +reached his house only the shivering remained. + +With the help of his servant I put him to bed, lit a big fire in +his room, and hurried off to my doctor, to whom I told all that had +happened. He hastened with me. + +Armand was flushed and delirious; he stammered out disconnected words, +in which only the name of Marguerite could be distinctly heard. + +"Well?" I said to the doctor when he had examined the patient. + +"Well, he has neither more nor less than brain fever, and very lucky it +is for him, for I firmly believe (God forgive me!) that he would have +gone out of his mind. Fortunately, the physical malady will kill the +mental one, and in a month's time he will be free from the one and +perhaps from the other." + + + +Chapter 7 + +Illnesses like Armand's have one fortunate thing about them: they either +kill outright or are very soon overcome. A fortnight after the events +which I have just related Armand was convalescent, and we had already +become great friends. During the whole course of his illness I had +hardly left his side. + +Spring was profuse in its flowers, its leaves, its birds, its songs; and +my friend's window opened gaily upon his garden, from which a reviving +breath of health seemed to come to him. The doctor had allowed him to +get up, and we often sat talking at the open window, at the hour when +the sun is at its height, from twelve to two. I was careful not to refer +to Marguerite, fearing lest the name should awaken sad recollections +hidden under the apparent calm of the invalid; but Armand, on the +contrary, seemed to delight in speaking of her, not as formerly, with +tears in his eyes, but with a sweet smile which reassured me as to the +state of his mind. + +I had noticed that ever since his last visit to the cemetery, and the +sight which had brought on so violent a crisis, sorrow seemed to have +been overcome by sickness, and Marguerite's death no longer appeared to +him under its former aspect. A kind of consolation had sprung from the +certainty of which he was now fully persuaded, and in order to banish +the sombre picture which often presented itself to him, he returned +upon the happy recollections of his liaison with Marguerite, and seemed +resolved to think of nothing else. + +The body was too much weakened by the attack of fever, and even by +the process of its cure, to permit him any violent emotions, and the +universal joy of spring which wrapped him round carried his thoughts +instinctively to images of joy. He had always obstinately refused to +tell his family of the danger which he had been in, and when he was well +again his father did not even know that he had been ill. + +One evening we had sat at the window later than usual; the weather had +been superb, and the sun sank to sleep in a twilight dazzling with gold +and azure. Though we were in Paris, the verdure which surrounded us +seemed to shut us off from the world, and our conversation was only now +and again disturbed by the sound of a passing vehicle. + +"It was about this time of the year, on the evening of a day like this, +that I first met Marguerite," said Armand to me, as if he were listening +to his own thoughts rather than to what I was saying. I did not answer. +Then turning toward me, he said: + +"I must tell you the whole story; you will make a book out of it; no one +will believe it, but it will perhaps be interesting to do." + +"You will tell me all about it later on, my friend," I said to him; "you +are not strong enough yet." + +"It is a warm evening, I have eaten my ration of chicken," he said to +me, smiling; "I have no fever, we have nothing to do, I will tell it to +you now." + +"Since you really wish it, I will listen." + +This is what he told me, and I have scarcely changed a word of the +touching story. + +Yes (Armand went on, letting his head sink back on the chair), yes, it +was just such an evening as this. I had spent the day in the country +with one of my friends, Gaston R--. We returned to Paris in the evening, +and not knowing what to do we went to the Varietes. We went out during +one of the entr'actes, and a tall woman passed us in the corridor, to +whom my friend bowed. + +"Whom are you bowing to?" I asked. + +"Marguerite Gautier," he said. + +"She seems much changed, for I did not recognise her," I said, with an +emotion that you will soon understand. + +"She has been ill; the poor girl won't last long." + +I remember the words as if they had been spoken to me yesterday. + +I must tell you, my friend, that for two years the sight of this girl +had made a strange impression on me whenever I came across her. Without +knowing why, I turned pale and my heart beat violently. I have a friend +who studies the occult sciences, and he would call what I experienced +"the affinity of fluids"; as for me, I only know that I was fated to +fall in love with Marguerite, and that I foresaw it. + +It is certainly the fact that she made a very definite impression upon +me, that many of my friends had noticed it and that they had been much +amused when they saw who it was that made this impression upon me. + +The first time I ever saw her was in the Place de la Bourse, outside +Susse's; an open carriage was stationed there, and a woman dressed +in white got down from it. A murmur of admiration greeted her as she +entered the shop. As for me, I was rivetted to the spot from the moment +she went in till the moment when she came out again. I could see her +through the shop windows selecting what she had come to buy. I might +have gone in, but I dared not. I did not know who she was, and I +was afraid lest she should guess why I had come in and be offended. +Nevertheless, I did not think I should ever see her again. + +She was elegantly dressed; she wore a muslin dress with many flounces, +an Indian shawl embroidered at the corners with gold and silk flowers, +a straw hat, a single bracelet, and a heavy gold chain, such as was just +then beginning to be the fashion. + +She returned to her carriage and drove away. One of the shopmen stood at +the door looking after his elegant customer's carriage. I went up to him +and asked him what was the lady's name. + +"Mademoiselle Marguerite Gautier," he replied. I dared not ask him for +her address, and went on my way. + +The recollection of this vision, for it was really a vision, would not +leave my mind like so many visions I had seen, and I looked everywhere +for this royally beautiful woman in white. + +A few days later there was a great performance at the Opera Comique. The +first person I saw in one of the boxes was Marguerite Gautier. + +The young man whom I was with recognised her immediately, for he said to +me, mentioning her name: "Look at that pretty girl." + +At that moment Marguerite turned her opera-glass in our direction and, +seeing my friend, smiled and beckoned to him to come to her. + +"I will go and say 'How do you do?' to her," he said, "and will be back +in a moment." + +"I could not help saying 'Happy man!'" + +"Why?" + +"To go and see that woman." + +"Are you in love with her?" + +"No," I said, flushing, for I really did not know what to say; "but I +should very much like to know her." + +"Come with me. I will introduce you." + +"Ask her if you may." + +"Really, there is no need to be particular with her; come." + +What he said troubled me. I feared to discover that Marguerite was not +worthy of the sentiment which I felt for her. + +In a book of Alphonse Karr entitles Am Rauchen, there is a man who one +evening follows a very elegant woman, with whom he had fallen in love +with at first sight on account of her beauty. Only to kiss her hand he +felt that he had the strength to undertake anything, the will to conquer +anything, the courage to achieve anything. He scarcely dares glance at +the trim ankle which she shows as she holds her dress out of the mud. +While he is dreaming of all that he would do to possess this woman, she +stops at the corner of the street and asks if he will come home with +her. He turns his head, crosses the street, and goes sadly back to his +own house. + +I recalled the story, and, having longed to suffer for this woman, I was +afraid that she would accept me too promptly and give me at once what +I fain would have purchased by long waiting or some great sacrifice. We +men are built like that, and it is very fortunate that the imagination +lends so much poetry to the senses, and that the desires of the body +make thus such concession to the dreams of the soul. If anyone had +said to me, You shall have this woman to-night and be killed tomorrow, I +would have accepted. If anyone had said to me, you can be her lover for +ten pounds, I would have refused. I would have cried like a child who +sees the castle he has been dreaming about vanish away as he awakens +from sleep. + +All the same, I wished to know her; it was my only means of making up my +mind about her. I therefore said to my friend that I insisted on having +her permission to be introduced to her, and I wandered to and fro in the +corridors, saying to myself that in a moment's time she was going to +see me, and that I should not know which way to look. I tried (sublime +childishness of love!) to string together the words I should say to her. + +A moment after my friend returned. "She is expecting us," he said. + +"Is she alone?" I asked. + +"With another woman." + +"There are no men?" + +"No." + +"Come, then." + +My friend went toward the door of the theatre. + +"That is not the way," I said. + +"We must go and get some sweets. She asked me for some." + +We went into a confectioner's in the passage de l'Opera. I would have +bought the whole shop, and I was looking about to see what sweets to +choose, when my friend asked for a pound of raisins glaces. + +"Do you know if she likes them?" + +"She eats no other kind of sweets; everybody knows it. + +"Ah," he went on when we had left the shop, "do you know what kind of +woman it is that I am going to introduce you to? Don't imagine it is +a duchess. It is simply a kept woman, very much kept, my dear fellow; +don't be shy, say anything that comes into your head." + +"Yes, yes," I stammered, and I followed him, saying to myself that I +should soon cure myself of my passion. + +When I entered the box Marguerite was in fits of laughter. I would +rather that she had been sad. My friend introduced me; Marguerite gave +me a little nod, and said, "And my sweets?" + +"Here they are." + +She looked at me as she took them. I dropped my eyes and blushed. + +She leaned across to her neighbour and said something in her ear, at +which both laughed. Evidently I was the cause of their mirth, and +my embarrassment increased. At that time I had as mistress a very +affectionate and sentimental little person, whose sentiment and whose +melancholy letters amused me greatly. I realized the pain I must have +given her by what I now experienced, and for five minutes I loved her as +no woman was ever loved. + +Marguerite ate her raisins glaces without taking any more notice of me. +The friend who had introduced me did not wish to let me remain in so +ridiculous a position. + +"Marguerite," he said, "you must not be surprised if M. Duval says +nothing: you overwhelm him to such a degree that he can not find a word +to say." + +"I should say, on the contrary, that he has only come with you because +it would have bored you to come here by yourself." + +"If that were true," I said, "I should not have begged Ernest to ask +your permission to introduce me." + +"Perhaps that was only in order to put off the fatal moment." + +However little one may have known women like Marguerite, one can not but +know the delight they take in pretending to be witty and in teasing the +people whom they meet for the first time. It is no doubt a return for +the humiliations which they often have to submit to on the part of those +whom they see every day. + +To answer them properly, one requires a certain knack, and I had not had +the opportunity of acquiring it; besides, the idea that I had formed +of Marguerite accentuated the effects of her mockery. Nothing that dame +from her was indifferent to me. I rose to my feet, saying in an altered +voice, which I could not entirely control: + +"If that is what you think of me, madame, I have only to ask your pardon +for my indiscretion, and to take leave of you with the assurance that it +shall not occur again." + +Thereupon I bowed and quitted the box. I had scarcely closed the door +when I heard a third peal of laughter. It would not have been well for +anybody who had elbowed me at that moment. + +I returned to my seat. The signal for raising the curtain was given. +Ernest came back to his place beside me. + +"What a way you behaved!" he said, as he sat down. "They will think you +are mad." + +"What did Marguerite say after I had gone?" + +"She laughed, and said she had never seen anyone so funny. But don't +look upon it as a lost chance; only do not do these women the honour +of taking them seriously. They do not know what politeness and ceremony +are. It is as if you were to offer perfumes to dogs--they would think it +smelled bad, and go and roll in the gutter." + +"After all, what does it matter to me?" I said, affecting to speak in a +nonchalant way. "I shall never see this woman again, and if I liked her +before meeting her, it is quite different now that I know her." + +"Bah! I don't despair of seeing you one day at the back of her box, +and of bearing that you are ruining yourself for her. However, you are +right, she hasn't been well brought up; but she would be a charming +mistress to have." + +Happily, the curtain rose and my friend was silent. I could not possibly +tell you what they were acting. All that I remember is that from time to +time I raised my eyes to the box I had quitted so abruptly, and that the +faces of fresh visitors succeeded one another all the time. + +I was far from having given up thinking about Marguerite. Another +feeling had taken possession of me. It seemed to me that I had her +insult and my absurdity to wipe out; I said to myself that if I spent +every penny I had, I would win her and win my right to the place I had +abandoned so quickly. + +Before the performance was over Marguerite and her friend left the box. +I rose from my seat. + +"Are you going?" said Ernest. + +"Yes." + +"Why?" + +At that moment he saw that the box was empty. + +"Go, go," he said, "and good luck, or rather better luck." + +I went out. + +I heard the rustle of dresses, the sound of voices, on the staircase. +I stood aside, and, without being seen, saw the two women pass me, +accompanied by two young men. At the entrance to the theatre they were +met by a footman. + +"Tell the coachman to wait at the door of the Cafe' Anglais," said +Marguerite. "We will walk there." + +A few minutes afterward I saw Marguerite from the street at a window of +one of the large rooms of the restaurant, pulling the camellias of her +bouquet to pieces, one by one. One of the two men was leaning over +her shoulder and whispering in her ear. I took up my position at the +Maison-d'or, in one of the first-floor rooms, and did not lose sight of +the window for an instant. At one in the morning Marguerite got into +her carriage with her three friends. I took a cab and followed them. The +carriage stopped at No. 9, Rue d'Antin. Marguerite got out and went +in alone. It was no doubt a mere chance, but the chance filled me with +delight. + +From that time forward, I often met Marguerite at the theatre or in +the Champs-Elysees. Always there was the same gaiety in her, the same +emotion in me. + +At last a fortnight passed without my meeting her. I met Gaston and +asked after her. + +"Poor girl, she is very ill," he answered. + +"What is the matter?" + +"She is consumptive, and the sort of life she leads isn't exactly the +thing to cure her. She has taken to her bed; she is dying." + +The heart is a strange thing; I was almost glad at hearing it. + +Every day I went to ask after her, without leaving my name or my card. I +heard she was convalescent and had gone to Bagneres. + +Time went by, the impression, if not the memory, faded gradually from my +mind. I travelled; love affairs, habits, work, took the place of other +thoughts, and when I recalled this adventure I looked upon it as one of +those passions which one has when one is very young, and laughs at soon +afterward. + +For the rest, it was no credit to me to have got the better of this +recollection, for I had completely lost sight of Marguerite, and, as I +told you, when she passed me in the corridor of the Varietes, I did not +recognise her. She was veiled, it is true; but, veiled though she might +have been two years earlier, I should not have needed to see her in +order to recognise her: I should have known her intuitively. All the +same, my heart began to beat when I knew that it was she; and the two +years that had passed since I saw her, and what had seemed to be the +results of that separation, vanished in smoke at the mere touch of her +dress. + + + +Chapter 8 + +However (continued Armand after a pause), while I knew myself to be +still in love with her, I felt more sure of myself, and part of my +desire to speak to Marguerite again was a wish to make her see that I +was stronger than she. + +How many ways does the heart take, how many reasons does it invent for +itself, in order to arrive at what it wants! + +I could not remain in the corridor, and I returned to my place in the +stalls, looking hastily around to see what box she was in. She was in a +ground-floor box, quite alone. She had changed, as I have told you, and +no longer wore an indifferent smile on her lips. She had suffered; she +was still suffering. Though it was April, she was still wearing a winter +costume, all wrapped up in furs. + +I gazed at her so fixedly that my eyes attracted hers. She looked at me +for a few seconds, put up her opera-glass to see me better, and seemed +to think she recognised me, without being quite sure who I was, for when +she put down her glasses, a smile, that charming, feminine salutation, +flitted across her lips, as if to answer the bow which she seemed to +expect; but I did not respond, so as to have an advantage over her, as +if I had forgotten, while she remembered. Supposing herself mistaken, +she looked away. + +The curtain went up. I have often seen Marguerite at the theatre. I +never saw her pay the slightest attention to what was being acted. As +for me, the performance interested me equally little, and I paid no +attention to anything but her, though doing my utmost to keep her from +noticing it. + +Presently I saw her glancing across at the person who was in the +opposite box; on looking, I saw a woman with whom I was quite familiar. +She had once been a kept woman, and had tried to go on the stage, had +failed, and, relying on her acquaintance with fashionable people in +Paris, had gone into business and taken a milliner's shop. I saw in her +a means of meeting with Marguerite, and profited by a moment in which +she looked my way to wave my hand to her. As I expected, she beckoned to +me to come to her box. + +Prudence Duvernoy (that was the milliner's auspicious name) was one of +those fat women of forty with whom one requires very little diplomacy +to make them understand what one wants to know, especially when what one +wants to know is as simple as what I had to ask of her. + +I took advantage of a moment when she was smiling across at Marguerite +to ask her, "Whom are you looking at?" + +"Marguerite Gautier." + +"You know her?" + +"Yes, I am her milliner, and she is a neighbour of mine." + +"Do you live in the Rue d'Antin?" + +"No. 7. The window of her dressing-room looks on to the window of mine." + +"They say she is a charming girl." + +"Don't you know her?" + +"No, but I should like to." + +"Shall I ask her to come over to our box?" + +"No, I would rather for you to introduce me to her." + +"At her own house?" + +"Yes. + +"That is more difficult." + +"Why?" + +"Because she is under the protection of a jealous old duke." + +"'Protection' is charming." + +"Yes, protection," replied Prudence. "Poor old man, he would be greatly +embarrassed to offer her anything else." + +Prudence then told me how Marguerite had made the acquaintance of the +duke at Bagneres. + +"That, then," I continued, "is why she is alone here?" + +"Precisely." + +"But who will see her home?" + +"He will." + +"He will come for her?" + +"In a moment." + +"And you, who is seeing you home?" + +"No one." + +"May I offer myself?" + +"But you are with a friend, are you not?" + +"May we offer, then?" + +"Who is your friend?" + +"A charming fellow, very amusing. He will be delighted to make your +acquaintance." + +"Well, all right; we will go after this piece is over, for I know the +last piece." + +"With pleasure; I will go and tell my friend." + +"Go, then. Ah," added Prudence, as I was going, "there is the duke just +coming into Marguerite's box." + +I looked at him. A man of about seventy had sat down behind her, and was +giving her a bag of sweets, into which she dipped at once, smiling. Then +she held it out toward Prudence, with a gesture which seemed to say, +"Will you have some?" + +"No," signalled Prudence. + +Marguerite drew back the bag, and, turning, began to talk with the duke. + +It may sound childish to tell you all these details, but everything +relating to Marguerite is so fresh in my memory that I can not help +recalling them now. + +I went back to Gaston and told him of the arrangement I had made for +him and for me. He agreed, and we left our stalls to go round to Mme. +Duvernoy's box. We had scarcely opened the door leading into the stalls +when we had to stand aside to allow Marguerite and the duke to pass. +I would have given ten years of my life to have been in the old man's +place. + +When they were on the street he handed her into a phaeton, which he +drove himself, and they were whirled away by two superb horses. + +We returned to Prudence's box, and when the play was over we took a cab +and drove to 7, Rue d'Antin. At the door, Prudence asked us to come up +and see her showrooms, which we had never seen, and of which she seemed +very proud. You can imagine how eagerly I accepted. It seemed to me +as if I was coming nearer and nearer to Marguerite. I soon turned the +conversation in her direction. + +"The old duke is at your neighbours," I said to Prudence. + +"Oh, no; she is probably alone." + +"But she must be dreadfully bored," said Gaston. + +"We spend most of our evening together, or she calls to me when she +comes in. She never goes to bed before two in the morning. She can't +sleep before that." + +"Why?" + +"Because she suffers in the chest, and is almost always feverish." + +"Hasn't she any lovers?" I asked. + +"I never see anyone remain after I leave; I don't say no one ever comes +when I am gone. Often in the evening I meet there a certain Comte de N., +who thinks he is making some headway by calling on her at eleven in the +evening, and by sending her jewels to any extent; but she can't stand +him. She makes a mistake; he is very rich. It is in vain that I say to +her from time to time, 'My dear child, there's the man for you.' She, +who generally listens to me, turns her back and replies that he is too +stupid. Stupid, indeed, he is; but it would be a position for her, while +this old duke might die any day. Old men are egoists; his family are +always reproaching him for his affection for Marguerite; there are two +reasons why he is likely to leave her nothing. I give her good advice, +and she only says it will be plenty of time to take on the count when +the duke is dead. It isn't all fun," continued Prudence, "to live like +that. I know very well it wouldn't suit me, and I should soon send the +old man about his business. He is so dull; he calls her his daughter; +looks after her like a child; and is always in the way. I am sure at +this very moment one of his servants is prowling about in the street to +see who comes out, and especially who goes in." + +"Ah, poor Marguerite!" said Gaston, sitting down to the piano and +playing a waltz. "I hadn't a notion of it, but I did notice she hasn't +been looking so gay lately." + +"Hush," said Prudence, listening. Gaston stopped. + +"She is calling me, I think." + +We listened. A voice was calling, "Prudence!" + +"Come, now, you must go," said Mme. Duvernoy. + +"Ah, that is your idea of hospitality," said Gaston, laughing; "we won't +go till we please." + +"Why should we go?" + +"I am going over to Marguerite's." + +"We will wait here." + +"You can't." + +"Then we will go with you." + +"That still less." + +"I know Marguerite," said Gaston; "I can very well pay her a call." + +"But Armand doesn't know her." + +"I will introduce him." + +"Impossible." + +We again heard Marguerite's voice calling to Prudence, who rushed to her +dressing-room window. I followed with Gaston as she opened the window. +We hid ourselves so as not to be seen from outside. + +"I have been calling you for ten minutes," said Marguerite from her +window, in almost an imperious tone of voice. + +"What do you want?" + +"I want you to come over at once." + +"Why?" + +"Because the Comte de N. is still here, and he is boring me to death." + +"I can't now." + +"What is hindering you?" + +"There are two young fellows here who won't go." + +"Tell them that you must go out." + +"I have told them." + +"Well, then, leave them in the house. They will soon go when they see +you have gone." + +"They will turn everything upside down." + +"But what do they want?" + +"They want to see you." + +"What are they called?" + +"You know one, M. Gaston R." + +"Ah, yes, I know him. And the other?" + +"M. Armand Duval; and you don't know him." + +"No, but bring them along. Anything is better than the count. I expect +you. Come at once." + +Marguerite closed her window and Prudence hers. Marguerite, who had +remembered my face for a moment, did not remember my name. I would +rather have been remembered to my disadvantage than thus forgotten. + +"I knew," said Gaston, "that she would be delighted to see us." + +"Delighted isn't the word," replied Prudence, as she put on her hat and +shawl. "She will see you in order to get rid of the count. Try to be +more agreeable than he is, or (I know Marguerite) she will put it all +down to me." + +We followed Prudence downstairs. I trembled; it seemed to me that +this visit was to have a great influence on my life. I was still more +agitated than on the evening when I was introduced in the box at the +Opera Comique. As we reached the door that you know, my heart beat so +violently that I was hardly able to think. + +We heard the sound of a piano. Prudence rang. The piano was silent. A +woman who looked more like a companion than a servant opened the door. +We went into the drawing-room, and from that to the boudoir, which was +then just as you have seen it since. A young man was leaning against the +mantel-piece. Marguerite, seated at the piano, let her fingers wander +over the notes, beginning scraps of music without finishing them. The +whole scene breathed boredom, the man embarrassed by the consciousness +of his nullity, the woman tired of her dismal visitor. At the voice of +Prudence, Marguerite rose, and coming toward us with a look of gratitude +to Mme. Duvernoy, said: + +"Come in, and welcome." + + + +Chapter 9 + +"Good-evening, my dear Gaston," said Marguerite to my companion. "I am +very glad to see you. Why didn't you come to see me in my box at the +Varietes?" + +"I was afraid it would be indiscreet." + +"Friends," and Marguerite lingered over the word, as if to intimate to +those who were present that in spite of the familiar way in which she +greeted him, Gaston was not and never had been anything more than a +friend, "friends are always welcome." + +"Then, will you permit me to introduce M. Armand Duval?" + +"I had already authorized Prudence to do so." + +"As far as that goes, madame," I said, bowing, and succeeding in getting +more or less intelligible sounds out of my throat, "I have already had +the honour of being introduced to you." + +Marguerite's beautiful eyes seemed to be looking back in memory, but she +could not, or seemed not to, remember. + +"Madame," I continued, "I am grateful to you for having forgotten the +occasion of my first introduction, for I was very absurd and must have +seemed to you very tiresome. It was at the Opera Comique, two years ago; +I was with Ernest de ----." + +"Ah, I remember," said Marguerite, with a smile. "It was not you who +were absurd; it was I who was mischievous, as I still am, but somewhat +less. You have forgiven me?" + +And she held out her hand, which I kissed. + +"It is true," she went on; "you know I have the bad habit of trying +to embarrass people the first time I meet them. It is very stupid. +My doctor says it is because I am nervous and always ill; believe my +doctor." + +"But you seem quite well." + +"Oh! I have been very ill." + +"I know." + +"Who told you?" + +"Every one knew it; I often came to inquire after you, and I was happy +to hear of your convalescence." + +"They never gave me your card." + +"I did not leave it." + +"Was it you, then, who called every day while I was ill, and would never +leave your name?" + +"Yes, it was I." + +"Then you are more than indulgent, you are generous. You, count, +wouldn't have done that," said she, turning toward M. de N., after +giving me one of those looks in which women sum up their opinion of a +man. + +"I have only known you for two months," replied the count. + +"And this gentleman only for five minutes. You always say something +ridiculous." + +Women are pitiless toward those whom they do not care for. The count +reddened and bit his lips. + +I was sorry for him, for he seemed, like myself, to be in love, and +the bitter frankness of Marguerite must have made him very unhappy, +especially in the presence of two strangers. + +"You were playing the piano when we came in," I said, in order to +change the conversation. "Won't you be so good as to treat me as an old +acquaintance and go on?" + +"Oh," said she, flinging herself on the sofa and motioning to us to sit +down, "Gaston knows what my music is like. It is all very well when I am +alone with the count, but I won't inflict such a punishment on you." + +"You show me that preference?" said M. de N., with a smile which he +tried to render delicately ironical. + +"Don't reproach me for it. It is the only one." It was fated that the +poor man was not to say a single word. He cast a really supplicating +glance at Marguerite. + +"Well, Prudence," she went on, "have you done what I asked you to do?" + +"Yes. + +"All right. You will tell me about it later. We must talk over it; don't +go before I can speak with you." + +"We are doubtless intruders," I said, "and now that we, or rather I, +have had a second introduction, to blot out the first, it is time for +Gaston and me to be going." + +"Not in the least. I didn't mean that for you. I want you to stay." + +The count took a very elegant watch out of his pocket and looked at the +time. "I must be going to my club," he said. Marguerite did not answer. +The count thereupon left his position by the fireplace and going up to +her, said: "Adieu, madame." + +Marguerite rose. "Adieu, my dear count. Are you going already?" + +"Yes, I fear I am boring you." + +"You are not boring me to-day more than any other day. When shall I be +seeing you?" + +"When you permit me." + +"Good-bye, then." + +It was cruel, you will admit. Fortunately, the count had excellent +manners and was very good-tempered. He merely kissed Marguerite's hand, +which she held out to him carelessly enough, and, bowing to us, went +out. + +As he crossed the threshold, he cast a glance at Prudence. She shrugged +her shoulders, as much as to say: + +"What do you expect? I have done all I could." + +"Nanine!" cried Marguerite. "Light M. le Comte to the door." + +We heard the door open and shut. + +"At last," cried Marguerite, coming back, "he has gone! That man gets +frightfully on my nerves!" + +"My dear child," said Prudence, "you really treat him too badly, and he +is so good and kind to you. Look at this watch on the mantel-piece, that +he gave you: it must have cost him at least three thousand francs, I am +sure." + +And Mme. Duvernoy began to turn it over, as it lay on the mantel-piece, +looking at it with covetous eyes. + +"My dear," said Marguerite, sitting down to the piano, "when I put on +one side what he gives me and on the other what he says to me, it seems +to me that he buys his visits very cheap." + +"The poor fellow is in love with you." + +"If I had to listen to everybody who was in love with me, I shouldn't +have time for my dinner." + +And she began to run her fingers over the piano, and then, turning to +us, she said: + +"What will you take? I think I should like a little punch." + +"And I could eat a little chicken," said Prudence. "Suppose we have +supper?" + +"That's it, let's go and have supper," said Gaston. + +"No, we will have supper here." + +She rang, and Nanine appeared. + +"Send for some supper." + +"What must I get?" + +"Whatever you like, but at once, at once." + +Nanine went out. + +"That's it," said Marguerite, jumping like a child, "we'll have supper. +How tiresome that idiot of a count is!" + +The more I saw her, the more she enchanted me. She was exquisitely +beautiful. Her slenderness was a charm. I was lost in contemplation. + +What was passing in my mind I should have some difficulty in explaining. +I was full of indulgence for her life, full of admiration for her +beauty. The proof of disinterestedness that she gave in not accepting a +rich and fashionable young man, ready to waste all his money upon her, +excused her in my eyes for all her faults in the past. + +There was a kind of candour in this woman. You could see she was still +in the virginity of vice. Her firm walk, her supple figure, her rosy, +open nostrils, her large eyes, slightly tinged with blue, indicated +one of those ardent natures which shed around them a sort of voluptuous +perfume, like Eastern vials, which, close them as tightly as you will, +still let some of their perfume escape. Finally, whether it was simple +nature or a breath of fever, there passed from time to time in the eyes +of this woman a glimmer of desire, giving promise of a very heaven for +one whom she should love. But those who had loved Marguerite were not to +be counted, nor those whom she had loved. + +In this girl there was at once the virgin whom a mere nothing had turned +into a courtesan, and the courtesan whom a mere nothing would have +turned into the most loving and the purest of virgins. Marguerite had +still pride and independence, two sentiments which, if they are wounded, +can be the equivalent of a sense of shame. I did not speak a word; my +soul seemed to have passed into my heart and my heart into my eyes. + +"So," said she all at once, "it was you who came to inquire after me +when I was ill?" + +"Yes." + +"Do you know, it was quite splendid of you! How can I thank you for it?" + +"By allowing me to come and see you from time to time." + +"As often as you like, from five to six, and from eleven to twelve. Now, +Gaston, play the Invitation A la Valse." + +"Why?" + +"To please me, first of all, and then because I never can manage to play +it myself." + +"What part do you find difficult?" + +"The third part, the part in sharps." + +Gaston rose and went to the piano, and began to play the wonderful +melody of Weber, the music of which stood open before him. + +Marguerite, resting one hand on the piano, followed every note on the +music, accompanying it in a low voice, and when Gaston had come to +the passage which she had mentioned to him, she sang out, running her +fingers along the top of the piano: + +"Do, re, mi, do, re, fa, mi, re; that is what I can not do. Over again." + +Gaston began over again, after which Marguerite said: + +"Now, let me try." + +She took her place and began to play; but her rebellious fingers always +came to grief over one of the notes. + +"Isn't it incredible," she said, exactly like a child, "that I can not +succeed in playing that passage? Would you believe that I sometimes +spend two hours of the morning over it? And when I think that that idiot +of a count plays it without his music, and beautifully, I really believe +it is that that makes me so furious with him." And she began again, +always with the same result. + +"The devil take Weber, music, and pianos!" she cried, throwing the music +to the other end of the room. "How can I play eight sharps one after +another?" She folded her arms and looked at us, stamping her foot. The +blood flew to her cheeks, and her lips half opened in a slight cough. + +"Come, come," said Prudence, who had taken off her hat and was smoothing +her hair before the glass, "you will work yourself into a rage and do +yourself harm. Better come and have supper; for my part, I am dying of +hunger." + +Marguerite rang the bell, sat down to the piano again, and began to hum +over a very risky song, which she accompanied without difficulty. Gaston +knew the song, and they gave a sort of duet. + +"Don't sing those beastly things," I said to Marguerite, imploringly. + +"Oh, how proper you are!" she said, smiling and giving me her hand. "It +is not for myself, but for you." + +Marguerite made a gesture as if to say, "Oh, it is long since that I +have done with propriety!" At that moment Nanine appeared. + +"Is supper ready?" asked Marguerite. "Yes, madame, in one moment." + +"Apropos," said Prudence to me, "you have not looked round; come, and I +will show you." As you know, the drawing-room was a marvel. + +Marguerite went with us for a moment; then she called Gaston and went +into the dining-room with him to see if supper was ready. + +"Ah," said Prudence, catching sight of a little Saxe figure on a +side-table, "I never knew you had this little gentleman." + +"Which?" + +"A little shepherd holding a bird-cage." + +"Take it, if you like it." + + +"I won't deprive you of it." + +"I was going to give it to my maid. I think it hideous; but if you like +it, take it." + +Prudence only saw the present, not the way in which it was given. She +put the little figure on one side, and took me into the dressing-room, +where she showed me two miniatures hanging side by side, and said: + +"That is the Comte de G., who was very much in love with Marguerite; it +was he who brought her out. Do you know him?" + +"No. And this one?" I inquired, pointing to the other miniature. + +"That is the little Vicomte de L. He was obliged to disappear." + +"Why?" + +"Because he was all but ruined. That's one, if you like, who loved +Marguerite." + +"And she loved him, too, no doubt?" + +"She is such a queer girl, one never knows. The night he went away +she went to the theatre as usual, and yet she had cried when he said +good-bye to her." + +Just then Nanine appeared, to tell us that supper was served. + +When we entered the dining-room, Marguerite was leaning against the +wall, and Gaston, holding her hands, was speaking to her in a low voice. + +"You are mad," replied Marguerite. "You know quite well that I don't +want you. It is no good at the end of two years to make love to a woman +like me. With us, it is at once, or never. Come, gentlemen, supper!" + +And, slipping away from Gaston, Marguerite made him sit on her right at +table, me on her left, then called to Nanine: + +"Before you sit down, tell them in the kitchen not to open to anybody if +there is a ring." + +This order was given at one o'clock in the morning. + +We laughed, drank, and ate freely at this supper. In a short while mirth +had reached its last limit, and the words that seem funny to a certain +class of people, words that degrade the mouth that utters them, were +heard from time to time, amidst the applause of Nanine, of Prudence, and +of Marguerite. Gaston was thoroughly amused; he was a very good sort of +fellow, but somewhat spoiled by the habits of his youth. For a moment +I tried to forget myself, to force my heart and my thoughts to become +indifferent to the sight before me, and to take my share of that gaiety +which seemed like one of the courses of the meal. But little by little +I withdrew from the noise; my glass remained full, and I felt almost +sad as I saw this beautiful creature of twenty drinking, talking like a +porter, and laughing the more loudly the more scandalous was the joke. + +Nevertheless, this hilarity, this way of talking and drinking, which +seemed to me in the others the mere results of bad company or of bad +habits, seemed in Marguerite a necessity of forgetting, a fever, a +nervous irritability. At every glass of champagne her cheeks would flush +with a feverish colour, and a cough, hardly perceptible at the beginning +of supper, became at last so violent that she was obliged to lean her +head on the back of her chair and hold her chest in her hands every time +that she coughed. I suffered at the thought of the injury to so frail a +constitution which must come from daily excesses like this. At length, +something which I had feared and foreseen happened. Toward the end of +supper Marguerite was seized by a more violent fit of coughing than any +she had had while I was there. It seemed as if her chest were being torn +in two. The poor girl turned crimson, closed her eyes under the pain, +and put her napkin to her lips. It was stained with a drop of blood. She +rose and ran into her dressing-room. + +"What is the matter with Marguerite?" asked Gaston. + +"She has been laughing too much, and she is spitting blood. Oh, it is +nothing; it happens to her every day. She will be back in a minute. +Leave her alone. She prefers it." + +I could not stay still; and, to the consternation of Prudence and +Nanine, who called to me to come back, I followed Marguerite. + + + +Chapter 10 + +The room to which she had fled was lit only by a single candle. She lay +back on a great sofa, her dress undone, holding one hand on her heart, +and letting the other hang by her side. On the table was a basin half +full of water, and the water was stained with streaks of blood. + +Very pale, her mouth half open, Marguerite tried to recover breath. Now +and again her bosom was raised by a long sigh, which seemed to +relieve her a little, and for a few seconds she would seem to be quite +comfortable. + +I went up to her; she made no movement, and I sat down and took the hand +which was lying on the sofa. + +"Ah! it is you," she said, with a smile. + +I must have looked greatly agitated, for she added: + +"Are you unwell, too?" + +"No, but you: do you still suffer?" + +"Very little;" and she wiped off with her handkerchief the tears which +the coughing had brought to her eyes; "I am used to it now." + +"You are killing yourself, madame," I said to her in a moved voice. "I +wish I were a friend, a relation of yours, that I might keep you from +doing yourself harm like this." + +"Ah! it is really not worth your while to alarm yourself," she replied +in a somewhat bitter tone; "see how much notice the others take of me! +They know too well that there is nothing to be done." + +Thereupon she got up, and, taking the candle, put it on the mantel-piece +and looked at herself in the glass. + +"How pale I am!" she said, as she fastened her dress and passed her +fingers over her loosened hair. "Come, let us go back to supper. Are you +coming?" + +I sat still and did not move. + +She saw how deeply I had been affected by the whole scene, and, coming +up to me, held out her hand, saying: + +"Come now, let us go." + +I took her hand, raised it to my lips, and in spite of myself two tears +fell upon it. + +"Why, what a child you are!" she said, sitting down by my side again. +"You are crying! What is the matter?" + +"I must seem very silly to you, but I am frightfully troubled by what I +have just seen." + +"You are very good! What would you have of me? I can not sleep. I must +amuse myself a little. And then, girls like me, what does it matter, one +more or less? The doctors tell me that the blood I spit up comes from my +throat; I pretend to believe them; it is all I can do for them." + +"Listen, Marguerite," I said, unable to contain myself any longer; "I do +not know what influence you are going to have over my life, but at this +present moment there is no one, not even my sister, in whom I feel the +interest which I feel in you. It has been just the same ever since I saw +you. Well, for Heaven's sake, take care of yourself, and do not live as +you are living now." + +"If I took care of myself I should die. All that supports me is the +feverish life I lead. Then, as for taking care of oneself, that is +all very well for women with families and friends; as for us, from the +moment we can no longer serve the vanity or the pleasure of our lovers, +they leave us, and long nights follow long days. I know it. I was in bed +for two months, and after three weeks no one came to see me." + +"It is true I am nothing to you," I went on, "but if you will let me, I +will look after you like a brother, I will never leave your side, and I +will cure you. Then, when you are strong again, you can go back to the +life you are leading, if you choose; but I am sure you will come to +prefer a quiet life, which will make you happier and keep your beauty +unspoiled." + +"You think like that to-night because the wine has made you sad, but you +would never have the patience that you pretend to." + +"Permit me to say, Marguerite, that you were ill for two months, and +that for two months I came to ask after you every day." + +"It is true, but why did you not come up?" + +"Because I did not know you then." + +"Need you have been so particular with a girl like me?" + +"One must always be particular with a woman; it is what I feel, at +least." + +"So you would look after me?" + +"Yes." + +"You would stay by me all day?" + +"Yes. + +"And even all night?" + +"As long as I did not weary you." + +"And what do you call that?" + +"Devotion." + +"And what does this devotion come from?" + +"The irresistible sympathy which I have for you." + +"So you are in love with me? Say it straight out, it is much more +simple." + +"It is possible; but if I am to say it to you one day, it is not +to-day." + +"You will do better never to say it." + +"Why?" + +"Because only one of two things can come of it." + +"What?" + +"Either I shall not accept: then you will have a grudge against me; or +I shall accept: then you will have a sorry mistress; a woman who is +nervous, ill, sad, or gay with a gaiety sadder than grief, a woman who +spits blood and spends a hundred thousand francs a year. That is all +very well for a rich old man like the duke, but it is very bad for a +young man like you, and the proof of it is that all the young lovers +I have had have very soon left me." I did not answer; I listened. This +frankness, which was almost a kind of confession, the sad life, of which +I caught some glimpse through the golden veil which covered it, and +whose reality the poor girl sought to escape in dissipation, drink, +and wakefulness, impressed me so deeply that I could not utter a single +word. + +"Come," continued Marguerite, "we are talking mere childishness. Give me +your arm and let us go back to the dining-room. They won't know what we +mean by our absence." + +"Go in, if you like, but allow me to stay here." + +"Why?" + +"Because your mirth hurts me." + +"Well, I will be sad." + +"Marguerite, let me say to you something which you have no doubt often +heard, so often that the habit of hearing it has made you believe it no +longer, but which is none the less real, and which I will never repeat." + +"And that is...?" she said, with the smile of a young mother listening +to some foolish notion of her child. + +"It is this, that ever since I have seen you, I know not why, you have +taken a place in my life; that, if I drive the thought of you out of my +mind, it always comes back; that when I met you to-day, after not having +seen you for two years, you made a deeper impression on my heart and +mind than ever; that, now that you have let me come to see you, now that +I know you, now that I know all that is strange in you, you have become +a necessity of my life, and you will drive me mad, not only if you will +not love me, but if you will not let me love you." + +"But, foolish creature that you are, I shall say to you, like Mme. D., +'You must be very rich, then!' Why, you don't know that I spend six or +seven thousand francs a month, and that I could not live without it; you +don't know, my poor friend, that I should ruin you in no time, and that +your family would cast you off if you were to live with a woman like me. +Let us be friends, good friends, but no more. Come and see me, we will +laugh and talk, but don't exaggerate what I am worth, for I am worth +very little. You have a good heart, you want someone to love you, you +are too young and too sensitive to live in a world like mine. Take a +married woman. You see, I speak to you frankly, like a friend." + +"But what the devil are you doing there?" cried Prudence, who had come +in without our bearing her, and who now stood just inside the door, with +her hair half coming down and her dress undone. I recognised the hand of +Gaston. + +"We are talking sense," said Marguerite; "leave us alone; we will be +back soon." + +"Good, good! Talk, my children," said Prudence, going out and closing +the door behind her, as if to further emphasize the tone in which she +had said these words. + +"Well, it is agreed," continued Marguerite, when we were alone, "you +won't fall in love with me?" + +"I will go away." + +"So much as that?" + +I had gone too far to draw back; and I was really carried away. This +mingling of gaiety, sadness, candour, prostitution, her very malady, +which no doubt developed in her a sensitiveness to impressions, as well +as an irritability of nerves, all this made it clear to me that if from +the very beginning I did not completely dominate her light and forgetful +nature, she was lost to me. + +"Come, now, do you seriously mean what you say?" she said. + +"Seriously." + +"But why didn't you say it to me sooner?" + +"When could I have said it?" + +"The day after you had been introduced to me at the Opera Comique." + +"I thought you would have received me very badly if I had come to see +you." + +"Why?" + +"Because I had behaved so stupidly." + +"That's true. And yet you were already in love with me." + +"Yes." + +"And that didn't hinder you from going to bed and sleeping quite +comfortably. One knows what that sort of love means." + +"There you are mistaken. Do you know what I did that evening, after the +Opera Comique?" + +"No." + +"I waited for you at the door of the Cafe Anglais. I followed the +carriage in which you and your three friends were, and when I saw you +were the only one to get down, and that you went in alone, I was very +happy." + +Marguerite began to laugh. + +"What are you laughing at?" + +"Nothing." + +"Tell me, I beg of you, or I shall think you are still laughing at me." + +"You won't be cross?" + +"What right have I to be cross?" + +"Well, there was a sufficient reason why I went in alone." + +"What?" + +"Some one was waiting for me here." + +If she had thrust a knife into me she would not have hurt me more. I +rose, and holding out my hand, "Goodbye," said I. + +"I knew you would be cross," she said; "men are frantic to know what is +certain to give them pain." + +"But I assure you," I added coldly, as if wishing to prove how +completely I was cured of my passion, "I assure you that I am not cross. +It was quite natural that someone should be waiting for you, just as it +is quite natural that I should go from here at three in the morning." + +"Have you, too, someone waiting for you?" + +"No, but I must go." + +"Good-bye, then." + +"You send me away?" + +"Not the least in the world." + +"Why are you so unkind to me?" + +"How have I been unkind to you?" + +"In telling me that someone was waiting for you." + +"I could not help laughing at the idea that you had been so happy to see +me come in alone when there was such a good reason for it." + +"One finds pleasure in childish enough things, and it is too bad to +destroy such a pleasure when, by simply leaving it alone, one can make +somebody so happy." + +"But what do you think I am? I am neither maid nor duchess. I didn't +know you till to-day, and I am not responsible to you for my actions. +Supposing one day I should become your mistress, you are bound to know +that I have had other lovers besides you. If you make scenes of jealousy +like this before, what will it be after, if that after should ever +exist? I never met anyone like you." + +"That is because no one has ever loved you as I love you." + +"Frankly, then, you really love me?" + +"As much as it is possible to love, I think." + +"And that has lasted since--?" + +"Since the day I saw you go into Susse's, three years ago." + +"Do you know, that is tremendously fine? Well, what am to do in return?" + +"Love me a little," I said, my heart beating so that I could hardly +speak; for, in spite of the half-mocking smiles with which she had +accompanied the whole conversation, it seemed to me that Marguerite +began to share my agitation, and that the hour so long awaited was +drawing near. + +"Well, but the duke?" + +"What duke?" + +"My jealous old duke." + +"He will know nothing." + +"And if he should?" + +"He would forgive you." + +"Ah, no, he would leave me, and what would become of me?" + +"You risk that for someone else." + +"How do you know?" "By the order you gave not to admit anyone +to-night." "It is true; but that is a serious friend." + +"For whom you care nothing, as you have shut your door against him at +such an hour." + +"It is not for you to reproach me, since it was in order to receive you, +you and your friend." + +Little by little I had drawn nearer to Marguerite. I had put my arms +about her waist, and I felt her supple body weigh lightly on my clasped +hands. + +"If you knew how much I love you!" I said in a low voice. "Really true?" + +"I swear it." + +"Well, if you will promise to do everything I tell you, without a word, +without an opinion, without a question, perhaps I will say yes." + +"I will do everything that you wish!" + +"But I forewarn you I must be free to do as I please, without giving you +the slightest details what I do. I have long wished for a young lover, +who should be young and not self-willed, loving without distrust, loved +without claiming the right to it. I have never found one. Men, instead +of being satisfied in obtaining for a long time what they scarcely +hoped to obtain once, exact from their mistresses a full account of the +present, the past, and even the future. As they get accustomed to her, +they want to rule her, and the more one gives them the more exacting +they become. If I decide now on taking a new lover, he must have three +very rare qualities: he must be confiding, submissive, and discreet." + +"Well, I will be all that you wish." + +"We shall see." + +"When shall we see?" + +"Later on." + +"Why?" + +"Because," said Marguerite, releasing herself from my arms, and, taking +from a great bunch of red camellias a single camellia, she placed it in +my buttonhole, "because one can not always carry out agreements the day +they are signed." + +"And when shall I see you again?" I said, clasping her in my arms. + +"When this camellia changes colour." + +"When will it change colour?" + +"To-morrow night between eleven and twelve. Are you satisfied?" + +"Need you ask me?" + +"Not a word of this either to your friend or to Prudence, or to anybody +whatever." + +"I promise." + +"Now, kiss me, and we will go back to the dining-room." + +She held up her lips to me, smoothed her hair again, and we went out of +the room, she singing, and I almost beside myself. + +In the next room she stopped for a moment and said to me in a low voice: + +"It must seem strange to you that I am ready to take you at a moment's +notice. Shall I tell you why? It is," she continued, taking my hand +and placing it against her heart so that I could feel how rapidly and +violently it palpitated; "it is because I shall not live as long as +others, and I have promised myself to live more quickly." + +"Don't speak to me like that, I entreat you." + +"Oh, make yourself easy," she continued, laughing; "however short a time +I have to live, I shall live longer than you will love me!" + +And she went singing into the dining-room. + +"Where is Nanine?" she said, seeing Gaston and Prudence alone. + +"She is asleep in your room, waiting till you are ready to go to bed," +replied Prudence. + +"Poor thing, I am killing her! And now gentlemen, it is time to go." + +Ten minutes after, Gaston and I left the house. Marguerite shook hands +with me and said good-bye. Prudence remained behind. + +"Well," said Gaston, when we were in the street, "what do you think of +Marguerite?" + +"She is an angel, and I am madly in love with her." "So I guessed; did +you tell her so?" + +"Yes." + +"And did she promise to believe you?" + +"No." + +"She is not like Prudence." + +"Did she promise to?" + +"Better still, my dear fellow. You wouldn't think it; but she is still +not half bad, poor old Duvernoy!" + + + +Chapter 11 + +At this point Armand stopped. + +"Would you close the window for me?" he said. "I am beginning to feel +cold. Meanwhile, I will get into bed." + +I closed the window. Armand, who was still very weak, took off his +dressing-gown and lay down in bed, resting his head for a few moments +on the pillow, like a man who is tired by much talking or disturbed by +painful memories. + +"Perhaps you have been talking too much," I said to him. "Would you +rather for me to go and leave you to sleep? You can tell me the rest of +the story another day." + +"Are you tired of listening to it?" + +"Quite the contrary." + +"Then I will go on. If you left me alone, I should not sleep." + +When I returned home (he continued, without needing to pause and +recollect himself, so fresh were all the details in his mind), I did not +go to bed, but began to reflect over the day's adventure. The meeting, +the introduction, the promise of Marguerite, had followed one another so +rapidly, and so unexpectedly, that there were moments when it seemed to +me I had been dreaming. Nevertheless, it was not the first time that a +girl like Marguerite had promised herself to a man on the morrow of the +day on which he had asked for the promise. + +Though, indeed, I made this reflection, the first impression produced +on me by my future mistress was so strong that it still persisted. I +refused obstinately to see in her a woman like other women, and, with +the vanity so common to all men, I was ready to believe that she could +not but share the attraction which drew me to her. + +Yet, I had before me plenty of instances to the contrary, and I had +often heard that the affection of Marguerite was a thing to be had more +or less dear, according to the season. + +But, on the other hand, how was I to reconcile this reputation with her +constant refusal of the young count whom we had found at her house? You +may say that he was unattractive to her, and that, as she was splendidly +kept by the duke, she would be more likely to choose a man who was +attractive to her, if she were to take another lover. If so, why did she +not choose Gaston, who was rich, witty, and charming, and why did she +care for me, whom she had thought so ridiculous the first time she had +seen me? + +It is true that there are events of a moment which tell more than the +courtship of a year. Of those who were at the supper, I was the only one +who had been concerned at her leaving the table. I had followed her, I +had been so affected as to be unable to hide it from her, I had wept as +I kissed her hand. This circumstance, added to my daily visits during +the two months of her illness, might have shown her that I was somewhat +different from the other men she knew, and perhaps she had said to +herself that for a love which could thus manifest itself she might well +do what she had done so often that it had no more consequence for her. + +All these suppositions, as you may see, were improbable enough; but +whatever might have been the reason of her consent, one thing was +certain, she had consented. + +Now, I was in love with Marguerite. I had nothing more to ask of her. +Nevertheless, though she was only a kept woman, I had so anticipated for +myself, perhaps to poetize it a little, a hopeless love, that the nearer +the moment approached when I should have nothing more to hope, the more +I doubted. I did not close my eyes all night. + +I scarcely knew myself. I was half demented. Now, I seemed to myself not +handsome or rich or elegant enough to possess such a woman, now I was +filled with vanity at the thought of it; then I began to fear lest +Marguerite had no more than a few days' caprice for me, and I said to +myself that since we should soon have to part, it would be better not to +keep her appointment, but to write and tell her my fears and leave her. +From that I went on to unlimited hope, unbounded confidence. I dreamed +incredible dreams of the future; I said to myself that she should owe +to me her moral and physical recovery, that I should spend my whole life +with her, and that her love should make me happier than all the maidenly +loves in the world. + +But I can not repeat to you the thousand thoughts that rose from my +heart to my head, and that only faded away with the sleep that came to +me at daybreak. + +When I awoke it was two o'clock. The weather was superb. I don't think +life ever seemed to me so beautiful and so full of possibilities. The +memories of the night before came to me without shadow or hindrance, +escorted gaily by the hopes of the night to come. From time to time my +heart leaped with love and joy in my breast. A sweet fever thrilled +me. I thought no more of the reasons which had filled my mind before I +slept. I saw only the result, I thought only of the hour when I was to +see Marguerite again. + +It was impossible to stay indoors. My room seemed too small to contain +my happiness. I needed the whole of nature to unbosom myself. + +I went out. Passing by the Rue d'Antin, I saw Marguerite's coupe' +waiting for her at the door. I went toward the Champs-Elysees. I loved +all the people whom I met. Love gives one a kind of goodness. + +After I had been walking for an hour from the Marly horses to the +Rond-Point, I saw Marguerite's carriage in the distance; I divined +rather than recognised it. As it was turning the corner of the +Champs-Elysees it stopped, and a tall young man left a group of people +with whom he was talking and came up to her. They talked for a few +moments; the young man returned to his friends, the horses set out +again, and as I came near the group I recognised the one who had spoken +to Marguerite as the Comte de G., whose portrait I had seen and whom +Prudence had indicated to me as the man to whom Marguerite owed her +position. It was to him that she had closed her doors the night before; +I imagined that she had stopped her carriage in order to explain to him +why she had done so, and I hoped that at the same time she had found +some new pretext for not receiving him on the following night. + +How I spent the rest of the day I do not know; I walked, smoked, talked, +but what I said, whom I met, I had utterly forgotten by ten o'clock in +the evening. + +All I remember is that when I returned home, I spent three hours over +my toilet, and I looked at my watch and my clock a hundred times, which +unfortunately both pointed to the same hour. + +When it struck half past ten, I said to myself that it was time to go. + +I lived at that time in the Rue de Provence; I followed the Rue du +Mont-Blanc, crossed the Boulevard, went up the Rue Louis-le-Grand, the +Rue de Port-Mahon, and the Rue d'Antin. I looked up at Marguerite's +windows. There was a light. I rang. I asked the porter if Mlle. Gautier +was at home. He replied that she never came in before eleven or a +quarter past eleven. I looked at my watch. I intended to come quite +slowly, and I had come in five minutes from the Rue de Provence to the +Rue d'Antin. + +I walked to and fro in the street; there are no shops, and at that hour +it is quite deserted. In half an hour's time Marguerite arrived. She +looked around her as she got down from her coupe, as if she were +looking for someone. The carriage drove off; the stables were not at +the house. Just as Marguerite was going to ring, I went up to her and +said, "Good-evening." + +"Ah, it is you," she said, in a tone that by no means reassured me as to +her pleasure in seeing me. + +"Did you not promise me that I might come and see you to-day?" + +"Quite right. I had forgotten." + +This word upset all the reflections I had had during the day. +Nevertheless, I was beginning to get used to her ways, and I did not +leave her, as I should certainly have done once. We entered. Nanine had +already opened the door. + +"Has Prudence come?" said Marguerite. + +"No, madame." + +"Say that she is to be admitted as soon as she comes. But first put out +the lamp in the drawing-room, and if anyone comes, say that I have not +come back and shall not be coming back." + +She was like a woman who is preoccupied with something, and perhaps +annoyed by an unwelcome guest. I did not know what to do or say. +Marguerite went toward her bedroom; I remained where I was. + +"Come," she said. + +She took off her hat and her velvet cloak and threw them on the bed, +then let herself drop into a great armchair beside the fire, which she +kept till the very beginning of summer, and said to me as she fingered +her watch-chain: + +"Well, what news have you got for me?" + +"None, except that I ought not to have come to-night." + +"Why?" + +"Because you seem vexed, and no doubt I am boring you." + +"You are not boring me; only I am not well; I have been suffering all +day. I could not sleep, and I have a frightful headache." + +"Shall I go away and let you go to bed?" + +"Oh, you can stay. If I want to go to bed I don't mind your being here." + +At that moment there was a ring. + +"Who is coming now?" she said, with an impatient movement. + +A few minutes after there was another ring. + +"Isn't there anyone to go to the door? I shall have to go." She got up +and said to me, "Wait here." + +She went through the rooms, and I heard her open the outer door. I +listened. + +The person whom she had admitted did not come farther than the +dining-room. At the first word I recognised the voice of the young Comte +de N. + +"How are you this evening?" he said. + +"Not well," replied Marguerite drily. + +"Am I disturbing you?" + +"Perhaps. + +"How you receive me! What have I done, my dear Marguerite?" + +"My dear friend, you have done nothing. I am ill; I must go to bed, so +you will be good enough to go. It is sickening not to be able to return +at night without your making your appearance five minutes afterward. +What is it you want? For me to be your mistress? Well, I have already +told you a hundred times, No; you simply worry me, and you might as well +go somewhere else. I repeat to you to-day, for the last time, I don't +want to have anything to do with you; that's settled. Good-bye. Here's +Nanine coming in; she can light you to the door. Good-night." + +Without adding another word, or listening to what the young man +stammered out, Marguerite returned to the room and slammed the door. +Nanine entered a moment after. + +"Now understand," said Marguerite, "you are always to say to that idiot +that I am not in, or that I will not see him. I am tired out with seeing +people who always want the same thing; who pay me for it, and then think +they are quit of me. If those who are going to go in for our hateful +business only knew what it really was they would sooner be chambermaids. +But no, vanity, the desire of having dresses and carriages and diamonds +carries us away; one believes what one hears, for here, as elsewhere, +there is such a thing as belief, and one uses up one's heart, one's +body, one's beauty, little by little; one is feared like a beast of +prey, scorned like a pariah, surrounded by people who always take more +than they give; and one fine day one dies like a dog in a ditch, after +having ruined others and ruined one's self." + +"Come, come, madame, be calm," said Nanine; "your nerves are a bit upset +to-night." + +"This dress worries me," continued Marguerite, unhooking her bodice; +"give me a dressing-gown. Well, and Prudence?" + +"She has not come yet, but I will send her to you, madame, the moment +she comes." + +"There's one, now," Marguerite went on, as she took off her dress and +put on a white dressing-gown, "there's one who knows very well how to +find me when she is in want of me, and yet she can't do me a service +decently. She knows I am waiting for an answer. She knows how anxious I +am, and I am sure she is going about on her own account, without giving +a thought to me." + +"Perhaps she had to wait." + +"Let us have some punch." + +"It will do you no good, madame," said Nanine. + +"So much the better. Bring some fruit, too, and a pate or a wing of +chicken; something or other, at once. I am hungry." + +Need I tell you the impression which this scene made upon me, or can you +not imagine it? + +"You are going to have supper with me," she said to me; "meanwhile, take +a book. I am going into my dressing-room for a moment." + +She lit the candles of a candelabra, opened a door at the foot of the +bed, and disappeared. + +I began to think over this poor girl's life, and my love for her was +mingled with a great pity. I walked to and fro in the room, thinking +over things, when Prudence entered. + +"Ah, you here?"' she said, "where is Marguerite?" + +"In her dressing-room." + +"I will wait. By the way, do you know she thinks you charming?" + +"No." + +"She hasn't told you?" + +"Not at all." + +"How are you here?" + +"I have come to pay her a visit." + +"At midnight?" + +"Why not?" + +"Farceur!" + +"She has received me, as a matter of fact, very badly." + +"She will receive you better by and bye." + +"Do you think so?" + +"I have some good news for her." + +"No harm in that. So she has spoken to you about me?" + +"Last night, or rather to-night, when you and your friend went. By the +way, what is your friend called? Gaston R., his name is, isn't it?" + +"Yes," said I, not without smiling, as I thought of what Gaston had +confided to me, and saw that Prudence scarcely even knew his name. + +"He is quite nice, that fellow; what does he do?" + +"He has twenty-five thousand francs a year." + +"Ah, indeed! Well, to return to you. Marguerite asked me all about +you: who you were, what you did, what mistresses you had had; in short, +everything that one could ask about a man of your age. I told her all I +knew, and added that you were a charming young man. That's all." + +"Thanks. Now tell me what it was she wanted to say to you last night." + +"Nothing at all. It was only to get rid of the count; but I have really +something to see her about to-day, and I am bringing her an answer now." + +At this moment Marguerite reappeared from her dressing-room, wearing a +coquettish little nightcap with bunches of yellow ribbons, technically +known as "cabbages." She looked ravishing. She had satin slippers on her +bare feet, and was in the act of polishing her nails. + +"Well," she said, seeing Prudence, "have you seen the duke?" + +"Yes, indeed." + +"And what did he say to you?" + +"He gave me--" + +"How much?" + +"Six thousand." + +"Have you got it?" + +"Yes. + +"Did he seem put out?" + +"No." + +"Poor man!" + +This "Poor man!" was said in a tone impossible to render. Marguerite +took the six notes of a thousand francs. + +"It was quite time," she said. "My dear Prudence, are you in want of any +money?" + +"You know, my child, it is the 15th in a couple of days, so if you could +lend me three or four hundred francs, you would do me a real service." + +"Send over to-morrow; it is too late to get change now." + +"Don't forget." + +"No fear. Will you have supper with us?" + +"No, Charles is waiting for me." + +"You are still devoted to him?" + +"Crazy, my dear! I will see you to-morrow. Good-bye, Armand." + +Mme. Duvernoy went out. + +Marguerite opened the drawer of a side-table and threw the bank-notes +into it. + +"Will you permit me to get into bed?" she said with a smile, as she +moved toward the bed. + +"Not only permit, but I beg of you." + +She turned back the covering and got into bed. + +"Now," said she, "come and sit down by me, and let's have a talk." + +Prudence was right: the answer that she had brought to Marguerite had +put her into a good humour. + +"Will you forgive me for my bad temper tonight?" she said, taking my +hand. + +"I am ready to forgive you as often as you like." + +"And you love me?" + +"Madly." + +"In spite of my bad disposition?" + +"In spite of all." + +"You swear it?" + +"Yes," I said in a whisper. + +Nanine entered, carrying plates, a cold chicken, a bottle of claret, and +some strawberries. + +"I haven't had any punch made," said Nanine; "claret is better for you. +Isn't it, sir?" + +"Certainly," I replied, still under the excitement of Marguerite's last +words, my eyes fixed ardently upon her. + +"Good," said she; "put it all on the little table, and draw it up to the +bed; we will help ourselves. This is the third night you have sat up, +and you must be in want of sleep. Go to bed. I don't want anything +more." + +"Shall I lock the door?" + +"I should think so! And above all, tell them not to admit anybody before +midday." + + + +Chapter 12 + +At five o'clock in the morning, as the light began to appear through the +curtains, Marguerite said to me: "Forgive me if I send you away; but I +must. The duke comes every morning; they will tell him, when he comes, +that I am asleep, and perhaps he will wait until I wake." + +I took Marguerite's head in my hands; her loosened hair streamed about +her; I gave her a last kiss, saying: "When shall I see you again?" + +"Listen," she said; "take the little gilt key on the mantelpiece, open +that door; bring me back the key and go. In the course of the day +you shall have a letter, and my orders, for you know you are to obey +blindly." + +"Yes; but if I should already ask for something?" + +"What?" + +"Let me have that key." + +"What you ask is a thing I have never done for anyone." + +"Well, do it for me, for I swear to you that I don't love you as the +others have loved you." + +"Well, keep it; but it only depends on me to make it useless to you, +after all." + +"How?" + +"There are bolts on the door." + +"Wretch!" + +"I will have them taken off." + +"You love, then, a little?" + +"I don't know how it is, but it seems to me as if I do! Now, go; I can't +keep my eyes open." + +I held her in my arms for a few seconds and then went. + +The streets were empty, the great city was still asleep, a sweet +freshness circulated in the streets that a few hours later would be +filled with the noise of men. It seemed to me as if this sleeping +city belonged to me; I searched my memory for the names of those whose +happiness I had once envied; and I could not recall one without finding +myself the happier. + +To be loved by a pure young girl, to be the first to reveal to her the +strange mystery of love, is indeed a great happiness, but it is the +simplest thing in the world. To take captive a heart which has had no +experience of attack, is to enter an unfortified and ungarrisoned city. +Education, family feeling, the sense of duty, the family, are strong +sentinels, but there are no sentinels so vigilant as not to be deceived +by a girl of sixteen to whom nature, by the voice of the man she loves, +gives the first counsels of love, all the more ardent because they seem +so pure. + +The more a girl believes in goodness, the more easily will she give way, +if not to her lover, at least to love, for being without mistrust she +is without force, and to win her love is a triumph that can be gained +by any young man of five-and-twenty. See how young girls are watched +and guarded! The walls of convents are not high enough, mothers have +no locks strong enough, religion has no duties constant enough, to shut +these charming birds in their cages, cages not even strewn with flowers. +Then how surely must they desire the world which is hidden from them, +how surely must they find it tempting, how surely must they listen to +the first voice which comes to tell its secrets through their bars, and +bless the hand which is the first to raise a corner of the mysterious +veil! + +But to be really loved by a courtesan: that is a victory of infinitely +greater difficulty. With them the body has worn out the soul, the senses +have burned up the heart, dissipation has blunted the feelings. They +have long known the words that we say to them, the means we use; they +have sold the love that they inspire. They love by profession, and not +by instinct. They are guarded better by their calculations than a virgin +by her mother and her convent; and they have invented the word caprice +for that unbartered love which they allow themselves from time to time, +for a rest, for an excuse, for a consolation, like usurers, who cheat +a thousand, and think they have bought their own redemption by once +lending a sovereign to a poor devil who is dying of hunger without +asking for interest or a receipt. + +Then, when God allows love to a courtesan, that love, which at first +seems like a pardon, becomes for her almost without penitence. When a +creature who has all her past to reproach herself with is taken all at +once by a profound, sincere, irresistible love, of which she had never +felt herself capable; when she has confessed her love, how absolutely +the man whom she loves dominates her! How strong he feels with his cruel +right to say: You do no more for love than you have done for money. +They know not what proof to give. A child, says the fable, having +often amused himself by crying "Help! a wolf!" in order to disturb the +labourers in the field, was one day devoured by a Wolf, because those +whom he had so often deceived no longer believed in his cries for help. +It is the same with these unhappy women when they love seriously. They +have lied so often that no one will believe them, and in the midst of +their remorse they are devoured by their love. + +Hence those great devotions, those austere retreats from the world, of +which some of them have given an example. + +But when the man who inspires this redeeming love is great enough in +soul to receive it without remembering the past, when he gives himself +up to it, when, in short, he loves as he is loved, this man drains at +one draught all earthly emotions, and after such a love his heart will +be closed to every other. + +I did not make these reflections on the morning when I returned home. +They could but have been the presentiment of what was to happen to +me, and, despite my love for Marguerite, I did not foresee such +consequences. I make these reflections to-day. Now that all is +irrevocably ended, they a rise naturally out of what has taken place. + +But to return to the first day of my liaison. When I reached home I +was in a state of mad gaiety. As I thought of how the barriers which my +imagination had placed between Marguerite and myself had disappeared, of +how she was now mine; of the place I now had in her thoughts, of the key +to her room which I had in my pocket, and of my right to use this key, I +was satisfied with life, proud of myself, and I loved God because he had +let such things be. + +One day a young man is passing in the street, he brushes against a +woman, looks at her, turns, goes on his way. He does not know the woman, +and she has pleasures, griefs, loves, in which he has no part. He does +not exist for her, and perhaps, if he spoke to her, she would only laugh +at him, as Marguerite had laughed at me. Weeks, months, years pass, and +all at once, when they have each followed their fate along a different +path, the logic of chance brings them face to face. The woman becomes +the man's mistress and loves him. How? why? Their two existences are +henceforth one; they have scarcely begun to know one another when it +seems as if they had known one another always, and all that had gone +before is wiped out from the memory of the two lovers. It is curious, +one must admit. + +As for me, I no longer remembered how I had lived before that night. +My whole being was exalted into joy at the memory of the words we had +exchanged during that first night. Either Marguerite was very clever +in deception, or she had conceived for me one of those sudden passions +which are revealed in the first kiss, and which die, often enough, as +suddenly as they were born. + +The more I reflected the more I said to myself that Marguerite had no +reason for feigning a love which she did not feel, and I said to myself +also that women have two ways of loving, one of which may arise from the +other: they love with the heart or with the senses. Often a woman takes +a lover in obedience to the mere will of the senses, and learns without +expecting it the mystery of immaterial love, and lives henceforth only +through her heart; often a girl who has sought in marriage only the +union of two pure affections receives the sudden revelation of physical +love, that energetic conclusion of the purest impressions of the soul. + +In the midst of these thoughts I fell asleep; I was awakened by a letter +from Marguerite containing these words: + +"Here are my orders: To-night at the Vaudeville. + +"Come during the third entr'acte." + +I put the letter into a drawer, so that I might always have it at hand +in case I doubted its reality, as I did from time to time. + +She did not tell me to come to see her during the day, and I dared not +go; but I had so great a desire to see her before the evening that I +went to the Champs-Elysees, where I again saw her pass and repass, as I +had on the previous day. + +At seven o'clock I was at the Vaudeville. Never had I gone to a theatre +so early. The boxes filled one after another. Only one remained empty, +the stage box. At the beginning of the third act I heard the door of +the box, on which my eyes had been almost constantly fixed, open, and +Marguerite appeared. She came to the front at once, looked around the +stalls, saw me, and thanked me with a look. + +That night she was marvellously beautiful. Was I the cause of this +coquetry? Did she love me enough to believe that the more beautiful she +looked the happier I should be? I did not know, but if that had been +her intention she certainly succeeded, for when she appeared all heads +turned, and the actor who was then on the stage looked to see who had +produced such an effect on the audience by her mere presence there. + +And I had the key of this woman's room, and in three or four hours she +would again be mine! + +People blame those who let themselves be ruined by actresses and kept +women; what astonishes me is that twenty times greater follies are not +committed for them. One must have lived that life, as I have, to know +how much the little vanities which they afford their lovers every day +help to fasten deeper into the heart, since we have no other word for +it, the love which he has for them. + +Prudence next took her place in the box, and a man, whom I recognised as +the Comte de G., seated himself at the back. As I saw him, a cold shiver +went through my heart. + +Doubtless Marguerite perceived the impression made on me by the presence +of this man, for she smiled to me again, and, turning her back to the +count, appeared to be very attentive to the play. At the third entr'acte +she turned and said two words: the count left the box, and Marguerite +beckoned to me to come to her. + +"Good-evening," she said as I entered, holding out her hand. + +"Good-evening," I replied to both Marguerite and Prudence. + +"Sit down." + +"But I am taking someone's place. Isn't the Comte de G. coming back?" + +"Yes; I sent him to fetch some sweets, so that we could talk by +ourselves for a moment. Mme. Duvernoy is in on the secret." + +"Yes, my children," said she; "have no fear. I shall say nothing." + +"What is the matter with you to-night?" said Marguerite, rising and +coming to the back of the box and kissing me on the forehead. + +"I am not very well." + +"You should go to bed," she replied, with that ironical air which went +so well with her delicate and witty face. + +"Where?" + +"At home." + +"You know that I shouldn't be able to sleep there." + +"Well, then, it won't do for you to come and be pettish here because you +have seen a man in my box." + +"It is not for that reason." + +"Yes, it is. I know; and you are wrong, so let us say no more about +it. You will go back with Prudence after the theatre, and you will stay +there till I call. Do you understand?" + +"Yes." + +How could I disobey? + +"You still love me?" + +"Can you ask?" + +"You have thought of me?" + +"All day long." + +"Do you know that I am really afraid that I shall get very fond of you? +Ask Prudence." + +"Ah," said she, "it is amazing!" + +"Now, you must go back to your seat. The count will be coming back, and +there is nothing to be gained by his finding you here." + +"Because you don't like seeing him." + +"No; only if you had told me that you wanted to come to the Vaudeville +to-night I could have got this box for you as well as he." + +"Unfortunately, he got it for me without my asking him, and he asked me +to go with him; you know well enough that I couldn't refuse. All I could +do was to write and tell you where I was going, so that you could see +me, and because I wanted to see you myself; but since this is the way +you thank me, I shall profit by the lesson." + +"I was wrong; forgive me." + +"Well and good; and now go back nicely to your place, and, above all, no +more jealousy." + +She kissed me again, and I left the box. In the passage I met the count +coming back. I returned to my seat. + +After all, the presence of M. de G. in Marguerite's box was the most +natural thing in the world. He had been her lover, he sent her a box, he +accompanied her to the theatre; it was all quite natural, and if I was +to have a mistress like Marguerite I should have to get used to her +ways. + +Nonetheless, I was very unhappy all the rest of the evening, and went +away very sadly after having seen Prudence, the count, and Marguerite +get into the carriage, which was waiting for them at the door. + +However, a quarter of an hour later I was at Prudence's. She had only +just got in. + + + +Chapter 13 + +"You have come almost as quickly as we," said Prudence. + +"Yes," I answered mechanically. "Where is Marguerite?" + +"At home." + +"Alone?" + +"With M. de G." + +I walked to and fro in the room. + +"Well, what is the matter?" + +"Do you think it amuses me to wait here till M. de G. leaves +Marguerite's?" + +"How unreasonable you are! Don't you see that Marguerite can't turn the +count out of doors? M. de G. has been with her for a long time; he has +always given her a lot of money; he still does. Marguerite spends more +than a hundred thousand francs a year; she has heaps of debts. The duke +gives her all that she asks for, but she does not always venture to ask +him for all that she is in want of. It would never do for her to quarrel +with the count, who is worth to her at least ten thousand francs a year. +Marguerite is very fond of you, my dear fellow, but your liaison with +her, in her interests and in yours, ought not to be serious. You with +your seven or eight thousand francs a year, what could you do toward +supplying all the luxuries which a girl like that is in need of? It +would not be enough to keep her carriage. Take Marguerite for what +she is, for a good, bright, pretty girl; be her lover for a month, two +months; give her flowers, sweets, boxes at the theatre; but don't +get any other ideas into your head, and don't make absurd scenes of +jealousy. You know whom you have to do with; Marguerite isn't a saint. +She likes you, you are very fond of her; let the rest alone. You amaze +me when I see you so touchy; you have the most charming mistress in +Paris. She receives you in the greatest style, she is covered with +diamonds, she needn't cost you a penny, unless you like, and you are not +satisfied. My dear fellow, you ask too much!" + +"You are right, but I can't help it; the idea that that man is her lover +hurts me horribly." + +"In the first place," replied Prudence; "is he still her lover? He is a +man who is useful to her, nothing more. She has closed her doors to him +for two days; he came this morning--she could not but accept the box and +let him accompany her. He saw her home; he has gone in for a moment, he +is not staying, because you are waiting here. All that, it seems to me, +is quite natural. Besides, you don't mind the duke." + +"Yes; but he is an old man, and I am sure that Marguerite is not his +mistress. Then, it is all very well to accept one liaison, but not two. +Such easiness in the matter is very like calculation, and puts the man +who consents to it, even out of love, very much in the category of those +who, in a lower stage of society, make a trade of their connivance, and +a profit of their trade." + +"Ah, my dear fellow, how old-fashioned you are! How many of the richest +and most fashionable men of the best families I have seen quite ready +to do what I advise you to do, and without an effort, without shame, +without remorse, Why, one sees it every day. How do you suppose the kept +women in Paris could live in the style they do, if they had not three or +four lovers at once? No single fortune, however large, could suffice +for the expenses of a woman like Marguerite. A fortune of five hundred +thousand francs a year is, in France, an enormous fortune; well, my dear +friend, five hundred thousand francs a year would still be too little, +and for this reason: a man with such an income has a large house, +horses, servants, carriages; he shoots, has friends, often he is +married, he has children, he races, gambles, travels, and what not. All +these habits are so much a part of his position that he can not forego +them without appearing to have lost all his money, and without causing +scandal. Taking it all round, with five hundred thousand francs a year +he can not give a woman more than forty or fifty thousand francs in the +year, and that is already a good deal. Well, other lovers make up for +the rest of her expenses. With Marguerite, it is still more convenient; +she has chanced by a miracle on an old man worth ten millions, whose +wife and daughter are dead; who has only some nephews, themselves rich, +and who gives her all she wants without asking anything in return. But +she can not ask him for more than seventy thousand francs a year; and +I am sure that if she did ask for more, despite his health and the +affection he has for her he would not give it to her. + +"All the young men of twenty or thirty thousand francs a year at Paris, +that is to say, men who have only just enough to live on in the society +in which they mix, know perfectly well, when they are the lovers of a +woman like Marguerite, that she could not so much as pay for the rooms +she lives in and the servants who wait upon her with what they give +her. They do not say to her that they know it; they pretend not to see +anything, and when they have had enough of it they go their way. If they +have the vanity to wish to pay for everything they get ruined, like the +fools they are, and go and get killed in Africa, after leaving a hundred +thousand francs of debt in Paris. Do you think a woman is grateful +to them for it? Far from it. She declares that she has sacrificed her +position for them, and that while she was with them she was losing +money. These details seem to you shocking? Well, they are true. You are +a very nice fellow; I like you very much. I have lived with these women +for twenty years; I know what they are worth, and I don't want to see +you take the caprice that a pretty girl has for you too seriously. + +"Then, besides that," continued Prudence; "admit that Marguerite loves +you enough to give up the count or the duke, in case one of them were to +discover your liaison and to tell her to choose between him and you, +the sacrifice that she would make for you would be enormous, you can not +deny it. What equal sacrifice could you make for her, on your part, and +when you had got tired of her, what could you do to make up for what you +had taken from her? Nothing. You would have cut her off from the world +in which her fortune and her future were to be found; she would have +given you her best years, and she would be forgotten. Either you would +be an ordinary man, and, casting her past in her teeth, you would leave +her, telling her that you were only doing like her other lovers, and you +would abandon her to certain misery; or you would be an honest man, and, +feeling bound to keep her by you, you would bring inevitable trouble +upon yourself, for a liaison which is excusable in a young man, is no +longer excusable in a man of middle age. It becomes an obstacle to every +thing; it allows neither family nor ambition, man's second and last +loves. Believe me, then, my friend, take things for what they are worth, +and do not give a kept woman the right to call herself your creditor, no +matter in what." + +It was well argued, with a logic of which I should have thought Prudence +incapable. I had nothing to reply, except that she was right; I took her +hand and thanked her for her counsels. + +"Come, come," said she, "put these foolish theories to flight, and +laugh over them. Life is pleasant, my dear fellow; it all depends on the +colour of the glass through which one sees it. Ask your friend Gaston; +there's a man who seems to me to understand love as I understand it. All +that you need think of, unless you are quite a fool, is that close by +there is a beautiful girl who is waiting impatiently for the man who is +with her to go, thinking of you, keeping the whole night for you, and +who loves you, I am certain. Now, come to the window with me, and let us +watch for the count to go; he won't be long in leaving the coast clear." + +Prudence opened the window, and we leaned side by side over the balcony. +She watched the few passers, I reflected. All that she had said buzzed +in my head, and I could not help feeling that she was right; but +the genuine love which I had for Marguerite had some difficulty in +accommodating itself to such a belief. I sighed from time to time, at +which Prudence turned, and shrugged her shoulders like a physician who +has given up his patient. + +"How one realizes the shortness of life," I said to myself, "by the +rapidity of sensations! I have only known Marguerite for two days, +she has only been my mistress since yesterday, and she has already so +completely absorbed my thoughts, my heart, and my life that the visit of +the Comte de G. is a misfortune for me." + +At last the count came out, got into his carriage and disappeared. +Prudence closed the window. At the same instant Marguerite called to us: + +"Come at once," she said; "they are laying the table, and we'll have +supper." + +When I entered, Marguerite ran to me, threw her arms around my neck and +kissed me with all her might. + +"Are we still sulky?" she said to me. + +"No, it is all over," replied Prudence. "I have given him a talking to, +and he has promised to be reasonable." + +"Well and good." + +In spite of myself I glanced at the bed; it was not unmade. As for +Marguerite, she was already in her white dressing-gown. We sat down to +table. + +Charm, sweetness, spontaneity, Marguerite had them all, and I was forced +from time to time to admit that I had no right to ask of her anything +else; that many people would be very happy to be in my place; and that, +like Virgil's shepherd, I had only to enjoy the pleasures that a god, or +rather a goddess, set before me. + +I tried to put in practice the theories of Prudence, and to be as gay +as my two companions; but what was natural in them was on my part an +effort, and the nervous laughter, whose source they did not detect, was +nearer to tears than to mirth. + +At last the supper was over and I was alone with Marguerite. She sat +down as usual on the hearthrug before the fire and gazed sadly into the +flames. What was she thinking of? I know not. As for me, I looked at her +with a mingling of love and terror, as I thought of all that I was ready +to suffer for her sake. + +"Do you know what I am thinking of?" + +"No." + +"Of a plan that has come into my head." + +"And what is this plan?" + +"I can't tell you yet, but I can tell you what the result would be. The +result would be that in a month I should be free, I should have no more +debts, and we could go and spend the summer in the country." + +"And you can't tell me by what means?" + +"No, only love me as I love you, and all will succeed." + +"And have you made this plan all by yourself?" + +"Yes." + +"And you will carry it out all by yourself?" + +"I alone shall have the trouble of it," said Marguerite, with a smile +which I shall never forget, "but we shall both partake its benefits." + +I could not help flushing at the word benefits; I thought of Manon +Lescaut squandering with Desgrieux the money of M. de B. + +I replied in a hard voice, rising from my seat: + +"You must permit me, my dear Marguerite, to share only the benefits of +those enterprises which I have conceived and carried out myself." + +"What does that mean?" + +"It means that I have a strong suspicion that M. de G. is to be your +associate in this pretty plan, of which I can accept neither the cost +nor the benefits." + +"What a child you are! I thought you loved me. I was mistaken; all +right." + +She rose, opened the piano and began to play the "Invitation a la Valse", +as far as the famous passage in the major which always stopped her. Was +it through force of habit, or was it to remind me of the day when we +first met? All I know is that the melody brought back that recollection, +and, coming up to her, I took her head between my hands and kissed her. +"You forgive me?" I said. + +"You see I do," she answered; "but observe that we are only at our +second day, and already I have had to forgive you something. Is this how +you keep your promise of blind obedience?" + +"What can I do, Marguerite? I love you too much and I am jealous of the +least of your thoughts. What you proposed to me just now made me frantic +with delight, but the mystery in its carrying out hurts me dreadfully." + +"Come, let us reason it out," she said, taking both my hands and looking +at me with a charming smile which it was impossible to resist, "You love +me, do you not? and you would gladly spend two or three months alone +with me in the country? I too should be glad of this solitude a deux, +and not only glad of it, but my health requires it. I can not leave +Paris for such a length of time without putting my affairs in order, and +the affairs of a woman like me are always in great confusion; well, I +have found a way to reconcile everything, my money affairs and my love +for you; yes, for you, don't laugh; I am silly enough to love you! And +here you are taking lordly airs and talking big words. Child, thrice +child, only remember that I love you, and don't let anything disturb +you. Now, is it agreed?" + +"I agree to all you wish, as you know." + +"Then, in less than a month's time we shall be in some village, +walking by the river side, and drinking milk. Does it seem strange +that Marguerite Gautier should speak to you like that? The fact is, +my friend, that when this Paris life, which seems to make me so happy, +doesn't burn me, it wearies me, and then I have sudden aspirations +toward a calmer existence which might recall my childhood. One has +always had a childhood, whatever one becomes. Don't be alarmed; I am not +going to tell you that I am the daughter of a colonel on half-pay, and +that I was brought up at Saint-Denis. I am a poor country girl, and six +years ago I could not write my own name. You are relieved, aren't you? +Why is it you are the first whom I have ever asked to share the joy +of this desire of mine? I suppose because I feel that you love me for +myself and not for yourself, while all the others have only loved me for +themselves. + +"I have often been in the country, but never as I should like to go +there. I count on you for this easy happiness; do not be unkind, let +me have it. Say this to yourself: 'She will never live to be old, and I +should some day be sorry for not having done for her the first thing she +asked of me, such an easy thing to do!'" + +What could I reply to such words, especially with the memory of a first +night of love, and in the expectation of a second? + +An hour later I held Marguerite in my arms, and, if she had asked me to +commit a crime, I would have obeyed her. + +At six in the morning I left her, and before leaving her I said: "Till +to-night!" She kissed me more warmly than ever, but said nothing. + +During the day I received a note containing these words: + +"DEAR CHILD: I am not very well, and the doctor has ordered quiet. I +shall go to bed early to-night and shall not see you. But, to make up, I +shall expect you to-morrow at twelve. I love you." + +My first thought was: She is deceiving me! + +A cold sweat broke out on my forehead, for I already loved this woman +too much not to be overwhelmed by the suspicion. And yet, I was bound to +expect such a thing almost any day with Marguerite, and it had happened +to me often enough with my other mistresses, without my taking much +notice of it. What was the meaning of the hold which this woman had +taken upon my life? + +Then it occurred to me, since I had the key, to go and see her as usual. +In this way I should soon know the truth, and if I found a man there I +would strike him in the face. + +Meanwhile I went to the Champs-Elysees. I waited there four hours. She +did not appear. At night I went into all the theatres where she was +accustomed to go. She was in none of them. + +At eleven o'clock I went to the Rue d'Antin. There was no light in +Marguerite's windows. All the same, I rang. The porter asked me where I +was going. + +"To Mlle. Gautier's," I said. + +"She has not come in." + +"I will go up and wait for her." + +"There is no one there." + +Evidently I could get in, since I had the key, but, fearing foolish +scandal, I went away. Only I did not return home; I could not leave the +street, and I never took my eyes off Marguerite's house. It seemed to +me that there was still something to be found out, or at least that my +suspicions were about to be confirmed. + +About midnight a carriage that I knew well stopped before No. 9. The +Comte de G. got down and entered the house, after sending away the +carriage. For a moment I hoped that the same answer would be given to +him as to me, and that I should see him come out; but at four o'clock in +the morning I was still awaiting him. + +I have suffered deeply during these last three weeks, but that is +nothing, I think, in comparison with what I suffered that night. + + + +Chapter 14 + +When I reached home I began to cry like a child. There is no man to whom +a woman has not been unfaithful, once at least, and who will not know +what I suffered. + +I said to myself, under the weight of these feverish resolutions which +one always feels as if one had the force to carry out, that I must break +with my amour at once, and I waited impatiently for daylight in order +to set out forthwith to rejoin my father and my sister, of whose love at +least I was certain, and certain that that love would never be betrayed. + +However, I did not wish to go away without letting Marguerite know why +I went. Only a man who really cares no more for his mistress leaves her +without writing to her. I made and remade twenty letters in my head. I +had had to do with a woman like all other women of the kind. I had been +poetizing too much. She had treated me like a school-boy, she had used +in deceiving me a trick which was insultingly simple. My self-esteem +got the upper hand. I must leave this woman without giving her the +satisfaction of knowing that she had made me suffer, and this is what I +wrote to her in my most elegant handwriting and with tears of rage and +sorrow in my eyes: + +"MY DEAR MARGUERITE: I hope that your indisposition yesterday was not +serious. I came, at eleven at night, to ask after you, and was told +that you had not come in. M. de G. was more fortunate, for he presented +himself shortly afterward, and at four in the morning he had not left. + +"Forgive me for the few tedious hours that I have given you, and be +assured that I shall never forget the happy moments which I owe to you. + +"I should have called to-day to ask after you, but I intend going back +to my father's. + +"Good-bye, my dear Marguerite. I am not rich enough to love you as I +would nor poor enough to love you as you would. Let us then forget, you +a name which must be indifferent enough to you, I a happiness which has +become impossible. + +"I send back your key, which I have never used, and which might be +useful to you, if you are often ill as you were yesterday." + +As you will see, I was unable to end my letter without a touch of +impertinent irony, which proved how much in love I still was. + +I read and reread this letter ten times over; then the thought of the +pain it would give to Marguerite calmed me a little. I tried to persuade +myself of the feelings which it professed; and when my servant came to +my room at eight o'clock, I gave it to him and told him to take it at +once. + +"Shall I wait for an answer?" asked Joseph (my servant, like all +servants, was called Joseph). + +"If they ask whether there is a reply, you will say that you don't know, +and wait." + +I buoyed myself up with the hope that she would reply. Poor, feeble +creatures that we are! All the time that my servant was away I was in a +state of extreme agitation. At one moment I would recall how Marguerite +had given herself to me, and ask myself by what right I wrote her an +impertinent letter, when she could reply that it was not M. de G. who +supplanted me, but I who had supplanted M. de G.: a mode of reasoning +which permits many women to have many lovers. At another moment I would +recall her promises, and endeavour to convince myself that my letter was +only too gentle, and that there were not expressions forcible enough to +punish a woman who laughed at a love like mine. Then I said to myself +that I should have done better not to have written to her, but to have +gone to see her, and that then I should have had the pleasure of seeing +the tears that she would shed. Finally, I asked myself what she would +reply to me; already prepared to believe whatever excuse she made. + +Joseph returned. + +"Well?" I said to him. + +"Sir," said he, "madame was not up, and still asleep, but as soon as she +rings the letter will be taken to her, and if there is any reply it will +be sent." + +She was asleep! + +Twenty times I was on the point of sending to get the letter back, but +every time I said to myself: "Perhaps she will have got it already, and +it would look as if I have repented of sending it." + +As the hour at which it seemed likely that she would reply came nearer, +I regretted more and more that I had written. The clock struck, ten, +eleven, twelve. At twelve I was on the point of keeping the appointment +as if nothing had happened. In the end I could see no way out of the +circle of fire which closed upon me. + +Then I began to believe, with the superstition which people have when +they are waiting, that if I went out for a little while, I should find +an answer when I got back. I went out under the pretext of going to +lunch. + +Instead of lunching at the Cafe Foy, at the corner of the Boulevard, as +I usually did, I preferred to go to the Palais Royal and so pass through +the Rue d'Antin. Every time that I saw a woman at a distance, I fancied +it was Nanine bringing me an answer. I passed through the Rue d'Antin +without even coming across a commissionaire. I went to Very's in the +Palais Royal. The waiter gave me something to eat, or rather served up +to me whatever he liked, for I ate nothing. In spite of myself, my eyes +were constantly fixed on the clock. I returned home, certain that I +should find a letter from Marguerite. + +The porter had received nothing, but I still hoped in my servant. He had +seen no one since I went out. + +If Marguerite had been going to answer me she would have answered long +before. + +Then I began to regret the terms of my letter; I should have said +absolutely nothing, and that would undoubtedly have aroused her +suspicions, for, finding that I did not keep my appointment, she would +have inquired the reason of my absence, and only then I should have +given it to her. Thus, she would have had to exculpate herself, and what +I wanted was for her to exculpate herself. I already realized that I +should have believed whatever reasons she had given me, and anything was +better than not to see her again. + +At last I began to believe that she would come to see me herself; but +hour followed hour, and she did not come. + +Decidedly Marguerite was not like other women, for there are few +who would have received such a letter as I had just written without +answering it at all. + +At five, I hastened to the Champs-Elysees. "If I meet her," I thought, +"I will put on an indifferent air, and she will be convinced that I no +longer think about her." + +As I turned the corner of the Rue Royale, I saw her pass in her +carriage. The meeting was so sudden that I turned pale. I do not know if +she saw my emotion; as for me, I was so agitated that I saw nothing but +the carriage. + +I did not go any farther in the direction of the Champs-Elysees. I +looked at the advertisements of the theatres, for I had still a chance +of seeing her. There was a first night at the Palais Royal. Marguerite +was sure to be there. I was at the theatre by seven. The boxes filled +one after another, but Marguerite was not there. I left the Palais Royal +and went to all the theatres where she was most often to be seen: to the +Vaudeville, the Varietes, the Opera Comique. She was nowhere. + +Either my letter had troubled her too much for her to care to go to +the theatre, or she feared to come across me, and so wished to avoid an +explanation. So my vanity was whispering to me on the boulevards, when I +met Gaston, who asked me where I had been. + +"At the Palais Royal." + +"And I at the Opera," said he; "I expected to see you there." + +"Why?" + +"Because Marguerite was there." + +"Ah, she was there?" + +"Yes. + +"Alone?" + +"No; with another woman." + +"That all?" + +"The Comte de G. came to her box for an instant; but she went off with +the duke. I expected to see you every moment, for there was a stall at +my side which remained empty the whole evening, and I was sure you had +taken it." + +"But why should I go where Marguerite goes?" + +"Because you are her lover, surely!" + +"Who told you that?" + +"Prudence, whom I met yesterday. I give you my congratulations, my dear +fellow; she is a charming mistress, and it isn't everybody who has the +chance. Stick to her; she will do you credit." + +These simple reflections of Gaston showed me how absurd had been my +susceptibilities. If I had only met him the night before and he had +spoken to me like that, I should certainly not have written the foolish +letter which I had written. + +I was on the point of calling on Prudence, and of sending her to tell +Marguerite that I wanted to speak to her; but I feared that she would +revenge herself on me by saying that she could not see me, and I +returned home, after passing through the Rue d'Antin. Again I asked my +porter if there was a letter for me. Nothing! She is waiting to see if I +shall take some fresh step, and if I retract my letter of to-day, I said +to myself as I went to bed; but, seeing that I do not write, she will +write to me to-morrow. + +That night, more than ever, I reproached myself for what I had done. I +was alone, unable to sleep, devoured by restlessness and jealousy, when +by simply letting things take their natural course I should have been +with Marguerite, hearing the delicious words which I had heard only +twice, and which made my ears burn in my solitude. + +The most frightful part of the situation was that my judgment was +against me; as a matter of fact, everything went to prove that +Marguerite loved me. First, her proposal to spend the summer with me in +the country, then the certainty that there was no reason why she should +be my mistress, since my income was insufficient for her needs and even +for her caprices. There could not then have been on her part anything +but the hope of finding in me a sincere affection, able to give her +rest from the mercenary loves in whose midst she lived; and on the very +second day I had destroyed this hope, and paid by impertinent irony for +the love which I had accepted during two nights. What I had done was +therefore not merely ridiculous, it was indelicate. I had not even +paid the woman, that I might have some right to find fault with her; +withdrawing after two days, was I not like a parasite of love, afraid of +having to pay the bill of the banquet? What! I had only known Marguerite +for thirty-six hours; I had been her lover for only twenty-four; and +instead of being too happy that she should grant me all that she did, +I wanted to have her all to myself, and to make her sever at one stroke +all her past relations which were the revenue of her future. What had I +to reproach in her? Nothing. She had written to say she was unwell, when +she might have said to me quite crudely, with the hideous frankness of +certain women, that she had to see a lover; and, instead of believing +her letter, instead of going to any street in Paris except the Rue +d'Antin, instead of spending the evening with my friends, and presenting +myself next day at the appointed hour, I was acting the Othello, spying +upon her, and thinking to punish her by seeing her no more. But, on the +contrary, she ought to be enchanted at this separation. She ought to +find me supremely foolish, and her silence was not even that of rancour; +it was contempt. + +I might have made Marguerite a present which would leave no doubt as to +my generosity and permit me to feel properly quits of her, as of a +kept woman, but I should have felt that I was offending by the least +appearance of trafficking, if not the love which she had for me, at all +events the love which I had for her, and since this love was so pure +that it could admit no division, it could not pay by a present, however +generous, the happiness that it had received, however short that +happiness had been. + +That is what I said to myself all night long, and what I was every +moment prepared to go and say to Marguerite. When the day dawned I +was still sleepless. I was in a fever. I could think of nothing but +Marguerite. + +As you can imagine, it was time to take a decided step, and finish +either with the woman or with one's scruples, if, that is, she would +still be willing to see me. But you know well, one is always slow in +taking a decided step; so, unable to remain within doors and not daring +to call on Marguerite, I made one attempt in her direction, an attempt +that I could always look upon as a mere chance if it succeeded. + +It was nine o'clock, and I went at once to call upon Prudence, who asked +to what she owed this early visit. I dared not tell her frankly what +brought me. I replied that I had gone out early in order to reserve a +place in the diligence for C., where my father lived. + +"You are fortunate," she said, "in being able to get away from Paris in +this fine weather." + +I looked at Prudence, asking myself whether she was laughing at me, but +her face was quite serious. + +"Shall you go and say good-bye to Marguerite?" she continued, as +seriously as before. + +"No." + +"You are quite right." + +"You think so?" + +"Naturally. Since you have broken with her, why should you see her +again?" + +"You know it is broken off?" + +"She showed me your letter." + +"What did she say about it?" + +"She said: 'My dear Prudence, your protege is not polite; one thinks +such letters, one does not write them."' + +"In what tone did she say that?" + +"Laughingly," and she added: "He has had supper with me twice, and hasn't +even called." + +That, then, was the effect produced by my letter and my jealousy. I was +cruelly humiliated in the vanity of my affection. + +"What did she do last night?" + +"She went to the opera." + +"I know. And afterward?" + +"She had supper at home." + +"Alone?" + +"With the Comte de G., I believe." + +So my breaking with her had not changed one of her habits. It is for +such reasons as this that certain people say to you: Don't have anything +more to do with the woman; she cares nothing about you. + +"Well, I am very glad to find that Marguerite does not put herself out +for me," I said with a forced smile. + +"She has very good reason not to. You have done what you were bound to +do. You have been more reasonable than she, for she was really in love +with you; she did nothing but talk of you. I don't know what she would +not have been capable of doing." + +"Why hasn't she answered me, if she was in love with me?" + +"Because she realizes she was mistaken in letting herself love you. +Women sometimes allow you to be unfaithful to their love; they never +allow you to wound their self-esteem; and one always wounds the +self-esteem of a woman when, two days after one has become her lover, +one leaves her, no matter for what reason. I know Marguerite; she would +die sooner than reply." + +"What can I do, then?" + +"Nothing. She will forget you, you will forget her, and neither will +have any reproach to make against the other." + +"But if I write and ask her forgiveness?" + +"Don't do that, for she would forgive you." + +I could have flung my arms round Prudence's neck. + +A quarter of an hour later I was once more in my own quarters, and I +wrote to Marguerite: + +"Some one, who repents of a letter that he wrote yesterday and who will +leave Paris to-morrow if you do not forgive him, wishes to know at what +hour he might lay his repentance at your feet. + +"When can he find you alone? for, you know, confessions must be made +without witnesses." + +I folded this kind of madrigal in prose, and sent it by Joseph, who +handed it to Marguerite herself; she replied that she would send the +answer later. + +I only went out to have a hasty dinner, and at eleven in the evening no +reply had come. I made up my mind to endure it no longer, and to set out +next day. In consequence of this resolution, and convinced that I should +not sleep if I went to bed, I began to pack up my things. + + + +Chapter 15 + +It was hardly an hour after Joseph and I had begun preparing for my +departure, when there was a violent ring at the door. + +"Shall I go to the door?" said Joseph. + +"Go," I said, asking myself who it could be at such an hour, and not +daring to believe that it was Marguerite. + +"Sir," said Joseph coming back to me, "it is two ladies." + +"It is we, Armand," cried a voice that I recognised as that of Prudence. + +I came out of my room. Prudence was standing looking around the place; +Marguerite, seated on the sofa, was meditating. I went to her, knelt +down, took her two hands, and, deeply moved, said to her, "Pardon." + +She kissed me on the forehead, and said: + +"This is the third time that I have forgiven you." + +"I should have gone away to-morrow." + +"How can my visit change your plans? I have not come to hinder you from +leaving Paris. I have come because I had no time to answer you during +the day, and I did not wish to let you think that I was angry with you. +Prudence didn't want me to come; she said that I might be in the way." + +"You in the way, Marguerite! But how?" + +"Well, you might have had a woman here," said Prudence, "and it would +hardly have been amusing for her to see two more arrive." + +During this remark Marguerite looked at me attentively. + +"My dear Prudence," I answered, "you do not know what you are saying." + +"What a nice place you've got!" Prudence went on. "May we see the +bedroom?" + +"Yes." + +Prudence went into the bedroom, not so much to see it as to make up for +the foolish thing which she had just said, and to leave Marguerite and +me alone. + +"Why did you bring Prudence?" I asked her. + +"Because she was at the theatre with me, and because when I leave here I +want to have someone to see me home." + +"Could not I do?" + +"Yes, but, besides not wishing to put you out, I was sure that if you +came as far as my door you would want to come up, and as I could not let +you, I did not wish to let you go away blaming me for saying 'No.'" + +"And why could you not let me come up?" + +"Because I am watched, and the least suspicion might do me the greatest +harm." + +"Is that really the only reason?" + +"If there were any other, I would tell you; for we are not to have any +secrets from one another now." + +"Come, Marguerite, I am not going to take a roundabout way of saying +what I really want to say. Honestly, do you care for me a little?" + +"A great deal." + +"Then why did you deceive me?" + +"My friend, if I were the Duchess So and So, if I had two hundred +thousand francs a year, and if I were your mistress and had another +lover, you would have the right to ask me; but I am Mlle. Marguerite +Gautier, I am forty thousand francs in debt, I have not a penny of my +own, and I spend a hundred thousand francs a year. Your question becomes +unnecessary and my answer useless." + +"You are right," I said, letting my head sink on her knees; "but I love +you madly." + +"Well, my friend, you must either love me a little less or understand me +a little better. Your letter gave me a great deal of pain. If I had +been free, first of all I would not have seen the count the day before +yesterday, or, if I had, I should have come and asked your forgiveness +as you ask me now, and in future I should have had no other lover but +you. I fancied for a moment that I might give myself that happiness for +six months; you would not have it; you insisted on knowing the means. +Well, good heavens, the means were easy enough to guess! In employing +them I was making a greater sacrifice for you than you imagine. I might +have said to you, 'I want twenty thousand francs'; you were in love with +me and you would have found them, at the risk of reproaching me for it +later on. I preferred to owe you nothing; you did not understand the +scruple, for such it was. Those of us who are like me, when we have any +heart at all, we give a meaning and a development to words and things +unknown to other women; I repeat, then, that on the part of Marguerite +Gautier the means which she used to pay her debts without asking you for +the money necessary for it, was a scruple by which you ought to profit, +without saying anything. If you had only met me to-day, you would be too +delighted with what I promised you, and you would not question me as to +what I did the day before yesterday. We are sometimes obliged to buy the +satisfaction of our souls at the expense of our bodies, and we suffer +still more, when, afterward, that satisfaction is denied us." + +I listened, and I gazed at Marguerite with admiration. When I thought +that this marvellous creature, whose feet I had once longed to kiss, was +willing to let me take my place in her thoughts, my part in her life, +and that I was not yet content with what she gave me, I asked if man's +desire has indeed limits when, satisfied as promptly as mine had been, +it reached after something further. + +"Truly," she continued, "we poor creatures of chance have fantastic +desires and inconceivable loves. We give ourselves now for one thing, +now for another. There are men who ruin themselves without obtaining +the least thing from us; there are others who obtain us for a bouquet of +flowers. Our hearts have their caprices; it is their one distraction +and their one excuse. I gave myself to you sooner than I ever did to +any man, I swear to you; and do you know why? Because when you saw me +spitting blood you took my hand; because you wept; because you are the +only human being who has ever pitied me. I am going to say a mad thing +to you: I once had a little dog who looked at me with a sad look when +I coughed; that is the only creature I ever loved. When he died I cried +more than when my mother died. It is true that for twelve years of her +life she used to beat me. Well, I loved you all at once, as much as my +dog. If men knew what they can have for a tear, they would be better +loved and we should be less ruinous to them. + +"Your letter undeceived me; it showed me that you lacked the +intelligence of the heart; it did you more harm with me than anything +you could possibly have done. It was jealousy certainly, but ironical +and impertinent jealousy. I was already feeling sad when I received your +letter. I was looking forward to seeing you at twelve, to having lunch +with you, and wiping out, by seeing you, a thought which was with +me incessantly, and which, before I knew you, I had no difficulty in +tolerating. + +"Then," continued Marguerite, "you were the only person before whom it +seemed to me, from the first, that I could think and speak freely. All +those who come about women like me have an interest in calculating +their slightest words, in thinking of the consequences of their most +insignificant actions. Naturally we have no friends. We have selfish +lovers who spend their fortunes, riot on us, as they say, but on their +own vanity. For these people we have to be merry when they are merry, +well when they want to sup, sceptics like themselves. We are not allowed +to have hearts, under penalty of being hooted down and of ruining our +credit. + +"We no longer belong to ourselves. We are no longer beings, but things. +We stand first in their self-esteem, last in their esteem. We have women +who call themselves our friends, but they are friends like Prudence, +women who were once kept and who have still the costly tastes that their +age does not allow them to gratify. Then they become our friends, or +rather our guests at table. Their friendship is carried to the point of +servility, never to that of disinterestedness. Never do they give you +advice which is not lucrative. It means little enough to them that we +should have ten lovers extra, as long as they get dresses or a bracelet +out of them, and that they can drive in our carriage from time to time +or come to our box at the theatre. They have our last night's bouquets, +and they borrow our shawls. They never render us a service, however +slight, without seeing that they are paid twice its value. You yourself +saw when Prudence brought me the six thousand francs that I had asked +her to get from the duke, how she borrowed five hundred francs, which +she will never pay me back, or which she will pay me in hats, which will +never be taken out of their boxes. + +"We can not, then, have, or rather I can not have more than one possible +kind of happiness, and this is, sad as I sometimes am, suffering as I +always am, to find a man superior enough not to ask questions about my +life, and to be the lover of my impressions rather than of my body. +Such a man I found in the duke; but the duke is old, and old age neither +protects nor consoles. I thought I could accept the life which he +offered me; but what would you have? I was dying of ennui, and if one is +bound to be consumed, it is as well to throw oneself into the flames as +to be asphyxiated with charcoal. + +"Then I met you, young, ardent, happy, and I tried to make you the man I +had longed for in my noisy solitude. What I loved in you was not the +man who was, but the man who was going to be. You do not accept the +position, you reject it as unworthy of you; you are an ordinary lover. +Do like the others; pay me, and say no more about it." + +Marguerite, tired out with this long confession, threw herself back on +the sofa, and to stifle a slight cough put up her handkerchief to her +lips, and from that to her eyes. + +"Pardon, pardon," I murmured. "I understood it all, but I wanted to +have it from your own lips, my beloved Marguerite. Forget the rest and +remember only one thing: that we belong to one another, that we are +young, and that we love. Marguerite, do with me as you will; I am your +slave, your dog, but in the name of heaven tear up the letter which I +wrote to you and do not make me leave you to-morrow; it would kill me." + +Marguerite drew the letter from her bosom, and handing it to me with a +smile of infinite sweetness, said: + +"Here it is. I have brought it back." + +I tore the letter into fragments and kissed with tears the hand that +gave it to me. + +At this moment Prudence reappeared. + +"Look here, Prudence; do you know what he wants?" said Marguerite. + +"He wants you to forgive him." + +"Precisely." + +"And you do?" + +"One has to; but he wants more than that." + +"What, then?" + +"He wants to have supper with us." + +"And do you consent?" + +"What do you think?" + +"I think that you are two children who haven't an atom of sense between +you; but I also think that I am very hungry, and that the sooner you +consent the sooner we shall have supper." + +"Come," said Marguerite, "there is room for the three of us in my +carriage." + +"By the way," she added, turning to me, "Nanine will be gone to bed. You +must open the door; take my key, and try not to lose it again." + +I embraced Marguerite until she was almost stifled. + +Thereupon Joseph entered. + +"Sir," he said, with the air of a man who is very well satisfied with +himself, "the luggage is packed." + +"All of it?" + +"Yes, sir." + +"Well, then, unpack it again; I am not going." + + + +Chapter 16 + +I might have told you of the beginning of this liaison in a few lines, +but I wanted you to see every step by which we came, I to agree to +whatever Marguerite wished, Marguerite to be unable to live apart from +me. + +It was the day after the evening when she came to see me that I sent her +Manon Lescaut. + +From that time, seeing that I could not change my mistress's life, I +changed my own. I wished above all not to leave myself time to think +over the position I had accepted, for, in spite of myself, it was a +great distress to me. Thus my life, generally so calm, assumed all +at once an appearance of noise and disorder. Never believe, however +disinterested the love of a kept woman may be, that it will cost one +nothing. Nothing is so expensive as their caprices, flowers, boxes at +the theatre, suppers, days in the country, which one can never refuse to +one's mistress. + +As I have told you, I had little money. My father was, and still is, +receveur general at C. He has a great reputation there for loyalty, +thanks to which he was able to find the security which he needed in +order to attain this position. + +It is worth forty thousand francs a year, and during the ten years that +he has had it, he has paid off the security and put aside a dowry for +my sister. My father is the most honourable man in the world. When +my mother died, she left six thousand francs a year, which he divided +between my sister and myself on the very day when he received his +appointment; then, when I was twenty-one, he added to this little income +an annual allowance of five thousand francs, assuring me that with +eight thousand francs a year I might live very happily at Paris, if, in +addition to this, I would make a position for myself either in law or +medicine. I came to Paris, studied law, was called to the bar, and, like +many other young men, put my diploma in my pocket, and let myself drift, +as one so easily does in Paris. + +My expenses were very moderate; only I used up my year's income in +eight months, and spent the four summer months with my father, which +practically gave me twelve thousand francs a year, and, in addition, the +reputation of a good son. For the rest, not a penny of debt. + +This, then, was my position when I made the acquaintance of Marguerite. +You can well understand that, in spite of myself, my expenses soon +increased. Marguerite's nature was very capricious, and, like so many +women, she never regarded as a serious expense those thousand and one +distractions which made up her life. So, wishing to spend as much time +with me as possible, she would write to me in the morning that she would +dine with me, not at home, but at some restaurant in Paris or in the +country. I would call for her, and we would dine and go on to the +theatre, often having supper as well; and by the end of the evening I +had spent four or five louis, which came to two or three thousand francs +a month, which reduced my year to three months and a half, and made it +necessary for me either to go into debt or to leave Marguerite. I would +have consented to anything except the latter. + +Forgive me if I give you all these details, but you will see that they +were the cause of what was to follow. What I tell you is a true and +simple story, and I leave to it all the naivete of its details and all +the simplicity of its developments. + +I realized then that as nothing in the world would make me forget my +mistress, it was needful for me to find some way of meeting the expenses +into which she drew me. Then, too, my love for her had so disturbing +an influence upon me that every moment I spent away from Marguerite was +like a year, and that I felt the need of consuming these moments in the +fire of some sort of passion, and of living them so swiftly as not to +know that I was living them. + +I began by borrowing five or six thousand francs on my little capital, +and with this I took to gambling. Since gambling houses were destroyed +gambling goes on everywhere. Formerly, when one went to Frascati, one +had the chance of making a fortune; one played against money, and if +one lost, there was always the consolation of saying that one might have +gained; whereas now, except in the clubs, where there is still a certain +rigour in regard to payments, one is almost certain, the moment one +gains a considerable sum, not to receive it. You will readily understand +why. Gambling is only likely to be carried on by young people very much +in need of money and not possessing the fortune necessary for supporting +the life they lead; they gamble, then, and with this result; or else +they gain, and then those who lose serve to pay for their horses +and mistresses, which is very disagreeable. Debts are contracted, +acquaintances begun about a green table end by quarrels in which life +or honour comes to grief; and though one may be an honest man, one finds +oneself ruined by very honest men, whose only defect is that they have +not two hundred thousand francs a year. + +I need not tell you of those who cheat at play, and of how one hears one +fine day of their hasty disappearance and tardy condemnation. + +I flung myself into this rapid, noisy, and volcanic life, which had +formerly terrified me when I thought of it, and which had become for +me the necessary complement of my love for Marguerite. What else could I +have done? + +The nights that I did not spend in the Rue d'Antin, if I had spent them +alone in my own room, I could not have slept. Jealousy would have kept +me awake, and inflamed my blood and my thoughts; while gambling gave a +new turn to the fever which would otherwise have preyed upon my heart, +and fixed it upon a passion which laid hold on me in spite of myself, +until the hour struck when I might go to my mistress. Then, and by this +I knew the violence of my love, I left the table without a moment's +hesitation, whether I was winning or losing, pitying those whom I left +behind because they would not, like me, find their real happiness in +leaving it. For the most of them, gambling was a necessity; for me, it +was a remedy. Free of Marguerite, I should have been free of gambling. + +Thus, in the midst of all that, I preserved a considerable amount of +self-possession; I lost only what I was able to pay, and gained only +what I should have been able to lose. + +For the rest, chance was on my side. I made no debts, and I spent three +times as much money as when I did not gamble. It was impossible to +resist an existence which gave me an easy means of satisfying the +thousand caprices of Marguerite. As for her, she continued to love me as +much, or even more than ever. + +As I told you, I began by being allowed to stay only from midnight to +six o'clock, then I was asked sometimes to a box in the theatre, then +she sometimes came to dine with me. One morning I did not go till eight, +and there came a day when I did not go till twelve. + +But, sooner than the moral metamorphosis, a physical metamorphosis came +about in Marguerite. I had taken her cure in hand, and the poor +girl, seeing my aim, obeyed me in order to prove her gratitude. I had +succeeded without effort or trouble in almost isolating her from her +former habits. My doctor, whom I had made her meet, had told me that +only rest and calm could preserve her health, so that in place of supper +and sleepless nights, I succeeded in substituting a hygienic regime and +regular sleep. In spite of herself, Marguerite got accustomed to this +new existence, whose salutary effects she already realized. She began +to spend some of her evenings at home, or, if the weather was fine, she +wrapped herself in a shawl, put on a veil, and we went on foot, like +two children, in the dim alleys of the Champs-Elysees. She would come +in tired, take a light supper, and go to bed after a little music or +reading, which she had never been used to do. The cough, which +every time that I heard it seemed to go through my chest, had almost +completely disappeared. + +At the end of six weeks the count was entirely given up, and only the +duke obliged me to conceal my liaison with Marguerite, and even he was +sent away when I was there, under the pretext that she was asleep and +had given orders that she was not to be awakened. + +The habit or the need of seeing me which Marguerite had now contracted +had this good result: that it forced me to leave the gaming-table just +at the moment when an adroit gambler would have left it. Settling one +thing against another, I found myself in possession of some ten thousand +francs, which seemed to me an inexhaustible capital. + +The time of the year when I was accustomed to join my father and sister +had now arrived, and I did not go; both of them wrote to me frequently, +begging me to come. To these letters I replied as best I could, always +repeating that I was quite well and that I was not in need of money, two +things which, I thought, would console my father for my delay in paying +him my annual visit. + +Just then, one fine day in summer, Marguerite was awakened by the +sunlight pouring into her room, and, jumping out of bed, asked me if I +would take her into the country for the whole day. + +We sent for Prudence, and all three set off, after Marguerite had given +Nanine orders to tell the duke that she had taken advantage of the fine +day to go into the country with Mme. Duvernoy. + +Besides the presence of Mme. Duvernoy being needful on account of the +old duke, Prudence was one of those women who seem made on purpose for +days in the country. With her unchanging good-humour and her eternal +appetite, she never left a dull moment to those whom she was with, and +was perfectly happy in ordering eggs, cherries, milk, stewed rabbit, and +all the rest of the traditional lunch in the country. + +We had now only to decide where we should go. It was once more Prudence +who settled the difficulty. + +"Do you want to go to the real country?" she asked. + +"Yes." + +"Well, let us go to Bougival, at the Point du Jour, at Widow Arnould's. +Armand, order an open carriage." + +An hour and a half later we were at Widow Arnould's. + +Perhaps you know the inn, which is a hotel on week days and a tea garden +on Sundays. There is a magnificent view from the garden, which is at +the height of an ordinary first floor. On the left the Aqueduct of Marly +closes in the horizon, on the right one looks across bill after hill; +the river, almost without current at that spot, unrolls itself like a +large white watered ribbon between the plain of the Gabillons and the +island of Croissy, lulled eternally by the trembling of its high poplars +and the murmur of its willows. Beyond, distinct in the sunlight, rise +little white houses, with red roofs, and manufactories, which, at that +distance, put an admirable finish to the landscape. Beyond that, Paris +in the mist! As Prudence had told us, it was the real country, and, I +must add, it was a real lunch. + +It is not only out of gratitude for the happiness I owe it, but +Bougival, in spite of its horrible name, is one of the prettiest places +that it is possible to imagine. I have travelled a good deal, and seen +much grander things, but none more charming than this little village +gaily seated at the foot of the hill which protects it. + +Mme. Arnould asked us if we would take a boat, and Marguerite and +Prudence accepted joyously. + +People have always associated the country with love, and they have done +well; nothing affords so fine a frame for the woman whom one loves as +the blue sky, the odours, the flowers, the breeze, the shining solitude +of fields, or woods. However much one loves a woman, whatever confidence +one may have in her, whatever certainty her past may offer us as to her +future, one is always more or less jealous. If you have been in love, +you must have felt the need of isolating from this world the being in +whom you would live wholly. It seems as if, however indifferent she may +be to her surroundings, the woman whom one loves loses something of her +perfume and of her unity at the contact of men and things. As for me, I +experienced that more than most. Mine was not an ordinary love; I was +as much in love as an ordinary creature could be, but with Marguerite +Gautier; that is to say, that at Paris, at every step, I might elbow +the man who had already been her lover or who was about to, while in +the country, surrounded by people whom we had never seen and who had no +concern with us, alone with nature in the spring-time of the year, that +annual pardon, and shut off from the noise of the city, I could hide my +love, and love without shame or fear. + +The courtesan disappeared little by little. I had by me a young and +beautiful woman, whom I loved, and who loved me, and who was called +Marguerite; the past had no more reality and the future no more clouds. +The sun shone upon my mistress as it might have shone upon the purest +bride. We walked together in those charming spots which seemed to have +been made on purpose to recall the verses of Lamartine or to sing the +melodies of Scudo. Marguerite was dressed in white, she leaned on my +arm, saying over to me again under the starry sky the words she had said +to me the day before, and far off the world went on its way, without +darkening with its shadow the radiant picture of our youth and love. + +That was the dream that the hot sun brought to me that day through the +leaves of the trees, as, lying on the grass of the island on which we +had landed, I let my thought wander, free from the human links that had +bound it, gathering to itself every hope that came in its way. + +Add to this that from the place where I was I could see on the shore +a charming little house of two stories, with a semicircular railing; +through the railing, in front of the house, a green lawn, smooth as +velvet, and behind the house a little wood full of mysterious retreats, +where the moss must efface each morning the pathway that had been +made the day before. Climbing flowers clung about the doorway of this +uninhabited house, mounting as high as the first story. + +I looked at the house so long that I began by thinking of it as mine, so +perfectly did it embody the dream that I was dreaming; I saw Marguerite +and myself there, by day in the little wood that covered the hillside, +in the evening seated on the grass, and I asked myself if earthly +creatures had ever been so happy as we should be. + +"What a pretty house!" Marguerite said to me, as she followed the +direction of my gaze and perhaps of my thought. + +"Where?" asked Prudence. + +"Yonder," and Marguerite pointed to the house in question. + +"Ah, delicious!" replied Prudence. "Do you like it?" + +"Very much." + +"Well, tell the duke to take it for you; he would do so, I am sure. I'll +see about it if you like." + +Marguerite looked at me, as if to ask me what I thought. My dream +vanished at the last words of Prudence, and brought me back to reality +so brutally that I was still stunned with the fall. + +"Yes, yes, an excellent idea," I stammered, not knowing what I was +saying. + +"Well, I will arrange that," said Marguerite, freeing my hand, and +interpreting my words according to her own desire. "Let us go and see if +it is to let." + +The house was empty, and to let for two thousand francs. + +"Would you be happy here?" she said to me. + +"Am I sure of coming here?" + +"And for whom else should I bury myself here, if not for you?" + +"Well, then, Marguerite, let me take it myself." + +"You are mad; not only is it unnecessary, but it would be dangerous. You +know perfectly well that I have no right to accept it save from one man. +Let me alone, big baby, and say nothing." + +"That means," said Prudence, "that when I have two days free I will come +and spend them with you." + +We left the house, and started on our return to Paris, talking over +the new plan. I held Marguerite in my arms, and as I got down from the +carriage, I had already begun to look upon her arrangement with less +critical eyes. + + + +Chapter 17 + +Next day Marguerite sent me away very early, saying that the duke was +coming at an early hour, and promising to write to me the moment he +went, and to make an appointment for the evening. In the course of the +day I received this note: + +"I am going to Bougival with the duke; be at Prudence's to-night at +eight." + +At the appointed hour Marguerite came to me at Mme. Duvernoy's. "Well, +it is all settled," she said, as she entered. "The house is taken?" +asked Prudence. "Yes; he agreed at once." + +I did not know the duke, but I felt ashamed of deceiving him. + +"But that is not all," continued Marguerite. + +"What else is there?" + +"I have been seeing about a place for Armand to stay." + +"In the same house?" asked Prudence, laughing. + +"No, at Point du Jour, where we had dinner, the duke and I. While he +was admiring the view, I asked Mme. Arnould (she is called Mme. Arnould, +isn't she?) if there were any suitable rooms, and she showed me just the +very thing: salon, anteroom, and bed-room, at sixty francs a month; the +whole place furnished in a way to divert a hypochondriac. I took it. Was +I right?" I flung my arms around her neck and kissed her. + +"It will be charming," she continued. "You have the key of the little +door, and I have promised the duke the key of the front door, which +he will not take, because he will come during the day when he comes. I +think, between ourselves, that he is enchanted with a caprice which will +keep me out of Paris for a time, and so silence the objections of his +family. However, he has asked me how I, loving Paris as I do, could make +up my mind to bury myself in the country. I told him that I was ill, and +that I wanted rest. He seemed to have some difficulty in believing me. +The poor old man is always on the watch. We must take every precaution, +my dear Armand, for he will have me watched while I am there; and it +isn't only the question of his taking a house for me, but he has my +debts to pay, and unluckily I have plenty. Does all that suit you?" + +"Yes," I answered, trying to quiet the scruples which this way of living +awoke in me from time to time. + +"We went all over the house, and we shall have everything perfect. The +duke is going to look after every single thing. Ah, my dear," she added, +kissing me, "you're in luck; it's a millionaire who makes your bed for +you." + +"And when shall you move into the house?" inquired Prudence. + +"As soon as possible." + +"Will you take your horses and carriage?" + +"I shall take the whole house, and you can look after my place while I +am away." + +A week later Marguerite was settled in her country house, and I was +installed at Point du Jour. + +Then began an existence which I shall have some difficulty in describing +to you. At first Marguerite could not break entirely with her former +habits, and, as the house was always en fete, all the women whom +she knew came to see her. For a whole month there was not a day when +Marguerite had not eight or ten people to meals. Prudence, on her side, +brought down all the people she knew, and did the honours of the house +as if the house belonged to her. + +The duke's money paid for all that, as you may imagine; but from time +to time Prudence came to me, asking for a note for a thousand francs, +professedly on behalf of Marguerite. You know I had won some money at +gambling; I therefore immediately handed over to Prudence what she +asked for Marguerite, and fearing lest she should require more than I +possessed, I borrowed at Paris a sum equal to that which I had already +borrowed and paid back. I was then once more in possession of some ten +thousand francs, without reckoning my allowance. However, Marguerite's +pleasure in seeing her friends was a little moderated when she saw the +expense which that pleasure entailed, and especially the necessity she +was sometimes in of asking me for money. The duke, who had taken the +house in order that Marguerite might rest there, no longer visited it, +fearing to find himself in the midst of a large and merry company, by +whom he did not wish to be seen. This came about through his having once +arrived to dine tete-a-tete with Marguerite, and having fallen upon +a party of fifteen, who were still at lunch at an hour when he was +prepared to sit down to dinner. He had unsuspectingly opened the +dining-room door, and had been greeted by a burst of laughter, and had +had to retire precipitately before the impertinent mirth of the women +who were assembled there. + +Marguerite rose from table, and joined the duke in the next room, where +she tried, as far as possible, to induce him to forget the incident, but +the old man, wounded in his dignity, bore her a grudge for it, and could +not forgive her. He said to her, somewhat cruelly, that he was tired of +paying for the follies of a woman who could not even have him treated +with respect under his own roof, and he went away in great indignation. + +Since that day he had never been heard of. + +In vain Marguerite dismissed her guests, changed her way of life; +the duke was not to be heard of. I was the gainer in so, far that my +mistress now belonged to me more completely, and my dream was at length +realized. Marguerite could not be without me. Not caring what the result +might be, she publicly proclaimed our liaison, and I had come to live +entirely at her house. The servants addressed me officially as their +master. + +Prudence had strictly sermonized Marguerite in regard to her new manner +of life; but she had replied that she loved me, that she could not live +without me, and that, happen what might, she would not sacrifice the +pleasure of having me constantly with her, adding that those who were +not satisfied with this arrangement were free to stay away. So much +I had heard one day when Prudence had said to Marguerite that she had +something very important to tell her, and I had listened at the door of +the room into which they had shut themselves. + +Not long after, Prudence returned again. I was at the other end of the +garden when she arrived, and she did not see me. I had no doubt, from +the way in which Marguerite came to meet her, that another similar +conversation was going to take place, and I was anxious to hear what +it was about. The two women shut themselves into a boudoir, and I put +myself within hearing. + +"Well?" said Marguerite. + +"Well, I have seen the duke." + +"What did he say?" + +"That he would gladly forgive you in regard to the scene which took +place, but that he has learned that you are publicly living with M. +Armand Duval, and that he will never forgive that. 'Let Marguerite leave +the young man,' he said to me, 'and, as in the past, I will give her all +that she requires; if not, let her ask nothing more from me.'" + +"And you replied?" + +"That I would report his decision to you, and I promised him that I +would bring you into a more reasonable frame of mind. Only think, my +dear child, of the position that you are losing, and that Armand can +never give you. He loves you with all his soul, but he has no fortune +capable of supplying your needs, and he will be bound to leave you one +day, when it will be too late and when the duke will refuse to do any +more for you. Would you like me to speak to Armand?" + +Marguerite seemed to be thinking, for she answered nothing. My heart +beat violently while I waited for her reply. + +"No," she answered, "I will not leave Armand, and I will not conceal the +fact that I am living with him. It is folly no doubt, but I love him. +What would you have me do? And then, now that he has got accustomed to +be always with me, he would suffer too cruelly if he had to leave me so +much as an hour a day. Besides, I have not such a long time to live that +I need make myself miserable in order to please an old man whose very +sight makes me feel old. Let him keep his money; I will do without it." + +"But what will you do?" + +"I don't in the least know." + +Prudence was no doubt going to make some reply, but I entered suddenly +and flung myself at Marguerite's feet, covering her hands with tears in +my joy at being thus loved. + +"My life is yours, Marguerite; you need this man no longer. Am I not +here? Shall I ever leave you, and can I ever repay you for the happiness +that you give me? No more barriers, my Marguerite; we love; what matters +all the rest?" + +"Oh yes, I love you, my Armand," she murmured, putting her two arms +around my neck. "I love you as I never thought I should ever love. We +will be happy; we will live quietly, and I will say good-bye forever to +the life for which I now blush. You won't ever reproach me for the past? +Tell me!" + +Tears choked my voice. I could only reply by clasping Marguerite to my +heart. + +"Well," said she, turning to Prudence, and speaking in a broken voice, +"you can report this scene to the duke, and you can add that we have no +longer need of him." + +From that day forth the duke was never referred to. Marguerite was no +longer the same woman that I had known. She avoided everything that +might recall to me the life which she had been leading when I first +met her. Never did wife or sister surround husband or brother with +such loving care as she had for me. Her nature was morbidly open to all +impressions and accessible to all sentiments. She had broken equally +with her friends and with her ways, with her words and with her +extravagances. Any one who had seen us leaving the house to go on the +river in the charming little boat which I had bought would never have +believed that the woman dressed in white, wearing a straw hat, and +carrying on her arm a little silk pelisse to protect her against the +damp of the river, was that Marguerite Gautier who, only four months +ago, had been the talk of the town for the luxury and scandal of her +existence. + +Alas, we made haste to be happy, as if we knew that we were not to be +happy long. + +For two months we had not even been to Paris. No one came to see us, +except Prudence and Julie Duprat, of whom I have spoken to you, and to +whom Marguerite was afterward to give the touching narrative that I have +there. + +I passed whole days at the feet of my mistress. We opened the windows +upon the garden, and, as we watched the summer ripening in its flowers +and under the shadow of the trees, we breathed together that true life +which neither Marguerite nor I had ever known before. + +Her delight in the smallest things was like that of a child. There were +days when she ran in the garden, like a child of ten, after a butterfly +or a dragon-fly. This courtesan who had cost more money in bouquets than +would have kept a whole family in comfort, would sometimes sit on the +grass for an hour, examining the simple flower whose name she bore. + +It was at this time that she read Manon Lescaut, over and over again. +I found her several times making notes in the book, and she always +declared that when a woman loves, she can not do as Manon did. + +The duke wrote to her two or three times. She recognised the writing and +gave me the letters without reading them. Sometimes the terms of these +letters brought tears to my eyes. He had imagined that by closing his +purse to Marguerite, he would bring her back to him; but when he had +perceived the uselessness of these means, he could hold out no longer; +he wrote and asked that he might see her again, as before, no matter on +what conditions. + +I read these urgent and repeated letters, and tore them in pieces, +without telling Marguerite what they contained and without advising her +to see the old man again, though I was half inclined to, so much did I +pity him, but I was afraid lest, if I so advised her she should think +that I wished the duke, not merely to come and see her again, but to +take over the expenses of the house; I feared, above all, that she might +think me capable of shirking the responsibilities of every consequence +to which her love for me might lead her. + +It thus came about that the duke, receiving no reply, ceased to write, +and that Marguerite and I continued to live together without giving a +thought to the future. + + + +Chapter 18 + +It would be difficult to give you all the details of our new life. It +was made up of a series of little childish events, charming for us but +insignificant to anyone else. You know what it is to be in love with +a woman, you know how it cuts short the days, and with what loving +listlessness one drifts into the morrow. You know that forgetfulness of +everything which comes of a violent confident, reciprocated love. Every +being who is not the beloved one seems a useless being in creation. One +regrets having cast scraps of one's heart to other women, and one can +not believe in the possibility of ever pressing another hand than that +which one holds between one's hands. The mind admits neither work nor +remembrance; nothing, in short, which can distract it from the one +thought in which it is ceaselessly absorbed. Every day one discovers in +one's mistress a new charm and unknown delights. Existence itself is but +the unceasing accomplishment of an unchanging desire; the soul is but +the vestal charged to feed the sacred fire of love. + +We often went at night-time to sit in the little wood above the house; +there we listened to the cheerful harmonies of evening, both of us +thinking of the coming hours which should leave us to one another till +the dawn of day. At other times we did not get up all day; we did not +even let the sunlight enter our room. + +The curtains were hermetically closed, and for a moment the external +world did not exist for us. Nanine alone had the right to open our door, +but only to bring in our meals and even these we took without getting +up, interrupting them with laughter and gaiety. To that succeeded a +brief sleep, for, disappearing into the depths of our love, we were like +two divers who only come to the surface to take breath. + +Nevertheless, I surprised moments of sadness, even tears, in Marguerite; +I asked her the cause of her trouble, and she answered: + +"Our love is not like other loves, my Armand. You love me as if I had +never belonged to another, and I tremble lest later on, repenting of +your love, and accusing me of my past, you should let me fall back into +that life from which you have taken me. I think that now that I have +tasted of another life, I should die if I went back to the old one. Tell +me that you will never leave me!" + +"I swear it!" + +At these words she looked at me as if to read in my eyes whether my oath +was sincere; then flung herself into my arms, and, hiding her head in my +bosom, said to me: "You don't know how much I love you!" + +One evening, seated on the balcony outside the window, we looked at the +moon which seemed to rise with difficulty out of its bed of clouds, +and we listened to the wind violently rustling the trees; we held each +other's hands, and for a whole quarter of an hour we had not spoken, +when Marguerite said to me: + +"Winter is at hand. Would you like for us to go abroad?" + +"Where?" + +"To Italy." + +"You are tired of here?" + +"I am afraid of the winter; I am particularly afraid of your return to +Paris." + +"Why?" + +"For many reasons." + +And she went on abruptly, without giving me her reasons for fears: + +"Will you go abroad? I will sell all that I have; we will go and live +there, and there will be nothing left of what I was; no one will know +who I am. Will you?" + +"By all means, if you like, Marguerite, let us travel," I said. "But +where is the necessity of selling things which you will be glad of when +we return? I have not a large enough fortune to accept such a sacrifice; +but I have enough for us to be able to travel splendidly for five or six +months, if that will amuse you the least in the world." + +"After all, no," she said, leaving the window and going to sit down +on the sofa at the other end of the room. "Why should we spend money +abroad? I cost you enough already, here." + +"You reproach me, Marguerite; it isn't generous." + +"Forgive me, my friend," she said, giving me her hand. "This thunder +weather gets on my nerves; I do not say what I intend to say." + +And after embracing me she fell into a long reverie. + +Scenes of this kind often took place, and though I could not discover +their cause, I could not fail to see in Marguerite signs of disquietude +in regard to the future. She could not doubt my love, which increased +day by day, and yet I often found her sad, without being able to get any +explanation of the reason, except some physical cause. Fearing that so +monotonous a life was beginning to weary her, I proposed returning to +Paris; but she always refused, assuring me that she could not be so +happy anywhere as in the country. + +Prudence now came but rarely; but she often wrote letters which I never +asked to see, though, every time they came, they seemed to preoccupy +Marguerite deeply. I did not know what to think. + +One day Marguerite was in her room. I entered. She was writing. "To whom +are you writing?" I asked. "To Prudence. Do you want to see what I am +writing?" + +I had a horror of anything that might look like suspicion, and I +answered that I had no desire to know what she was writing; and yet +I was certain that letter would have explained to me the cause of her +sadness. + +Next day the weather was splendid.' Marguerite proposed to me to +take the boat and go as far as the island of Croissy. She seemed very +cheerful; when we got back it was five o'clock. + +"Mme. Duvernoy has been here," said Nanine, as she saw us enter. "She +has gone again?" asked Marguerite. + +"Yes, madame, in the carriage; she said it was arranged." + +"Quite right," said Marguerite sharply. "Serve the dinner." + +Two days afterward there came a letter from Prudence, and for a +fortnight Marguerite seemed to have got rid of her mysterious gloom, +for which she constantly asked my forgiveness, now that it no longer +existed. Still, the carriage did not return. + +"How is it that Prudence does not send you back your carriage?" I asked +one day. + +"One of the horses is ill, and there are some repairs to be done. It is +better to have that done while we are here, and don't need a carriage, +than to wait till we get back to Paris." + +Prudence came two days afterward, and confirmed what Marguerite had +said. The two women went for a walk in the garden, and when I joined +them they changed the conversation. That night, as she was going, +Prudence complained of the cold and asked Marguerite to lend her a +shawl. + +So a month passed, and all the time Marguerite was more joyous and more +affectionate than she ever had been. Nevertheless, the carriage did not +return, the shawl had not been sent back, and I began to be anxious in +spite of myself, and as I knew in which drawer Marguerite put Prudence's +letters, I took advantage of a moment when she was at the other end of +the garden, went to the drawer, and tried to open it; in vain, for it +was locked. When I opened the drawer in which the trinkets and diamonds +were usually kept, these opened without resistance, but the jewel cases +had disappeared, along with their contents no doubt. + +A sharp fear penetrated my heart. I might indeed ask Marguerite for the +truth in regard to these disappearances, but it was certain that she +would not confess it. + +"My good Marguerite," I said to her, "I am going to ask your permission +to go to Paris. They do not know my address, and I expect there are +letters from my father waiting for me. I have no doubt he is concerned; +I ought to answer him." + +"Go, my friend," she said; "but be back early." I went straight to +Prudence. + +"Come," said I, without beating about the bush, "tell me frankly, where +are Marguerite's horses?" + +"Sold." + +"The shawl?" + +"Sold." + +"The diamonds?" + +"Pawned." + +"And who has sold and pawned them?" + +"Why did you not tell me?" + +"Because Marguerite made me promise not to." + +"And why did you not ask me for money?" + +"Because she wouldn't let me." + +"And where has this money gone?" + +"In payments." + +"Is she much in debt?" + +"Thirty thousand francs, or thereabouts. Ah, my dear fellow, didn't +I tell you? You wouldn't believe me; now you are convinced. The +upholsterer whom the duke had agreed to settle with was shown out of the +house when he presented himself, and the duke wrote next day to say that +he would answer for nothing in regard to Mlle. Gautier. This man wanted +his money; he was given part payment out of the few thousand francs that +I got from you; then some kind souls warned him that his debtor had been +abandoned by the duke and was living with a penniless young man; the +other creditors were told the same; they asked for their money, and +seized some of the goods. Marguerite wanted to sell everything, but it +was too late, and besides I should have opposed it. But it was necessary +to pay, and in order not to ask you for money, she sold her horses and +her shawls, and pawned her jewels. Would you like to see the receipts +and the pawn tickets?" + +And Prudence opened the drawer and showed me the papers. + +"Ah, you think," she continued, with the insistence of a woman who can +say, I was right after all, "ah, you think it is enough to be in love, +and to go into the country and lead a dreamy, pastoral life. No, my +friend, no. By the side of that ideal life, there is a material life, +and the purest resolutions are held to earth by threads which seem +slight enough, but which are of iron, not easily to be broken. If +Marguerite has not been unfaithful to you twenty times, it is because +she has an exceptional nature. It is not my fault for not advising +her to, for I couldn't bear to see the poor girl stripping herself +of everything. She wouldn't; she replied that she loved you, and she +wouldn't be unfaithful to you for anything in the world. All that is +very pretty, very poetical, but one can't pay one's creditors in that +coin, and now she can't free herself from debt, unless she can raise +thirty thousand francs." + +"All right, I will provide that amount." + +"You will borrow it?" + +"Good heavens! Why, yes!" + +"A fine thing that will be to do; you will fall out with your father, +cripple your resources, and one doesn't find thirty thousand francs from +one day to another. Believe me, my dear Armand, I know women better than +you do; do not commit this folly; you will be sorry for it one day. Be +reasonable. I don't advise you to leave Marguerite, but live with her +as you did at the beginning. Let her find the means to get out of this +difficulty. The duke will come back in a little while. The Comte de +N., if she would take him, he told me yesterday even, would pay all her +debts, and give her four or five thousand francs a month. He has two +hundred thousand a year. It would be a position for her, while you +will certainly be obliged to leave her. Don't wait till you are ruined, +especially as the Comte de N. is a fool, and nothing would prevent your +still being Marguerite's lover. She would cry a little at the beginning, +but she would come to accustom herself to it, and you would thank me +one day for what you had done. Imagine that Marguerite is married, and +deceive the husband; that is all. I have already told you all this +once, only at that time it was merely advice, and now it is almost a +necessity." + +What Prudence said was cruelly true. + +"This is how it is," she went on, putting away the papers she had just +shown me; "women like Marguerite always foresee that someone will love +them, never that they will love; otherwise they would put aside money, +and at thirty they could afford the luxury of having a lover for +nothing. If I had only known once what I know now! In short, say nothing +to Marguerite, and bring her back to Paris. You have lived with her +alone for four or five months; that is quite enough. Shut your eyes now; +that is all that anyone asks of you. At the end of a fortnight she will +take the Comte de N., and she will save up during the winter, and next +summer you will begin over again. That is how things are done, my dear +fellow!" + +And Prudence appeared to be enchanted with her advice, which I refused +indignantly. + +Not only my love and my dignity would not let me act thus, but I was +certain that, feeling as she did now, Marguerite would die rather than +accept another lover. + +"Enough joking," I said to Prudence; "tell me exactly how much +Marguerite is in need of." + +"I have told you: thirty thousand francs." + +"And when does she require this sum?" + +"Before the end of two months." + +"She shall have it." + +Prudence shrugged her shoulders. + +"I will give it to you," I continued, "but you must swear to me that you +will not tell Marguerite that I have given it to you." + +"Don't be afraid." + +"And if she sends you anything else to sell or pawn, let me know." + +"There is no danger. She has nothing left." + +I went straight to my own house to see if there were any letters from my +father. There were four. + + + +Chapter 19 + +In his first three letters my father inquired the cause of my silence; +in the last he allowed me to see that he had heard of my change of life, +and informed me that he was about to come and see me. + +I have always had a great respect and a sincere affection for my father. +I replied that I had been travelling for a short time, and begged him +to let me know beforehand what day he would arrive, so that I could be +there to meet him. + +I gave my servant my address in the country, telling him to bring me +the first letter that came with the postmark of C., then I returned to +Bougival. + +Marguerite was waiting for me at the garden gate. She looked at me +anxiously. Throwing her arms round my neck, she said to me: "Have you +seen Prudence?" + +"No." + +"You were a long time in Paris." + +"I found letters from my father to which I had to reply." + +A few minutes afterward Nanine entered, all out of breath. Marguerite +rose and talked with her in whispers. When Nanine had gone out +Marguerite sat down by me again and said, taking my hand: + +"Why did you deceive me? You went to see Prudence." + +"Who told you?" + +"Nanine." + +"And how did she know?" + +"She followed you." + +"You told her to follow me?" + +"Yes. I thought that you must have had a very strong motive for going to +Paris, after not leaving me for four months. I was afraid that something +might happen to you, or that you were perhaps going to see another +woman." + +"Child!" + +"Now I am relieved. I know what you have done, but I don't yet know what +you have been told." + +I showed Marguerite my father's letters. + +"That is not what I am asking you about. What I want to know is why you +went to see Prudence." + +"To see her." + +"That's a lie, my friend." + +"Well, I went to ask her if the horse was any better, and if she wanted +your shawl and your jewels any longer." + +Marguerite blushed, but did not answer. + +"And," I continued, "I learned what you had done with your horses, +shawls, and jewels." + +"And you are vexed?" + +"I am vexed that it never occurred to you to ask me for what you were in +want of." + +"In a liaison like ours, if the woman has any sense of dignity at all, +she ought to make every possible sacrifice rather than ask her lover for +money and so give a venal character to her love. You love me, I am sure, +but you do not know on how slight a thread depends the love one has +for a woman like me. Who knows? Perhaps some day when you were bored +or worried you would fancy you saw a carefully concerted plan in our +liaison. Prudence is a chatterbox. What need had I of the horses? It was +an economy to sell them. I don't use them and I don't spend anything +on their keep; if you love me, I ask nothing more, and you will love me +just as much without horses, or shawls, or diamonds." + +All that was said so naturally that the tears came to my eyes as I +listened. + +"But, my good Marguerite," I replied, pressing her hands lovingly, "you +knew that one day I should discover the sacrifice you had made, and that +the moment I discovered it I should allow it no longer." + +"But why?" + +"Because, my dear child, I can not allow your affection for me to +deprive you of even a trinket. I too should not like you to be able, +in a moment when you were bored or worried, to think that if you were +living with somebody else those moments would not exist; and to repent, +if only for a minute, of living with me. In a few days your horses, +your diamonds, and your shawls shall be returned to you. They are as +necessary to you as air is to life, and it may be absurd, but I like you +better showy than simple." + +"Then you no longer love me." + +"Foolish creature!" + +"If you loved me, you would let me love you my own way; on the +contrary, you persist in only seeing in me a woman to whom luxury is +indispensable, and whom you think you are always obliged to pay. You are +ashamed to accept the proof of my love. In spite of yourself, you think +of leaving me some day, and you want to put your disinterestedness +beyond risk of suspicion. You are right, my friend, but I had better +hopes." + +And Marguerite made a motion to rise; I held her, and said to her: + +"I want you to be happy and to have nothing to reproach me for, that is +all." + +"And we are going to be separated!" + +"Why, Marguerite, who can separate us?" I cried. + +"You, who will not let me take you on your own level, but insist on +taking me on mine; you, who wish me to keep the luxury in the midst of +which I have lived, and so keep the moral distance which separates us; +you, who do not believe that my affection is sufficiently disinterested +to share with me what you have, though we could live happily enough on +it together, and would rather ruin yourself, because you are still +bound by a foolish prejudice. Do you really think that I could compare +a carriage and diamonds with your love? Do you think that my real +happiness lies in the trifles that mean so much when one has nothing +to love, but which become trifling indeed when one has? You will pay my +debts, realize your estate, and then keep me? How long will that last? +Two or three months, and then it will be too late to live the life I +propose, for then you will have to take everything from me, and that +is what a man of honour can not do; while now you have eight or ten +thousand francs a year, on which we should be able to live. I will sell +the rest of what I do not want, and with this alone I will make two +thousand francs a year. We will take a nice little flat in which we can +both live. In the summer we will go into the country, not to a house +like this, but to a house just big enough for two people. You are +independent, I am free, we are young; in heaven's name, Armand, do not +drive me back into the life I had to lead once!" + +I could not answer. Tears of gratitude and love filled my eyes, and I +flung myself into Marguerite's arms. + +"I wanted," she continued, "to arrange everything without telling you, +pay all my debts, and take a new flat. In October we should have been +back in Paris, and all would have come out; but since Prudence has +told you all, you will have to agree beforehand, instead of agreeing +afterward. Do you love me enough for that?" + +It was impossible to resist such devotion. I kissed her hands ardently, +and said: + +"I will do whatever you wish." + +It was agreed that we should do as she had planned. Thereupon, she went +wild with delight; danced, sang, amused herself with calling up pictures +of her new flat in all its simplicity, and began to consult me as to +its position and arrangement. I saw how happy and proud she was of this +resolution, which seemed as if it would bring us into closer and closer +relationship, and I resolved to do my own share. In an instant I decided +the whole course of my life. I put my affairs in order, and made over +to Marguerite the income which had come to me from my mother, and which +seemed little enough in return for the sacrifice which I was accepting. +There remained the five thousand francs a year from my father; and, +whatever happened, I had always enough to live on. I did not tell +Marguerite what I had done, certain as I was that she would refuse the +gift. This income came from a mortgage of sixty thousand francs on a +house that I had never even seen. All that I knew was that every three +months my father's solicitor, an old friend of the family, handed over +to me seven hundred and fifty francs in return for my receipt. + +The day when Marguerite and I came to Paris to look for a flat, I went +to this solicitor and asked him what had to be done in order to make +over this income to another person. The good man imagined I was ruined, +and questioned me as to the cause of my decision. As I knew that I +should be obliged, sooner or later, to say in whose favour I made this +transfer, I thought it best to tell him the truth at once. He made none +of the objections that his position as friend and solicitor authorized +him to make, and assured me that he would arrange the whole affair in +the best way possible. Naturally, I begged him to employ the greatest +discretion in regard to my father, and on leaving him I rejoined +Marguerite, who was waiting for me at Julie Duprat's, where she had gone +in preference to going to listen to the moralizings of Prudence. + +We began to look out for flats. All those that we saw seemed to +Marguerite too dear, and to me too simple. However, we finally found, +in one of the quietest parts of Paris, a little house, isolated from +the main part of the building. Behind this little house was a +charming garden, surrounded by walls high enough to screen us from our +neighbours, and low enough not to shut off our own view. It was better +than our expectations. + +While I went to give notice at my own flat, Marguerite went to see +a business agent, who, she told me, had already done for one of her +friends exactly what she wanted him to do for her. She came on to the +Rue de Provence in a state of great delight. The man had promised to pay +all her debts, to give her a receipt for the amount, and to hand over +to her twenty thousand francs, in return for the whole of her furniture. +You have seen by the amount taken at the sale that this honest man would +have gained thirty thousand francs out of his client. + +We went back joyously to Bougival, talking over our projects for the +future, which, thanks to our heedlessness, and especially to our love, +we saw in the rosiest light. + +A week later, as we were having lunch, Nanine came to tell us that my +servant was asking for me. "Let him come in," I said. + +"Sir," said he, "your father has arrived in Paris, and begs you to +return at once to your rooms, where he is waiting for you." + +This piece of news was the most natural thing in the world, yet, as we +heard it, Marguerite and I looked at one another. We foresaw trouble. +Before she had spoken a word, I replied to her thought, and, taking her +hand, I said, "Fear nothing." + +"Come back as soon as possible," whispered Marguerite, embracing me; "I +will wait for you at the window." + +I sent on Joseph to tell my father that I was on my way. Two hours later +I was at the Rue de Provence. + + + +Chapter 20 + +My father was seated in my room in his dressing-gown; he was writing, +and I saw at once, by the way in which he raised his eyes to me when I +came in, that there was going to be a serious discussion. I went up to +him, all the same, as if I had seen nothing in his face, embraced him, +and said: + +"When did you come, father?" + +"Last night." + +"Did you come straight here, as usual?" + +"Yes." + +"I am very sorry not to have been here to receive you." + +I expected that the sermon which my father's cold face threatened would +begin at once; but he said nothing, sealed the letter which he had just +written, and gave it to Joseph to post. + +When we were alone, my father rose, and leaning against the +mantel-piece, said to me: + +"My dear Armand, we have serious matters to discuss." + +"I am listening, father." + +"You promise me to be frank?" + +"Am I not accustomed to be so?" + +"Is it not true that you are living with a woman called Marguerite +Gautier?" + +"Yes." + +"Do you know what this woman was?" + +"A kept woman." + +"And it is for her that you have forgotten to come and see your sister +and me this year?" + +"Yes, father, I admit it." + +"You are very much in love with this woman?" + +"You see it, father, since she has made me fail in duty toward you, for +which I humbly ask your forgiveness to-day." + +My father, no doubt, was not expecting such categorical answers, for he +seemed to reflect a moment, and then said to me: + +"You have, of course, realized that you can not always live like that?" + +"I fear so, father, but I have not realized it." + +"But you must realize," continued my father, in a dryer tone, "that I, +at all events, should not permit it." + +"I have said to myself that as long as I did nothing contrary to the +respect which I owe to the traditional probity of the family I could +live as I am living, and this has reassured me somewhat in regard to the +fears I have had." + +Passions are formidable enemies to sentiment. I was prepared for every +struggle, even with my father, in order that I might keep Marguerite. + +"Then, the moment is come when you must live otherwise." + +"Why, father?" + +"Because you are doing things which outrage the respect that you imagine +you have for your family." + +"I don't follow your meaning." + +"I will explain it to you. Have a mistress if you will; pay her as a +man of honour is bound to pay the woman whom he keeps, by all means; but +that you should come to forget the most sacred things for her, that +you should let the report of your scandalous life reach my quiet +countryside, and set a blot on the honourable name that I have given +you, it can not, it shall not be." + +"Permit me to tell you, father, that those who have given you +information about me have been ill-informed. I am the lover of Mlle. +Gautier; I live with her; it is the most natural thing in the world. +I do not give Mlle. Gautier the name you have given me; I spend on her +account what my means allow me to spend; I have no debts; and, in short, +I am not in a position which authorizes a father to say to his son what +you have just said to me." + +"A father is always authorized to rescue his son out of evil paths. You +have not done any harm yet, but you will do it." + +"Father!" + +"Sir, I know more of life than you do. There are no entirely pure +sentiments except in perfectly chaste women. Every Manon can have her +own Des Grieux, and times are changed. It would be useless for the +world to grow older if it did not correct its ways. You will leave your +mistress." + +"I am very sorry to disobey you, father, but it is impossible." + +"I will compel you to do so." + +"Unfortunately, father, there no longer exists a Sainte Marguerite to +which courtesans can be sent, and, even if there were, I would follow +Mlle. Gautier if you succeeded in having her sent there. What would you +have? Perhaps am in the wrong, but I can only be happy as long as I am +the lover of this woman." + +"Come, Armand, open your eyes. Recognise that it is your father who +speaks to you, your father who has always loved you, and who only +desires your happiness. Is it honourable for you to live like husband +and wife with a woman whom everybody has had?" + +"What does it matter, father, if no one will any more? What does it +matter, if this woman loves me, if her whole life is changed through the +love which she has for me and the love which I have for her? What does +it matter, if she has become a different woman?" + +"Do you think, then, sir, that the mission of a man of honour is to +go about converting lost women? Do you think that God has given such +a grotesque aim to life, and that the heart should have any room for +enthusiasm of that kind? What will be the end of this marvellous cure, +and what will you think of what you are saying to-day by the time you +are forty? You will laugh at this love of yours, if you can still laugh, +and if it has not left too serious a trace in your past. What would you +be now if your father had had your ideas and had given up his life +to every impulse of this kind, instead of rooting himself firmly in +convictions of honour and steadfastness? Think it over, Armand, and do +not talk any more such absurdities. Come, leave this woman; your father +entreats you." + +I answered nothing. + +"Armand," continued my father, "in the name of your sainted mother, +abandon this life, which you will forget more easily than you think. You +are tied to it by an impossible theory. You are twenty-four; think of +the future. You can not always love this woman, who also can not always +love you. You both exaggerate your love. You put an end to your whole +career. One step further, and you will no longer be able to leave the +path you have chosen, and you will suffer all your life for what you +have done in your youth. Leave Paris. Come and stay for a month or two +with your sister and me. Rest in our quiet family affection will soon +heal you of this fever, for it is nothing else. Meanwhile, your mistress +will console herself; she will take another lover; and when you see what +it is for which you have all but broken with your father, and all but +lost his love, you will tell me that I have done well to come and +seek you out, and you will thank me for it. Come, you will go with me, +Armand, will you not?" I felt that my father would be right if it had +been any other woman, but I was convinced that he was wrong with regard +to Marguerite. Nevertheless, the tone in which he said these last words +was so kind, so appealing, that I dared not answer. + +"Well?" said he in a trembling voice. + +"Well, father, I can promise nothing," I said at last; "what you ask +of me is beyond my power. Believe me," I continued, seeing him make +an impatient movement, "you exaggerate the effects of this liaison. +Marguerite is a different kind of a woman from what you think. This +love, far from leading me astray, is capable, on the contrary, of +setting me in the right direction. Love always makes a man better, +no matter what woman inspires it. If you knew Marguerite, you would +understand that I am in no danger. She is as noble as the noblest of +women. There is as much disinterestedness in her as there is cupidity in +others." + +"All of which does not prevent her from accepting the whole of your +fortune, for the sixty thousand francs which come to you from your +mother, and which you are giving her, are, understand me well, your +whole fortune." + +My father had probably kept this peroration and this threat for the last +stroke. I was firmer before these threats than before his entreaties. + +"Who told you that I was handing this sum to her?" I asked. + +"My solicitor. Could an honest man carry out such a procedure without +warning me? Well, it is to prevent you from ruining yourself for a +prostitute that I am now in Paris. Your mother, when she died, left you +enough to live on respectably, and not to squander on your mistresses." + +"I swear to you, father, that Marguerite knew nothing of this transfer." + +"Why, then, do you make it?" + +"Because Marguerite, the woman you calumniate, and whom you wish me to +abandon, is sacrificing all that she possesses in order to live with +me." + +"And you accept this sacrifice? What sort of a man are you, sir, to +allow Mlle. Gautier to sacrifice anything for you? Come, enough of this. +You will leave this woman. Just now I begged you; now I command you. I +will have no such scandalous doings in my family. Pack up your things +and get ready to come with me." + +"Pardon me, father," I said, "but I shall not come." + +"And why?" + +"Because I am at an age when no one any longer obeys a command." + +My father turned pale at my answer. + +"Very well, sir," he said, "I know what remains to be done." + +He rang and Joseph appeared. + +"Have my things taken to the Hotel de Paris," he said to my servant. And +thereupon he went to his room and finished dressing. When he returned, I +went up to him. + +"Promise me, father," I said, "that you will do nothing to give +Marguerite pain?" + +My father stopped, looked at me disdainfully, and contented himself with +saying, "I believe you are mad." After this he went out, shutting the +door violently after him. + +I went downstairs, took a cab, and returned to Bougival. + +Marguerite was waiting for me at the window. + + + +Chapter 21 + +"At last you have come," she said, throwing her arms round my neck. "But +how pale you are!" + +I told her of the scene with my father. + +"My God! I was afraid of it," she said. "When Joseph came to tell you +of your father's arrival I trembled as if he had brought news of some +misfortune. My poor friend, I am the cause of all your distress. You +will be better off, perhaps, if you leave me and do not quarrel +with your father on my account. He knows that you are sure to have a +mistress, and he ought to be thankful that it is I, since I love you and +do not want more of you than your position allows. Did you tell him how +we had arranged our future?" + +"Yes; that is what annoyed him the most, for he saw how much we really +love one another." + +"What are we to do, then?" + +"Hold together, my good Marguerite, and let the storm pass over." + +"Will it pass?" + +"It will have to." + +"But your father will not stop there." + +"What do you suppose he can do?" + +"How do I know? Everything that a father can do to make his son obey +him. He will remind you of my past life, and will perhaps do me the +honour of inventing some new story, so that you may give me up." + +"You know that I love you." + +"Yes, but what I know, too, is that, sooner or later, you will have to +obey your father, and perhaps you will end by believing him." + +"No, Marguerite. It is I who will make him believe me. Some of his +friends have been telling him tales which have made him angry; but he is +good and just, he will change his first impression; and then, after all, +what does it matter to me?" + +"Do not say that, Armand. I would rather anything should happen than +that you should quarrel with your family; wait till after to-day, and +to-morrow go back to Paris. Your father, too, will have thought it over +on his side, and perhaps you will both come to a better understanding. +Do not go against his principles, pretend to make some concessions to +what he wants; seem not to care so very much about me, and he will let +things remain as they are. Hope, my friend, and be sure of one thing, +that whatever happens, Marguerite will always be yours." + +"You swear it?" + +"Do I need to swear it?" + +How sweet it is to let oneself be persuaded by the voice that one loves! +Marguerite and I spent the whole day in talking over our projects for +the future, as if we felt the need of realizing them as quickly as +possible. At every moment we awaited some event, but the day passed +without bringing us any new tidings. + +Next day I left at ten o'clock, and reached the hotel about twelve. My +father had gone out. + +I went to my own rooms, hoping that he had perhaps gone there. No one +had called. I went to the solicitor's. No one was there. I went back to +the hotel, and waited till six. M. Duval did not return, and I went back +to Bougival. + +I found Marguerite not waiting for me, as she had been the day before, +but sitting by the fire, which the weather still made necessary. She was +so absorbed in her thoughts that I came close to her chair without her +hearing me. When I put my lips to her forehead she started as if the +kiss had suddenly awakened her. + +"You frightened me," she said. "And your father?" + +"I have not seen him. I do not know what it means. He was not at his +hotel, nor anywhere where there was a chance of my finding him." + +"Well, you must try again to-morrow." + +"I am very much inclined to wait till he sends for me. I think I have +done all that can be expected of me." + +"No, my friend, it is not enough; you must call on your father again, +and you must call to-morrow." + +"Why to-morrow rather than any other day?" + +"Because," said Marguerite, and it seemed to me that she blushed +slightly at this question, "because it will show that you are the more +keen about it, and he will forgive us the sooner." + +For the remainder of the day Marguerite was sad and preoccupied. I had +to repeat twice over everything I said to her to obtain an answer. She +ascribed this preoccupation to her anxiety in regard to the events which +had happened during the last two days. I spent the night in reassuring +her, and she sent me away in the morning with an insistent disquietude +that I could not explain to myself. + +Again my father was absent, but he had left this letter for me: + +"If you call again to-day, wait for me till four. If I am not in by +four, come and dine with me to-morrow. I must see you." + +I waited till the hour he had named, but he did not appear. I returned +to Bougival. + +The night before I had found Marguerite sad; that night I found her +feverish and agitated. On seeing me, she flung her arms around my neck, +but she cried for a long time in my arms. I questioned her as to this +sudden distress, which alarmed me by its violence. She gave me no +positive reason, but put me off with those evasions which a woman +resorts to when she will not tell the truth. + +When she was a little calmed down, I told her the result of my visit, +and I showed her my father's letter, from which, I said, we might augur +well. At the sight of the letter and on hearing my comment, her tears +began to flow so copiously that I feared an attack of nerves, and, +calling Nanine, I put her to bed, where she wept without a word, but +held my hands and kissed them every moment. + +I asked Nanine if, during my absence, her mistress had received any +letter or visit which could account for the state in which I found her, +but Nanine replied that no one had called and nothing had been sent. + +Something, however, had occurred since the day before, something which +troubled me the more because Marguerite concealed it from me. + +In the evening she seemed a little calmer, and, making me sit at the +foot of the bed, she told me many times how much she loved me. She +smiled at me, but with an effort, for in spite of herself her eyes were +veiled with tears. + +I used every means to make her confess the real cause of her distress, +but she persisted in giving me nothing but vague reasons, as I have +told you. At last she fell asleep in my arms, but it was the sleep which +tires rather than rests the body. From time to time she uttered a cry, +started up, and, after assuring herself that I was beside her, made me +swear that I would always love her. + +I could make nothing of these intermittent paroxysms of distress, which +went on till morning. Then Marguerite fell into a kind of stupor. She +had not slept for two nights. + +Her rest was of short duration, for toward eleven she awoke, and, seeing +that I was up, she looked about her, crying: + +"Are you going already?" + +"No," said I, holding her hands; "but I wanted to let you sleep on. It +is still early." + +"What time are you going to Paris?" + +"At four." + +"So soon? But you will stay with me till then?" + +"Of course. Do I not always?" + +"I am so glad! Shall we have lunch?" she went on absentmindedly. + +"If you like." + +"And then you will be nice to me till the very moment you go?" + +"Yes; and I will come back as soon as I can." + +"You will come back?" she said, looking at me with haggard eyes. + +"Naturally." + +"Oh, yes, you will come back to-night. I shall wait for you, as I always +do, and you will love me, and we shall be happy, as we have been ever +since we have known each other." + +All these words were said in such a strained voice, they seemed to hide +so persistent and so sorrowful a thought, that I trembled every moment +lest Marguerite should become delirious. + +"Listen," I said. "You are ill. I can not leave you like this. I will +write and tell my father not to expect me." + +"No, no," she cried hastily, "don't do that. Your father will accuse me +of hindering you again from going to see him when he wants to see you; +no, no, you must go, you must! Besides, I am not ill. I am quite well. I +had a bad dream and am not yet fully awake." + +From that moment Marguerite tried to seem more cheerful. There were no +more tears. + +When the hour came for me to go, I embraced her and asked her if she +would come with me as far as the train; I hoped that the walk would +distract her and that the air would do her good. I wanted especially to +be with her as long as possible. + +She agreed, put on her cloak and took Nanine with her, so as not to +return alone. Twenty times I was on the point of not going. But the +hope of a speedy return, and the fear of offending my father still more, +sustained me, and I took my place in the train. + +"Till this evening!" I said to Marguerite, as I left her. She did not +reply. + +Once already she had not replied to the same words, and the Comte de G., +you will remember, had spent the night with her; but that time was so +far away that it seemed to have been effaced from my memory, and if I +had any fear, it was certainly not of Marguerite being unfaithful to me. +Reaching Paris, I hastened off to see Prudence, intending to ask her +to go and keep Marguerite company, in the hope that her mirth and +liveliness would distract her. I entered without being announced, and +found Prudence at her toilet. + +"Ah!" she said, anxiously; "is Marguerite with you?" + +"No." + +"How is she?" + +"She is not well." + +"Is she not coming?" + +"Did you expect her?" + +Madame Duvernoy reddened, and replied, with a certain constraint: + +"I only meant that since you are at Paris, is she not coming to join +you?" + +"No." + +I looked at Prudence; she cast down her eyes, and I read in her face the +fear of seeing my visit prolonged. + +"I even came to ask you, my dear Prudence, if you have nothing to do +this evening, to go and see Marguerite; you will be company for her, +and you can stay the night. I never saw her as she was to-day, and I am +afraid she is going to be ill." + +"I am dining in town," replied Prudence, "and I can't go and see +Marguerite this evening. I will see her tomorrow." + +I took leave of Mme. Duvernoy, who seemed almost as preoccupied as +Marguerite, and went on to my father's; his first glance seemed to study +me attentively. He held out his hand. + +"Your two visits have given me pleasure, Armand," he said; "they make me +hope that you have thought over things on your side as I have on mine." + +"May I ask you, father, what was the result of your reflection?" + +"The result, my dear boy, is that I have exaggerated the importance of +the reports that had been made to me, and that I have made up my mind to +be less severe with you." + +"What are you saying, father?" I cried joyously. + +"I say, my dear child, that every young man must have his mistress, and +that, from the fresh information I have had, I would rather see you the +lover of Mlle. Gautier than of anyone else." + +"My dear father, how happy you make me!" + +We talked in this manner for some moments, and then sat down to table. +My father was charming all dinner time. + +I was in a hurry to get back to Bougival to tell Marguerite about this +fortunate change, and I looked at the clock every moment. + +"You are watching the time," said my father, "and you are impatient to +leave me. O young people, how you always sacrifice sincere to doubtful +affections!" + +"Do not say that, father; Marguerite loves me, I am sure of it." + +My father did not answer; he seemed to say neither yes nor no. + +He was very insistent that I should spend the whole evening with him and +not go till the morning; but Marguerite had not been well when I left +her. I told him of it, and begged his permission to go back to her +early, promising to come again on the morrow. + +The weather was fine; he walked with me as far as the station. Never had +I been so happy. The future appeared as I had long desired to see it. I +had never loved my father as I loved him at that moment. + +Just as I was leaving him, he once more begged me to stay. I refused. + +"You are really very much in love with her?" he asked. + +"Madly." + +"Go, then," and he passed his hand across his forehead as if to chase +a thought, then opened his mouth as if to say something; but he only +pressed my hand, and left me hurriedly, saying: + +"Till to-morrow, then!" + + + +Chapter 22 + +It seemed to me as if the train did not move. I reached Bougival at +eleven. + +Not a window in the house was lighted up, and when I rang no one +answered the bell. It was the first time that such a thing had occurred +to me. At last the gardener came. I entered. Nanine met me with a light. +I went to Marguerite's room. + +"Where is madame?" + +"Gone to Paris," replied Nanine. + +"To Paris!" + +"Yes, sir." + +"When?" + +"An hour after you." + +"She left no word for me?" + +"Nothing." + +Nanine left me. + +Perhaps she had some suspicion or other, I thought, and went to Paris +to make sure that my visit to my father was not an excuse for a day +off. Perhaps Prudence wrote to her about something important. I said to +myself when I was alone; but I saw Prudence; she said nothing to make me +suppose that she had written to Marguerite. + +All at once I remembered Mme. Duvernoy's question, "Isn't she coming +to-day?" when I had said that Marguerite was ill. I remembered at the +same time how embarrassed Prudence had appeared when I looked at +her after this remark, which seemed to indicate an appointment. I +remembered, too, Marguerite's tears all day long, which my father's +kind reception had rather put out of my mind. From this moment all the +incidents grouped themselves about my first suspicion, and fixed it so +firmly in my mind that everything served to confirm it, even my father's +kindness. + +Marguerite had almost insisted on my going to Paris; she had pretended +to be calmer when I had proposed staying with her. Had I fallen into +some trap? Was Marguerite deceiving me? Had she counted on being back +in time for me not to perceive her absence, and had she been detained by +chance? Why had she said nothing to Nanine, or why had she not written? +What was the meaning of those tears, this absence, this mystery? + +That is what I asked myself in affright, as I stood in the vacant room, +gazing at the clock, which pointed to midnight, and seemed to say to me +that it was too late to hope for my mistress's return. Yet, after all +the arrangements we had just made, after the sacrifices that had been +offered and accepted, was it likely that she was deceiving me? No. I +tried to get rid of my first supposition. + +Probably she had found a purchaser for her furniture, and she had +gone to Paris to conclude the bargain. She did not wish to tell me +beforehand, for she knew that, though I had consented to it, the sale, +so necessary to our future happiness, was painful to me, and she feared +to wound my self-respect in speaking to me about it. She would rather +not see me till the whole thing was done, and that was evidently why +Prudence was expecting her when she let out the secret. Marguerite could +not finish the whole business to-day, and was staying the night with +Prudence, or perhaps she would come even now, for she must know bow +anxious I should be, and would not wish to leave me in that condition. +But, if so, why those tears? No doubt, despite her love for me, the poor +girl could not make up her mind to give up all the luxury in which +she had lived until now, and for which she had been so envied, without +crying over it. I was quite ready to forgive her for such regrets. I +waited for her impatiently, that I might say to her, as I covered her +with kisses, that I had guessed the reason of her mysterious absence. + +Nevertheless, the night went on, and Marguerite did not return. + +My anxiety tightened its circle little by little, and began to oppress +my head and heart. Perhaps something had happened to her. Perhaps she +was injured, ill, dead. Perhaps a messenger would arrive with the news +of some dreadful accident. Perhaps the daylight would find me with the +same uncertainty and with the same fears. + +The idea that Marguerite was perhaps unfaithful to me at the very moment +when I waited for her in terror at her absence did not return to my +mind. There must be some cause, independent of her will, to keep her +away from me, and the more I thought, the more convinced I was that this +cause could only be some mishap or other. O vanity of man, coming back +to us in every form! + +One o'clock struck. I said to myself that I would wait another hour, but +that at two o'clock, if Marguerite had not returned, I would set out for +Paris. Meanwhile I looked about for a book, for I dared not think. Manon +Lescaut was open on the table. It seemed to me that here and there +the pages were wet as if with tears. I turned the leaves over and then +closed the book, for the letters seemed to me void of meaning through +the veil of my doubts. + +Time went slowly. The sky was covered with clouds. An autumn rain lashed +the windows. The empty bed seemed at moments to assume the aspect of a +tomb. I was afraid. + +I opened the door. I listened, and heard nothing but the voice of the +wind in the trees. Not a vehicle was to be seen on the road. The half +hour sounded sadly from the church tower. + +I began to fear lest someone should enter. It seemed to me that only a +disaster could come at that hour and under that sombre sky. + +Two o'clock struck. I still waited a little. Only the sound of the bell +troubled the silence with its monotonous and rhythmical stroke. + +At last I left the room, where every object had assumed that melancholy +aspect which the restless solitude of the heart gives to all its +surroundings. + +In the next room I found Nanine sleeping over her work. At the sound of +the door, she awoke and asked if her mistress had come in. + +"No; but if she comes in, tell her that I was so anxious that I had to +go to Paris." + +"At this hour?" + +"Yes. + +"But how? You won't find a carriage." + +"I will walk." + +"But it is raining." + +"No matter." + +"But madame will be coming back, or if she doesn't come it will be +time enough in the morning to go and see what has kept her. You will be +murdered on the way." + +"There is no danger, my dear Nanine; I will see you to-morrow." + +The good girl went and got me a cloak, put it over my shoulders, and +offered to wake up Mme. Arnould to see if a vehicle could be obtained; +but I would hear of nothing, convinced as I was that I should lose, in +a perhaps fruitless inquiry, more time than I should take to cover half +the road. Besides, I felt the need of air and physical fatigue in order +to cool down the over-excitement which possessed me. + +I took the key of the flat in the Rue d'Antin, and after saying good-bye +to Nanine, who came with me as far as the gate, I set out. + +At first I began to run, but the earth was muddy with rain, and I +fatigued myself doubly. At the end of half an hour I was obliged to +stop, and I was drenched with sweat. I recovered my breath and went on. +The night was so dark that at every step I feared to dash myself against +one of the trees on the roadside, which rose up sharply before me like +great phantoms rushing upon me. + +I overtook one or two wagons, which I soon left behind. A carriage was +going at full gallop toward Bougival. As it passed me the hope came +to me that Marguerite was in it. I stopped and cried out, "Marguerite! +Marguerite!" But no one answered and the carriage continued its course. +I watched it fade away in the distance, and then started on my way +again. I took two hours to reach the Barriere de l'Etoile. The sight of +Paris restored my strength, and I ran the whole length of the alley I +had so often walked. + +That night no one was passing; it was like going through the midst of a +dead city. The dawn began to break. When I reached the Rue d'Antin the +great city stirred a little before quite awakening. Five o'clock struck +at the church of Saint Roch at the moment when I entered Marguerite's +house. I called out my name to the porter, who had had from me enough +twenty-franc pieces to know that I had the right to call on Mlle. +Gautier at five in the morning. I passed without difficulty. I might +have asked if Marguerite was at home, but he might have said "No," and +I preferred to remain in doubt two minutes longer, for, as long as I +doubted, there was still hope. + +I listened at the door, trying to discover a sound, a movement. Nothing. +The silence of the country seemed to be continued here. I opened the +door and entered. All the curtains were hermetically closed. I drew +those of the dining-room and went toward the bed-room and pushed open +the door. I sprang at the curtain cord and drew it violently. The +curtain opened, a faint light made its way in. I rushed to the bed. It +was empty. + +I opened the doors one after another. I visited every room. No one. It +was enough to drive one mad. + +I went into the dressing-room, opened the window, and called Prudence +several times. Mme. Duvernoy's window remained closed. + +I went downstairs to the porter and asked him if Mlle. Gautier had come +home during the day. + +"Yes," answered the man; "with Mme. Duvernoy." + +"She left no word for me?" + +"No." + +"Do you know what they did afterward?" + +"They went away in a carriage." + +"What sort of a carriage?" + +"A private carriage." + +What could it all mean? + +I rang at the next door. + +"Where are you going, sir?" asked the porter, when he had opened to me. + +"To Mme. Duvernoy's." + +"She has not come back." + +"You are sure?" + +"Yes, sir; here's a letter even, which was brought for her last night +and which I have not yet given her." + +And the porter showed me a letter which I glanced at mechanically. I +recognised Marguerite's writing. I took the letter. It was addressed, +"To Mme. Duvernoy, to forward to M. Duval." + +"This letter is for me," I said to the porter, as I showed him the +address. + +"You are M. Duval?" he replied. + +"Yes. + +"Ah! I remember. You often came to see Mme. Duvernoy." + +When I was in the street I broke the seal of the letter. If a +thunder-bolt had fallen at my feet I should have been less startled than +I was by what I read. + +"By the time you read this letter, Armand, I shall be the mistress of +another man. All is over between us. + +"Go back to your father, my friend, and to your sister, and there, by +the side of a pure young girl, ignorant of all our miseries, you will +soon forget what you would have suffered through that lost creature who +is called Marguerite Gautier, whom you have loved for an instant, and +who owes to you the only happy moments of a life which, she hopes, will +not be very long now." + +When I had read the last word, I thought I should have gone mad. For +a moment I was really afraid of falling in the street. A cloud passed +before my eyes and my blood beat in my temples. At last I came to myself +a little. I looked about me, and was astonished to see the life of +others continue without pausing at my distress. + +I was not strong enough to endure the blow alone. Then I remembered that +my father was in the same city, that I might be with him in ten minutes, +and that, whatever might be the cause of my sorrow, he would share it. + +I ran like a madman, like a thief, to the Hotel de Paris; I found the +key in the door of my father's room; I entered. He was reading. He +showed so little astonishment at seeing me, that it was as if he was +expecting me. I flung myself into his arms without saying a word. I gave +him Marguerite's letter, and, falling on my knees beside his bed, I wept +hot tears. + + + +Chapter 23 + +When the current of life had resumed its course, I could not believe +that the day which I saw dawning would not be like those which had +preceded it. There were moments when I fancied that some circumstance, +which I could not recollect, had obliged me to spend the night away from +Marguerite, but that, if I returned to Bougival, I should find her again +as anxious as I had been, and that she would ask me what had detained me +away from her so long. + +When one's existence has contracted a habit, such as that of this love, +it seems impossible that the habit should be broken without at the same +time breaking all the other springs of life. I was forced from time to +time to reread Marguerite's letter, in order to convince myself that I +had not been dreaming. + +My body, succumbing to the moral shock, was incapable of movement. +Anxiety, the night walk, and the morning's news had prostrated me. My +father profited by this total prostration of all my faculties to demand +of me a formal promise to accompany him. I promised all that he asked, +for I was incapable of sustaining a discussion, and I needed some +affection to help me to live, after what had happened. I was too +thankful that my father was willing to console me under such a calamity. + +All that I remember is that on that day, about five o'clock, he took me +with him in a post-chaise. Without a word to me, he had had my luggage +packed and put up behind the chaise with his own, and so he carried me +off. I did not realize what I was doing until the town had disappeared +and the solitude of the road recalled to me the emptiness of my heart. +Then my tears again began to flow. + +My father had realized that words, even from him, would do nothing to +console me, and he let me weep without saying a word, only sometimes +pressing my hand, as if to remind me that I had a friend at my side. + +At night I slept a little. I dreamed of Marguerite. + +I woke with a start, not recalling why I was in the carriage. Then the +truth came back upon me, and I let my head sink on my breast. I dared +not say anything to my father. I was afraid he would say, "You see I was +right when I declared that this woman did not love you." But he did not +use his advantage, and we reached C. without his having said anything +to me except to speak of matters quite apart from the event which had +occasioned my leaving Paris. + +When I embraced my sister, I remembered what Marguerite had said about +her in her letter, and I saw at once how little my sister, good as she +was, would be able to make me forget my mistress. + +Shooting had begun, and my father thought that it would be a distraction +for me. He got up shooting parties with friends and neighbours. I went +without either reluctance or enthusiasm, with that sort of apathy into +which I had sunk since my departure. + +We were beating about for game and I was given my post. I put down my +unloaded gun at my side, and meditated. I watched the clouds pass. I +let my thought wander over the solitary plains, and from time to time I +heard someone call to me and point to a hare not ten paces off. None of +these details escaped my father, and he was not deceived by my exterior +calm. He was well aware that, broken as I now was, I should some day +experience a terrible reaction, which might be dangerous, and, without +seeming to make any effort to console me, he did his utmost to distract +my thoughts. + +My sister, naturally, knew nothing of what had happened, and she could +not understand how it was that I, who had formerly been so lighthearted, +had suddenly become so sad and dreamy. + +Sometimes, surprising in the midst of my sadness my father's anxious +scrutiny, I pressed his hand as if to ask him tacitly to forgive me for +the pain which, in spite of myself, I was giving him. + +Thus a month passed, but at the end of that time I could endure it no +longer. The memory of Marguerite pursued me unceasingly. I had loved, +I still loved this woman so much that I could not suddenly become +indifferent to her. I had to love or to hate her. Above all, whatever I +felt for her, I had to see her again, and at once. This desire possessed +my mind, and with all the violence of a will which had begun to reassert +itself in a body so long inert. + +It was not enough for me to see Marguerite in a month, a week. I had to +see her the very next day after the day when the thought had occurred to +me; and I went to my father and told him that I had been called to Paris +on business, but that I should return promptly. No doubt he guessed the +reason of my departure, for he insisted that I should stay, but, seeing +that if I did not carry out my intention the consequences, in the state +in which I was, might be fatal, he embraced me, and begged me, almost, +with tears, to return without delay. + +I did not sleep on the way to Paris. Once there, what was I going to +do? I did not know; I only knew that it must be something connected with +Marguerite. I went to my rooms to change my clothes, and, as the weather +was fine and it was still early, I made my way to the Champs-Elysees. At +the end of half an hour I saw Marguerite's carriage, at some distance, +coming from the Rond-Point to the Place de la Concorde. She had +repurchased her horses, for the carriage was just as I was accustomed +to see it, but she was not in it. Scarcely had I noticed this fact, when +looking around me, I saw Marguerite on foot, accompanied by a woman whom +I had never seen. + +As she passed me she turned pale, and a nervous smile tightened about +her lips. For my part, my heart beat violently in my breast; but I +succeeded in giving a cold expression to my face, as I bowed coldly to +my former mistress, who just then reached her carriage, into which she +got with her friend. + +I knew Marguerite: this unexpected meeting must certainly have upset +her. No doubt she had heard that I had gone away, and had thus been +reassured as to the consequences of our rupture; but, seeing me again +in Paris, finding herself face to face with me, pale as I was, she must +have realized that I had not returned without purpose, and she must have +asked herself what that purpose was. + +If I had seen Marguerite unhappy, if, in revenging myself upon her, +I could have come to her aid, I should perhaps have forgiven her, and +certainly I should have never dreamt of doing her an injury. But I found +her apparently happy, someone else had restored to her the luxury which +I could not give her; her breaking with me seemed to assume a character +of the basest self-interest; I was lowered in my own esteem as well as +in my love. I resolved that she should pay for what I had suffered. + +I could not be indifferent to what she did, consequently what would hurt +her the most would be my indifference; it was, therefore, this sentiment +which I must affect, not only in her eyes, but in the eyes of others. + +I tried to put on a smiling countenance, and I went to call on +Prudence. The maid announced me, and I had to wait a few minutes in +the drawing-room. At last Mme. Duvernoy appeared and asked me into her +boudoir; as I seated myself I heard the drawing-room door open, a light +footstep made the floor creak and the front door was closed violently. + +"I am disturbing you," I said to Prudence. + +"Not in the least. Marguerite was there. When she heard you announced, +she made her escape; it was she who has just gone out." + +"Is she afraid of me now?" + +"No, but she is afraid that you would not wish to see her." + +"But why?" I said, drawing my breath with difficulty, for I was choked +with emotion. "The poor girl left me for her carriage, her furniture, +and her diamonds; she did quite right, and I don't bear her any grudge. +I met her to-day," I continued carelessly. + +"Where?" asked Prudence, looking at me and seeming to ask herself if +this was the same man whom she had known so madly in love. + +"In the Champs-Elysees. She was with another woman, very pretty. Who is +she?" + +"What was she like?" + +"Blonde, slender, with side curls; blue eyes; very elegant." + +"Ali! It was Olympe; she is really very pretty." + +"Whom does she live with?" + +"With nobody; with anybody." + +"Where does she live?" + +"Rue Troncliet, No.--. Do you want to make love to her?" + +"One never knows." + +"And Marguerite?" + +"I should hardly tell you the truth if I said I think no more about her; +but I am one of those with whom everything depends on the way in which +one breaks with them. Now Marguerite ended with me so lightly that I +realize I was a great fool to have been as much in love with her as I +was, for I was really very much in love with that girl." + +You can imagine the way in which I said that; the sweat broke out on my +forehead. + +"She was very fond of you, you know, and she still is; the proof is, +that after meeting you to-day, she came straight to tell me about it. +When she got here she was all of a tremble; I thought she was going to +faint." + +"Well, what did she say?" + +"She said, 'He is sure to come here,' and she begged me to ask you to +forgive her." + +"I have forgiven her, you may tell her. She was a good girl; but, after +all, like the others, and I ought to have expected what happened. I am +even grateful to her, for I see now what would have happened if I had +lived with her altogether. It was ridiculous." + +"She will be very glad to find that you take it so well. It was quite +time she left you, my dear fellow. The rascal of an agent to whom she +had offered to sell her furniture went around to her creditors to find +out how much she owed; they took fright, and in two days she would have +been sold up." + +"And now it is all paid?" + +"More or less." + +"And who has supplied the money?" + +"The Comte de N. Ah, my dear friend, there are men made on purpose for +such occasions. To cut a long story short he gave her twenty thousand +francs, but he has had his way at last. He knows quite well that +Marguerite is not in love with him; but he is very nice with her all the +same. As you have seen, he has repurchased her horses, he has taken her +jewels out of pawn, and he gives her as much money as the duke used to +give her; if she likes to live quietly, he will stay with her a long +time." + +"And what is she doing? Is she living in Paris altogether?" + +"She would never go back to Bougival after you went. I had to go myself +and see after all her things, and yours, too. I made a package of them +and you can send here for them. You will find everything, except a +little case with your initials. Marguerite wanted to keep it. If you +really want it, I will ask her for it." + +"Let her keep it," I stammered, for I felt the tears rise from my heart +to my eyes at the recollection of the village where I had been so happy, +and at the thought that Marguerite cared to keep something which had +belonged to me and would recall me to her. If she had entered at that +moment my thoughts of vengeance would have disappeared, and I should +have fallen at her feet. + +"For the rest," continued Prudence, "I never saw her as she is now; she +hardly takes any sleep, she goes to all the balls, she goes to suppers, +she even drinks. The other day, after a supper, she had to stay in bed +for a week; and when the doctor let her get up, she began again at the +risk of her life. Shall you go and see her?" + +"What is the good? I came to see you, because you have always been +charming to me, and I knew you before I ever knew Marguerite. I owe +it to you that I have been her lover, and also, don't I, that I am her +lover no longer?" + +"Well, I did all I could to get her away from you, and I believe you +will be thankful to me later on." + +"I owe you a double gratitude," I added, rising, for I was disgusted +with the woman, seeing her take every word I said to her as if it were +serious. + +"You are going?" + +"Yes." + +I had learned enough. + +"When shall I be seeing you?" + +"Soon. Good-bye." + +"Good-bye." + +Prudence saw me to the door, and I went back to my own rooms with tears +of rage in my eyes and a desire for vengeance in my heart. + +So Marguerite was no different from the others; so the steadfast love +that she had had for me could not resist the desire of returning to +her former life, and the need of having a carriage and plunging into +dissipation. So I said to myself, as I lay awake at night though if I +had reflected as calmly as I professed to I should have seen in this +new and turbulent life of Marguerite the attempt to silence a constant +thought, a ceaseless memory. Unfortunately, evil passion had the upper +hand, and I only sought for some means of avenging myself on the poor +creature. Oh, how petty and vile is man when he is wounded in one of his +narrow passions! + +This Olympe whom I had seen was, if not a friend of Marguerite, at all +events the woman with whom she was most often seen since her return to +Paris. She was going to give a ball, and, as I took it for granted that +Marguerite would be there, I tried to get an invitation and succeeded. + +When, full of my sorrowful emotions, I arrived at the ball, it was +already very animated. They were dancing, shouting even, and in one of +the quadrilles I perceived Marguerite dancing with the Comte de N., who +seemed proud of showing her off, as if he said to everybody: "This woman +is mine." + +I leaned against the mantel-piece just opposite Marguerite and watched +her dancing. Her face changed the moment she caught sight of me. I +saluted her casually with a glance of the eyes and a wave of the hand. + +When I reflected that after the ball she would go home, not with me but +with that rich fool, when I thought of what would follow their return, +the blood rose to my face, and I felt the need of doing something to +trouble their relations. + +After the contredanse I went up to the mistress of the house, who +displayed for the benefit of her guests a dazzling bosom and magnificent +shoulders. She was beautiful, and, from the point of view of figure, +more beautiful than Marguerite. I realized this fact still more clearly +from certain glances which Marguerite bestowed upon her while I was +talking with her. The man who was the lover of such a woman might well +be as proud as M. de N., and she was beautiful enough to inspire a +passion not less great than that which Marguerite had inspired in me. At +that moment she had no lover. It would not be difficult to become so; it +depended only on showing enough money to attract her attention. + +I made up my mind. That woman should be my mistress. I began by dancing +with her. Half an hour afterward, Marguerite, pale as death, put on her +pelisse and left the ball. + + + +Chapter 24 + +It was something already, but it was not enough. I saw the hold which I +had upon this woman, and I took a cowardly advantage of it. + +When I think that she is dead now, I ask myself if God will ever forgive +me for the wrong I did her. + +After the supper, which was noisy as could be, there was gambling. I sat +by the side of Olympe and put down my money so recklessly that she could +not but notice me. In an instant I had gained one hundred and fifty or +two hundred louis, which I spread out before me on the table, and on +which she fastened her eyes greedily. + +I was the only one not completely absorbed by the game, and able to pay +her some attention. All the rest of the night I gained, and it was I +who gave her money to play, for she had lost all she had before her and +probably all she had in the house. + +At five in the morning, the guests departed. I had gained three hundred +louis. + +All the players were already on their way downstairs; I was the only +one who had remained behind, and as I did not know any of them, no one +noticed it. Olympe herself was lighting the way, and I was going to +follow the others, when, turning back, I said to her: + +"I must speak to you." + +"To-morrow," she said. + +"No, now." + +"What have you to say?" + +"You will see." + +And I went back into the room. + +"You have lost," I said. + +"Yes. + +"All that you had in the house?" + +She hesitated. + +"Be frank." + +"Well, it is true." + +"I have won three hundred louis. Here they are, if you will let me stay +here to-night." + +And I threw the gold on the table. + +"And why this proposition?" + +"Because I am in love with you, of course." + +"No, but because you love Marguerite, and you want to have your revenge +upon her by becoming my lover. You don't deceive a woman like me, my +dear friend; unluckily, I am still too young and too good-looking to +accept the part that you offer me." + +"So you refuse?" + +"Yes. + +"Would you rather take me for nothing? It is I who wouldn't accept then. +Think it over, my dear Olympe; if I had sent someone to offer you these +three hundred louis on my behalf, on the conditions I attach to them, +you would have accepted. I preferred to speak to you myself. Accept +without inquiring into my reasons; say to yourself that you are +beautiful, and that there is nothing surprising in my being in love with +you." + +Marguerite was a woman in the same position as Olympe, and yet I should +never have dared say to her the first time I met her what I had said to +the other woman. I loved Marguerite. I saw in her instincts which were +lacking in the other, and at the very moment in which I made my bargain, +I felt a disgust toward the woman with whom I was making it. + +She accepted, of course, in the end, and at midday I left her house as +her lover; but I quitted her without a recollection of the caresses +and of the words of love which she had felt bound to shower upon me in +return for the six thousand francs which I left with her. And yet there +were men who had ruined themselves for that woman. + +From that day I inflicted on Marguerite a continual persecution. Olympe +and she gave up seeing one another, as you might imagine. I gave my +new mistress a carriage and jewels. I gambled, I committed every +extravagance which could be expected of a man in love with such a woman +as Olympe. The report of my new infatuation was immediately spread +abroad. + +Prudence herself was taken in, and finally thought that I had completely +forgotten Marguerite. Marguerite herself, whether she guessed my motive +or was deceived like everybody else, preserved a perfect dignity in +response to the insults which I heaped upon her daily. Only, she seemed +to suffer, for whenever I met her she was more and more pale, more +and more sad. My love for her, carried to the point at which it was +transformed into hatred, rejoiced at the sight of her daily sorrow. +Often, when my cruelty toward her became infamous, Marguerite lifted +upon me such appealing eyes that I blushed for the part I was playing, +and was ready to implore her forgiveness. + +But my repentance was only of a moment's duration, and Olympe, who had +finally put aside all self-respect, and discovered that by annoying +Marguerite she could get from me whatever she wanted, constantly stirred +up my resentment against her, and insulted her whenever she found an +opportunity, with the cowardly persistence of a woman licensed by the +authority of a man. + +At last Marguerite gave up going to balls or theatres, for fear of +meeting Olympe and me. Then direct impertinences gave way to anonymous +letters, and there was not a shameful thing which I did not encourage +my mistress to relate and which I did not myself relate in reference to +Marguerite. + +To reach such a point I must have been literally mad. I was like a man +drunk upon bad wine, who falls into one of those nervous exaltations in +which the hand is capable of committing a crime without the head knowing +anything about it. In the midst of it all I endured a martyrdom. The +not disdainful calm, the not contemptuous dignity with which Marguerite +responded to all my attacks, and which raised her above me in my own +eyes, enraged me still more against her. + +One evening Olympe had gone somewhere or other, and had met Marguerite, +who for once had not spared the foolish creature, so that she had had to +retire in confusion. Olympe returned in a fury, and Marguerite fainted +and had to be carried out. Olympe related to me what had happened, +declared that Marguerite, seeing her alone, had revenged herself upon +her because she was my mistress, and that I must write and tell her to +respect the woman whom I loved, whether I was present or absent. + +I need not tell you that I consented, and that I put into the letter +which I sent to her address the same day, everything bitter, shameful, +and cruel that I could think of. + +This time the blow was more than the unhappy creature could endure +without replying. I felt sure that an answer would come, and I resolved +not to go out all day. About two there was a ring, and Prudence entered. + +I tried to assume an indifferent air as I asked her what had brought +her; but that day Mme. Duvernoy was not in a laughing humour, and in a +really moved voice she said to me that since my return, that is to say +for about three weeks, I had left no occasion untried which could give +pain to Marguerite, that she was completely upset by it, and that the +scene of last night and my angry letter of the morning had forced her to +take to her bed. In short, without making any reproach, Marguerite +sent to ask me for a little pity, since she had no longer the moral or +physical strength to endure what I was making her suffer. + +"That Mlle. Gautier," I said to Prudence, "should turn me out of her own +house is quite reasonable, but that she should insult the woman whom I +love, under the pretence that this woman is my mistress, is a thing I +will never permit." + +"My friend," said Prudence, "you are under the influence of a woman who +has neither heart nor sense; you are in love with her, it is true, but +that is not a reason for torturing a woman who can not defend herself." + +"Let Mlle. Gautier send me her Comte de N. and the sides will be equal." + +"You know very well that she will not do that. So, my dear Armand, let +her alone. If you saw her you would be ashamed of the way in which you +are treating her. She is white, she coughs--she won't last long now." + +And Prudence held out her hand to me, adding: + +"Come and see her; it will make her very happy." + +"I have no desire to meet M. de N." + +"M. de N. is never there. She can not endure him." + +"If Marguerite wishes to see me, she knows where I live; let her come to +see me, but, for my part, I will never put foot in the Rue d'Antin." + +"Will you receive her well?" + +"Certainly." + +"Well, I am sure that she will come." + +"Let her come." + +"Shall you be out to-day?" + +"I shall be at home all the evening." + +"I will tell her." + +And Prudence left me. + +I did not even write to tell Olympe not to expect me. I never troubled +much about her, scarcely going to see her one night a week. She consoled +herself, I believe, with an actor from some theatre or other. + +I went out for dinner and came back almost immediately. I had a fire lit +in my room and I told Joseph he could go out. + +I can give you no idea of the different impressions which agitated me +during the hour in which I waited; but when, toward nine o'clock, I +heard a ring, they thronged together into one such emotion, that, as I +opened the door, I was obliged to lean against the wall to keep myself +from falling. + +Fortunately the anteroom was in half darkness, and the change in my +countenance was less visible. Marguerite entered. + +She was dressed in black and veiled. I could scarcely recognise her face +through the veil. She went into the drawing-room and raised her veil. +She was pale as marble. + +"I am here, Armand," she said; "you wished to see me and I have come." + +And letting her head fall on her hands, she burst into tears. + +I went up to her. + +"What is the matter?" I said to her in a low voice. + +She pressed my hand without a word, for tears still veiled her voice. +But after a few minutes, recovering herself a little, she said to me: + +"You have been very unkind to me, Armand, and I have done nothing to +you." + +"Nothing?" I answered, with a bitter smile. + +"Nothing but what circumstances forced me to do." + +I do not know if you have ever in your life experienced, or if you will +ever experience, what I felt at the sight of Marguerite. + +The last time she had come to see me she had sat in the same place where +she was now sitting; only, since then, she had been the mistress of +another man, other kisses than mine had touched her lips, toward which, +in spite of myself, my own reached out, and yet I felt that I loved this +woman as much, more perhaps, than I had ever loved her. + +It was difficult for me to begin the conversation on the subject which +brought her. Marguerite no doubt realized it, for she went on: + +"I have come to trouble you, Armand, for I have two things to ask: +pardon for what I said yesterday to Mlle. Olympe, and pity for what you +are perhaps still ready to do to me. Intentionally or not, since your +return you have given me so much pain that I should be incapable now of +enduring a fourth part of what I have endured till now. You will have +pity on me, won't you? And you will understand that a man who is not +heartless has other nobler things to do than to take his revenge upon a +sick and sad woman like me. See, take my hand. I am in a fever. I left +my bed to come to you, and ask, not for your friendship, but for your +indifference." + +I took Marguerite's hand. It was burning, and the poor woman shivered +under her fur cloak. + +I rolled the arm-chair in which she was sitting up to the fire. + +"Do you think, then, that I did not suffer," said I, "on that night +when, after waiting for you in the country, I came to look for you in +Paris, and found nothing but the letter which nearly drove me mad? How +could you have deceived me, Marguerite, when I loved you so much? + +"Do not speak of that, Armand; I did not come to speak of that. I wanted +to see you only not an enemy, and I wanted to take your hand once more. +You have a mistress; she is young, pretty, you love her they say. Be +happy with her and forget me." + +"And you. You are happy, no doubt?" + +"Have I the face of a happy woman, Armand? Do not mock my sorrow, you, +who know better than anyone what its cause and its depth are." + +"It only depended on you not to have been unhappy at all, if you are as +you say." + +"No, my friend; circumstances were stronger than my will. I obeyed, +not the instincts of a light woman, as you seem to say, but a serious +necessity, and reasons which you will know one day, and which will make +you forgive me." + +"Why do you not tell me those reasons to-day?" + +"Because they would not bring about an impossible reunion between us, +and they would separate you perhaps from those from whom you must not be +separated." + +"Who do you mean?" + +"I can not tell you." + +"Then you are lying to me." + +Marguerite rose and went toward the door. I could not behold this silent +and expressive sorrow without being touched, when I compared in my mind +this pale and weeping woman with the madcap who had made fun of me at +the Opera Comique. + +"You shall not go," I said, putting myself in front of the door. + +"Why?" + +"Because, in spite of what you have done to me, I love you always, and I +want you to stay here." + +"To turn me out to-morrow? No; it is impossible. Our destinies are +separate; do not try to reunite them. You will despise me perhaps, while +now you can only hate me." + +"No, Marguerite," I cried, feeling all my love and all my desire +reawaken at the contact of this woman. "No, I will forget everything, +and we will be happy as we promised one another that we would be." + +Marguerite shook her head doubtfully, and said: + +"Am I not your slave, your dog? Do with me what you will. Take me; I am +yours." + +And throwing off her cloak and hat, she flung them on the sofa, and +began hurriedly to undo the front of her dress, for, by one of those +reactions so frequent in her malady, the blood rushed to her head and +stifled her. A hard, dry cough followed. + +"Tell my coachman," she said, "to go back with the carriage." + +I went down myself and sent him away. When I returned Marguerite was +lying in front of the fire, and her teeth chattered with the cold. + +I took her in my arms. I undressed her, without her making a movement, +and carried her, icy cold, to the bed. Then I sat beside her and tried +to warm her with my caresses. She did not speak a word, but smiled at +me. + +It was a strange night. All Marguerite's life seemed to have passed into +the kisses with which she covered me, and I loved her so much that in +my transports of feverish love I asked myself whether I should not kill +her, so that she might never belong to another. + +A month of love like that, and there would have remained only the corpse +of heart or body. + +The dawn found us both awake. Marguerite was livid white. She did not +speak a word. From time to time, big tears rolled from her eyes, and +stayed upon her cheeks, shining like diamonds. Her thin arms opened, +from time to time, to hold me fast, and fell back helplessly upon the +bed. + +For a moment it seemed to me as if I could forget all that had passed +since I had left Bougival, and I said to Marguerite: + +"Shall we go away and leave Paris?" + +"No, no!" she said, almost with affright; "we should be too unhappy. I +can do no more to make you happy, but while there is a breath of life in +me, I will be the slave of your fancies. At whatever hour of the day or +night you will, come, and I will be yours; but do not link your future +any more with mine, you would be too unhappy and you would make me too +unhappy. I shall still be pretty for a while; make the most of it, but +ask nothing more." + +When she had gone, I was frightened at the solitude in which she left +me. Two hours afterward I was still sitting on the side of the bed, +looking at the pillow which kept the imprint of her form, and asking +myself what was to become of me, between my love and my jealousy. + +At five o'clock, without knowing what I was going to do, I went to the +Rue d'Antin. + +Nanine opened to me. + +"Madame can not receive you," she said in an embarrassed way. + +"Why?" + +"Because M. le Comte de N. is there, and he has given orders to let no +one in." + +"Quite so," I stammered; "I forgot." + +I went home like a drunken man, and do you know what I did during the +moment of jealous delirium which was long enough for the shameful thing +I was going to do? I said to myself that the woman was laughing at me; I +saw her alone with the count, saying over to him the same words that she +had said to me in the night, and taking a five-hundred-franc note I sent +it to her with these words: + +"You went away so suddenly that I forgot to pay you. Here is the price +of your night." + +Then when the letter was sent I went out as if to free myself from the +instantaneous remorse of this infamous action. + +I went to see Olympe, whom I found trying on dresses, and when we were +alone she sang obscene songs to amuse me. She was the very type of the +shameless, heartless, senseless courtesan, for me at least, for perhaps +some men might have dreamed of her as I dreamed of Marguerite. She asked +me for money. I gave it to her, and, free then to go, I returned home. + +Marguerite had not answered. + +I need not tell you in what state of agitation I spent the next day. At +half past nine a messenger brought me an envelope containing my letter +and the five-hundred-franc note, not a word more. + +"Who gave you this?" I asked the man. + +"A lady who was starting with her maid in the next mail for Boulogne, +and who told me not to take it until the coach was out of the +courtyard." + +I rushed to the Rue d'Antin. + +"Madame left for England at six o'clock," said the porter. + +There was nothing to hold me in Paris any longer, neither hate nor love. +I was exhausted by this series of shocks. One of my friends was setting +out on a tour in the East. I told my father I should like to accompany +him; my father gave me drafts and letters of introduction, and eight or +ten days afterward I embarked at Marseilles. + +It was at Alexandria that I learned from an attache at the embassy, whom +I had sometimes seen at Marguerite's, that the poor girl was seriously +ill. + +I then wrote her the letter which she answered in the way you know; I +received it at Toulon. + +I started at once, and you know the rest. + +Now you have only to read a few sheets which Julie Duprat gave me; they +are the best commentary on what I have just told you. + + + +Chapter 25 + +Armand, tired by this long narrative, often interrupted by his tears, +put his two hands over his forehead and closed his eyes to think, or +to try to sleep, after giving me the pages written by the hand of +Marguerite. A few minutes after, a more rapid breathing told me that +Armand slept, but that light sleep which the least sound banishes. + +This is what I read; I copy it without adding or omitting a syllable: + +To-day is the 15th December. I have been ill three or four days. This +morning I stayed in bed. The weather is dark, I am sad; there is no one +by me. I think of you, Armand. And you, where are you, while I write +these lines? Far from Paris, far, far, they tell me, and perhaps you +have already forgotten Marguerite. Well, be happy; I owe you the only +happy moments in my life. + +I can not help wanting to explain all my conduct to you, and I have +written you a letter; but, written by a girl like me, such a letter +might seem to be a lie, unless death had sanctified it by its authority, +and, instead of a letter, it were a confession. + +To-day I am ill; I may die of this illness, for I have always had the +presentiment that I shall die young. My mother died of consumption, and +the way I have always lived could but increase the only heritage she +ever left me. But I do not want to die without clearing up for you +everything about me; that is, if, when you come back, you will still +trouble yourself about the poor girl whom you loved before you went +away. + +This is what the letter contained; I shall like writing it over again, +so as to give myself another proof of my own justification. + +You remember, Armand, how the arrival of your father surprised us at +Bougival; you remember the involuntary fright that his arrival caused +me, and the scene which took place between you and him, which you told +me of in the evening. + +Next day, when you were at Paris, waiting for your father, and he did +not return, a man came to the door and handed in a letter from M. Duval. + +His letter, which I inclose with this, begged me, in the most serious +terms, to keep you away on the following day, on some excuse or +other, and to see your father, who wished to speak to me, and asked me +particularly not to say anything to you about it. + +You know how I insisted on your returning to Paris next day. + +You had only been gone an hour when your father presented himself. I +won't say what impression his severe face made upon me. Your father had +the old theory that a courtesan is a being without heart or reason, a +sort of machine for coining gold, always ready, like the machine, +to bruise the hand that gives her everything, and to tear in pieces, +without pity or discernment, those who set her in motion. + +Your father had written me a very polite letter, in order that I might +consent to see him; he did not present himself quite as he had written. +His manner at first was so stiff, insolent, and even threatening, that I +had to make him understand that I was in my own house, and that I had no +need to render him an account of my life, except because of the sincere +affection which I had for his son. + +M. Duval calmed down a little, but still went on to say that he could +not any longer allow his son to ruin himself over me; that I was +beautiful, it was true, but, however beautiful I might be, I ought not +to make use of my beauty to spoil the future of a young man by such +expenditure as I was causing. + +At that there was only one thing to do, to show him the proof that since +I was your mistress I had spared no sacrifice to be faithful to you +without asking for more money than you had to give me. I showed him the +pawn tickets, the receipts of the people to whom I had sold what I could +not pawn; I told him of my resolve to part with my furniture in order +to pay my debts, and live with you without being a too heavy expense. I +told him of our happiness, of how you had shown me the possibility of +a quieter and happier life, and he ended by giving in to the evidence, +offering me his hand, and asking pardon for the way in which he had at +first approached me. + +Then he said to me: + +"So, madame, it is not by remonstrances or by threats, but by +entreaties, that I must endeavour to obtain from you a greater sacrifice +than you have yet made for my son." + +I trembled at this beginning. + +Your father came over to me, took both my hands, and continued in an +affectionate voice: + +"My child, do not take what I have to say to you amiss; only remember +that there are sometimes in life cruel necessities for the heart, but +that they must be submitted to. You are good, your soul has generosity +unknown to many women who perhaps despise you, and are less worthy than +you. But remember that there is not only the mistress, but the family; +that besides love there are duties; that to the age of passion succeeds +the age when man, if he is to be respected, must plant himself solidly +in a serious position. My son has no fortune, and yet he is ready to +abandon to you the legacy of his mother. If he accepted from you the +sacrifice which you are on the point of making, his honour and dignity +would require him to give you, in exchange for it, this income, which +would always put you out of danger of adversity. But he can not accept +this sacrifice, because the world, which does not know you, would give a +wrong interpretation to this acceptance, and such an interpretation must +not tarnish the name which we bear. No one would consider whether +Armand loves you, whether you love him, whether this mutual love means +happiness to him and redemption to you; they would see only one thing, +that Armand Duval allowed a kept woman (forgive me, my child, for what +I am forced to say to you) to sell all she had for him. Then the day of +reproaches and regrets would arrive, be sure, for you or for others, and +you would both bear a chain that you could not sever. What would you do +then? Your youth would be lost, my son's future destroyed; and I, his +father, should receive from only one of my children the recompense that +I look for from both. + +"You are young, beautiful, life will console you; you are noble, and the +memory of a good deed will redeem you from many past deeds. During the +six months that he has known you Armand has forgotten me. I wrote to him +four times, and he has never once replied. I might have died and he not +known it! + +"Whatever may be your resolution of living otherwise than as you have +lived, Armand, who loves you, will never consent to the seclusion to +which his modest fortune would condemn you, and to which your beauty +does not entitle you. Who knows what he would do then! He has gambled, +I know; without telling you of it, I know also, but, in a moment of +madness, he might have lost part of what I have saved, during many +years, for my daughter's portion, for him, and for the repose of my old +age. What might have happened may yet happen. + +"Are you sure, besides, that the life which you are giving up for him +will never again come to attract you? Are you sure, you who have loved +him, that you will never love another? Would you not-suffer on seeing +the hindrances set by your love to your lover's life, hindrances for +which you would be powerless to console him, if, with age, thoughts of +ambition should succeed to dreams of love? Think over all that, madame. +You love Armand; prove it to him by the sole means which remains to you +of yet proving it to him, by sacrificing your love to his future. No +misfortune has yet arrived, but one will arrive, and perhaps a greater +one than those which I foresee. Armand might become jealous of a man who +has loved you; he might provoke him, fight, be killed. Think, then, what +you would suffer in the presence of a father who should call on you to +render an account for the life of his son! + +"Finally, my dear child, let me tell you all, for I have not yet +told you all, let me tell you what has brought me to Paris. I have a +daughter, as I have told you, young, beautiful, pure as an angel. She +loves, and she, too, has made this love the dream of her life. I wrote +all that to Armand, but, absorbed in you, he made no reply. Well, my +daughter is about to marry. She is to marry the man whom she loves; she +enters an honourable family, which requires that mine has to be no less +honourable. The family of the man who is to become my son-in-law has +learned what manner of life Armand is leading in Paris, and has declared +to me that the marriage must be broken off if Armand continues this +life. The future of a child who has done nothing against you, and who +has the right of looking forward to a happy future, is in your hands. +Have you the right, have you the strength, to shatter it? In the name of +your love and of your repentance, Marguerite, grant me the happiness of +my child." + +I wept silently, my friend, at all these reflections which I had so +often made, and which, in the mouth of your father, took a yet more +serious reality. I said to myself all that your father dared not say to +me, though it had come to his lips twenty times: that I was, after all, +only a kept woman, and that whatever excuse I gave for our liaison, it +would always look like calculation on my part; that my past life left +me no right to dream of such a future, and that I was accepting +responsibilities for which my habits and reputation were far from giving +any guarantee. In short, I loved you, Armand. + +The paternal way in which M. Duval had spoken to me; the pure memories +that he awakened in me; the respect of this old man, which I would gain; +yours, which I was sure of gaining later on: all that called up in my +heart thoughts which raised me in my own eyes with a sort of holy pride, +unknown till then. When I thought that one day this old man, who was now +imploring me for the future of his son, would bid his daughter mingle my +name with her prayers, as the name of a mysterious friend, I seemed to +become transformed, and I felt a pride in myself. + +The exaltation of the moment perhaps exaggerated the truth of these +impressions, but that was what I felt, friend, and these new feelings +silenced the memory of the happy days I had spent with you. + +"Tell me, sir," I said to your father, wiping away my tears, "do you +believe that I love your son?" + +"Yes," said M. Duval. + +"With a disinterested love?" + +"Yes. + +"Do you believe that I had made this love the hope, the dream, the +forgiveness--of my life?" + +"Implicitly." + +"Well, sir, embrace me once, as you would embrace your daughter, and I +swear to you that that kiss, the only chaste kiss I have ever had, will +make me strong against my love, and that within a week your son will be +once more at your side, perhaps unhappy for a time, but cured forever." + +"You are a noble child," replied your father, kissing me on the +forehead, "and you are making an attempt for which God will reward you; +but I greatly fear that you will have no influence upon my son." + +"Oh, be at rest, sir; he will hate me." + +I had to set up between us, as much for me as for you, an insurmountable +barrier. + +I wrote to Prudence to say that I accepted the proposition of the Comte +de N., and that she was to tell him that I would sup with her and him. +I sealed the letter, and, without telling him what it contained, asked +your father to have it forwarded to its address on reaching Paris. + +He inquired of me what it contained. + +"Your son's welfare," I answered. + +Your father embraced me once more. I felt two grateful tears on my +forehead, like the baptism of my past faults, and at the moment when I +consented to give myself up to another man I glowed with pride at the +thought of what I was redeeming by this new fault. + +It was quite natural, Armand. You told me that your father was the most +honest man in the world. + +M. Duval returned to his carriage, and set out for Paris. + +I was only a woman, and when I saw you again I could not help weeping, +but I did not give way. + +Did I do right? That is what I ask myself to-day, as I lie ill in my +bed, that I shall never leave, perhaps, until I am dead. + +You are witness of what I felt as the hour of our separation approached; +your father was no longer there to support me, and there was a moment +when I was on the point of confessing everything to you, so terrified +was I at the idea that you were going to bate and despise me. + +One thing which you will not believe, perhaps, Armand, is that I prayed +God to give me strength; and what proves that he accepted my sacrifice +is that he gave me the strength for which I prayed. + +At supper I still had need of aid, for I could not think of what I was +going to do, so much did I fear that my courage would fail me. Who would +ever have said that I, Marguerite Gautier, would have suffered so at the +mere thought of a new lover? I drank for forgetfulness, and when I woke +next day I was beside the count. + +That is the whole truth, friend. Judge me and pardon me, as I have +pardoned you for all the wrong that you have done me since that day. + + + +Chapter 26 + +What followed that fatal night you know as well as I; but what you can +not know, what you can not suspect, is what I have suffered since our +separation. + +I heard that your father had taken you away with him, but I felt sure +that you could not live away from me for long, and when I met you in the +Champs-Elysees, I was a little upset, but by no means surprised. + +Then began that series of days; each of them brought me a fresh insult +from you. I received them all with a kind of joy, for, besides proving +to me that you still loved me, it seemed to me as if the more you +persecuted me the more I should be raised in your eyes when you came to +know the truth. + +Do not wonder at my joy in martyrdom, Armand; your love for me had +opened my heart to noble enthusiasm. + +Still, I was not so strong as that quite at once. + +Between the time of the sacrifice made for you and the time of your +return a long while elapsed, during which I was obliged to have recourse +to physical means in order not to go mad, and in order to be blinded and +deafened in the whirl of life into which I flung myself. Prudence +has told you (has she not?) how I went to all the fetes and balls and +orgies. I had a sort of hope that I should kill myself by all these +excesses, and I think it will not be long before this hope is realized. +My health naturally got worse and worse, and when I sent Mme. Duvernoy +to ask you for pity I was utterly worn out, body and soul. + +I will not remind you, Armand, of the return you made for the last proof +of love that I gave you, and of the outrage by which you drove away a +dying woman, who could not resist your voice when you asked her for a +night of love, and who, like a fool, thought for one instant that she +might again unite the past with the present. You had the right to do +what you did, Armand; people have not always put so high a price on a +night of mine! + +I left everything after that. Olympe has taken my place with the Comte +de N., and has told him, I hear, the reasons for my leaving him. The +Comte de G. was at London. He is one of those men who give just enough +importance to making love to women like me for it to be an agreeable +pastime, and who are thus able to remain friends with women, not hating +them because they have never been jealous of them, and he is, too, one +of those grand seigneurs who open only a part of their hearts to us, but +the whole of their purses. It was of him that I immediately thought. I +joined him in London. He received me as kindly as possible, but he +was the lover there of a woman in society, and he feared to compromise +himself if he were seen with me. He introduced me to his friends, who +gave a supper in my honour, after which one of them took me home with +him. + +What else was there for me to do, my friend? If I had killed myself it +would have burdened your life, which ought to be happy, with a needless +remorse; and then, what is the good of killing oneself when one is so +near dying already? + +I became a body without a soul, a thing without a thought; I lived for +some time in that automatic way; then I returned to Paris, and asked +after you; I heard then that you were gone on a long voyage. There was +nothing left to hold me to life. My existence became what it had been +two years before I knew you. I tried to win back the duke, but I had +offended him too deeply. Old men are not patient, no doubt because they +realize that they are not eternal. I got weaker every day. I was pale +and sad and thinner than ever. Men who buy love examine the goods before +taking them. At Paris there were women in better health, and not so thin +as I was; I was rather forgotten. That is all the past up to yesterday. + +Now I am seriously ill. I have written to the duke to ask him for money, +for I have none, and the creditors have returned, and come to me with +their bills with pitiless perseverance. Will the duke answer? Why are +you not in Paris, Armand? You would come and see me, and your visits +would do me good. + +December 20. + +The weather is horrible; it is snowing, and I am alone. I have been in +such a fever for the last three days that I could not write you a word. +No news, my friend; every day I hope vaguely for a letter from you, but +it does not come, and no doubt it will never come. Only men are strong +enough not to forgive. The duke has not answered. + +Prudence is pawning my things again. + +I have been spitting blood all the time. Oh, you would be sorry for me +if you could see me. You are indeed happy to be under a warm sky, and +not, like me, with a whole winter of ice on your chest. To-day I got up +for a little while, and looked out through the curtains of my window, +and watched the life of Paris passing below, the life with which I have +now nothing more to do. I saw the faces of some people I knew, passing +rapidly, joyous and careless. Not one lifted his eyes to my window. +However, a few young men have come to inquire for me. Once before I was +ill, and you, though you did not know me, though you had had nothing +from me but an impertinence the day I met you first, you came to inquire +after me every day. We spent six months together. I had all the love for +you that a woman's heart can hold and give, and you are far away, you +are cursing me, and there is not a word of consolation from you. But it +is only chance that has made you leave me, I am sure, for if you were at +Paris, you would not leave my bedside. + +December 25. + +My doctor tells me I must not write every day. And indeed my memories +only increase my fever, but yesterday I received a letter which did me +good, more because of what it said than by the material help which it +contained. I can write to you, then, to-day. This letter is from your +father, and this is what it says: + +"MADAME: I have just learned that you are ill. If I were at Paris I +would come and ask after you myself; if my son were here I would send +him; but I can not leave C., and Armand is six or seven hundred leagues +from here; permit me, then, simply to write to you, madame, to tell +you how pained I am to hear of your illness, and believe in my sincere +wishes for your speedy recovery. + +"One of my good friends, M. H., will call on you; will you kindly receive +him? I have intrusted him with a commission, the result of which I await +impatiently. + +"Believe me, madame, + +"Yours most faithfully." + + +This is the letter he sent me. Your father has a noble heart; love him +well, my friend, for there are few men so worthy of being loved. +This paper signed by his name has done me more good than all the +prescriptions of our great doctor. + +This morning M. H. called. He seemed much embarrassed by the delicate +mission which M. Duval had intrusted to him. As a matter of fact, he +came to bring me three thousand francs from your father. I wanted to +refuse at first, but M. H. told me that my refusal would annoy M. Duval, +who had authorized him to give me this sum now, and later on whatever I +might need. I accepted it, for, coming from your father, it could not be +exactly taking alms. If I am dead when you come back, show your father +what I have written for him, and tell him that in writing these lines +the poor woman to whom he was kind enough to write so consoling a letter +wept tears of gratitude and prayed God for him. + +January 4. + +I have passed some terrible days. I never knew the body could suffer so. +Oh, my past life! I pay double for it now. + +There has been someone to watch by me every night; I can not breathe. +What remains of my poor existence is shared between being delirious and +coughing. + +The dining-room is full of sweets and all sorts of presents that my +friends have brought. Some of them, I dare say, are hoping that I shall +be their mistress later on. If they could see what sickness has made of +me, they would go away in terror. + +Prudence is giving her New Year's presents with those I have received. + +There is a thaw, and the doctor says that I may go out in a few days if +the fine weather continues. + +January 8. + +I went out yesterday in my carriage. The weather was lovely. The +Champs-Elysees was full of people. It was like the first smile of +spring. Everything about me had a festal air. I never knew before that a +ray of sunshine could contain so much joy, sweetness, and consolation. + +I met almost all the people I knew, all happy, all absorbed in their +pleasures. How many happy people don't even know that they are happy! +Olympe passed me in an elegant carriage that M. de N. has given her. She +tried to insult me by her look. She little knows how far I am from such +things now. A nice fellow, whom I have known for a long time, asked me +if I would have supper with him and one of his friends, who, he said, +was very anxious to make my acquaintance. I smiled sadly and gave him my +hand, burning with fever. I never saw such an astonished countenance. + +I came in at four, and had quite an appetite for my dinner. Going out +has done me good. If I were only going to get well! How the sight of the +life and happiness of others gives a desire of life to those who, only +the night before, in the solitude of their soul and in the shadow of +their sick-room, only wanted to die soon! + +January 10. + +The hope of getting better was only a dream. I am back in bed again, +covered with plasters which burn me. If I were to offer the body that +people paid so dear for once, how much would they give, I wonder, +to-day? + +We must have done something very wicked before we were born, or else we +must be going to be very happy indeed when we are dead, for God to let +this life have all the tortures of expiation and all the sorrows of an +ordeal. + +January 12. + +I am always ill. + +The Comte de N. sent me some money yesterday. I did not keep it. I won't +take anything from that man. It is through him that you are not here. + +Oh, that good time at Bougival! Where is it now? + +If I come out of this room alive I will make a pilgrimage to the house +we lived in together, but I will never leave it until I am dead. + +Who knows if I shall write to you to-morrow? + +January 25. + +I have not slept for eleven nights. I am suffocated. I imagine every +moment that I am going to die. The doctor has forbidden me to touch +a pen. Julie Duprat, who is looking after me, lets me write these +few lines to you. Will you not come back before I die? Is it all over +between us forever? It seems to me as if I should get well if you came. +What would be the good of getting well? + +January 28. + +This morning I was awakened by a great noise. Julie, who slept in +my room, ran into the dining-room. I heard men's voices, and hers +protesting against them in vain. She came back crying. + +They had come to seize my things. I told her to let what they call +justice have its way. The bailiff came into my room with his hat on. He +opened the drawers, wrote down what he saw, and did not even seem to +be aware that there was a dying woman in the bed that fortunately the +charity of the law leaves me. + +He said, indeed, before going, that I could appeal within nine days, +but he left a man behind to keep watch. My God! what is to become of me? +This scene has made me worse than I was before. Prudence wanted to go +and ask your father's friend for money, but I would not let her. + +I received your letter this morning. I was in need of it. Will my answer +reach you in time? Will you ever see me again? This is a happy day, and +it has made me forget all the days I have passed for the last six weeks. +I seem as if I am better, in spite of the feeling of sadness under the +impression of which I replied to you. + +After all, no one is unhappy always. + +When I think that it may happen to me not to die, for you to come back, +for me to see the spring again, for you still to love me, and for us to +begin over again our last year's life! + +Fool that I am! I can scarcely hold the pen with which I write to you of +this wild dream of my heart. + +Whatever happens, I loved you well, Armand, and I would have died long +ago if I had not had the memory of your love to help me and a sort of +vague hope of seeing you beside me again. + +February 4. + +The Comte de G. has returned. His mistress has been unfaithful to him. +He is very sad; he was very fond of her. He came to tell me all about +it. The poor fellow is in rather a bad way as to money; all the same, he +has paid my bailiff and sent away the man. + +I talked to him about you, and he promised to tell you about me. I +forgot that I had been his mistress, and he tried to make me forget it, +too. He is a good friend. + +The duke sent yesterday to inquire after me, and this morning he came +to see me. I do not know how the old man still keeps alive. He remained +with me three hours and did not say twenty words. Two big tears fell +from his eyes when he saw how pale I was. The memory of his daughter's +death made him weep, no doubt. He will have seen her die twice. His back +was bowed, his head bent toward the ground, his lips drooping, his eyes +vacant. Age and sorrow weigh with a double weight on his worn-out body. +He did not reproach me. It looked as if he rejoiced secretly to see the +ravages that disease had made in me. He seemed proud of being still on +his feet, while I, who am still young, was broken down by suffering. + +The bad weather has returned. No one comes to see me. Julie watches by +me as much as she can. Prudence, to whom I can no longer give as much as +I used to, begins to make excuses for not coming. + +Now that I am so near death, in spite of what the doctors tell me, for +I have several, which proves that I am getting worse, I am almost sorry +that I listened to your father; if I had known that I should only be +taking a year of your future, I could not have resisted the longing +to spend that year with you, and, at least, I should have died with a +friend to hold my hand. It is true that if we had lived together this +year, I should not have died so soon. + +God's will be done! + +February 5. + +Oh, come, come, Armand! I suffer horribly; I am going to die, O God! +I was so miserable yesterday that I wanted to spend the evening, which +seemed as if it were going to be as long as the last, anywhere but at +home. The duke came in the morning. It seems to me as if the sight of +this old man, whom death has forgotten, makes me die faster. + +Despite the burning fever which devoured me, I made them dress me and +take me to the Vaudeville. Julie put on some rouge for me, without which +I should have looked like a corpse. I had the box where I gave you our +first rendezvous. All the time I had my eyes fixed on the stall where +you sat that day, though a sort of country fellow sat there, laughing +loudly at all the foolish things that the actors said. I was half dead +when they brought me home. I coughed and spat blood all the night. +To-day I can not speak, I can scarcely move my arm. My God! My God! I +am going to die! I have been expecting it, but I can not get used to the +thought of suffering more than I suffer now, and if-- + +After this the few characters traced by Marguerite were indecipherable, +and what followed was written by Julie Duprat. + +February 18. + +MONSIEUR ARMAND: + +Since the day that Marguerite insisted on going to the theatre she has +got worse and worse. She has completely lost her voice, and now the use +of her limbs. + +What our poor friend suffers is impossible to say. I am not used to +emotions of this kind, and I am in a state of constant fright. + +How I wish you were here! She is almost always delirious; but delirious +or lucid, it is always your name that she pronounces, when she can speak +a word. + +The doctor tells me that she is not here for long. Since she got so ill +the old duke has not returned. He told the doctor that the sight was too +much for him. + +Mme. Duvernoy is not behaving well. This woman, who thought she could +get more money out of Marguerite, at whose expense she was living almost +completely, has contracted liabilities which she can not meet, and +seeing that her neighbour is no longer of use to her, she does not even +come to see her. Everybody is abandoning her. M. de G., prosecuted for +his debts, has had to return to London. On leaving, he sent us more +money; he has done all he could, but they have returned to seize the +things, and the creditors are only waiting for her to die in order to +sell everything. + +I wanted to use my last resources to put a stop to it, but the bailiff +told me it was no use, and that there are other seizures to follow. +Since she must die, it is better to let everything go than to save it +for her family, whom she has never cared to see, and who have never +cared for her. You can not conceive in the midst of what gilded misery +the poor thing is dying. Yesterday we had absolutely no money. Plate, +jewels, shawls, everything is in pawn; the rest is sold or seized. +Marguerite is still conscious of what goes on around her, and she +suffers in body, mind, and heart. Big tears trickle down her cheeks, so +thin and pale that you would never recognise the face of her whom you +loved so much, if you could see her. She has made me promise to write to +you when she can no longer write, and I write before her. She turns her +eyes toward me, but she no longer sees me; her eyes are already veiled +by the coming of death; yet she smiles, and all her thoughts, all her +soul are yours, I am sure. + +Every time the door opens her eyes brighten, and she thinks you are +going to come in; then, when she sees that it is not you, her face +resumes its sorrowful expression, a cold sweat breaks out over it, and +her cheek-bones flush. + +February 19, midnight. + +What a sad day we have had to-day, poor M. Armand! This morning +Marguerite was stifling; the doctor bled her, and her voice has returned +to her a while. The doctor begged her to see a priest. She said "Yes," +and he went himself to fetch an abbe' from Saint Roch. + +Meanwhile Marguerite called me up to her bed, asked me to open a +cupboard, and pointed out a cap and a long chemise covered with lace, +and said in a feeble voice: + +"I shall die as soon as I have confessed. Then you will dress me in +these things; it is the whim of a dying woman." + +Then she embraced me with tears and added: + +"I can speak, but I am stifled when I speak; I am stifling. Air!" + +I burst into tears, opened the window, and a few minutes afterward the +priest entered. I went up to him; when he knew where he was, he seemed +afraid of being badly received. + +"Come in boldly, father," I said to him. + +He stayed a very short time in the room, and when he came out he said to +me: + +"She lived a sinner, and she will die a Christian." + +A few minutes afterward he returned with a choir boy bearing a crucifix, +and a sacristan who went before them ringing the bell to announce that +God was coming to the dying one. + +They went all three into the bed-room where so many strange words have +been said, but was now a sort of holy tabernacle. + +I fell on my knees. I do not know how long the impression of what I saw +will last, but I do not think that, till my turn comes, any human thing +can make so deep an impression on me. + +The priest anointed with holy oil the feet and hands and forehead of the +dying woman, repeated a short prayer, and Marguerite was ready to set +out for the heaven to which I doubt not she will go, if God has seen the +ordeal of her life and the sanctity of her death. + +Since then she has not said a word or made a movement. Twenty times I +should have thought her dead if I had not heard her breathing painfully. + +February 20, 5 P.M. + +All is over. + +Marguerite fell into her last agony at about two o'clock. Never did a +martyr suffer such torture, to judge by the cries she uttered. Two or +three times she sat upright in the bed, as if she would hold on to her +life, which was escaping toward God. + +Two or three times also she said your name; then all was silent, and she +fell back on the bed exhausted. Silent tears flowed from her eyes, and +she was dead. + +Then I went up to her; I called her, and as she did not answer I closed +her eyes and kissed her on the forehead. + +Poor, dear Marguerite, I wish I were a holy woman that my kiss might +recommend you to God. + +Then I dressed her as she had asked me to do. I went to find a priest at +Saint Roch, I burned two candles for her, and I prayed in the church for +an hour. + +I gave the money she left to the poor. + +I do not know much about religion, but I think that God will know that +my tears were genuine, my prayers fervent, my alms-giving sincere, and +that he will have pity on her who, dying young and beautiful, has only +had me to close her eyes and put her in her shroud. + +February 22. + +The burial took place to-day. Many of Marguerite's friends came to the +church. Some of them wept with sincerity. When the funeral started on +the way to Montmartre only two men followed it: the Comte de G., who +came from London on purpose, and the duke, who was supported by two +footmen. + +I write you these details from her house, in the midst of my tears and +under the lamp which burns sadly beside a dinner which I can not touch, +as you can imagine, but which Nanine has got for me, for I have eaten +nothing for twenty-four hours. + +My life can not retain these sad impressions for long, for my life is +not my own any more than Marguerite's was hers; that is why I give you +all these details on the very spot where they occurred, in the fear, if +a long time elapsed between them and your return, that I might not be +able to give them to you with all their melancholy exactitude. + + + +Chapter 27 + +"You have read it?" said Armand, when I had finished the manuscript. + +"I understand what you must have suffered, my friend, if all that I read +is true." + +"My father confirmed it in a letter." + +We talked for some time over the sad destiny which had been +accomplished, and I went home to rest a little. + +Armand, still sad, but a little relieved by the narration of his story, +soon recovered, and we went together to pay a visit to Prudence and to +Julie Duprat. + +Prudence had become bankrupt. She told us that Marguerite was the cause +of it; that during her illness she had lent her a lot of money in the +form of promissory notes, which she could not pay, Marguerite having +died without having returned her the money, and without having given her +a receipt with which she could present herself as a creditor. + +By the help of this fable, which Mme. Duvernoy repeated everywhere in +order to account for her money difficulties, she extracted a note for a +thousand francs from Armand, who did not believe it, but who pretended +to, out of respect for all those in whose company Marguerite had lived. + +Then we called on Julie Duprat, who told us the sad incident which she +had witnessed, shedding real tears at the remembrance of her friend. + +Lastly, we went to Marguerite's grave, on which the first rays of the +April sun were bringing the first leaves into bud. + +One duty remained to Armand--to return to his father. He wished me to +accompany him. + +We arrived at C., where I saw M. Duval, such as I had imagined him from +the portrait his son had made of him, tall, dignified, kindly. + +He welcomed Armand with tears of joy, and clasped my hand +affectionately. I was not long in seeing that the paternal sentiment was +that which dominated all others in his mind. + +His daughter, named Blanche, had that transparence of eyes, that +serenity of the mouth, which indicates a soul that conceives only +holy thoughts and lips that repeat only pious words. She welcomed her +brother's return with smiles, not knowing, in the purity of her youth, +that far away a courtesan had sacrificed her own happiness at the mere +invocation of her name. + +I remained for some time in their happy family, full of indulgent care +for one who brought them the convalescence of his heart. + +I returned to Paris, where I wrote this story just as it had been told +me. It has only one merit, which will perhaps be denied it; that is, +that it is true. + +I do not draw from this story the conclusion that all women like +Marguerite are capable of doing all that she did--far from it; but +I have discovered that one of them experienced a serious love in the +course of her life, that she suffered for it, and that she died of it. I +have told the reader all that I learned. It was my duty. + +I am not the apostle of vice, but I would gladly be the echo of noble +sorrow wherever I bear its voice in prayer. + +The story of Marguerite is an exception, I repeat; had it not been an +exception, it would not have been worth the trouble of writing it. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Camille (La Dame aux Camilias), by +Alexandre Dumas, fils + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CAMILLE (LA DAME AUX CAMILIAS) *** + +***** This file should be named 1608.txt or 1608.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/1/6/0/1608/ + +Produced by Dianne Bean + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS*Ver.04.29.93*END* + + + + + +Etext scanned by Dianne Bean using OmniPage Pro software donated +by Caere. + + + + + +CAMILLE (LA DAME AUX CAMILIAS) + +by ALEXANDRE DUMAS fils + + + + +Chapter I + +In my opinion, it is impossible to create characters until one +has spent a long time in studying men, as it is impossible to +speak a language until it has been seriously acquired. Not being +old enough to invent, I content myself with narrating, and I beg +the reader to assure himself of the truth of a story in which all +the characters, with the exception of the heroine, are still +alive. Eye-witnesses of the greater part of the facts which I +have collected are to be found in Paris, and I might call upon +them to confirm me if my testimony is not enough. And, thanks to +a particular circumstance, I alone can write these things, for I +alone am able to give the final details, without which it would +have been impossible to make the story at once interesting and +complete. + +This is how these details came to my knowledge. On the 12th of +March, 1847, I saw in the Rue Lafitte a great yellow placard +announcing a sale of furniture and curiosities. The sale was to +take place on account of the death of the owner. The owner's name +was not mentioned, but the sale was to be held at 9, Rue d'Antin, +on the 16th, from 12 to 5. The placard further announced that the +rooms and furniture could be seen on the 13th and 14th. + +I have always been very fond of curiosities, and I made up my +mind not to miss the occasion, if not of buying some, at all +events of seeing them. Next day I called at 9, Rue d'Antin. + +It was early in the day, and yet there were already a number of +visitors, both men and women, and the women, though they were +dressed in cashmere and velvet, and had their carriages waiting +for them at the door, gazed with astonishment and admiration at +the luxury which they saw before them. + +I was not long in discovering the reason of this astonishment and +admiration, for, having begun to examine things a little +carefully, I discovered without difficulty that I was in the +house of a kept woman. Now, if there is one thing which women in +society would like to see (and there were society women there), +it is the home of those women whose carriages splash their own +carriages day by day, who, like them, side by side with them, +have their boxes at the Opera and at the Italiens, and who parade +in Paris the opulent insolence of their beauty, their diamonds, +and their scandal. + +This one was dead, so the most virtuous of women could enter even +her bedroom. Death had purified the air of this abode of splendid +foulness, and if more excuse were needed, they had the excuse +that they had merely come to a sale, they knew not whose. They +had read the placards, they wished to see what the placards had +announced, and to make their choice beforehand. What could be +more natural? Yet, all the same, in the midst of all these +beautiful things, they could not help looking about for some +traces of this courtesan's life, of which they had heard, no +doubt, strange enough stories. + +Unfortunately the mystery had vanished with the goddess, and, for +all their endeavours, they discovered only what was on sale since +the owner's decease, and nothing of what had been on sale during +her lifetime. For the rest, there were plenty of things worth +buying. The furniture was superb; there were rosewood and buhl +cabinets and tables, Sevres and Chinese vases, Saxe statuettes, +satin, velvet, lace; there was nothing lacking. + +I sauntered through the rooms, following the inquisitive ladies +of distinction. They entered a room with Persian hangings, and I +was just going to enter in turn, when they came out again almost +immediately, smiling, and as if ashamed of their own curiosity. I +was all the more eager to see the room. It was the dressing-room, +laid out with all the articles of toilet, in which the dead +woman's extravagance seemed to be seen at its height. + +On a large table against the wall, a table three feet in width +and six in length, glittered all the treasures of Aucoc and +Odiot. It was a magnificent collection, and there was not one of +those thousand little things so necessary to the toilet of a +woman of the kind which was not in gold or silver. Such a +collection could only have been got together little by little, +and the same lover had certainly not begun and ended it. + +Not being shocked at the sight of a kept woman's dressing-room, I +amused myself with examining every detail, and I discovered that +these magnificently chiselled objects bore different initials and +different coronets. I looked at one after another, each recalling +a separate shame, and I said that God had been merciful to the +poor child, in not having left her to pay the ordinary penalty, +but rather to die in the midst of her beauty and luxury, before +the coming of old age, the courtesan's first death. + +Is there anything sadder in the world than the old age of vice, +especially in woman? She preserves no dignity, she inspires no +interest. The everlasting repentance, not of the evil ways +followed, but of the plans that have miscarried, the money that +has been spent in vain, is as saddening a thing as one can well +meet with. I knew an aged woman who had once been "gay," whose +only link with the past was a daughter almost as beautiful as she +herself had been. This poor creature to whom her mother had never +said, "You are my child," except to bid her nourish her old age +as she herself had nourished her youth, was called Louise, and, +being obedient to her mother, she abandoned herself without +volition, without passion, without pleasure, as she would have +worked at any other profession that might have been taught her. + +The constant sight of dissipation, precocious dissipation, in +addition to her constant sickly state, had extinguished in her +mind all the knowledge of good and evil that God had perhaps +given her, but that no one had ever thought of developing. I +shall always remember her, as she passed along the boulevards +almost every day at the same hour, accompanied by her mother as +assiduously as a real mother might have accompanied her daughter. +I was very young then, and ready to accept for myself the easy +morality of the age. I remember, however, the contempt and +disgust which awoke in me at the sight of this scandalous +chaperoning. Her face, too, was inexpressibly virginal in its +expression of innocence and of melancholy suffering. She was like +a figure of Resignation. + +One day the girl's face was transfigured. In the midst of all the +debauches mapped out by her mother, it seemed to her as if God +had left over for her one happiness. And why indeed should God, +who had made her without strength, have left her without +consolation, under the sorrowful burden of her life? One day, +then, she realized that she was to have a child, and all that +remained to her of chastity leaped for joy. The soul has strange +refuges. Louise ran to tell the good news to her mother. It is a +shameful thing to speak of, but we are not telling tales of +pleasant sins; we are telling of true facts, which it would be +better, no doubt, to pass over in silence, if we did not believe +that it is needful from time to time to reveal the martyrdom of +those who are condemned without bearing, scorned without judging; +shameful it is, but this mother answered the daughter that they +had already scarce enough for two, and would certainly not have +enough for three; that such children are useless, and a lying-in +is so much time lost. + +Next day a midwife, of whom all we will say is that she was a +friend of the mother, visited Louise, who remained in bed for a +few days, and then got up paler and feebler than before. + +Three months afterward a man took pity on her and tried to heal +her, morally and physically; but the last shock had been too +violent, and Louise died of it. The mother still lives; how? God +knows. + +This story returned to my mind while I looked at the silver +toilet things, and a certain space of time must have elapsed +during these reflections, for no one was left in the room but +myself and an attendant, who, standing near the door, was +carefully watching me to see that I did not pocket anything. + +I went up to the man, to whom I was causing so much anxiety. +"Sir," I said, "can you tell me the name of the person who +formerly lived here?" + +"Mademoiselle Marguerite Gautier." + +I knew her by name and by sight. + +"What!" I said to the attendant; "Marguerite Gautier is dead?" + +"Yes, sir." + +"When did she die?" + +"Three weeks ago, I believe." + +"And why are the rooms on view?" + +"The creditors believe that it will send up the prices. People +can see beforehand the effect of the things; you see that induces +them to buy." + +"She was in debt, then?" + +"To any extent, sir." + +"But the sale will cover it?" + +"And more too." + +"Who will get what remains over?" + +"Her family." + +"She had a family?" + +"It seems so." + +"Thanks." + +The attendant, reassured as to my intentions, touched his hat, +and I went out. + +"Poor girl!" I said to myself as I returned home; "she must have +had a sad death, for, in her world, one has friends only when one +is perfectly well." And in spite of myself I began to feel +melancholy over the fate of Marguerite Gautier. + +It will seem absurd to many people, but I have an unbounded +sympathy for women of this kind, and I do not think it necessary +to apologize for such sympathy. + +One day, as I was going to the Prefecture for a passport, I saw +in one of the neighbouring streets a poor girl who was being +marched along by two policemen. I do not know what was the +matter. All I know is that she was weeping bitterly as she kissed +an infant only a few months old, from whom her arrest was to +separate her. Since that day I have never dared to despise a +woman at first sight. + + + +Chapter 2 + +The sale was to take place on the 16th. A day's interval had been +left between the visiting days and the sale, in order to give +time for taking down the hangings, curtains, etc. I had just +returned from abroad. It was natural that I had not heard of +Marguerite's death among the pieces of news which one's friends +always tell on returning after an absence. Marguerite was a +pretty woman; but though the life of such women makes sensation +enough, their death makes very little. They are suns which set as +they rose, unobserved. Their death, when they die young, is heard +of by all their lovers at the same moment, for in Paris almost +all the lovers of a well-known woman are friends. A few +recollections are exchanged, and everybody's life goes on as if +the incident had never occurred, without so much as a tear. + +Nowadays, at twenty-five, tears have become so rare a thing that +they are not to be squandered indiscriminately. It is the most +that can be expected if the parents who pay for being wept over +are wept over in return for the price they pay. + +As for me, though my initials did not occur on any of +Marguerite's belongings, that instinctive indulgence, that +natural pity that I have already confessed, set me thinking over +her death, more perhaps than it was worth thinking over. I +remembered having often met Marguerite in the Bois, where she +went regularly every day in a little blue coupe drawn by two +magnificent bays, and I had noticed in her a distinction quite +apart from other women of her kind, a distinction which was +enhanced by a really exceptional beauty. + +These unfortunate creatures whenever they go out are always +accompanied by somebody or other. As no man cares to make himself +conspicuous by being seen in their company, and as they are +afraid of solitude, they take with them either those who are not +well enough off to have a carriage, or one or another of those +elegant, ancient ladies, whose elegance is a little inexplicable, +and to whom one can always go for information in regard to the +women whom they accompany. + +In Marguerite's case it was quite different. She was always alone +when she drove in the Champs-Elysees, lying back in her carriage +as much as possible, dressed in furs in winter, and in summer +wearing very simple dresses; and though she often passed people +whom she knew, her smile, when she chose to smile, was seen only +by them, and a duchess might have smiled in just such a manner. +She did not drive to and fro like the others, from the Rond-Point +to the end of the Champs-Elysees. She drove straight to the Bois. +There she left her carriage, walked for an hour, returned to her +carriage, and drove rapidly home. + +All these circumstances which I had so often witnessed came back +to my memory, and I regretted her death as one might regret the +destruction of a beautiful work of art. + +It was impossible to see more charm in beauty than in that of +Marguerite. Excessively tall and thin, she had in the fullest +degree the art of repairing this oversight of Nature by the mere +arrangement of the things she wore. Her cashmere reached to the +ground, and showed on each side the large flounces of a silk +dress, and the heavy muff which she held pressed against her +bosom was surrounded by such cunningly arranged folds that the +eye, however exacting, could find no fault with the contour of +the lines. Her head, a marvel, was the object of the most +coquettish care. It was small, and her mother, as Musset would +say, seemed to have made it so in order to make it with care. + +Set, in an oval of indescribable grace, two black eyes, +surmounted by eyebrows of so pure a curve that it seemed as if +painted; veil these eyes with lovely lashes, which, when drooped, +cast their shadow on the rosy hue of the cheeks; trace a +delicate, straight nose, the nostrils a little open, in an ardent +aspiration toward the life of the senses; design a regular mouth, +with lips parted graciously over teeth as white as milk; colour +the skin with the down of a peach that no hand has touched, and +you will have the general aspect of that charming countenance. +The hair, black as jet, waving naturally or not, was parted on +the forehead in two large folds and draped back over the head, +leaving in sight just the tip of the ears, in which there +glittered two diamonds, worth four to five thousand francs each. +How it was that her ardent life had left on Marguerite's face the +virginal, almost childlike expression, which characterized it, is +a problem which we can but state, without attempting to solve it. + +Marguerite had a marvellous portrait of herself, by Vidal, the +only man whose pencil could do her justice. I had this portrait +by me for a few days after her death, and the likeness was so +astonishing that it has helped to refresh my memory in regard to +some points which I might not otherwise have remembered. + +Some among the details of this chapter did not reach me until +later, but I write them here so as not to be obliged to return to +them when the story itself has begun. + +Marguerite was always present at every first night, and passed +every evening either at the theatre or the ball. Whenever there +was a new piece she was certain to be seen, and she invariably +had three things with her on the ledge of her ground-floor box: +her opera-glass, a bag of sweets, and a bouquet of camellias. + +For twenty-five days of the month the camellias were white, and +for five they were red; no one ever knew the reason of this +change of colour, which I mention though I can not explain it; it +was noticed both by her friends and by the habitue's of the +theatres to which she most often went. She was never seen with +any flowers but camellias. At the florist's, Madame Barjon's, she +had come to be called "the Lady of the Camellias," and the name +stuck to her. + +Like all those who move in a certain set in Paris, I knew that +Marguerite had lived with some of the most fashionable young men +in society, that she spoke of it openly, and that they themselves +boasted of it; so that all seemed equally pleased with one +another. Nevertheless, for about three years, after a visit to +Bagnees, she was said to be living with an old duke, a foreigner, +enormously rich, who had tried to remove her as far as possible +from her former life, and, as it seemed, entirely to her own +satisfaction. + +This is what I was told on the subject. In the spring of 1847 +Marguerite was so ill that the doctors ordered her to take the +waters, and she went to Bagneres. Among the invalids was the +daughter of this duke; she was not only suffering from the same +complaint, but she was so like Marguerite in appearance that they +might have been taken for sisters; the young duchess was in the +last stage of consumption, and a few days after Marguerite's +arrival she died. One morning, the duke, who had remained at +Bagneres to be near the soil that had buried a part of his heart, +caught sight of Marguerite at a turn of the road. He seemed to +see the shadow of his child, and going up to her, he took her +hands, embraced and wept over her, and without even asking her +who she was, begged her to let him love in her the living image +of his dead child. Marguerite, alone at Bagneres with her maid, +and not being in any fear of compromising herself, granted the +duke's request. Some people who knew her, happening to be at +Bagneres, took upon themselves to explain Mademoiselle Gautier's +true position to the duke. It was a blow to the old man, for the +resemblance with his daughter was ended in one direction, but it +was too late. She had become a necessity to his heart, his only +pretext, his only excuse, for living. He made no reproaches, he +had indeed no right to do so, but he asked her if she felt +herself capable of changing her mode of life, offering her in +return for the sacrifice every compensation that she could +desire. She consented. + +It must be said that Marguerite was just then very ill. The past +seemed to her sensitive nature as if it were one of the main +causes of her illness, and a sort of superstition led her to hope +that God would restore to her both health and beauty in return +for her repentance and conversion. By the end of the summer, the +waters, sleep, the natural fatigue of long walks, had indeed more +or less restored her health. The duke accompanied her to Paris, +where he continued to see her as he had done at Bagneres. + +This liaison, whose motive and origin were quite unknown, caused +a great sensation, for the duke, already known for his immense +fortune, now became known for his prodigality. All this was set +down to the debauchery of a rich old man, and everything was +believed except the truth. The father's sentiment for Marguerite +had, in truth, so pure a cause that anything but a communion of +hearts would have seemed to him a kind of incest, and he had +never spoken to her a word which his daughter might not have +heard. + +Far be it from me to make out our heroine to be anything but what +she was. As long as she remained at Bagneres, the promise she had +made to the duke had not been hard to keep, and she had kept it; +but, once back in Paris, it seemed to her, accustomed to a life +of dissipation, of balls, of orgies, as if the solitude, only +interrupted by the duke's stated visits, would kill her with +boredom, and the hot breath of her old life came back across her +head and heart. + +We must add that Marguerite had returned more beautiful than she +had ever been; she was but twenty, and her malady, sleeping but +not subdued, continued to give her those feverish desires which +are almost always the result of diseases of the chest. + +It was a great grief to the duke when his friends, always on the +lookout for some scandal on the part of the woman with whom, it +seemed to them, he was compromising himself, came to tell him, +indeed to prove to him, that at times when she was sure of not +seeing him she received other visits, and that these visits were +often prolonged till the following day. On being questioned, +Marguerite admitted everything to the duke, and advised him, +without arriere-pensee, to concern himself with her no longer, +for she felt incapable of carrying out what she had undertaken, +and she did not wish to go on accepting benefits from a man whom +she was deceiving. The duke did not return for a week; it was all +he could do, and on the eighth day he came to beg Marguerite to +let him still visit her, promising that he would take her as she +was, so long as he might see her, and swearing that he would +never utter a reproach against her, not though he were to die of +it. + +This, then, was the state of things three months after +Marguerite's return; that is to say, in November or December, +1842. + + + +Chapter 3 + +At one o'clock on the 16th I went to the Rue d'Antin. The voice +of the auctioneer could be heard from the outer door. The rooms +were crowded with people. There were all the celebrities of the +most elegant impropriety, furtively examined by certain great +ladies who had again seized the opportunity of the sale in order +to be able to see, close at hand, women whom they might never +have another occasion of meeting, and whom they envied perhaps in +secret for their easy pleasures. The Duchess of F. elbowed Mlle. +A., one of the most melancholy examples of our modern courtesan; +the Marquis de T. hesitated over a piece of furniture the price +of which was being run high by Mme. D., the most elegant and +famous adulteress of our time; the Duke of Y., who in Madrid is +supposed to be ruining himself in Paris, and in Paris to be +ruining himself in Madrid, and who, as a matter of fact, never +even reaches the limit of his income, talked with Mme. M., one of +our wittiest story-tellers, who from time to time writes what she +says and signs what she writes, while at the same time he +exchanged confidential glances with Mme. de N., a fair ornament +of the Champs-Elysees, almost always dressed in pink or blue, and +driving two big black horses which Tony had sold her for 10,000 +francs, and for which she had paid, after her fashion; finally, +Mlle. R., who makes by her mere talent twice what the women of +the world make by their dot and three times as much as the others +make by their amours, had come, in spite of the cold, to make +some purchases, and was not the least looked at among the crowd. + +We might cite the initials of many more of those who found +themselves, not without some mutual surprise, side by side in one +room. But we fear to weary the reader. We will only add that +everyone was in the highest spirits, and that many of those +present had known the dead woman, and seemed quite oblivious of +the fact. There was a sound of loud laughter; the auctioneers +shouted at the top of their voices; the dealers who had filled +the benches in front of the auction table tried in vain to obtain +silence, in order to transact their business in peace. Never was +there a noisier or a more varied gathering. + +I slipped quietly into the midst of this tumult, sad to think of +when one remembered that the poor creature whose goods were being +sold to pay her debts had died in the next room. Having come +rather to examine than to buy, I watched the faces of the +auctioneers, noticing how they beamed with delight whenever +anything reached a price beyond their expectations. Honest +creatures, who had speculated upon this woman's prostitution, who +had gained their hundred per cent out of her, who had plagued +with their writs the last moments of her life, and who came now +after her death to gather in at once the fruits of their +dishonourable calculations and the interest on their shameful +credit, How wise were the ancients in having only one God for +traders and robbers! + +Dresses, cashmeres, jewels, were sold with incredible rapidity. +There was nothing that I cared for, and I still waited. All at +once I heard: "A volume, beautifully bound, gilt-edged, entitled +Manon Lescaut. There is something written on the first page. Ten +francs." + +"Twelve," said a voice after a longish silence. + +"Fifteen," I said. + +Why? I did not know. Doubtless for the something written. + +"Fifteen," repeated the auctioneer. + +"Thirty," said the first bidder in a tone which seemed to defy +further competition. + +It had now become a struggle. "Thirty-five," I cried in the same +tone. + +"Forty." + +"Fifty." + +"Sixty." + +"A hundred." + +If I had wished to make a sensation I should certainly have +succeeded, for a profound silence had ensued, and people gazed at +me as if to see what sort of a person it was, who seemed to be so +determined to possess the volume. + +The accent which I had given to my last word seemed to convince +my adversary; he preferred to abandon a conflict which could only +have resulted in making me pay ten times its price for the +volume, and, bowing, he said very gracefully, though indeed a +little late: + +"I give way, sir." + +Nothing more being offered, the book was assigned to me. + +As I was afraid of some new fit of obstinacy, which my amour +propre might have sustained somewhat better than my purse, I +wrote down my name, had the book put on one side, and went out. I +must have given considerable food for reflection to the witnesses +of this scene, who would nodoubt ask themselves what my purpose +could have been in paying a hundred francs for a book which I +could have had anywhere for ten, or, at the outside, fifteen. + +An hour after, I sent for my purchase. On the first page was +written in ink, in an elegant hand, an inscription on the part of +the giver. It consisted of these words: + +Manon to Marguerite. + +Humility. + +It was signed Armand Duval. + +What was the meaning of the word Humility? Was Manon to recognise +in Marguerite, in the opinion of M. Armand Duval, her superior in +vice or in affection? The second interpretation seemed the more +probable, for the first would have been an impertinent piece of +plain speaking which Marguerite, whatever her opinion of herself, +would never have accepted. + +I went out again, and thought no more of the book until at night, +when I was going to bed. + +Manon Lescaut is a touching story. I know every detail of it, and +yet whenever I come across the volume the same sympathy always +draws me to it; I open it, and for the hundredth time I live over +again with the heroine of the Abbe Prevost. Now this heroine is +so true to life that I feel as if I had known her; and thus the +sort of comparison between her and Marguerite gave me an unusual +inclination to read it, and my indulgence passed into pity, +almost into a kind of love for the poor girl to whom I owed the +volume. Manon died in the desert, it is true, but in the arms of +the man who loved her with the whole energy of his soul; who, +when she was dead, dug a grave for her, and watered it with his +tears, and buried his heart in it; while Marguerite, a sinner +like Manon, and perhaps converted like her, had died in a +sumptuous bed (it seemed, after what I had seen, the bed of her +past), but in that desert of the heart, a more barren, a vaster, +a more pitiless desert than that in which Manon had found her +last resting-place. + +Marguerite, in fact, as I had found from some friends who knew of +the last circumstances of her life, had not a single real friend +by her bedside during the two months of her long and painful +agony. + +Then from Manon and Marguerite my mind wandered to those whom I +knew, and whom I saw singing along the way which led to just such +another death. Poor souls! if it is not right to love them, is it +not well to pity them? You pity the blind man who has never seen +the daylight, the deaf who has never heard the harmonies of +nature, the dumb who has never found a voice for his soul, and, +under a false cloak of shame, you will not pity this blindness of +heart, this deafness of soul, this dumbness of conscience, which +sets the poor afflicted creature beside herself and makes her, in +spite of herself, incapable of seeing what is good, of bearing +the Lord, and of speaking the pure language of love and faith. + +Hugo has written Marion Delorme, Musset has written Bernerette, +Alexandre Dumas has written Fernande, the thinkers and poets of +all time have brought to the courtesan the offering of their +pity, and at times a great man has rehabilitated them with his +love and even with his name. If I insist on this point, it is +because many among those who have begun to read me will be ready +to throw down a book in which they will fear to find an apology +for vice and prostitution; and the author's age will do +something, no doubt, to increase this fear. Let me undeceive +those who think thus, and let them go on reading, if nothing but +such a fear hinders them. + +I am quite simply convinced of a certain principle, which is: For +the woman whose education has not taught her what is right, God +almost always opens two ways which lead thither the ways of +sorrow and of love. They are hard; those who walk in them walk +with bleeding feet and torn hands, but they also leave the +trappings of vice upon the thorns of the wayside, and reach the +journey's end in a nakedness which is not shameful in the sight +of the Lord. + +Those who meet these bold travellers ought to succour them, and +to tell all that they have met them, for in so doing they point +out the way. It is not a question of setting at the outset of +life two sign-posts, one bearing the inscription "The Right Way," +the other the inscription "The Wrong Way," and of saying to those +who come there, "Choose." One must needs, like Christ, point out +the ways which lead from the second road to the first, to those +who have been easily led astray; and it is needful that the +beginning of these ways should not be too painful nor appear too +impenetrable. + +Here is Christianity with its marvellous parable of the Prodigal +Son to teach us indulgence and pardon. Jesus was full of love for +souls wounded by the passions of men; he loved to bind up their +wounds and to find in those very wounds the balm which should +heal them. Thus he said to the Magdalen: "Much shall be forgiven +thee because thou hast loved much," a sublimity of pardon which +can only have called forth a sublime faith. + +Why do we make ourselves more strict than Christ? Why, holding +obstinately to the opinions of the world, which hardens itself in +order that it may be thought strong, do we reject, as it rejects, +souls bleeding at wounds by which, like a sick man's bad blood, +the evil of their past may be healed, if only a friendly hand is +stretched out to lave them and set them in the convalescence of +the heart? + +It is to my own generation that I speak, to those for whom the +theories of M. de Voltaire happily exist no longer, to those who, +like myself, realize that humanity, for these last fifteen years, +has been in one of its most audacious moments of expansion. The +science of good and evil is acquired forever; faith is +refashioned, respect for sacred things has returned to us, and if +the world has not all at once become good, it has at least become +better. The efforts of every intelligent man tend in the same +direction, and every strong will is harnessed to the same +principle: Be good, be young, be true! Evil is nothing but +vanity, let us have the pride of good, and above all let us never +despair. Do not let us despise the woman who is neither mother, +sister, maid, nor wife. Do not let us limit esteem to the family +nor indulgence to egoism. Since "there is more joy in heaven over +one sinner that repenteth than over ninety and nine just persons +that need no repentance," let us give joy to heaven. Heaven will +render it back to us with usury. Let us leave on our way the alms +of pardon for those whom earthly desires have driven astray, whom +a divine hope shall perhaps save, and, as old women say when they +offer you. some homely remedy of their own, if it does no good it +will do no harm. + +Doubtless it must seem a bold thing to attempt to deduce these +grand results out of the meagre subject that I deal with; but I +am one of those who believe that all is in little. The child is +small, and he includes the man; the brain is narrow, and it +harbours thought; the eye is but a point, and it covers leagues. + + + +Chapter 4 + +Two days after, the sale was ended. It had produced 3.50,000 +francs. The creditors divided among them two thirds, and the +family, a sister and a grand-nephew, received the remainder. + +The sister opened her eyes very wide when the lawyer wrote to her +that she had inherited 50,000 francs. The girl had not seen her +sister for six or seven years, and did not know what had become +of her from the moment when she had disappeared from home. She +came up to Paris in haste, and great was the astonishment of +those who had known Marguerite when they saw as her only heir a +fine, fat country girl, who until then had never left her +village. She had made the fortune at a single stroke, without +even knowing the source of that fortune. She went back, I heard +afterward, to her countryside, greatly saddened by her sister's +death, but with a sadness which was somewhat lightened by the +investment at four and a half per cent which she had been able to +make. + +All these circumstances, often repeated in Paris, the mother city +of scandal, had begun to be forgotten, and I was even little by +little forgetting the part I had taken in them, when a new +incident brought to my knowledge the whole of Marguerite's life, +and acquainted me with such pathetic details that I was taken +with the idea of writing down the story which I now write. + +The rooms, now emptied of all their furniture, had been to let +for three or four days when one morning there was a ring at my +door. + +My servant, or, rather, my porter, who acted as my servant, went +to the door and brought me a card, saying that the person who had +given it to him wished to see me. + +I glanced at the card and there read these two words: Armand +Duval. + +I tried to think where I had seen the name, and remembered the +first leaf of the copy of Manon Lescaut. What could the person +who had given the book to Marguerite want of me? I gave orders to +ask him in at once. + +I saw a young man, blond, tall, pale, dressed in a travelling +suit which looked as if he had not changed it for some days, and +had not even taken the trouble to brush it on arriving at Paris, +for it was covered with dust. + +M. Duval was deeply agitated; he made no attempt to conceal his +agitation, and it was with tears in his eyes and a trembling +voice that he said to me: + +"Sir, I beg you to excuse my visit and my costume; but young +people are not very ceremonious with one another, and I was so +anxious to see you to-day that I have not even gone to the hotel +to which I have sent my luggage, and have rushed straight here, +fearing that, after all, I might miss you, early as it is." + +I begged M. Duval to sit down by the fire; he did so, and, taking +his handkerchief from his pocket, hid his face in it for a +moment. + +"You must be at a loss to understand," he went on, sighing sadly, +"for what purpose an unknown visitor, at such an hour, in such a +costume, and in tears, can have come to see you. I have simply +come to ask of you a great service." + +"Speak on, sir, I am entirely at your disposal." + +"You were present at the sale of Marguerite Gautier?" + +At this word the emotion, which he had got the better of for an +instant, was too much for him, and he was obliged to cover his +eyes with his hand. + +"I must seem to you very absurd," he added, "but pardon me, and +believe that I shall never forget the patience with which you +have listened to me." + +"Sir," I answered, "if the service which I can render you is able +to lessen your trouble a little, tell me at once what I can do +for you, and you will find me only too happy to oblige you." + +M. Duval's sorrow was sympathetic, arid in spite of myself I felt +the desire of doing him a kindness. Thereupon he said to me: + +"You bought something at Marguerite's sale?" + +"Yes, a book." + +"Manon Lescaut?" + +"Precisely." + +"Have you the book still?" + +"It is in my bedroom." + +On hearing this, Armand Duval seemed to be relieved of a great +weight, and thanked me as if I had already rendered him a service +merely by keeping the book. + +I got up and went into my room to fetch the book, which I handed +to him. + +"That is it indeed," he said, looking at the inscription on the +first page and turning over the leaves; "that is it in deed," and +two big tears fell on the pages. "Well, sir," said he, lifting +his head, and no longer trying to hide from me that he had wept +and was even then on the point of weeping, "do you value this +book very greatly?" + +"Why?" + +"Because I have come to ask you to give it up to me." + +"Pardon my curiosity, but was it you, then, who gave it to +Marguerite Gautier?" + +"It was!" + +"The book is yours, sir; take it back. I am happy to be able to +hand it over to you." + +"But," said M. Duval with some embarrassment, "the least I can do +is to give you in return the price which you paid for it." + +"Allow me to offer it to you. The price of a single volume in a +sale of that kind is a mere nothing, and I do not remember how +much I gave for it." + +"You gave one hundred francs." + +"True," I said, embarrassed in my turn, "how do you know?" + +"It is quite simple. I hoped to reach Paris in time for the sale, +and I only managed to get here this morning. I was absolutely +resolved to have something which had belonged to her, and I +hastened to the auctioneer and asked him to allow me to see the +list of the things sold and of the buyers' names. I saw that this +volume had been bought by you, and I decided to ask you to give +it up to me, though the price you had set upon it made me fear +that you might yourself have some souvenir in connection with the +possession of the book." + +As he spoke, it was evident that he was afraid I had known +Marguerite as he had known her. I hastened to reassure him. + +"I knew Mlle. Gautier only by sight," I said; "her death made on +me the impression that the death of a pretty woman must always +make on a young man who had liked seeing her. I wished to buy +something at her sale, and I bid higher and higher for this book +out of mere obstinacy and to annoy some one else, who was equally +keen to obtain it, and who seemed to defy me to the contest. I +repeat, then, that the book is yours, and once more I beg you to +accept it; do not treat me as if I were an auctioneer, and let it +be the pledge between us of a longer and more intimate +acquaintance." + +"Good," said Armand, holding out his hand and pressing mine; "I +accept, and I shall be grateful to you all my life." + +I was very anxious to question Armand on the subject of +Marguerite, for the inscription in the book, the young man's +hurried journey, his desire to possess the volume, piqued my +curiosity; but I feared if I questioned my visitor that I might +seem to have refused his money only in order to have the right to +pry into his affairs. + +It was as if he guessed my desire, for he said to me: + +"Have you read the volume?" + +"All through." + +"What did you think of the two lines that I wrote in it?" + +"I realized at once that the woman to whom you had given the +volume must have been quite outside the ordinary category, for I +could not take those two lines as a mere empty compliment." + +"You were right. That woman was an angel. See, read this letter." +And he handed to me a paper which seemed to have been many times +reread. + +I opened it, and this is what it contained: + +"MY DEAR ARMAND:--I have received your letter. You are still +good, and I thank God for it. Yes, my friend, I am ill, and with +one of those diseases that never relent; but the interest you +still take in me makes my suffering less. I shall not live long +enough, I expect, to have the happiness of pressing the hand +which has written the kind letter I have just received; the words +of it would be enough to cure me, if anything could cure me. I +shall not see you, for I am quite near death, and you are +hundreds of leagues away. My poor friend! your Marguerite of old +times is sadly changed. It is better perhaps for you not to see +her again than to see her as she is. You ask if I forgive you; +oh, with all my heart, friend, for the way you hurt me was only a +way of proving the love you had for me. I have been in bed for a +month, and I think so much of your esteem that I write every day +the journal of my life, from the moment we left each other to the +moment when I shall be able to write no longer. If the interest +you take in me is real, Armand, when you come back go and see +Julie Duprat. She will give you my journal. You will find in it +the reason and the excuse for what has passed between us. Julie +is very good to me; we often talk of you together. She was there +when your letter came, and we both cried over it. + +"If you had not sent me any word, I had told her to give you +those papers when you returned to France. Do not thank me for it. +This daily looking back on the only happy moments of my life does +me an immense amount of good, and if you will find in reading it +some excuse for the past. I, for my part, find a continual solace +in it. I should like to leave you something which would always +remind you of me, but everything here has been seized, and I have +nothing of my own. + +"Do you understand, my friend? I am dying, and from my bed I can +hear a man walking to and fro in the drawing-room; my creditors +have put him there to see that nothing is taken away, and that +nothing remains to me in case I do not die. I hope they will wait +till the end before they begin to sell. + +"Oh, men have no pity! or rather, I am wrong, it is God who is +just and inflexible! + +"And now, dear love, you will come to my sale, and you will buy +something, for if I put aside the least thing for you, they might +accuse you of embezzling seized goods. + +"It is a sad life that I am leaving! + +"It would be good of God to let me see you again before I die. +According to all probability, good-bye, my friend. Pardon me if I +do not write a longer letter, but those who say they are going to +cure me wear me out with bloodletting, and my hand refuses to +write any more. + + "MARGUERITE GAUTIER." + +The last two words were scarcely legible. I returned the letter +to Armand, who had, no doubt, read it over again in his mind +while I was reading it on paper, for he said to me as he took it: + +"Who would think that a kept woman could have written that?" And, +overcome by recollections, he gazed for some time at the writing +of the letter, which he finally carried to his lips. + +"And when I think," he went on, "that she died before I could see +her, and that I shall never see her again, when I think that she +did for me what no sister would ever have done, I can not forgive +myself for having left her to die like that. Dead! Dead and +thinking of me, writing and repeating my name, poor dear +Marguerite!" + +And Armand, giving free outlet to his thoughts and his tears, +held out his hand to me, and continued: + +"People would think it childish enough if they saw me lament like +this over a dead woman such as she; no one will ever know what I +made that woman suffer, how cruel I have been to her! how good, +how resigned she was! I thought it was I who had to forgive her, +and to-day I feel unworthy of the forgiveness which she grants +me. Oh, I would give ten years of my life to weep at her feet for +an hour!" + +It is always difficult to console a sorrow that is unknown to +one, and nevertheless I felt so lively a sympathy for the young +man, he made me so frankly the confidant of his distress, that I +believed a word from me would not be indifferent to him, and I +said: + +"Have you no parents, no friends? Hope. Go and see them; they +will console you. As for me, I can only pity you." + +"It is true," he said, rising and walking to and fro in the room, +"I am wearying you. Pardon me, I did not reflect how little my +sorrow must mean to you, and that I am intruding upon you +something which can not and ought not to interest you at all." + +"You mistake my meaning. I am entirely at your service; only I +regret my inability to calm your distress. If my society and that +of my friends can give you any distraction, if, in short, you +have need of me, no matter in what way, I hope you will realize +how much pleasure it will give me to do anything for you." + +"Pardon, pardon," said he; "sorrow sharpens the sensations. Let +me stay here for a few minutes longer, long enough to dry my +eyes, so that the idlers in the street may not look upon it as a +curiosity to see a big fellow like me crying. You have made me +very happy by giving me this book. I do not know how I can ever +express my gratitude to you." + +"By giving me a little of your friendship," said I, "and by +telling me the cause of your suffering. One feels better while +telling what one suffers." + +"You are right. But to-day I have too much need of tears; I can +not very well talk. One day I will tell you the whole story, and +you will see if I have reason for regretting the poor girl. And +now," he added, rubbing his eyes for the last time, and looking +at himself in the glass, "say that you do not think me too +absolutely idiotic, and allow me to come back and see you another +time." + +He cast on me a gentle and amiable look. I was near embracing +him. As for him, his eyes again began to fill with tears; he saw +that I perceived it and turned away his head. + +"Come," I said, "courage." + +"Good-bye," he said. + +And, making a desperate effort to restrain his tears, he rushed +rather than went out of the room. + +I lifted the curtain of my window, and saw him get into the +cabriolet which awaited him at the door; but scarcely was he +seated before he burst into tears and hid his face in his +pocket-handkerchief. + + + +Chapter 5 + +A good while elapsed before I heard anything more of Armand, but, +on the other hand, I was constantly hearing of Marguerite. + +I do not know if you have noticed, if once the name of anybody +who might in the natural course of things have always remained +unknown, or at all events indifferent to you, should he mentioned +before you, immediately details begin to group themselves about +the name, and you find all your friends talking to you about +something which they have never mentioned to you before. You +discover that this person was almost touching you and has passed +close to you many times in your life without your noticing it; +you find coincidences in the events which are told you, a real +affinity with certain events of your own existence. I was not +absolutely at that point in regard to Marguerite, for I had seen +and met her, I knew her by sight and by reputation; nevertheless, +since the moment of the sale, her name came to my ears so +frequently, and, owing to the circumstance that I have mentioned +in the last chapter, that name was associated with so profound a +sorrow, that my curiosity increased in proportion with my +astonishment. The consequence was that whenever I met friends to +whom I had never breathed the name of Marguerite, I always began +by saying: + +"Did you ever know a certain Marguerite Gautier?" + +"The Lady of the Camellias?" + +"Exactly." + +"Oh, very well!" + +The word was sometimes accompanied by a smile which could leave +no doubt as to its meaning. + +"Well, what sort of a girl was she?" + +"A good sort of girl." + +"Is that all?" + +"Oh, yes; more intelligence and perhaps a little more heart than +most." + +"Do you know anything particular about her?" + +"She ruined Baron de G." + +"No more than that?" + +"She was the mistress of the old Duke of . . ." + +"Was she really his mistress?" + +"So they say; at all events, he gave her a great deal of money." + +The general outlines were always the same. Nevertheless I was +anxious to find out something about the relations between +Marguerite and Armand. Meeting one day a man who was constantly +about with known women, I asked him: "Did you know Marguerite +Gautier?" + +The answer was the usual: "Very well." + +"What sort of a girl was she?" + +"A fine, good girl. I was very sorry to hear of her death." + +"Had she not a lover called Armand Duval?" + +"Tall and blond?" + +"Yes. + +"It is quite true." + +"Who was this Armand?" + +"A fellow who squandered on her the little money he had, and then +had to leave her. They say he was quite wild about it." + +"And she?" + +"They always say she was very much in love with him, but as girls +like that are in love. It is no good to ask them for what they +can not give." + +"What has become of Armand?" + +"I don't know. We knew him very little. He was with Marguerite +for five or six months in the country. When she came back, he had +gone." + +"And you have never seen him since?" + +"Never." + +I, too, had not seen Armand again. I was beginning to ask myself +if, when he had come to see me, the recent news of Marguerite's +death had not exaggerated his former love, and consequently his +sorrow, and I said to myself that perhaps he had already +forgotten the dead woman, and along with her his promise to come +and see me again. This supposition would have seemed probable +enough in most instances, but in Armand's despair there had been +an accent of real sincerity, and, going from one extreme to +another, I imagined that distress had brought on an illness, and +that my not seeing him was explained by the fact that he was ill, +perhaps dead. + +I was interested in the young man in spite of myself. Perhaps +there was some selfishness in this interest; perhaps I guessed at +some pathetic love story under all this sorrow; perhaps my desire +to know all about it had much to do with the anxiety which +Armand's silence caused me. Since M. Duval did not return to see +me, I decided to go and see him. A pretext was not difficult to +find; unluckily I did not know his address, and no one among +those whom I questioned could give it to me. + +I went to the Rue d'Antin; perhaps Marguerite's porter would know +where Armand lived. There was a new porter; he knew as little +about it as I. I then asked in what cemetery Mlle. Gautier had +been buried. It was the Montmartre Cemetery. It was now the month +of April; the weather was fine, the graves were not likely to +look as sad and desolate as they do in winter; in short, it was +warm enough for the living to think a little of the dead, and pay +them a visit. I went to the cemetery, saying to myself: "One +glance at Marguerite's grave, and I shall know if Armand's sorrow +still exists, and perhaps I may find out what has become of him." + +I entered the keeper's lodge, and asked him if on the 22nd of +February a woman named Marguerite Gautier had not been buried in +the Montmartre Cemetery. He turned over the pages of a big book +in which those who enter this last resting-place are inscribed +and numbered, and replied that on the 22nd of February, at 12 +o'clock, a woman of that name had been buried. + +I asked him to show me the grave, for there is no finding one's +way without a guide in this city of the dead, which has its +streets like a city of the living. The keeper called over a +gardener, to whom he gave the necessary instructions; the +gardener interrupted him, saying: "I know, I know.--It is not +difficult to find that grave," he added, turning to me. + +"Why?" + +"Because it has very different flowers from the others." + +"Is it you who look after it?" + +"Yes, sir; and I wish all relations took as much trouble about +the dead as the young man who gave me my orders." + +After several turnings, the gardener stopped and said to me: +"Here we are." + +I saw before me a square of flowers which one would never have +taken for a grave, if it had not been for a white marble slab +bearing a name. + +The marble slab stood upright, an iron railing marked the limits +of the ground purchased, and the earth was covered with white +camellias. "What do you say to that?" said the gardener. + +"It is beautiful." + +"And whenever a camellia fades, I have orders to replace it." + +"Who gave you the order?" + +"A young gentleman, who cried the first time he came here; an old +pal of hers, I suppose, for they say she was a gay one. Very +pretty, too, I believe. Did you know her, sir?" "Yes." + +"Like the other?" said the gardener, with a knowing smile. "No, I +never spoke to her." + +"And you come here, too! It is very good of you, for those that +come to see the poor girl don't exactly cumber the cemetery." + +"Doesn't anybody come?" + +"Nobody, except that young gentleman who came once." + +"Only once?" + +"Yes, sir." + +"He never came back again?" + +"No, but he will when he gets home." + +"He is away somewhere?" + +"Yes." + +"Do you know where he is?" + +"I believe he has gone to see Mlle. Gautier's sister." + +"What does he want there?" + +"He has gone to get her authority to have the corpse dug up again +and put somewhere else." + +"Why won't he let it remain here?" + +"You know, sir, people have queer notions about dead folk. We see +something of that every day. The ground here was only bought for +five years, and this young gentleman wants a perpetual lease and +a bigger plot of ground; it will be better in the new part." + +"What do you call the new part?" + +"The new plots of ground that are for sale, there to the left. If +the cemetery had always been kept like it is now, there wouldn't +be the like of it in the world; but there is still plenty to do +before it will be quite all it should be. And then people are so +queer!" + +"What do you mean?" + +"I mean that there are people who carry their pride even here. +Now, this Demoiselle Gautier, it appears she lived a bit free, if +you'll excuse my saying so. Poor lady, she's dead now; there's no +more of her left than of them that no one has a word to say +against. We water them every day. Well, when the relatives of the +folk that are buried beside her found out the sort of person she +was, what do you think they said? That they would try to keep her +out from here, and that there ought to be a piece of ground +somewhere apart for these sort of women, like there is for the +poor. Did you ever hear of such a thing? I gave it to them +straight, I did: well-to-do folk who come to see their dead four +times a year, and bring their flowers themselves, and what +flowers! and look twice at the keep of them they pretend to cry +over, and write on their tombstones all about the tears they +haven't shed, and come and make difficulties about their +neighbours. You may believe me or not, sir, I never knew the +young lady; I don't know what she did. Well, I'm quite in love +with the poor thing; I look after her well, and I let her have +her camellias at an honest price. She is the dead body that I +like the best. You see, sir, we are obliged to love the dead, for +we are kept so busy, we have hardly time to love anything else." + +I looked at the man, and some of my readers will understand, +without my needing to explain it to them, the emotion which I +felt on hearing him. He observed it, no doubt, for he went on: + +"They tell me there were people who ruined themselves over that +girl, and lovers that worshipped her; well, when I think there +isn't one of them that so much as buys her a flower now, that's +queer, sir, and sad. And, after all, she isn't so badly off, for +she has her grave to herself, and if there is only one who +remembers her, he makes up for the others. But we have other poor +girls here, just like her and just her age, and they are just +thrown into a pauper's grave, and it breaks my heart when I hear +their poor bodies drop into the earth. And not a soul thinks +about them any more, once they are dead! 'Tisn't a merry trade, +ours, especially when we have a little heart left. What do you +expect? I can't help it. I have a fine, strapping girl myself; +she's just twenty, and when a girl of that age comes here I think +of her, and I don't care if it's a great lady or a vagabond, I +can't help feeling it a bit. But I am taking up your time, sir, +with my tales, and it wasn't to hear them you came here. I was +told to show you Mlle. Gautier's grave; here you have it. Is +there anything else I can do for you?" + +"Do you know M. Armand Duval's address?" I asked. + +"Yes; he lives at Rue de --; at least, that's where I always go +to get my money for the flowers you see there." + +"Thanks, my good man." + +I gave one more look at the grave covered with flowers, half +longing to penetrate the depths of the earth and see what the +earth had made of the fair creature that had been cast to it; +then I walked sadly away. + +"Do you want to see M. Duval, sir?" said the gardener, who was +walking beside me. + +"Yes." + +"Well, I am pretty sure he is not back yet, or he would have been +here already." + +"You don't think he has forgotten Marguerite?" + +"I am not only sure he hasn't, but I would wager that he wants to +change her grave simply in order to have one more look at her." + +"Why do you think that?" + +"The first word he said to me when he came to the cemetery was: +'How can I see her again?' That can't be done unless there is a +change of grave, and I told him all about the formalities that +have to be attended to in getting it done; for, you see, if you +want to move a body from one grave to another you must have it +identified, and only the family can give leave for it under the +direction of a police inspector. That is why M. Duval has gone to +see Mlle. Gautier's sister, and you may be sure his first visit +will be for me." + +We had come to the cemetery gate. I thanked the gardener again, +putting a few coins into his hand, and made my way to the address +he had given me. + +Armand had not yet returned. I left word for him, begging him to +come and see me as soon as he arrived, or to send me word where I +could find him. + +Next day, in the morning, I received a letter from Duval, telling +me of his return, and asking me to call on him, as he was so worn +out with fatigue that it was impossible for him to go out. + + + +Chapter 6 + +I found Armand in bed. On seeing me he held out a burning hand. +"You are feverish," I said to him. "It is nothing, the fatigue of +a rapid journey; that is all." "You have been to see Marguerite's +sister?" "Yes; who told you?" "I knew it. Did you get what you +wanted?" + +"Yes; but who told you of my journey, and of my reason for taking +it?" + +"The gardener of the cemetery." + +"You have seen the tomb?" + +I scarcely dared reply, for the tone in which the words were +spoken proved to me that the speaker was still possessed by the +emotion which I had witnessed before, and that every time his +thoughts or speech travelled back to that mournful subject +emotion would still, for a long time to come, prove stronger than +his will. I contented myself with a nod of the head. + +"He has looked after it well?" continued Armand. Two big tears +rolled down the cheeks of the sick man, and he turned away his +head to hide them from me. I pretended not to see them, and tried +to change the conversation. "You have been away three weeks," I +said. + +Armand passed his hand across his eyes and replied, "Exactly +three weeks." + +"You had a long journey." + +"Oh, I was not travelling all the time. I was ill for a fortnight +or I should have returned long ago; but I had scarcely got there +when I took this fever, and I was obliged to keep my room." + +"And you started to come back before you were really well?" + +"If I had remained in the place for another week, I should have +died there." + +"Well, now you are back again, you must take care of yourself; +your friends will come and look after you; myself, first of all, +if you will allow me." + +"I shall get up in a couple of hours." + +"It would be very unwise." + +"I must." + +"What have you to do in such a great hurry?" + +"I must go to the inspector of police." + +"Why do you not get one of your friends to see after the matter? +It is likely to make you worse than you are now." + +"It is my only chance of getting better. I must see her. Ever +since I heard of her death, especially since I saw her grave, I +have not been able to sleep. I can not realize that this woman, +so young and so beautiful when I left her, is really dead. I must +convince myself of it. I must see what God has done with a being +that I have loved so much, and perhaps the horror of the sight +will cure me of my despair. Will you accompany me, if it won't be +troubling you too much?" + +"What did her sister say about it?" + +"Nothing. She seemed greatly surprised that a stranger wanted to +buy a plot of ground and give Marguerite a new grave, and she +immediately signed the authorization that I asked her for." + +"Believe me, it would be better to wait until you are quite +well." + +"Have no fear; I shall be quite composed. Besides, I should +simply go out of my mind if I were not to carry out a resolution +which I have set myself to carry out. I swear to you that I shall +never be myself again until I have seen Marguerite. It is perhaps +the thirst of the fever, a sleepless night's dream, a moment's +delirium; but though I were to become a Trappist, like M. de +Rance', after having seen, I will see." + +"I understand," I said to Armand, "and I am at your service. Have +you seen Julie Duprat?" + +"Yes, I saw her the day I returned, for the first time." + +"Did she give you the papers that Marguerite had left for you?" + +Armand drew a roll of papers from under his pillow, and +immediately put them back. + +"I know all that is in these papers by heart," he said. "For +three weeks I have read them ten times over every day. You shall +read them, too, but later on, when I am calmer, and can make you +understand all the love and tenderness hidden away in this +confession. For the moment I want you to do me a service." + +"What is it?" + +"Your cab is below?" + +"Yes. + +"Well, will you take my passport and ask if there are any letters +for me at the poste restante? My father and sister must have +written to me at Paris, and I went away in such haste that I did +not go and see before leaving. When you come back we will go +together to the inspector of police, and arrange for to-morrow's +ceremony." + +Armand handed me his passport, and I went to Rue Jean Jacques +Rousseau. There were two letters addressed to Duval. I took them +and returned. When I re-entered the room Armand was dressed and +ready to go out. + +"Thanks," he said, taking the letters. "Yes," he added, after +glancing at the addresses, "they are from my father and sister. +They must have been quite at a loss to understand my silence." + +He opened the letters, guessed at rather than read them, for each +was of four pages; and a moment after folded them up. "Come," he +said, "I will answer tomorrow." + +We went to the police station, and Armand handed in the +permission signed by Marguerite's sister. He received in return a +letter to the keeper of the cemetery, and it was settled that the +disinterment was to take place next day, at ten o'clock, that I +should call for him an hour before, and that we should go to the +cemetery together. + +I confess that I was curious to be present, and I did not sleep +all night. judging from the thoughts which filled my brain, it +must have been a long night for Armand. When I entered his room +at nine on the following morning he was frightfully pale, but +seemed calm. He smiled and held out his hand. His candles were +burned out; and before leaving he took a very heavy letter +addressed to his father, and no doubt containing an account of +that night's impressions. + +Half an hour later we were at Montmartre. The police inspector +was there already. We walked slowly in the direction of +Marguerite's grave. The inspector went in front; Armand and I +followed a few steps behind. + +From time to time I felt my companion's arm tremble convulsively, +as if he shivered from head to feet. I looked at him. He +understood the look, and smiled at me; we had not exchanged a +word since leaving the house. + +Just before we reached the grave, Armand stopped to wipe his +face, which was covered with great drops of sweat. I took +advantage of the pause to draw in a long breath, for I, too, felt +as if I had a weight on my chest. + +What is the origin of that mournful pleasure which we find in +sights of this kind? When we reached the grave the gardener had +removed all the flower-pots, the iron railing had been taken +away, and two men were turning up the soil. + +Armand leaned against a tree and watched. All his life seemed to +pass before his eyes. Suddenly one of the two pickaxes struck +against a stone. At the sound Armand recoiled, as at an electric +shock, and seized my hand with such force as to give me pain. + +One of the grave-diggers took a shovel and began emptying out the +earth; then, when only the stones covering the coffin were left, +he threw them out one by one. + +I scrutinized Armand, for every moment I was afraid lest the +emotions which he was visibly repressing should prove too much +for him; but he still watched, his eyes fixed and wide open, like +the eyes of a madman, and a slight trembling of the cheeks and +lips were the only signs of the violent nervous crisis under +which he was suffering. + +As for me, all I can say is that I regretted having come. + +When the coffin was uncovered the inspector said to the +grave-digger: "Open it." They obeyed, as if it were the most +natural thing in the world. + +The coffin was of oak, and they began to unscrew the lid. The +humidity of the earth had rusted the screws, and it was not +without some difficulty that the coffin was opened. A painful +odour arose in spite of the aromatic plants with which it was +covered. + +"O my God, my God!" murmured Armand, and turned paler than +before. + +Even the grave-digger drew back. + +A great white shroud covered the corpse, closely outlining some +of its contours. This shroud was almost completely eaten away at +one end, and left one of the feet visible. + +I was nearly fainting, and at the moment of writing these lines I +see the whole scene over again in all its imposing reality. + +"Quick," said the inspector. Thereupon one of the men put out his +hand, began to unsew the shroud, and taking hold of it by one end +suddenly laid bare the face of Marguerite. + +It was terrible to see, it is horrible to relate. The eyes were +nothing but two holes, the lips had disappeared, vanished, and +the white teeth were tightly set. The black hair, long and dry, +was pressed tightly about the forehead, and half veiled the green +hollows of the cheeks; and yet I recognised in this face the +joyous white and rose face that I had seen so often. + +Armand, unable to turn away his eyes, had put the handkerchief to +his mouth and bit it. + +For my part, it was as if a circle of iron tightened about my +head, a veil covered my eyes, a rumbling filled my ears, and all +I could do was to unstop a smelling bottle which I happened to +have with me, and to draw in long breaths of it. + +Through this bewilderment I heard the inspector say to Duval, "Do +you identify?" + +"Yes," replied the young man in a dull voice. + +"Then fasten it up and take it away," said the inspector. + +The grave-diggers put back the shroud over the face of the +corpse, fastened up the coffin, took hold of each end of it, and +began to carry it toward the place where they had been told to +take it. + +Armand did not move. His eyes were fixed upon the empty grave; he +was as white as the corpse which we had just seen. He looked as +if he had been turned to stone. + +I saw what was coming as soon as the pain caused by the spectacle +should have abated and thus ceased to sustain him. I went up to +the inspector. "Is this gentleman's presence still necessary?" I +said, pointing to Armand. + +"No," he replied, "and I should advise you to take him away. He +looks ill." + +"Come," I said to Armand, taking him by the arm. + +"What?" he said, looking at me as if he did not recognise me. + +"It is all over," I added. "You must come, my friend; you are +quite white; you are cold. These emotions will be too much for +you." + +"You are right. Let us go," he answered mechanically, but without +moving a step. + +I took him by the arm and led him along. He let himself be guided +like a child, only from time to time murmuring, "Did you see her +eyes?" and he turned as if the vision had recalled her. + +Nevertheless, his steps became more irregular; he seemed to walk +by a series of jerks; his teeth chattered; his hands were cold; a +violent agitation ran through his body. I spoke to him; he did +not answer. He was just able to let himself be led along. A cab +was waiting at the gate. It was only just in time. Scarcely had +he seated himself, when the shivering became more violent, and he +had an actual attack of nerves, in the midst of which his fear of +frightening me made him press my hand and whisper: "It is +nothing, nothing. I want to weep." + +His chest laboured, his eyes were injected with blood, but no +tears came. I made him smell the salts which I had with me, and +when we reached his house only the shivering remained. + +With the help of his servant I put him to bed, lit a big fire in +his room, and hurried off to my doctor, to whom I told all that +had happened. He hastened with me. + +Armand was flushed and delirious; he stammered out disconnected +words, in which only the name of Marguerite could be distinctly +heard. + +"Well?" I said to the doctor when he had examined the patient. + +"Well, he has neither more nor less than brain fever, and very +lucky it is for him, for I firmly believe (God forgive me!) that +he would have gone out of his mind. Fortunately, the physical +malady will kill the mental one, and in a month's time he will be +free from the one and perhaps from the other." + + + +Chapter 7 + +Illnesses like Armand's have one fortunate thing about them: they +either kill outright or are very soon overcome. A fortnight after +the events which I have just related Armand was convalescent, and +we had already become great friends. During the whole course of +his illness I had hardly left his side. + +Spring was profuse in its flowers, its leaves, its birds, its +songs; and my friend's window opened gaily upon his garden, from +which a reviving breath of health seemed to come to him. The +doctor had allowed him to get up, and we often sat talking at the +open window, at the hour when the sun is at its height, from +twelve to two. I was careful not to refer to Marguerite, fearing +lest the name should awaken sad recollections hidden under the +apparent calm of the invalid; but Armand, on the contrary, seemed +to delight in speaking of her, not as formerly, with tears in his +eyes, but with a sweet smile which reassured me as to the state +of his mind. + +I had noticed that ever since his last visit to the cemetery, and +the sight which had brought on so violent a crisis, sorrow seemed +to have been overcome by sickness, and Marguerite's death no +longer appeared to him under its former aspect. A kind of +consolation had sprung from the certainty of which he was now +fully persuaded, and in order to banish the sombre picture which +often presented itself to him, he returned upon the happy +recollections of his liaison with Marguerite, and seemed resolved +to think of nothing else. + +The body was too much weakened by the attack of fever, and even +by the process of its cure, to permit him any violent emotions, +and the universal joy of spring which wrapped him round carried +his thoughts instinctively to images of joy. He had always +obstinately refused to tell his family of the danger which he had +been in, and when he was well again his father did not even know +that he had been ill. + +One evening we had sat at the window later than usual; the +weather had been superb, and the sun sank to sleep in a twilight +dazzling with gold and azure. Though we were in Paris, the +verdure which surrounded us seemed to shut us off from the world, +and our conversation was only now and again disturbed by the +sound of a passing vehicle. + +"It was about this time of the year, on the evening of a day like +this, that I first met Marguerite," said Armand to me, as if he +were listening to his own thoughts rather than to what I was +saying. I did not answer. Then turning toward me, he said: + +"I must tell you the whole story; you will make a book out of it; +no one will believe it, but it will perhaps be interesting to +do." + +"You will tell me all about it later on, my friend," I said to +him; "you are not strong enough yet." + +"It is a warm evening, I have eaten my ration of chicken," he +said to me, smiling; "I have no fever, we have nothing to do, I +will tell it to you now." + +"Since you really wish it, I will listen." + +This is what he told me, and I have scarcely changed a word of +the touching story. + +Yes (Armand went on, letting his head sink back on the chair), +yes, it was just such an evening as this. I had spent the day in +the country with one of my friends, Gaston R--. We returned to +Paris in the evening, and not knowing what to do we went to the +Varietes. We went out during one of the entr'actes, and a tall +woman passed us in the corridor, to whom my friend bowed. + +"Whom are you bowing to?" I asked. + +"Marguerite Gautier," he said. + +"She seems much changed, for I did not recognise her," I said, +with an emotion that you will soon understand. + +"She has been ill; the poor girl won't last long." + +I remember the words as if they had been spoken to me yesterday. + +I must tell you, my friend, that for two years the sight of this +girl had made a strange impression on me whenever I came across +her. Without knowing why, I turned pale and my heart beat +violently. I have a friend who studies the occult sciences, and +he would call what I experienced "the affinity of fluids"; as for +me, I only know that I was fated to fall in love with Marguerite, +and that I foresaw it. + +It is certainly the fact that she made a very definite impression +upon me, that many of my friends had noticed it and that they had +been much amused when they saw who it was that made this +impression upon me. + +The first time I ever saw her was in the Place de la Bourse, +outside Susse's; an open carriage was stationed there, and a +woman dressed in white got down from it. A murmur of admiration +greeted her as she entered the shop. As for me, I was rivetted to +the spot from the moment she went in till the moment when she +came out again. I could see her through the shop windows +selecting what she had come to buy. I might have gone in, but I +dared not. I did not know who she was, and I was afraid lest she +should guess why I had come in and be offended. Nevertheless, I +did not think I should ever see her again. + +She was elegantly dressed; she wore a muslin dress with many +flounces, an Indian shawl embroidered at the corners with gold +and silk flowers, a straw hat, a single bracelet, and a heavy +gold chain, such as was just then beginning to be the fashion. + +She returned to her carriage and drove away. One of the shopmen +stood at the door looking after his elegant customer's carriage. +I went up to him and asked him what was the lady's name. + +"Mademoiselle Marguerite Gautier," he replied. I dared not ask +him for her address, and went on my way. + +The recollection of this vision, for it was really a vision, +would not leave my mind like so many visions I had seen, and I +looked everywhere for this royally beautiful woman in white. + +A few days later there was a great performance at the Opera +Comique. The first person I saw in one of the boxes was +Marguerite Gautier. + +The young man whom I was with recognised her immediately, for he +said to me, mentioning her name: "Look at that pretty girl." + +At that moment Marguerite turned her opera-glass in our direction +and, seeing my friend, smiled and beckoned to him to come to her. + +"I will go and say 'How do you do?' to her," he said, "and will +be back in a moment." + +"I could not help saying "Happy man!" + +"Why?" + +"To go and see that woman." + +"Are you in love with her?" + +"No," I said, flushing, for I really did not know what to say; +"but I should very much like to know her." + +"Come with me. I will introduce you." + +"Ask her if you may." + +"Really, there is no need to be particular with her; come." + +What he said troubled me. I feared to discover that Marguerite +was not worthy of the sentiment which I felt for her. + +In a book of Alphonse Karr entitles Am Rauchen, there is a man +who one evening follows a very elegant woman, with whom he had +fallen in love with at first sight on account of her beauty. Only +to kiss her hand he felt that he had the strength to undertake +anything, the will to conquer anything, the courage to achieve +anything. He scarcely dares glance at the trim ankle which she +shows as she holds her dress out of the mud. While he is dreaming +of all that he would do to possess this woman, she stops at the +corner of the street and asks if he will come home with her. He +turns his head, crosses the street, and goes sadly back to his +own house. + +I recalled the story, and, having longed to suffer for this +woman, I was afraid that she would accept me too promptly and +give me at once what I fain would have purchased by long waiting +or some great sacrifice. We men are built like that, and it is +very fortunate that the imagination lends so much poetry to the +senses, and that the desires of the body make thus such +concession to the dreams of the soul. If any one had said to me, +You shall have this woman to-night and be killed tomorrow, I +would have accepted. If any one had said to me, you can be her +lover for ten pounds, I would have refused. I would have cried +like a child who sees the castle he has been dreaming about +vanish away as he awakens from sleep. + +All the same, I wished to know her; it was my only means of +making up my mind about her. I therefore said to my friend that I +insisted on having her permission to be introduced to her, and I +wandered to and fro in the corridors, saying to myself that in a +moment's time she was going to see me, and that I should not know +which way to look. I tried (sublime childishness of love!) to +string together the words I should say to her. + +A moment after my friend returned. "She is expecting us," he +said. + +"Is she alone?" I asked. + +"With another woman." + +"There are no men?" + +"No." + +"Come, then." + +My friend went toward the door of the theatre. + +"That is not the way," I said. + +"We must go and get some sweets. She asked me for some." + +We went into a confectioner's in the passage de l'Opera. I would +have bought the whole shop, and I was looking about to see what +sweets to choose, when my friend asked for a pound of raisins +glaces. + +"Do you know if she likes them?" + +"She eats no other kind of sweets; everybody knows it. + +"Ah," he went on when we had left the shop, "do you know what +kind of woman it is that I am going to introduce you to? Don't +imagine it is a duchess. It is simply a kept woman, very much +kept, my dear fellow; don't be shy, say anything that comes into +your head." + +"Yes, yes," I stammered, and I followed him, saying to myself +that I should soon cure myself of my passion. + +When I entered the box Marguerite was in fits of laughter. I +would rather that she had been sad. My friend introduced me; +Marguerite gave me a little nod, and said, "And my sweets?" + +"Here they are." + +She looked at me as she took them. I dropped my eyes and blushed. + +She leaned across to her neighbour and said something in her ear, +at which both laughed. Evidently I was the cause of their mirth, +and my embarrassment increased. At that time I had as mistress a +very affectionate and sentimental little person, whose sentiment +and whose melancholy letters amused me greatly. I realized the +pain I must have given her by what I now experienced, and for +five minutes I loved her as no woman was ever loved. + +Marguerite ate her raisins glaces without taking any more notice +of me. The friend who had introduced me did not wish to let me +remain in so ridiculous a position. + +"Marguerite," he said, "you must not be surprised if M. Duval +says nothing: you overwhelm him to such a degree that he can not +find a word to say." + +"I should say, on the contrary, that he has only come with you +because it would have bored you to come here by yourself." + +"If that were true," I said, "I should not have begged Ernest to +ask your permission to introduce me." + +"Perhaps that was only in order to put off the fatal moment." + +However little one may have known women like Marguerite, one can +not but know the delight they take in pretending to be witty and +in teasing the people whom they meet for the first time. It is no +doubt a return for the humiliations which they often have to +submit to on the part of those whom they see every day. + +To answer them properly, one requires a certain knack, and I had +not had the opportunity of acquiring it; besides, the idea that I +had formed of Marguerite accentuated the effects of her mockery. +Nothing that dame from her was indifferent to me. I rose to my +feet, saying in an altered voice, which I could not entirely +control: + +"If that is what you think of me, madame, I have only to ask your +pardon for my indiscretion, and to take leave of you with the +assurance that it shall not occur again." + +Thereupon I bowed and quitted the box. I had scarcely closed the +door when I heard a third peal of laughter. It would not have +been well for anybody who had elbowed me at that moment. + +I returned to my seat. The signal for raising the curtain was +given. Ernest came back to his place beside me. + +"What a way you behaved!" he said, as he sat down. "They will +think you are mad." + +"What did Marguerite say after I had gone?" + +"She laughed, and said she had never seen any one so funny. But +don't look upon it as a lost chance; only do not do these women +the honour of taking them seriously. They do not know what +politeness and ceremony are. It is as if you were to offer +perfumes to dogs--they would think it smelled bad, and go and +roll in the gutter." + +"After all, what does it matter to me?" I said, affecting to +speak in a nonchalant way. "I shall never see this woman again, +and if I liked her before meeting her, it is quite different now +that I know her." + +"Bah! I don't despair of seeing you one day at the back of her +box, and of bearing that you are ruining yourself for her. +However, you are right, she hasn't been well brought up; but she +would be a charming mistress to have." + +Happily, the curtain rose and my friend was silent. I could not +possibly tell you what they were acting. All that I remember is +that from time to time I raised my eyes to the box I had quitted +so abruptly, and that the faces of fresh visitors succeeded one +another all the time. + +I was far from having given up thinking about Marguerite. Another +feeling had taken possession of me. It seemed to me that I had +her insult and my absurdity to wipe out; I said to myself that if +I spent every penny I had, I would win her and win my right to +the place I had abandoned so quickly. + +Before the performance was over Marguerite and her friend left +the box. I rose from my seat. + +"Are you going?" said Ernest. + +"Yes." + +"Why?" + +At that moment he saw that the box was empty. + +"Go, go," he said, "and good luck, or rather better luck." + +I went out. + +I heard the rustle of dresses, the sound of voices, on the +staircase. I stood aside, and, without being seen, saw the two +women pass me, accompanied by two young men. At the entrance to +the theatre they were met by a footman. + +"Tell the coachman to wait at the door of the Cafe' Anglais," +said Marguerite. "We will walk there." + +A few minutes afterward I saw Marguerite from the street at a +window of one of the large rooms of the restaurant, pulling the +camellias of her bouquet to pieces, one by one. One of the two +men was leaning over her shoulder and whispering in her ear. I +took up my position at the Maison-d'or, in one of the first-floor +rooms, and did not lose sight of the window for an instant. At +one in the morning Marguerite got into her carriage with her +three friends. I took a cab and followed them. The carriage +stopped at No. 9, Rue d'Antin. Marguerite got out and went in +alone. It was no doubt a mere chance, but the chance filled me +with delight. + +From that time forward, I often met Marguerite at the theatre or +in the Champs-Elysees. Always there was the same gaiety in her, +the same emotion in me. + +At last a fortnight passed without my meeting her. I met Gaston +and asked after her. + +"Poor girl, she is very ill," he answered. + +"What is the matter?" + +"She is consumptive, and the sort of life she leads isn't exactly +the thing to cure her. She has taken to her bed; she is dying." + +The heart is a strange thing; I was almost glad at hearing it. + +Every day I went to ask after her, without leaving my name or my +card. I heard she was convalescent and had gone to Bagneres. + +Time went by, the impression, if not the memory, faded gradually +from my mind. I travelled; love affairs, habits, work, took the +place of other thoughts, and when I recalled this adventure I +looked upon it as one of those passions which one has when one is +very young, and laughs at soon afterward. + +For the rest, it was no credit to me to have got the better of +this recollection, for I had completely lost sight of Marguerite, +and, as I told you, when she passed me in the corridor of the +Varietes, I did not recognise her. She was veiled, it is true; +but, veiled though she might have been two years earlier, I +should not have needed to see her in order to recognise her: I +should have known her intuitively. All the same, my heart began +to beat when I knew that it was she; and the two years that had +passed since I saw her, and what had seemed to be the results of +that separation, vanished in smoke at the mere touch of her +dress. + + + +Chapter 8 + +However (continued Armand after a pause), while I knew myself to +be still in love with her, I felt more sure of myself, and part +of my desire to speak to Marguerite again was a wish to make her +see that I was stronger than she. + +How many ways does the heart take, how many reasons does it +invent for itself, in order to arrive at what it wants! + +I could not remain in the corridor, and I returned to my place in +the stalls, looking hastily around to see what box she was in. +She was in a ground-floor box, quite alone. She had changed, as I +have told you, and no longer wore an indifferent smile on her +lips. She had suffered; she was still suffering. Though it was +April, she was still wearing a winter costume, all wrapped up in +furs. + +I gazed at her so fixedly that my eyes attracted hers. She looked +at me for a few seconds, put up her opera-glass to see me better, +and seemed to think she recognised me, without being quite sure +who I was, for when she put down her glasses, a smile, that +charming, feminine salutation, flitted across her lips, as if to +answer the bow which she seemed to expect; but I did not respond, +so as to have an advantage over her, as if I had forgotten, while +she remembered. Supposing herself mistaken,, she looked away. + +The curtain went up. I have often seen Marguerite at the theatre. +I never saw her pay the slightest attention to what was being +acted. As for me, the performance interested me equally little, +and I paid no attention to anything but her, though doing my +utmost to keep her from noticing it. + +Presently I saw her glancing across at the person who was in the +opposite box; on looking, I saw a woman with whom I was quite +familiar. She had once been a kept woman, and had tried to go on +the stage, had failed, and, relying on her acquaintance with +fashionable people in Paris, had gone into business and taken a +milliner's shop. I saw in her a means of meeting with Marguerite, +and profited by a moment in which she looked my way to wave my +hand to her. As I expected, she beckoned to me to come to her +box. + +Prudence Duvernoy (that was the milliner's auspicious name) was +one of those fat women of forty with whom one requires very +little diplomacy to make them understand what one wants to know, +especially when what one wants to know is as simple as what I had +to ask of her. + +I took advantage of a moment when she was smiling across at +Marguerite to ask her, "Whom are you looking at?" + +"Marguerite Gautier." + +"You know her?" + +"Yes, I am her milliner, and she is a neighbour of mine." + +"Do you live in the Rue d'Antin?" + +"No. 7. The window of her dressing-room looks on to the window of +mine." + +"They say she is a charming girl." + +"Don't you know her?" + +"No, but I should like to." + +"Shall I ask her to come over to our box?" + +"No, I would rather for you to introduce me to her." + +"At her own house?" + +"Yes. + +"That is more difficult." + +"Why?" + +"Because she is under the protection of a jealous old duke." + +"'Protection' is charming." + +"Yes, protection," replied Prudence. "Poor old man, he would be +greatly embarrassed to offer her anything else." + +Prudence then told me how Marguerite had made the acquaintance of +the duke at Bagneres. + +"That, then," I continued, "is why she is alone here?" + +"Precisely." + +"But who will see her home?" + +"He will." + +"He will come for her?" + +"In a moment." + +"And you, who is seeing you home?" + +"No one." + +"May I offer myself?" + +"But you are with a friend, are you not?" + +"May we offer, then?" + +"Who is your friend?" + +"A charming fellow, very amusing. He will be delighted to make +your acquaintance." + +"Well, all right; we will go after this piece is over, for I know +the last piece." + +"With pleasure; I will go and tell my friend." + +"Go, then. Ah," added Prudence, as I was going, "there is the +duke just coming into Marguerite's box." + +I looked at him. A man of about seventy had sat down behind her, +and was giving her a bag of sweets, into which she dipped at +once, smiling. Then she held it out toward Prudence, with a +gesture which seemed to say, "Will you have some?" + +"No," signalled Prudence. + +Marguerite drew back the bag, and, turning, began to talk with +the duke. + +It may sound childish to tell you all these details, but +everything relating to Marguerite is so fresh in my memory that I +can not help recalling them now. + +I went back to Gaston and told him of the arrangement I had made +for him and for me. He agreed, and we left our stalls to go round +to Mme. Duvernoy's box. We had scarcely opened the door leading +into the stalls when we had to stand aside to allow Marguerite +and the duke to pass. I would have given ten years of my life to +have been in the old man's place. + +When they were on the street he handed her into a phaeton, which +he drove himself, and they were whirled away by two superb +horses. + +We returned to Prudence's box, and when the play was over we took +a cab and drove to 7, Rue d'Antin. At the door, Prudence asked us +to come up and see her showrooms, which we had never seen, and of +which she seemed very proud. You can imagine how eagerly I +accepted. It seemed to me as if I was coming nearer and nearer to +Marguerite. I soon turned the conversation in her direction. + +"The old duke is at your neighbours," I said to Prudence. + +"Oh, no; she is probably alone." + +"But she must be dreadfully bored," said Gaston. + +"We spend most of our evening together, or she calls to me when +she comes in. She never goes to bed before two in the morning. +She can't sleep before that." + +"Why?" + +"Because she suffers in the chest, and is almost always +feverish." + +"Hasn't she any lovers?" I asked. + +"I never see any one remain after I leave; I don't say no one +ever comes when I am gone. Often in the evening I meet there a +certain Comte de N., who thinks he is making some headway by +calling on her at eleven in the evening, and by sending her +jewels to any extent; but she can't stand him. She makes a +mistake; he is very rich. It is in vain that I say to her from +time to time, 'My dear child, there's the man for you.' She, who +generally listens to me, turns her back and replies that he is +too stupid. Stupid, indeed, he is; but it would be a position for +her, while this old duke might die any day. Old men are egoists; +his family are always reproaching him for his affection for +Marguerite; there are two reasons why he is likely to leave her +nothing. I give her good advice, and she only says it will be +plenty of time to take on the count when the duke is dead. It +isn't all fun," continued Prudence, "to live like that. I know +very well it wouldn't suit me, and I should soon send the old man +about his business. He is so dull; he calls her his daughter; +looks after her like a child; and is always in the way. I am sure +at this very moment one of his servants is prowling about in the +street to see who comes out, and especially who goes in." + +"Ah, poor Marguerite!" said Gaston, sitting down to the piano and +playing a waltz. "I hadn't a notion of it, but I did notice she +hasn't been looking so gay lately." + +"Hush," said Prudence, listening. Gaston stopped. + +"She is calling me, I think." + +We listened. A voice was calling, "Prudence!" + +"Come, now, you must go," said Mme. Duvernoy. + +"Ah, that is your idea of hospitality," said Gaston, laughing; +"we won't go till we please." + +"Why should we go?" + +"I am going over to Marguerite's." + +"We will wait here." + +"You can't." + +"Then we will go with you." + +"That still less." + +"I know Marguerite," said Gaston; I can very well pay her a +call." + +"But Armand doesn't know her." + +"I will introduce him." + +"Impossible." + +We again heard Marguerite's voice calling to Prudence, who rushed +to her dressing-room window. I followed with Gaston as she opened +the window. We hid ourselves so as not to be seen from outside. + +"I have been calling you for ten minutes," said Marguerite from +her window, in almost an imperious tone of voice. + +"What do you want?" + +"I want you to come over at once." + +"Why?" + +"Because the Comte de N. is still here, and he is boring me to +death." + +"I can't now." + +"What is hindering you?" + +"There are two young fellows here who won't go." + +"Tell them that you must go out." + +"I have told them." + +"Well, then, leave them in the house. They will soon go when they +see you have gone." + +"They will turn everything upside down." + +"But what do they want?" + +"They want to see you." + +"What are they called?" + +"You know one, M. Gaston R." + +"Ah, yes, I know him. And the other?" + +"M. Armand Duval; and you don't know him." + +"No, but bring them along. Anything is better than the count. I +expect you. Come at once." + +Marguerite closed her window and Prudence hers. Marguerite, who +had remembered my face for a moment, did not remember my name. I +would rather have been remembered to my disadvantage than thus +forgotten. + +"I knew," said Gaston, "that she would be delighted to see us." + +"Delighted isn't the word," replied Prudence, as she put on her +hat and shawl. "She will see you in order to get rid of the +count. Try to be more agreeable than he is, or (I know +Marguerite) she will put it all down to me." + +We followed Prudence downstairs. I trembled; it seemed to me that +this visit was to have a great influence on my life. I was still +more agitated than on the evening when I was introduced in the +box at the Opera Comique. As we reached the door that you know, +my heart beat so violently that I was hardly able to think. + +We heard the sound of a piano. Prudence rang. The piano was +silent. A woman who looked more like a companion than a servant +opened the door. We went into the drawing-room, and from that to +the boudoir, which was then just as you have seen it since. A +young man was leaning against the mantel-piece. Marguerite, +seated at the piano, let her fingers wander over the notes, +beginning scraps of music without finishing them. The whole scene +breathed boredom, the man embarrassed by the consciousness of his +nullity, the woman tired of her dismal visitor. At the voice of +Prudence, Marguerite rose, and coming toward us with a look of +gratitude to Mme. Duvernoy, said: + +"Come in, and welcome." + + + +Chapter 9 + +"Good-evening, my dear Gaston," said Marguerite to my companion. +"I am very glad to see you. Why didn't you come to see me in my +box at the Varietes?" + +"I was afraid it would be indiscreet." + +"Friends," and Marguerite lingered over the word, as if to +intimate to those who were present that in spite of the familiar +way in which she greeted him, Gaston was not and never had been +anything more than a friend, "friends are always welcome." + +"Then, will you permit me to introduce M. Armand Duval?" + +"I had already authorized Prudence to do so." + +"As far as that goes, madame," I said, bowing, and succeeding in +getting more or less intelligible sounds out of my throat, "I +have already had the honour of being introduced to you." + +Marguerite's beautiful eyes seemed to be looking back in memory, +but she could not, or seemed not to, remember. + +"Madame," I continued, "I am grateful to you for having forgotten +the occasion of my first introduction, for I was very absurd and +must have seemed to you very tiresome. It was at the Opera +Comique, two years ago; I was with Ernest de --." + +"Ah, I remember," said Marguerite, with a smile. "It was not you +who were absurd; it was I who was mischievous, as I still am, but +somewhat less. You have forgiven me?" + +And she held out her hand, which I kissed. + +"It is true," she went on; "you know I have the bad habit of +trying to embarrass people the first time I meet them. It is very +stupid. My doctor says it is because I am nervous and always ill; +believe my doctor." + +"But you seem quite well." + +"Oh! I have been very ill." + +"I know." + +"Who told you?" + +"Every one knew it; I often came to inquire after you, and I was +happy to hear of your convalescence." + +"They never gave me your card." + +"I did not leave it." + +"Was it you, then, who called every day while I was ill, and +would never leave your name?" + +"Yes, it was I." + +"Then you are more than indulgent, you are generous. You, count, +wouldn't have done that," said she, turning toward M. de N., +after giving me one of those looks in which women sum up their +opinion of a man. + +"I have only known you for two months," replied the count. + +"And this gentleman only for five minutes. You always say +something ridiculous." + +Women are pitiless toward those whom they do not care for. The +count reddened and bit his lips. + +I was sorry for him, for he seemed, like myself, to be in love, +and the bitter frankness of Marguerite must have made him very +unhappy, especially in the presence of two strangers. + +"You were playing the piano when we came in," I said, in order to +change the conversation. "Won't you be so good as to treat me as +an old acquaintance and go on?" + +"Oh," said she, flinging herself on the sofa and motioning to us +to sit down, "Gaston knows what my music is like. It is all very +well when I am alone with the count, but I won't inflict such a +punishment on you." + +"You show me that preference?" said M. de N., with a smile which +he tried to render delicately ironical. + +"Don't reproach me for it. It is the only one." It was fated that +the poor man was not to say a single word. He cast a really +supplicating glance at Marguerite. + +"Well, Prudence," she went on, "have you done what I asked you to +do?" + +"Yes. + +"All right. You will tell me about it later. We must talk over +it; don't go before I can speak with you." + +"We are doubtless intruders," I said, "and now that we, or rather +I, have had a second introduction, to blot out the first, it is +time for Gaston and me to be going." + +"Not in the least. I didn't mean that for you. I want you to +stay." + +The count took a very elegant watch out of his pocket and looked +at the time. "I must be going to my club," he said. Marguerite +did not answer. The count thereupon left his position by the +fireplace and going up to her, said: "Adieu, madame." + +Marguerite rose. "Adieu, my dear count. Are you going already?" + +"Yes, I fear I am boring you." + +"You are not boring me to-day more than any other day. When shall +I be seeing you?" + +"When you permit me." + +"Good-bye, then." + +It was cruel, you will admit. Fortunately, the count had +excellent manners and was very good-tempered. He merely kissed +Marguerite's hand, which she held out to him carelessly enough, +and, bowing to us, went out. + +As he crossed the threshold, he cast a glance at Prudence. She +shrugged her shoulders, as much as to say: + +"What do you expect? I have done all I could." + +"Nanine!" cried Marguerite. "Light M. le Comte to the door." + +We heard the door open and shut. + +"At last," cried Marguerite, coming back, "he has gone! That man +gets frightfully on my nerves!" + +"My dear child," said Prudence, "you really treat him too badly, +and he is so good and kind to you. Look at this watch on the +mantel-piece, that he gave you: it must have cost him at least +three thousand francs, I am sure." + +And Mme. Duvernoy began to turn it over, as it lay on the +mantel-piece, looking at it with covetous eyes. + +"My dear," said Marguerite, sitting down to the piano, "when I +put on one side what he gives me and on the other what he says to +me, it seems to me that he buys his visits very cheap." + +"The poor fellow is in love with you." + +"If I had to listen to everybody who was in love with me, I +shouldn't have time for my dinner." + +And she began to run her fingers over the piano, and then, +turning to us, she said: + +"What will you take? I think I should like a little punch." + +"And I could eat a little chicken," said Prudence. "Suppose we +have supper?" + +"That's it, let's go and have supper," said Gaston. + +"No, we will have supper here." + +She rang, and Nanine appeared. + +"Send for some supper." + +"What must I get?" + +"Whatever you like, but at once, at once." + +Nanine went out. + +"That's it," said Marguerite, jumping like a child, "we'll have +supper. How tiresome that idiot of a count is!" + +The more I saw her, the more she enchanted me. She was +exquisitely beautiful. Her slenderness was a charm. I was lost in +contemplation. + +What was passing in my mind I should have some difficulty in +explaining. I was full of indulgence for her life, full of +admiration for her beauty. The proof of disinterestedness that +she gave in not accepting a rich and fashionable young man, ready +to waste all his money upon her, excused her in my eyes for all +her faults in the past. + +There was a kind of candour in this woman. You could see she was +still in the virginity of vice. Her firm walk, her supple figure, +her rosy, open nostrils, her large eyes, slightly tinged with +blue, indicated one of those ardent natures which sbed around +them a sort of voluptuous perfume, like Eastern vials, which, +close them as tightly as you will, still let some of their +perfume escape. Finally, whether it was simple nature or a breath +of fever, there passed from time to time in the eyes of this +woman a glimmer of desire, giving promise of a very heaven for +one whom she should love. But those who had loved Marguerite were +not to be counted, nor those whom she had loved. + +In this girl there was at once the virgin whom a mere nothing had +turned into a courtesan, and the courtesan whom a mere nothing +would have turned into the most loving and the purest of virgins. +Marguerite had still pride and independence, two sentiments +which, if they are wounded, can be the equivalent of a sense of +shame. I did not speak a word; my soul seemed to have passed into +my heart and my heart into my eyes. + +"So," said she all at once, "it was you who came to inquire after +me when I was ill?" + +"Yes." + +"Do you know, it was quite splendid of you! How can I thank you +for it?" + +"By allowing me to come and see you from time to time." + +"As often as you like, from five to six, and from eleven to +twelve. Now, Gaston, play the Invitation A la Valse." + +"Why?" + +"To please me, first of all, and then because I never can manage +to play it myself." + +"What part do you find difficult?" + +"The third part, the part in sharps." + +Gaston rose and went to the piano, and began to play the +wonderful melody of Weber, the music of which stood open before +him. + +Marguerite, resting one hand on the piano, followed every note on +the music, accompanying it in a low voice, and when Gaston had +come to the passage which she had mentioned to him, she sang out, +running her fingers along the top of the piano: + +"Do, re, mi, do, re, fa, mi, re; that is what I can not do. Over +again." + +Gaston began over again, after which Marguerite said: + +"Now, let me try." + +She took her place and began to play; but her rebellious fingers +always came to grief over one of the notes. + +"Isn't it incredible," she said, exactly like a child, "that I +can not succeed in playing that passage? Would you believe that I +sometimes spend two hours of the morning over it? And when I +think that that idiot of a count plays it without his music, and +beautifully, I really believe it is that that makes me so furious +with him." And she began again, always with the same result. + +"The devil take Weber, music, and pianos!" she cried, throwing +the music to the other end of the room. "How can I play eight +sharps one after another?" She folded her arms and looked at us, +stamping her foot. The blood flew to her cheeks, and her lips +half opened in a slight cough. + +"Come, come," said Prudence, who had taken off her hat and was +smoothing her hair before the glass, "you will work yourself into +a rage and do yourself harm. Better come and have supper; for my +part, I am dying of hunger." + +Marguerite rang the bell, sat down to the piano again, and began +to hum over a very risky song, which she accompanied without +difficulty. Gaston knew the song, and they gave a sort of duet. + +"Don't sing those beastly things," I said to Marguerite, +imploringly. + +"Oh, how proper you are!" she said, smiling and giving me her +hand. "It is not for myself, but for you." + +Marguerite made a gesture as if to say, "Oh, it is long since +that I have done with propriety!" At that moment Nanine appeared. + +"Is supper ready?" asked Marguerite. "Yes, madame, in one +moment." + +"Apropos," said Prudence to me, "you have not looked round; come, +and I will show you." As you know, the drawing-room was a marvel. + +Marguerite went with us for a moment; then she called Gaston and +went into the dining-room with him to see if supper was ready. + +"Ah," said Prudence, catching sight of a little Saxe figure on a +side-table, "I never knew you had this little gentleman." + +"Which?" + +"A little shepherd holding a bird-cage." + +"Take it, if you like it." + + +"I won't deprive you of it." + +"I was going to give it to my maid. I think it hideous; but if +you like it, take it." + +Prudence only saw the present, not the way in which it was given. +She put the little figure on one side, and took me into the +dressing-room, where she showed me two miniatures hanging side by +side, and said: + +"That is the Comte de G., who was very much in love with +Marguerite; it was he who brought her out. Do you know him?" + +"No. And this one?" I inquired, pointing to the other miniature. + +"That is the little Vicomte de L. He was obliged to disappear." + +"Why?" + +"Because he was all but ruined. That's one, if you like, who +loved Marguerite." + +"And she loved him, too, no doubt?" + +"She is such a queer girl, one never knows. The night he went +away she went to the theatre as usual, and yet she had cried when +he said good-bye to her." + +Just then Nanine appeared, to tell us that supper was served. + +When we entered the dining-room, Marguerite was leaning against +the wall, and Gaston, holding her hands, was speaking to her in a +low voice. + +"You are mad," replied Marguerite. "You know quite well that I +don't want you. It is no good at the end of two years to make +love to a woman like me. With us, it is at once, or never. Come, +gentlemen, supper!" + +And, slipping away from Gaston, Marguerite made him sit on her +right at table, me on her left, then called to Nanine: + +"Before you sit down, tell them in the kitchen not to open to +anybody if there is a ring." + +This order was given at one o'clock in the morning. + +We laughed, drank, and ate freely at this supper. In a short +while mirth had reached its last limit, and the words that seem +funny to a certain class of people, words that degrade the mouth +that utters them, were heard from time to time, amidst the +applause of Nanine, of Prudence, and of Marguerite. Gaston was +thoroughly amused; he was a very good sort of fellow, but +somewhat spoiled by the habits of his youth. For a moment I tried +to forget myself, to force my heart and my thoughts to become +indifferent to the sight before me, and to take my share of that +gaiety which seemed like one of the courses of the meal. But +little by little I withdrew from the noise; my glass remained +full, and I felt almost sad as I saw this beautiful creature of +twenty drinking, talking like a porter, and laughing the more +loudly the more scandalous was the joke. + +Nevertheless, this hilarity, this way of talking and drinking, +which seemed to me in the others the mere results of bad company +or of bad habits, seemed in Marguerite a necessity of forgetting, +a fever, a nervous irritability. At every glass of champagne her +cheeks would flush with a feverish colour, and a cough, hardly +perceptible at the beginning of supper, became at last so violent +that she was obliged to lean her head on the back of her chair +and hold her chest in her hands every time that she coughed. I +suffered at the thought of the injury to so frail a constitution +which must come from daily excesses like this. At length, +something which I had feared and foreseen happened. Toward the +end of supper Marguerite was seized by a more violent fit of +coughing than any she had had while I was there. It seemed as if +her chest were being torn in two. The poor girl turned crimson, +closed her eyes under the pain, and put her napkin to her lips. +It was stained with a drop of blood. She rose and ran into her +dressing-room. + +"What is the matter with Marguerite?" asked Gaston. + +"She has been laughing too much, and she is spitting blood. Oh, +it is nothing; it happens to her every day. She will be back in a +minute. Leave her alone. She prefers it." + +I could not stay still; and, to the consternation of Prudence and +Nanine, who called to me to come back, I followed Marguerite." + + + +Chapter 10 + +The room to which she had fled was lit only by a single candle. +She lay back on a great sofa, her dress undone, holding one hand +on her heart, and letting the other hang by her side. On the +table was a basin half full of water, and the water was stained +with streaks of blood. + +Very pale, her mouth half open, Marguerite tried to recover +breath. Now and again her bosom was raised by a long sigh, which +seemed to relieve her a little, and for a few seconds she would +seem to be quite comfortable. + +I went up to her; she made no movement, and I sat down and took +the hand which was lying on the sofa. + +"Ah! it is you," she said, with a smile. + +I must have looked greatly agitated, for she added: + +"Are you unwell, too?" + +"No, but you: do you still suffer?" + +"Very little;" and she wiped off with her handkerchief the tears +which the coughing had brought to her eyes; "I am used to it +now." + +"You are killing yourself, madame," I said to her in a moved +voice. "I wish I were a friend, a relation of yours, that I might +keep you from doing yourself harm like this." + +"Ah! it is really not worth your while to alarm yourself," she +replied in a somewhat bitter tone; "see how much notice the +others take of me! They know too well that there is nothing to be +done." + +Thereupon she got up, and, taking the candle, put it on the +mantel-piece and looked at herself in the glass. + +"How pale I am!" she said, as she fastened her dress and passed +her fingers over her loosened hair. "Come, let us go back to +supper. Are you coming?" + +I sat still and did not move. + +She saw how deeply I had been affected by the whole scene, and, +coming up to me, held out her hand, saying: + +"Come now, let us go." + +I took her hand, raised it to my lips, and in spite of myself two +tears fell upon it. + +"Why, what a child you are!" she said, sitting down by my side +again. "You are crying! What is the matter?" + +"I must seem very silly to you, but I am frightfully troubled by +what I have just seen." + +"You are very good! What would you have of me? I can not sleep. I +must amuse myself a little. And then, girls like me, what does it +matter, one more or less? The doctors tell me that the blood I +spit up comes from my throat; I pretend to believe them; it is +all I can do for them." + +"Listen, Marguerite," I said, unable to contain myself any +longer; "I do not know what influence you are going to have over +my life, but at this present moment there is no one, not even my +sister, in whom I feel the interest which I feel in you. It has +been just the same ever since I saw you. Well, for Heaven's sake, +take care of yourself, and do not live as you are living now." + +"If I took care of myself I should die. All that supports me is +the feverish life I lead. Then, as for taking care of oneself, +that is all very well for women with families and friends; as for +us, from the moment we can no longer serve the vanity or the +pleasure of our lovers, they leave us, and long nights follow +long days. I know it. I was in bed for two months, and after +three weeks no one came to see me." + +"It is true I am nothing to you," I went on, "but if you will let +me, I will look after you like a brother, I will never leave your +side, and I will cure you. Then, when you are strong again, you +can go back to the life you are leading, if you choose; but I am +sure you will come to prefer a quiet life, which will make you +happier and keep your beauty unspoiled." + +"You think like that to-night because the wine has made you sad, +but you would never have the patience that you pretend to." + +"Permit me to say, Marguerite, that you were ill for two months, +and that for two months I came to ask after you every day." + +"It is true, but why did you not come up?" + +"Because I did not know you then." + +"Need you have been so particular with a girl like me?" + +"One must always be particular with a woman; it is what I feel, +at least." + +"So you would look after me?" + +"Yes." + +"You would stay by me all day?" + +"Yes. + +"And even all night?" + +"As long as I did not weary you." + +"And what do you call that?" + +"Devotion." + +"And what does this devotion come from?" + +"The irresistible sympathy which I have for you." + +"So you are in love with me? Say it straight out, it is much more +simple." + +"It is possible; but if I am to say it to you one day, it is not +to-day." + +"You will do better never to say it." + +"Why?" + +"Because only one of two things can come of it." + +"What?" + +"Either I shall not accept: then you will have a grudge against +me; or I shall accept: then you will have a sorry mistress; a +woman who is nervous, ill, sad, or gay with a gaiety sadder than +grief, a woman who spits blood and spends a hundred thousand +francs a year. That is all very well for a rich old man like the +duke, but it is very bad for a young man like you, and the proof +of it is that all the young lovers I have had have very soon left +me." I did not answer; I listened. This frankness, which was +almost a kind of confession, the sad life, of which I caught some +glimpse through the golden veil which covered it, and whose +reality the poor girl sought to escape in dissipation, drink, and +wakefulness, impressed me so deeply that I could not utter a +single word. + +"Come," continued Marguerite, "we are talking mere childishness. +Give me your arm and let us go back to the dining-room. They +won't know what we mean by our absence." + +"Go in, if you like, but allow me to stay here." + +"Why?" + +"Because your mirth hurts me." + +"Well, I will be sad." + +"Marguerite, let me say to you something which you have no doubt +often heard, so often that the habit of hearing it has made you +believe it no longer, but which is none the less real, and which +I will never repeat." + +"And that is . . . ?" she said, with the smile of a young mother +listening to some foolish notion of her child. + +"It is this, that ever since I have seen you, I know not why, you +have taken a place in my life; that, if I drive the thought of +you out of my mind, it always comes back; that when I met you +to-day, after not having seen you for two years, you made a +deeper impression on my heart and mind than ever; that, now that +you have let me come to see you, now that I know you, now that I +know all that is strange in you, you have become a necessity of +my life, and you will drive me mad, not only if you will not love +me, but if you will not let me love you." + +"But, foolish creature that you are, I shall say to you, like +Mme. D., 'You must be very rich, then!' Why, you don't know that +I spend six or seven thousand francs a month, and that I could +not live without it; you don't know, my poor friend, that I +should ruin you in no time, and that your family would cast you +off if you were to live with a woman like me. Let us be friends, +good friends, but no more. Come and see me, we will laugh and +talk, but don't exaggerate what I am worth, for I am worth very +little. You have a good heart, you want some one to love you, you +are too young and too sensitive to live in a world like mine. +Take a married woman. You see, I speak to you frankly, like a +friend." + +"But what the devil are you doing there?" cried Prudence, who had +come in without our bearing her, and who now stood just inside +the door, with her hair half coming down and her dress undone. I +recognised the hand of Gaston. + +"We are talking sense," said Marguerite; "leave us alone; we will +be back soon." + +"Good, good! Talk, my children," said Prudence, going out and +closing the door behind her, as if to further empbasize the tone +in which she had said these words. + +"Well, it is agreed," continued Marguerite, when we were alone, +"you won't fall in love with me?" + +"I will go away." + +"So much as that?" + +I had gone too far to draw back; and I was really carried away. +This mingling of gaiety, sadness, candour, prostitution, her very +malady, which no doubt developed in her a sensitiveness to +impressions, as well as an irritability of nerves, all this made +it clear to me that if from the very beginning I did not +completely dominate her light and forgetful nature, she was lost +to me. + +"Come, now, do you seriously mean what you say?" she said. + +"Seriously." + +"But why didn't you say it to me sooner?" + +"When could I have said it?" + +"The day after you had been introduced to me at the Opera +Comique." + +"I thought you would have received me very badly if I had come to +see you." + +"Why?" + +"Because I had behaved so stupidly." + +"That's true. And yet you were already in love with me." + +"Yes." + +"And that didn't hinder you from going to bed and sleeping quite +comfortably. One knows what that sort of love means." + +"There you are mistaken. Do you know what I did that evening, +after the Opera Comique?" + +"No." + +"I waited for you at the door of the Cafe Anglais. I followed the +carriage in which you and your three friends were, and when I saw +you were the only one to get down, and that you went in alone, I +was very happy." + +Marguerite began to laugh. + +"What are you laughing at?" + +"Nothing." + +"Tell me, I beg of you, or I shall think you are still laughing +at me." + +"You won't be cross?" + +"What right have I to be cross?" + +"Well, there was a sufficient reason why I went in alone." + +"What?" + +"Some one was waiting for me here." + +If she had thrust a knife into me she would not have hurt me +more. I rose, and holding out my hand, "Goodbye," said I. + +"I knew you would be cross," she said; "men are frantic to know +what is certain to give them pain." + +"But I assure you," I added coldly, as if wishing to prove how +completely I was cured of my passion, "I assure you that I am not +cross. It was quite natural that some one should be waiting for +you, just as it is quite natural that I should go from here at +three in the morning." + +"Have you, too, some one waiting for you?" + +"No, but I must go." + +"Good-bye, then." + +"You send me away?" + +"Not the least in the world." + +"Why are you so unkind to me?" + +"How have I been unkind to you?" + +"In telling me that some one was waiting for you." + +"I could not help laughing at the idea that you had been so happy +to see me come in alone when there was such a good reason for +it." + +"One finds pleasure in childish enough things, and it is too bad +to destroy such a pleasure when, by simply leaving it alone, one +can make somebody so happy." + +"But what do you think I am? I am neither maid nor duchess. I +didn't know you till to-day, and I am not responsible to you for +my actions. Supposing one day I should become your mistress, you +are bound to know that I have had other lovers besides you. If +you make scenes of jealousy like this before, what will it be +after, if that after should ever exist? I never met any one like +you." + +"That is because no one has ever loved you as I love you." + +"Frankly, then, you really love me?" + +"As much as it is possible to love, I think." + +"And that has lasted since--?" + +"Since the day I saw you go into Susse's, three years ago. + +"Do you know, that is tremendously fine? Well, what am to do in +return?" + +"Love me a little," I said, my heart beating so that I could +hardly speak; for, in spite of the half-mocking smiles with which +she had accompanied the whole conversation, it seemed to me that +Marguerite began to share my agitation, and that the hour so long +awaited was drawing near. + +"Well, but the duke?" + +"What duke?" + +"My jealous old duke." + +"He will know nothing." + +"And if he should?" + +"He would forgive you." + +"Ah, no, he would leave me, and what would become of me?" + +"You risk that for some one else." + +"How do you know?" "By the order you gave not to admit any one +to-night." "It is true; but that is a serious friend." + +"For whom you care nothing, as you have shut your door against +him at such an hour." + +"It is not for you to reproach me, since it was in order to +receive you, you and your friend." + +Little by little I had drawn nearer to Marguerite. I had put my +arms about her waist, and I felt her supple body weigh lightly on +my clasped hands. + +"If you knew how much I love you!" I said in a low voice. "Really +true?" + +"I swear it." + +"Well, if you will promise to do everything I tell you, without a +word, without an opinion, without a question, perhaps I will say +yes." + +"I will do everything that you wish!" + +"But I forewarn you I must be free to do as I please, without +giving you the slightest details what I do. I have long wished +for a young lover, who should be young and not self-willed, +loving without distrust, loved without claiming the right to it. +I have never found one. Men, instead of being satisfied in +obtaining for a long time what they scarcely hoped to obtain +once, exact from their mistresses a full account of the present, +the past, and even the future. As they get accustomed to her, +they want to rule her, and the more one gives them the more +exacting they become. If I decide now on taking a new lover, he +must have three very rare qualities: he must be confiding, +submissive, and discreet." + +"Well, I will be all that you wish." + +"We shall see." + +"When shall we see?" + +"Later on." + +"Why?" + +"Because," said Marguerite, releasing herself from my arms, and, +taking from a great bunch of red camellias a single camellia, she +placed it in my buttonhole, "because one can not always carry out +agreements the day they are signed." + +"And when shall I see you again?" I said, clasping her in my +arms. + +"When this camellia changes colour." + +"When will it change colour?" + +"To-morrow night between eleven and twelve. Are you satisfied?" + +"Need you ask me?" + +"Not a word of this either to your friend or to Prudence, or to +anybody whatever." + +"I promise." + +"Now, kiss me, and we will go back to the dining-room." + +She held up her lips to me, smoothed her hair again, and we went +out of the room, she singing, and I almost beside myself. + +In the next room she stopped for a moment and said to me in a low +voice: + +"It must seem strange to you that I am ready to take you at a +moment's notice. Shall I tell you why? It is," she continued, +taking my hand and placing it against her heart so that I could +feel how rapidly and violently it palpitated; "it is because I +shall not live as long as others, and I have promised myself to +live more quickly." + +"Don't speak to me like that, I entreat you." + +"Oh, make yourself easy," she continued, laughing; "however short +a time I have to live, I shall live longer than you will love +me!" + +And she went singing into the dining-room. + +"Where is Nanine?" she said, seeing Gaston and Prudence alone. + +"She is asleep in your room, waiting till you are ready to go to +bed," replied Prudence. + +"Poor thing, I am killing her! And now gentlemen, it is time to +go." + +Ten minutes after, Gaston and I left the house. Marguerite shook +hands with me and said good-bye. Prudence remained behind. + +"Well," said Gaston, when we were in the street, "what do you +think of Marguerite?" + +"She is an angel, and I am madly in love with her." "So I +guessed; did you tell her so?" + +"Yes." + +"And did she promise to believe you?" + +"No." + +"She is not like Prudence." + +"Did she promise to?" + +"Better still, my dear fellow. You wouldn't think it; but she is +still not half bad, poor old Duvernoy!" + + + +Chapter 11 + +At this point Armand stopped. + +"Would you close the window for me?" he said. "I am beginning to +feel cold. Meanwhile, I will get into bed." + +I closed the window. Armand, who was still very weak, took off +his dressing-gown and lay down in bed, resting his head for a few +moments on the pillow, like a man who is tired by much talking or +disturbed by painful memories. + +"Perhaps you have been talking too much," I said to him. "Would +you rather for me to go and leave you to sleep? You can tell me +the rest of the story another day." + +"Are you tired of listening to it?" + +"Quite the contrary." + +"Then I will go on. If you left me alone, I should not sleep." + +When I returned home (he continued, without needing to pause and +recollect himself, so fresh were all the details in his mind), I +did not go to bed, but began to reflect over the day's adventure. +The meeting, the introduction, the promise of Marguerite, had +followed one another so rapidly, and so unexpectedly, that there +were moments when it seemed to me I had been dreaming. +Nevertheless, it was not the first time that a girl like +Marguerite had promised herself to a man on the morrow of the day +on which he had asked for the promise. + +Though, indeed, I made this reflection, the first impression +produced on me by my future mistress was so strong that it still +persisted. I refused obstinately to see in her a woman like other +women, and, with the vanity so common to all men, I was ready to +believe that she could not but share the attraction which drew me +to her. + +Yet, I had before me plenty of instances to the contrary, and I +had often heard that the affection of Marguerite was a thing to +be had more or less dear, according to the season. + +But, on the other hand, how was I to reconcile this reputation +with her constant refusal of the young count whom we had found at +her house? You may say that he was unattractive to her, and that, +as she was splendidly kept by the duke, she would be more likely +to choose a man who was attractive to her, if she were to take +another lover. If so, why did she not choose Gaston, who was +rich, witty, and charming, and why did she care for me, whom she +had thought so ridiculous the first time she had seen me? + +It is true that there are events of a moment which tell more than +the courtship of a year. Of those who were at the supper, I was +the only one who had been concerned at her leaving the table. I +had followed her, I had been so affected as to be unable to hide +it from her, I had wept as I kissed her hand. This circumstance, +added to my daily visits during the two months of her illness, +might have shown her that I was somewhat different from the other +men she knew, and perhaps she had said to herself that for a love +which could thus manifest itself she might well do what she had +done so often that it had no more consequence for her. + +All these suppositions, as you may see, were improbable enough; +but whatever might have been the reason of her consent, one thing +was certain, she had consented. + +Now, I was in love with Marguerite. I had nothing more to ask of +her. Nevertheless, though she was only a kept woman, I had so +anticipated for myself, perhaps to poetize it a little, a +hopeless love, that the nearer the moment approached when I +should have nothing more to hope, the more I doubted. I did not +close my eyes all night. + +I scarcely knew myself. I was half demented. Now, I seemed to +myself not handsome or rich or elegant enough to possess such a +woman, now I was filled with vanity at the thought of it; then I +began to fear lest Marguerite had no more than a few days' +caprice for me, and I said to myself that since we should soon +have to part, it would be better not to keep her appointment, but +to write and tell her my fears and leave her. From that I went on +to unlimited hope, unbounded confidence. I dreamed incredible +dreams of the future; I said to myself that she should owe to me +her moral and physical recovery, that I should spend my whole +life with her, and that her love should make me happier than all +the maidenly loves in the world. + +But I can not repeat to you the thousand thoughts that rose from +my heart to my head, and that only faded away with the sleep that +came to me at daybreak. + +When I awoke it was two o'clock. The weather was superb. I don't +think life ever seemed to me so beautiful and so full of +possibilities. The memories of the night before came to me +without shadow or hindrance, escorted gaily by the hopes of the +night to come. From time to time my heart leaped with love and +joy in my breast. A sweet fever thrilled me. I thought no more of +the reasons which had filled my mind before I slept. I saw only +the result, I thought only of the hour when I was to see +Marguerite again. + +It was impossible to stay indoors. My room seemed too small to +contain my happiness. I needed the whole of nature to unbosom +myself. + +I went out. Passing by the Rue d'Antin, I saw Marguerite's coupe' +waiting for her at the door. I went toward the Champs-Elysees. I +loved all the people whom I met. Love gives one a kind of +goodness. + +After I had been walking for an hour from the Marly horses to the +Rond-Point, I saw Marguerite's carriage in the distance; I +divined rather than recognised it. As it was turning the corner +of the Champs-Elysees it stopped, and a tall young man left a +group of people with whom he was talking and came up to her. They +talked for a few moments; the young man returned to his friends, +the horses set out again, and as I came near the group I +recognised the one who had spoken to Marguerite as the Comte de +G., whose portrait I had seen and whom Prudence had indicated to +me as the man to whom Marguerite owed her position. It was to him +that she had closed her doors the night before; I imagined that +she had stopped her carriage in order to explain to him why she +had done so, and I hoped that at the same time she had found some +new pretext for not receiving him on the following night. + +How I spent the rest of the day I do not know; I walked, smoked, +talked, but what I said, whom I met, I had utterly forgotten by +ten o'clock in the evening. + +All I remember is that when I returned home, I spent three hours +over my toilet, and I looked at my watch and my clock a hundred +times, which unfortunately both pointed to the same hour. + +When it struck half past ten, I said to myself that it was time +to go. + +I lived at that time in the Rue de Provence; I followed the Rue +du Mont-Blanc, crossed the Boulevard, went up the Rue +Louis-le-Grand, the Rue de Port-Mahon, and the Rue d'Antin. I +looked up at Marguerite's windows. There was a light. I rang. I +asked the porter if Mlle. Gautier was at home. He replied that +she never came in before eleven or a quarter past eleven. I +looked at my watch. I intended to come quite slowly, and I had +come in five minutes from the Rue de Provence to the Rue d'Antin. + +I walked to and fro in the street; there are no shops, and at +that hour it is quite deserted. In half an hour's time + +Marguerite arrived. She looked around her as she got down from +her coupe', as if she were looking for some one. The carriage +drove off; the stables were not at the house. Just as Marguerite +was going to ring, I went up to her and said, "Good-evening." + +"Ah, it is you," she said, in a tone that by no means reassured +me as to her pleasure in seeing me. + +"Did you not promise me that I might come and see you to-day?" + +"Quite right. I had forgotten." + +This word upset all the reflections I had had during the day. +Nevertheless, I was beginning to get used to her ways, and I did +not leave her, as I should certainly have done once. We entered. +Nanine had already opened the door. + +"Has Prudence come?" said Marguerite. + +"No, madame." + +"Say that she is to be admitted as soon as she comes. But first +put out the lamp in the drawing-room, and if any one comes, say +that I have not come back and shall not be coming back." + +She was like a woman who is preoccupied with something, and +perhaps annoyed by an unwelcome guest. I did not know what to do +or say. Marguerite went toward her bedroom; I remained where I +was. + +"Come," she said. + +She took off her hat and her velvet cloak and threw them on the +bed, then let herself drop into a great armchair beside the fire, +which she kept till the very beginning of summer, and said to me +as she fingered her watch-chain: + +"Well, what news have you got for me?" + +"None, except that I ought not to have come to-night." + +"Why?" + +"Because you seem vexed, and no doubt I am boring you." + +"You are not boring me; only I am not well; I have been suffering +all day. I could not sleep, and I have a frightful headache." + +"Shall I go away and let you go to bed?" + +"Oh, you can stay. If I want to go to bed I don't mind your being +here." + +At that moment there was a ring. + +"Who is coming now?" she said, with an impatient movement. + +A few minutes after there was another ring. + +"Isn't there any one to go to the door? I shall have to go." She +got up and said to me, "Wait here." + +She went through the rooms, and I heard her open the outer door. +I listened. + +The person whom she had admitted did not come farther than the +dining-room. At the first word I recognised the voice of the +young Comte de N. + +"How are you this evening?" he said. + +"Not well," replied Marguerite drily. + +"Am I disturbing you?" + +"Perhaps. + +"How you receive me! What have I done, my dear Marguerite?" + +"My dear friend, you have done nothing. I am ill; I must go to +bed, so you will be good enough to go. It is sickening not to be +able to return at night without your making your appearance five +minutes afterward. What is it you want? For me to be your +mistress? Well, I have already told you a hundred times, No; you +simply worry me, and you might as well go somewhere else. I +repeat to you to-day, for the last time, I don't want to have +anything to do with you; that's settled. Good-bye. Here's Nanine +coming in; she can light you to the door. Good-night." + +Without adding another word, or listening to what the young man +stammered out, Marguerite returned to the room and slammed the +door. Nanine entered a moment after. + +"Now understand," said Marguerite, "you are always to say to that +idiot that I am not in, or that I will not see him. I am tired +out with seeing people who always want the same thing; who pay me +for it, and then think they are quit of me. If those who are +going to go in for our hateful business only knew what it really +was they would sooner be chambermaids. But no, vanity, the desire +of having dresses and carriages and diamonds carries us away; one +believes what one hears, for here, as elsewhere, there is such a +thing as belief, and one uses up one's heart, one's body, one's +beauty, little by little; one is feared like a beast of prey, +scorned like a pariah, surrounded by people who always take more +than they give; and one fine day one dies like a dog in a ditch, +after having ruined others and ruined one's self." + +"Come, come, madame, be calm," said Nanine; "your nerves are a +bit upset to-night." + +"This dress worries me," continued Marguerite, unhooking her +bodice; "give me a dressing-gown. Well, and Prudence?" + +"She has not come yet, but I will send her to you, madame, the +moment she comes." + +"There's one, now," Marguerite went on, as she took off her dress +and put on a white dressing-gown, "there's one who knows very +well how to find me when she is in want of me, and yet she can't +do me a service decently. She knows I am waiting for an answer. +She knows how anxious I am, and I am sure she is going about on +her own account, without giving a thought to me." + +"Perhaps she had to wait." + +"Let us have some punch." + +"It will do you no good, madame," said Nanine. + +"So much the better. Bring some fruit, too, and a pate or a wing +of chicken; something or other, at once. I am hungry." + +Need I tell you the impression which this scene made upon me, or +can you not imagine it? + +"You are going to have supper with me," she said to me; +"meanwhile, take a book. I am going into my dressing-room for a +moment." + +She lit the candles of a candelabra, opened a door at the foot of +the bed, and disappeared. + +I began to think over this poor girl's life, and my love for her +was mingled with a great pity. I walked to and fro in the room, +thinking over things, when Prudence entered. + +"Ah, you here?"' she said, "where is Marguerite?" + +"In her dressing-room." + +"I will wait. By the way, do you know she thinks you charming?" + +"No." + +"She hasn't told you?" + +"Not at all." + +"How are you here?" + +"I have come to pay her a visit." + +"At midnight?" + +"Why not?" + +"Farceur!" + +"She has received me, as a matter of fact, very badly." + +"She will receive you better by and bye." + +"Do you think so?" + +"I have some good news for her." + +"No harm in that. So she has spoken to you about me?" + +"Last night, or rather to-night, when you and your friend went. +By the way, what is your friend called? Gaston R., his name is, +isn't it?" + +"Yes," said I, not without smiling, as I thought of what Gaston +had confided to me, and saw that Prudence scarcely even knew his +name. + +"He is quite nice, that fellow; what does he do?" + +"He has twenty-five thousand francs a year." + +"Ah, indeed! Well, to return to you. Marguerite asked me all +about you: who you were, what you did, what mistresses you had +had; in short, everything that one could ask about a man of your +age. I told her all I knew, and added that you were a charming +young man. That's all." + +"Thanks. Now tell me what it was she wanted to say to you last +night." + +"Nothing at all. It was only to get rid of the count; but I have +really something to see her about to-day, and I am bringing her +an answer now." + +At this moment Marguerite reappeared from her dressing-room, +wearing a coquettish little nightcap with bunches of yellow +ribbons, technically known as "cabbages." She looked ravishing. +She had satin slippers on her bare feet, and was in the act of +polishing her nails. + +"Well," she said, seeing Prudence, "have you seen the duke?" + +"Yes, indeed." + +"And what did he say to you?" + +"He gave me--" + +"How much?" + +"Six thousand." + +"Have you got it?" + +"Yes. + +"Did he seem put out?" + +"No." + +"Poor man!" + +This "Poor man!" was said in a tone impossible to render. +Marguerite took the six notes of a thousand francs. + +"It was quite time," she said. "My dear Prudence, are you in want +of any money?" + +"You know, my child, it is the 15th in a couple of days, so if +you could lend me three or four hundred francs, you would do me a +real service." + +"Send over to-morrow; it is too late to get change now." + +"Don't forget." + +"No fear. Will you have supper with us?" + +"No, Charles is waiting for me." + +"You are still devoted to him?" + +"Crazy, my dear! I will see you to-morrow. Good-bye, Armand." + +Mme. Duvernoy went out. + +Marguerite opened the drawer of a side-table and threw the +bank-notes into it. + +"Will you permit me to get into bed?" she said with a smile, as +she moved toward the bed. + +"Not only permit, but I beg of you." + +She turned back the covering and got into bed. + +"Now," said she, "come and sit down by me, and let's have a +talk." + +Prudence was right: the answer that she had brought to Marguerite +had put her into a good humour. + +"Will you forgive me for my bad temper tonight?" she said, taking +my hand. + +"I am ready to forgive you as often as you like." + +"And you love me?" + +"Madly." + +"In spite of my bad disposition?" + +"In spite of all." + +"You swear it?" + +"Yes," I said in a whisper. + +Nanine entered, carrying plates, a cold chicken, a bottle of +claret, and some strawberries. + +"I haven't had any punch made," said Nanine; "claret is better +for you. Isn't it, sir?" + +"Certainly," I replied, still under the excitement of +Marguerite's last words, my eyes fixed ardently upon her. + +"Good," said she; "put it all on the little table, and draw it up +to the bed; we will help ourselves. This is the third night you +have sat up, and you must be in want of sleep. Go to bed. I don't +want anything more." + +"Shall I lock the door?" + +"I should think so! And above all, tell them not to admit anybody +before midday." + + + +Chapter 12 + +At five o'clock in the morning, as the light began to appear +through the curtains, Marguerite said to me: "Forgive me if I +send you away; but I must. The duke comes every morning; they +will tell him, when he comes, that I am asleep, and perhaps he +will wait until I wake." + +I took Marguerite's head in my hands; her loosened hair streamed +about her; I gave her a last kiss, saying: "When shall I see you +again?" + +"Listen," she said; "take the little gilt key on the mantelpiece, +open that door; bring me back the key and go. In the course of +the day you shall have a letter, and my orders, for you know you +are to obey blindly." + +"Yes; but if I should already ask for something?" + +"What?" + +"Let me have that key." + +"What you ask is a thing I have never done for any one." + +"Well, do it for me, for I swear to you that I don't love you as +the others have loved you." + +"Well, keep it; but it only depends on me to make it useless to +you, after all." + +"How?" + +"There are bolts on the door." + +"Wretch!" + +"I will have them taken off." + +"You love, then, a little?" + +"I don't know how it is, but it seems to me as if I do! Now, go; +I can't keep my eyes open." + +I held her in my arms for a few seconds and then went. + +The streets were empty, the great city was still asleep, a sweet +freshness circulated in the streets that a few hours later would +be filled with the noise of men. It seemed to me as if this +sleeping city belonged to me; I searched my memory for the names +of those whose happiness I had once envied; and I could not +recall one without finding myself the happier. + +To be loved by a pure young girl, to be the first to reveal to +her the strange mystery of love, is indeed a great happiness, but +it is the simplest thing in the world. To take captive a heart +which has had no experience of attack, is to enter an unfortified +and ungarrisoned city. Education, family feeling, the sense of +duty, the family, are strong sentinels, but there are no +sentinels so vigilant as not to be deceived by a girl of sixteen +to whom nature, by the voice of the man she loves, gives the +first counsels of love, all the more ardent because they seem so +pure. + +The more a girl believes in goodness, the more easily will she +give way, if not to her lover, at least to love, for being +without mistrust she is without force, and to win her love is a +triumph that can be gained by any young man of five-and-twenty. +See how young girls are watched and guarded! The walls of +convents are not high enough, mothers have no locks strong +enough, religion has no duties constant enough, to shut these +charming birds in their cages, cages not even strewn with +flowers. Then how surely must they desire the world which is +hidden from them, how surely must they find it tempting, how +surely must they listen to the first voice which comes to tell +its secrets through their bars, and bless the hand which is the +first to raise a corner of the mysterious veil! + +But to be really loved by a courtesan: that is a victory of +infinitely greater difficulty. With them the body has worn out +the soul, the senses have burned up the heart, dissipation has +blunted the feelings. They have long known the words that we say +to them, the means we use; they have sold the love that they +inspire. They love by profession, and not by instinct. They are +guarded better by their calculations than a virgin by her mother +and her convent; and they have invented the word caprice for that +unbartered love which they allow themselves from time to time, +for a rest, for an excuse, for a consolation, like usurers, who +cheat a thousand, and think they have bought their own redemption +by once lending a sovereign to a poor devil who is dying of +hunger without asking for interest or a receipt. + +Then, when God allows love to a courtesan, that love, which at +first seems like a pardon, becomes for her almost without +penitence. When a creature who has all her past to reproach +herself with is taken all at once by a profound, sincere, +irresistible love, of which she had never felt herself capable; +when she has confessed her love, how absolutely the man whom she +loves dominates her! How strong he feels with his cruel right to +say: You do no more for love than you have done for money. They +know not what proof to give. A child, says the fable, having +often amused himself by crying "Help! a wolf!" in order to +disturb the labourers in the field, was one day devoured by a +Wolf, because those whom he had so often deceived no longer +believed in his cries for help. It is the same with these unhappy +women when they love seriously. They have lied so often that no +one will believe them, and in the midst of their remorse they are +devoured by their love. + +Hence those great devotions, those austere retreats from the +world, of which some of them have given an example. + +But when the man who inspires this redeeming love is great enough +in soul to receive it without remembering the past, when he gives +himself up to it, when, in short, he loves as he is loved, this +man drains at one draught all earthly emotions, and after such a +love his heart will be closed to every other. + +I did not make these reflections on the morning when I returned +home. They could but have been the presentiment of what was to +happen to me, and, despite my love for Marguerite, I did not +foresee such consequences. I make these reflections to-day. Now +that all is irrevocably ended, they a rise naturally out of what +has taken place. + +But to return to the first day of my liaison. When I reached home +I was in a state of mad gaiety. As I thought of how the barriers +which my imagination had placed between Marguerite and myself had +disappeared, of how she was now mine; of the place I now had in +her thoughts, of the key to her room which I had in my pocket, +and of my right to use this key, I was satisfied with life, proud +of myself, and I loved God because he had let such things be. + +One day a young man is passing in the street, he brushes against +a woman, looks at her, turns, goes on his way. He does not know +the woman, and she has pleasures, griefs, loves, in which he has +no part. He does not exist for her, and perhaps, if he spoke to +her, she would only laugh at him, as Marguerite had laughed at +me. Weeks, months, years pass, and all at once, when they have +each followed their fate along a different path, the logic of +chance brings them face to face. The woman becomes the man's +mistress and loves him. How? why? Their two existences are +henceforth one; they have scarcely begun to know one another when +it seems as if they had known one another always, and all that +had gone before is wiped out from the memory of the two lovers. +It is curious, one must admit. + +As for me, I no longer remembered how I had lived before that +night. My whole being was exalted into joy at the memory of the +words we had exchanged during that first night. Either Marguerite +was very clever in deception, or she had conceived for me one of +those sudden passions which are revealed in the first kiss, and +which die, often enough, as suddenly as they were born. + +The more I reflected the more I said to myself that Marguerite +had no reason for feigning a love which she did not feel, and I +said to myself also that women have two ways of loving, one of +which may arise from the other: they love with the heart or with +the senses. Often a woman takes a lover in obedience to the mere +will of the senses, and learns without expecting it the mystery +of immaterial love, and lives henceforth only through her heart; +often a girl who has sought in marriage only the union of two +pure affections receives the sudden revelation of physical love, +that energetic conclusion of the purest impressions of the soul. + +In the midst of these thoughts I fell asleep; I was awakened by a +letter from Marguerite containing these words: + +"Here are my orders: To-night at the Vaudeville. + +"Come during the third entr'acte." + +I put the letter into a drawer, so that I might always have it at +band in case I doubted its reality, as I did from time to time. + +She did not tell me to come to see her during the day, and I +dared not go; but I had so great a desire to see her before the +evening that I went to the Champs-Elysees, where I again saw her +pass and repass, as I had on the previous day. + +At seven o'clock I was at the Vaudeville. Never had I gone to a +theatre so early. The boxes filled one after another. Only one +remained empty, the stage box. At the beginning of the third act +I heard the door of the box, on which my eyes had been almost +constantly fixed, open, and Marguerite appeared. She came to the +front at once, looked around the stalls, saw me, and thanked me +with a look. + +That night she was marvellously beautiful. Was I the cause of +this coquetry? Did she love me enough to believe that the more +beautiful she looked the happier I should be? I did not know, but +if that had been her intention she certainly succeeded, for when +she appeared all heads turned, and the actor who was then on the +stage looked to see who had produced such an effect on the +audience by her mere presence there. + +And I had the key of this woman's room, and in three or four +hours she would again be mine! + +People blame those who let themselves be ruined by actresses and +kept women; what astonishes me is that twenty times greater +follies are not committed for them. One must have lived that +life, as I have, to know how much the little vanities which they +afford their lovers every day help to fasten deeper into the +heart, since we have no other word for it, the love which he has +for them. + +Prudence next took her place in the box, and a man, whom I +recognised as the Comte de G., seated himself at the back. As I +saw him, a cold shiver went through my heart. + +Doubtless Marguerite perceived the impression made on me by the +presence of this man, for she smiled to me again, and, turning +her back to the count, appeared to be very attentive to the play. +At the third entr'acte she turned and said two words: the count +left the box, and Marguerite beckoned to me to come to her. + +"Good-evening," she said as I entered, holding out her hand. + +"Good-evening," I replied to both Marguerite and Prudence. + +"Sit down." + +"But I am taking some one's place. Isn't the Comte de G. coming +back?" + +"Yes; I sent him to fetch some sweets, so that we could talk by +ourselves for a moment. Mme. Duvernoy is in the secret." + +"Yes, my children," said she; "have no fear. I shall say +nothing." + +"What is the matter with you to-night?" said Marguerite, rising +and coming to the back of the box and kissing me on the forehead. + +"I am not very well." + +"You should go to bed," she replied, with that ironical air which +went so well with her delicate and witty face. + +"Where?" + +"At home." + +"You know that I shouldn't be able to sleep there." + +"Well, then, it won't do for you to come and be pettish here +because you have seen a man in my box." + +"It is not for that reason." + +"Yes, it is. I know; and you are wrong, so let us say no more +about it. You will go back with Prudence after the theatre, and +you will stay there till I call. Do you understand?" + +"Yes." + +How could I disobey? + +"You still love me?" + +"Can you ask?" + +"You have thought of me?" + +"All day long." + +"Do you know that I am really afraid that I shall get very fond +of you? Ask Prudence." + +"Ah," said she, "it is amazing!" + +"Now, you must go back to your seat. The count will be coming +back, and there is nothing to be gained by his finding you here." + +"Because you don't like seeing him." + +"No; only if you had told me that you wanted to come to the +Vaudeville to-night I could have got this box for you as well as +he." + +"Unfortunately, he got it for me without my asking him, and he +asked me to go with him; you know well enough that I couldn't +refuse. All I could do was to write and tell you where I was +going, so that you could see me, and because I wanted to see you +myself; but since this is the way you thank me, I shall profit by +the lesson." + +"I was wrong; forgive me." + +"Well and good; and now go back nicely to your place, and, above +all, no more jealousy." + +She kissed me again, and I left the box. In the passage I met the +count coming back. I returned to my seat. + +After all, the presence of M. de G. in Marguerite's box was the +most natural thing in the world. He had been her lover, he sent +her a box, he accompanied her to the theatre; it was all quite +natural, and if I was to have a mistress like Marguerite I should +have to get used to her ways. + +Nonetheless, I was very unhappy all the rest of the evening, and +went away very sadly after having seen Prudence, the count, and +Marguerite get into the carriage, which was waiting for them at +the door. + +However, a quarter of an hour later I was at Prudence's. She had +only just got in. + + + +Chapter 13 + +"You have come almost as quickly as we," said Prudence. + +"Yes," I answered mechanically. "Where is Marguerite?" + +"At home." + +"Alone?" + +"With M. de G." + +I walked to and fro in the room. + +"Well, what is the matter?" + +"Do you think it amuses me to wait here till M. de G. leaves +Marguerite's?" + +"How unreasonable you are! Don't you see that Marguerite can't +turn the count out of doors? M. de G. has been with her for a +long time; he has always given her a lot of money; he still does. +Marguerite spends more than a hundred thousand francs a year; she +has heaps of debts. The duke gives her all that she asks for, but +she does not always venture to ask him for all that she is in +want of. It would never do for her to quarrel with the count, who +is worth to her at least ten thousand francs a year. Marguerite +is very fond of you, my dear fellow, but your liaison with her, +in her interests and in yours, ought not to be serious. You with +your seven or eight thousand francs a year, what could you do +toward supplying all the luxuries which a girl like that is in +need of? It would not be enough to keep her carriage. Take +Marguerite for what she is, for a good, bright, pretty girl; be +her lover for a month, two months; give her flowers, sweets, +boxes at the theatre; but don't get any other ideas into your +head, and don't make absurd scenes of jealousy. You know whom you +have to do with; Marguerite isn't a saint. She likes you, you are +very fond of her; let the rest alone. You amaze me when I see you +so touchy; you have the most charming mistress in Paris. She +receives you in the greatest style, she is covered with diamonds, +she needn't cost you a penny, unless you like, and you are not +satisfied. My dear fellow, you ask too much!" + +"You are right, but I can't help it; the idea that that man is +her lover hurts me horribly." + +"In the first place," replied Prudence; "is he still her lover? +He is a man who is useful to her, nothing more. She has closed +her doors to him for two days; he came this morning--she could +not but accept the box and let him accompany her. He saw her +home; he has gone in for a moment, he is not staying, because you +are waiting here. All that, it seems to me, is quite natural. +Besides, you don't mind the duke." + +"Yes; but he is an old man, and I am sure that Marguerite is not +his mistress. Then, it is all very well to accept one liaison, +but not two. Such easiness in the matter is very like +calculation, and puts the man who consents to it, even out of +love, very much in the category of those who, in a lower stage of +society, make a trade of their connivance, and a profit of their +trade." + +"Ah, my dear fellow, how old-fashioned you are! How many of the +richest and most fashionable men of the best families I have seen +quite ready to do what I advise you to do, and without an effort, +without shame, without remorse, Why, one sees it every day. How +do you suppose the kept women in Paris could live in the style +they do, if they had not three or four lovers at once? No single +fortune, however large, could suffice for the expenses of a woman +like Marguerite. A fortune of five hundred thousand francs a year +is, in France, an enormous fortune; well, my dear friend, five +hundred thousand francs a year would still be too little, and for +this reason: a man with such an income has a large house, horses, +servants, carriages; he shoots, has friends, often he is married, +he has children, he races, gambles, travels, and what not. All +these habits are so much a part of his position that he can not +forego them without appearing to have lost all his money, and +without causing scandal. Taking it all round, with five hundred +thousand francs a year he can not give a woman more than forty or +fifty thousand francs in the year, and that is already a good +deal. Well, other lovers make up for the rest of her expenses. +With Marguerite, it is still more convenient; she has chanced by +a miracle on an old man worth ten millions, whose wife and +daughter are dead; who has only some nephews, themselves rich, +and who gives her all she wants without asking anything in +return. But she can not ask him for more than seventy thousand +francs a year; and I am sure that if she did ask for more, +despite his health and the affection he has for her he would not +give it to her. + +"All the young men of twenty or thirty thousand francs a year at +Paris, that is to say, men who have only just enough to live on +in the society in which they mix, know perfectly well, when they +are the lovers of a woman like Marguerite, that she could not so +much as pay for the rooms she lives in and the servants who wait +upon her with what they give her. They do not say to her that +they know it; they pretend not to see anything, and when they +have had enough of it they go their way. If they have the vanity +to wish to pay for everything they get ruined, like the fools +they are, and go and get killed in Africa, after leaving a +hundred thousand francs of debt in Paris. Do you think a woman is +grateful to them for it? Far from it. She declares that she has +sacrificed her position for them, and that while she was with +them she was losing money. These details seem to you shocking? +Well, they are true. You are a very nice fellow; I like you very +much. I have lived with these women for twenty years; I know what +they are worth, and I don't want to see you take the caprice that +a pretty girl has for you too seriously. + +"Then, besides that," continued Prudence; "admit that Marguerite +loves you enough to give up the count or the duke, in case one of +them were to discover your liaison and to tell her to choose +between him and you, the sacrifice that she would make for you +would be enormous, you can not deny it. What equal sacrifice +could you make for her, on your part, and when you had got tired +of her, what could you do to make up for what you had taken from +her? Nothing. You would have cut her off from the world in which +her fortune and her future were to be found; she would have given +you her best years, and she would be forgotten. Either you would +be an ordinary man, and, casting her past in her teeth, you would +leave her, telling her that you were only doing like her other +lovers, and you would abandon her to certain misery; or you would +be an honest man, and, feeling bound to keep her by you, you +would bring inevitable trouble upon yourself, for a liaison which +is excusable in a young man, is no longer excusable in a man of +middle age. It becomes an obstacle to every thing; it allows +neither family nor ambition, man's second and last loves. Believe +me, then, my friend, take things for what they are worth, and do +not give a kept woman the right to call herself your creditor, no +matter in what." + +It was well argued, with a logic of which I should have thought +Prudence incapable. I had nothing to reply, except that she was +right; I took her hand and thanked her for her counsels. + +"Come, come," said she, "put these foolish theories to flight, +and laugh over them. Life is pleasant, my dear fellow; it all +depends on the colour of the glass through which one sees it. Ask +your friend Gaston; there's a man who seems to me to understand +love as I understand it. All that you need think of, unless you +are quite a fool, is that close by there is a beautiful girl who +is waiting impatiently for the man who is with her to go, +thinking of you, keeping the whole night for you, and who loves +you, I am certain. Now, come to the window with me, and let us +watch for the count to go; he won't be long in leaving the coast +clear." + +Prudence opened the window, and we leaned side by side over the +balcony. She watched the few passers, I reflected. All that she +had said buzzed in my head, and I could not help feeling that she +was right; but the genuine love which I had for Marguerite had +some difficulty in accommodating itself to such a belief. I +sighed from time to time, at which Prudence turned, and shrugged +her shoulders like a physician who has given up his patient. + +"How one realizes the shortness of life," I said to myself, "by +the rapidity of sensations! I have only known Marguerite for two +days, she has only been my mistress since yesterday, and she has +already so completely absorbed my thoughts, my heart, and my life +that the visit of the Comte de G. is a misfortune for me." + +At last the count came out, got into his carriage and +disappeared. Prudence closed the window. At the same instant +Marguerite called to us: + +"Come at once," she said; "they are laying the table, and we'll +have supper." + +When I entered, Marguerite ran to me, threw her arms around my +neck and kissed me with all her might. + +"Are we still sulky?" she said to me. + +"No, it is all over," replied Prudence. "I have given him a +talking to, and he has promised to be reasonable." + +"Well and good." + +In spite of myself I glanced at the bed; it was not unmade. As +for Marguerite, she was already in her white dressing-gown. We +sat down to table. + +Charm, sweetness, spontaneity, Marguerite had them all, and I was +forced from time to time to admit that I had no right to ask of +her anything else; that many people would be very happy to be in +my place; and that, like Virgil's shepherd, I had only to enjoy +the pleasures that a god, or rather a goddess, set before me. + +I tried to put in practice the theories of Prudence, and to be as +gay as my two companions; but what was natural in them was on my +part an effort, and the nervous laughter, whose source they did +not detect, was nearer to tears than to mirth. + +At last the supper was over and I was alone with Marguerite. She +sat down as usual on the hearthrug before the fire and gazed +sadly into the flames. What was she thinking of? I know not. As +for me, I looked at her with a mingling of love and terror, as I +thought of all that I was ready to suffer for her sake. + +"Do you know what I am thinking of?" + +"No." + +"Of a plan that has come into my head." + +"And what is this plan?" + +"I can't tell you yet, but I can tell you what the result would +be. The result would be that in a month I should be free, I +should have no more debts, and we could go and spend the summer +in the country." + +"And you can't tell me by what means?" + +"No, only love me as I love you, and all will succeed." + +"And have you made this plan all by yourself?" + +"Yes. "And you will carry it out all by yourself?" + +"I alone shall have the trouble of it," said Marguerite, with a +smile which I shall never forget, "but we shall both partake its +benefits." + +I could not help flushing at the word benefits; I thought of +Manon Lescaut squandering with Desgrieux the money of M. de B. + +I replied in a hard voice, rising from my seat: + +"You must permit me, my dear Marguerite, to share only the +benefits of those enterprises which I have conceived and carried +out myself." + +"What does that mean?" + +"It means that I have a strong suspicion that M. de G. is to be +your associate in this pretty plan, of which I can accept neither +the cost nor the benefits + +"What a child you are! I thought you loved me. I was mistaken; +all right." + +She rose, opened the piano and began to play the Invitation a la +Valse, as far as the famous passage in the major which always +stopped her. Was it through force of habit, or was it to remind +me of the day when we first met? All I know is that the melody +brought back that recollection, and, coming up to her, I took her +head between my hands and kissed her. "You forgive me?" I said. + +"You see I do," she answered; "but observe that we are only at +our second day, and already I have had to forgive you something. +Is this how you keep your promise of blind obedience?" + +"What can I do, Marguerite? I love you too much and I am jealous +of the least of your thoughts. What you proposed to me just now +made me frantic with delight, but the mystery in its carrying out +hurts me dreadfully." + +"Come, let us reason it out," she said, taking both my hands and +looking at me with a charming smile which it was impossible to +resist, "You love me, do you not? and you would gladly spend two +or three months alone with me in the country? I too should be +glad of this solitude a deux, and not only glad of it, but my +health requires it. I can not leave Paris for such a length of +time without putting my affairs in order, and the affairs of a +woman like me are always in great confusion; well, I have found a +way to reconcile everything, my money affairs and my love for +you; yes, for you, don't laugh; I am silly enough to love you! +And here you are taking lordly airs and talking big words. Child, +thrice child, only remember that I love you, and don't let +anything disturb you. Now, is it agreed?" + +"I agree to all you wish, as you know." + +"Then, in less than a month's time we shall be in some village, +walking by the river side, and drinking milk. Does it seem +strange that Marguerite Gautier should speak to you like that? +The fact is, my friend, that when this Paris life, which seems to +make me so happy, doesn't burn me, it wearies me, and then I have +sudden aspirations toward a calmer existence which might recall +my childhood. One has always had a childhood, whatever one +becomes. Don't be alarmed; I am not going to tell you that I am +the daughter of a colonel on half-pay, and that I was brought up +at Saint-Denis. I am a poor country girl, and six years ago I +could not write my own name. You are relieved, aren't you? Why is +it you are the first whom I have ever asked to share the joy of +this desire of mine? I suppose because I feel that you love me +for myself and not for yourself, while all the others have only +loved me for themselves. + +"I have often been in the country, but never as I should like to +go there. I count on you for this easy happiness; do not be +unkind, let me have it. Say this to yourself: 'She will never +live to be old, and I should some day be sorry for not having +done for her the first thing she asked of me, such an easy thing +to do!'" + +What could I reply to such words, especially with the memory of a +first night of love, and in the expectation of a second? + +An hour later I held Marguerite in my arms, and, if she had asked +me to commit a crime, I would have obeyed her. + +At six in the morning I left her, and before leaving her I said: +"Till to-night!" She kissed me more warmly than ever, but said +nothing. + +During the day I received a note containing these words: + +"DEAR CHILD: I am not very well, and the doctor has ordered +quiet. I shall go to bed early to-night and shall not see you. +But, to make up, I shall expect you to-morrow at twelve. I love +you." + +My first thought was: She is deceiving me! + +A cold sweat broke out on my forehead, for I already loved this +woman too much not to be overwhelmed by the suspicion. And yet, I +was bound to expect such a thing almost any day with Marguerite, +and it had happened to me often enough with my other mistresses, +without my taking much notice of it. What was the meaning of the +hold which this woman had taken upon my life? + +Then it occurred to me, since I had the key, to go and see her as +usual. In this way I should soon know the truth, and if I found a +man there I would strike him in the face. + +Meanwhile I went to the Champs-Elysees. I waited there four +hours. She did not appear. At night I went into all the theatres +where she was accustomed to go. She was in none of them. + +At eleven o'clock I went to the Rue d'Antin. There was no light +in Marguerite's windows. All the same, I rang. The porter asked +me where I was going. + +"To Mlle. Gautier's," I said. + +"She has not come in." + +"I will go up and wait for her." + +"There is no one there." + +Evidently I could get in, since I had the key, but, fearing +foolish scandal, I went away. Only I did not return home; I could +not leave the street, and I never took my eyes off Marguerite's +house. It seemed to me that there was still something to be found +out, or at least that my suspicions were about to be confirmed. + +About midnight a carriage that I knew well stopped before No. 9. +The Comte de G. got down and entered the house, after sending +away the carriage. For a moment I hoped that the same answer +would be given to him as to me, and that I should see him come +out; but at four o'clock in the morning I was still awaiting him. + +I have suffered deeply during these last three weeks, but that is +nothing, I think, in comparison with what I suffered that night. + + + +Chapter 14 + +When I reached home I began to cry like a child. There is no man +to whom a woman has not been unfaithful, once at least, and who +will not know what I suffered. + +I said to myself, under the weight of these feverish resolutions +which one always feels as if one had the force to carry out, that +I must break with my amour at once, and I waited impatiently for +daylight in order to set out forthwith to rejoin my father and my +sister, of whose love at least I was certain, and certain that +that love would never be betrayed. + +However, I did not wish to go away without letting Marguerite +know why I went. Only a man who really cares no more for his +mistress leaves her without writing to her. I made and remade +twenty letters in my head. I had had to do with a woman like all +other women of the kind. I had been poetizing too much. She had +treated me like a school-boy, she had used in deceiving me a +trick which was insultingly simple. My self-esteem got the upper +hand. I must leave this woman without giving her the satisfaction +of knowing that she had made me suffer, and this is what I wrote +to her in my most elegant handwriting and with tears of rage and +sorrow in my eyes: + +"MY DEAR MARGUERITE: I hope that your indisposition yesterday was +not serious. I came, at eleven at night, to ask after you, and +was told that you had not come in. M. de G. was more fortunate, +for he presented himself shortly afterward, and at four in the +morning he had not left. + +"Forgive me for the few tedious hours that I have given you, and +be assured that I shall never forget the happy moments which I +owe to you. + +"I should have called to-day to ask after you, but I intend going +back to my father's. + +"Good-bye, my dear Marguerite. I am not rich enough to love you +as I would nor poor enough to love you as you would. Let us then +forget, you a name which must be indifferent enough to you, I a +happiness which has become impossible. + +"I send back your key, which I have never used, and which might +be useful to you, if you are often ill as you were yesterday." + +As you will see, I was unable to end my letter without a touch of +impertinent irony, which proved how much in love I still was. + +I read and reread this letter ten times over; then the thought of +the pain it would give to Marguerite calmed me a little. I tried +to persuade myself of the feelings which it professed; and when +my servant came to my room at eight o'clock, I gave it to him and +told him to take it at once. + +"Shall I wait for an answer?" asked Joseph (my servant, like all +servants, was called Joseph). + +"If they ask whether there is a reply, you will say that you +don't know, and wait." + +I buoyed myself up with the hope that she would reply. Poor, +feeble creatures that we are! All the time that my servant was +away I was in a state of extreme agitation. At one moment I would +recall how Marguerite had given herself to me, and ask myself by +what right I wrote her an impertinent letter, when she could +reply that it was not M. de G. who supplanted me, but I who had +supplanted M. de G.: a mode of reasoning which permits many women +to have many lovers. At another moment I would recall her +promises, and endeavour to convince myself that my letter was +only too gentle, and that there were not expressions forcible +enough to punish a woman who laughed at a love like mine. Then I +said to myself that I should have done better not to have written +to her, but to have gone to see her, and that then I should have +had the pleasure of seeing the tears that she would shed. +Finally, I asked myself what she would reply to me; already +prepared to believe whatever excuse she made. + +Joseph returned. + +"Well?" I said to him. + +"Sir," said he, "madame was not up, and still asleep, but as soon +as she rings the letter will be taken to her, and if there is any +reply it will be sent." + +She was asleep! + +Twenty times I was on the point of sending to get the letter +back, but every time I said to myself: "Perhaps she will have got +it already, and it would look as if I have repented of sending +it." + +As the hour at which it seemed likely that she would reply came +nearer, I regretted more and more that I had written. The clock +struck, ten, eleven, twelve. At twelve I was on the point of +keeping the appointment as if nothing had happened. In the end I +could see no way out of the circle of fire which closed upon me. + +Then I began to believe, with the superstition which people have +when they are waiting, that if I went out for a little while, I +should find an answer when I got back. I went out under the +pretext of going to lunch. + +Instead of lunching at the Cafe Foy, at the corner of the +Boulevard, as I usually did, I preferred to go to the Palais +Royal and so pass through the Rue d'Antin. Every time that I saw +a woman at a distance, I fancied it was Nanine bringing me an +answer. I passed through the Rue d'Antin without even coming +across a commissionaire. I went to Very's in the Palais Royal. +The waiter gave me something to eat, or rather served up to me +whatever he liked, for I ate nothing. In spite of myself, my eyes +were constantly fixed on the clock. I returned home, certain that +I should find a letter from Marguerite. + +The porter had received nothing, but I still hoped in my servant. +He had seen no one since I went out. + +If Marguerite had been going to answer me she would have answered +long before. + +Then I began to regret the terms of my letter; I should have said +absolutely nothing, and that would undoubtedly have aroused her +suspicions, for, finding that I did not keep my appointment, she +would have inquired the reason of my absence, and only then I +should have given it to her. Thus, she would have had to +exculpate herself, and what I wanted was for her to exculpate +herself. I already realized that I should have believed whatever +reasons she had given me, and anything was better than not to see +her again. + +At last I began to believe that she would come to see me herself; +but hour followed hour, and she did not come. + +Decidedly Marguerite was not like other women, for there are few +who would have received such a letter as I had just written +without answering it at all. + +At five, I hastened to the Champs-Elysees. "If I meet her," I +thought, "I will put on an indifferent air, and she will be +convinced that I no longer think about her." + +As I turned the corner of the Rue Royale, I saw her pass in her +carriage. The meeting was so sudden that I turned pale. I do not +know if she saw my emotion; as for me, I was so agitated that I +saw nothing but the carriage. + +I did not go any farther in the direction of the Champs-Elysees. +I looked at the advertisements of the theatres, for I had still a +chance of seeing her. There was a first night at the Palais +Royal. Marguerite was sure to be there. I was at the theatre by +seven. The boxes filled one after another, but Marguerite was not +there. I left the Palais Royal and went to all the theatres where +she was most often to be seen: to the Vaudeville, the Varietes, +the Opera Comique. She was nowhere. + +Either my letter had troubled her too much for her to care to go +to the theatre, or she feared to come across me, and so wished to +avoid an explanation. So my vanity was whispering to me on the +boulevards, when I met Gaston, who asked me where I had been. + +"At the Palais Royal." + +"And I at the Opera," said he; "I expected to see you there." + +"Why?" + +"Because Marguerite was there." + +"Ah, she was there?" + +"Yes. + +"Alone?" + +"No; with another woman." + +"That all?" + +"The Comte de G. came to her box for an instant; but she went off +with the duke. I expected to see you every moment, for there was +a stall at my side which remained empty the whole evening, and I +was sure you had taken it." + +"But why should I go where Marguerite goes?" + +"Because you are her lover, surely!" + +"Who told you that?" + +"Prudence, whom I met yesterday. I give you my congratulations, +my dear fellow; she is a charming mistress, and it isn't +everybody who has the chance. Stick to her; she will do you +credit." + +These simple reflections of Gaston showed me how absurd had been +my susceptibilities. If I had only met him the night before and +he had spoken to me like that, I should certainly not have +written the foolish letter which I had written. + +I was on the point of calling on Prudence, and of sending her to +tell Marguerite that I wanted to speak to her; but I feared that +she would revenge herself on me by saying that she could not see +me, and I returned home, after passing through the Rue d'Antin. +Again I asked my porter if there was a letter for me. Nothing! +She is waiting to see if I shall take some fresh step, and if I +retract my letter of to-day, I said to myself as I went to bed; +but, seeing that I do not write, she will write to me to-morrow. + +That night, more than ever, I reproached myself for what I had +done. I was alone, unable to sleep, devoured by restlessness and +jealousy, when by simply letting things take their natural course +I should have been with Marguerite, hearing the delicious words +which I had heard only twice, and which made my ears burn in my +solitude. + +The most frightful part of the situation was that my judgment was +against me; as a matter of fact, everything went to prove that +Marguerite loved me. First, her proposal to spend the summer with +me in the country, then the certainty that there was no reason +why she should be my mistress, since my income was insufficient +for her needs and even for her caprices. There could not then +have been on her part anything but the hope of finding in me a +sincere affection, able to give her rest from the mercenary loves +in whose midst she lived; and on the very second day I had +destroyed this hope, and paid by impertinent irony for the love +which I had accepted during two nights. What I had done was +therefore not merely ridiculous, it was indelicate. I had not +even paid the woman, that I might have some right to find fault +with her; withdrawing after two days, was I not like a parasite +of love, afraid of having to pay the bill of the banquet? What! I +had only known Marguerite for thirty-six hours; I had been her +lover for only twenty-four; and instead of being too happy that +she should grant me all that she did, I wanted to have her all to +myself, and to make her sever at one stroke all her past +relations which were the revenue of her future. What had I to +reproach in her? Nothing. She had written to say she was unwell, +when she might have said to me quite crudely, with the hideous +frankness of certain women, that she had to see a lover; and, +instead of believing her letter, instead of going to any street +in Paris except the Rue d'Antin, instead of spending the evening +with my friends, and presenting myself next day at the appointed +hour, I was acting the Othello, spying upon her, and thinking to +punish her by seeing her no more. But, on the contrary, she ought +to be enchanted at this separation. She ought to find me +supremely foolish, and her silence was not even that of rancour; +it was contempt. + +I might have made Marguerite a present which would leave no doubt +as to my generosity and permit me to feel properly quits of her, +as of a kept woman, but I should have felt that I was offending +by the least appearance of trafficking, if not the love which she +had for me, at all events the love which I had for her, and since +this love was so pure that it could admit no division, it could +not pay by a present, however generous, the happiness that it had +received, however short that happiness had been. + +That is what I said to myself all night long, and what I was +every moment prepared to go and say to Marguerite. When the day +dawned I was still sleepless. I was in a fever. I could think of +nothing but Marguerite. + +As you can imagine, it was time to take a decided step, and +finish either with the woman or with one's scruples, if, that is, +she would still be willing to see me. But you know well, one is +always slow in taking a decided step; so, unable to remain within +doors and not daring to call on Marguerite, I made one attempt in +her direction, an attempt that I could always look upon as a mere +chance if it succeeded. + +It was nine o'clock, and I went at once to call upon Prudence, +who asked to what she owed this early visit. I dared not tell her +frankly what brought me. I replied that I had gone out early in +order to reserve a place in the diligence for C., where my father +lived. + +"You are fortunate," she said, "in being able to get away from +Paris in this fine weather." + +I looked at Prudence, asking myself whether she was laughing at +me, but her face was quite serious. + +"Shall you go and say good-bye to Marguerite?" she continued, as +seriously as before. + +"No." + +"You are quite right." + +"You think so?" + +"Naturally. Since you have broken with her, why should you see +her again?" + +"You know it is broken off?" + +"She showed me your letter." + +"What did she say about it?" + +"She said: 'My dear Prudence, your protege is not polite; one +thinks such letters, one does not write them."' + +"In what tone did she say that?" + +"Laughingly, and she added: "He has had supper with me twice, and +hasn't even called."' + +That, then, was the effect produced by my letter and my jealousy. +I was cruelly humiliated in the vanity of my affection. + +"What did she do last night?" + +"She went to the opera." + +"I know. And afterward?" + +"She had supper at home." + +"Alone?" + +"With the Comte de G., I believe." + +So my breaking with her had not changed one of her habits. It is +for such reasons as this that certain people say to you: Don't +have anything more to do with the woman; she cares nothing about +you. + +"Well, I am very glad to find that Marguerite does not put +herself out for me," I said with a forced smile. + +"She has very good reason not to. You have done what you were +bound to do. You have been more reasonable than she, for she was +really in love with you; she did nothing but talk of you. I don't +know what she would not have been capable of doing." + +"Why hasn't she answered me, if she was in love with me?" + +"Because she realizes she was mistaken in letting herself love +you. Women sometimes allow you to be unfaithful to their love; +they never allow you to wound their self-esteem; and one always +wounds the self-esteem of a woman when, two days after one has +become her lover, one leaves her, no matter for what reason. I +know Marguerite; she would die sooner than reply." + +"What can I do, then?" + +"Nothing. She will forget you, you will forget her, and neither +will have any reproach to make against the other." + +"But if I write and ask her forgiveness?" + +"Don't do that, for she would forgive you." + +I could have flung my arms round Prudence's neck. + +A quarter of an hour later I was once more in my own quarters, +and I wrote to Marguerite: + +"Some one, who repents of a letter that he wrote yesterday and +who will leave Paris to-morrow if you do not forgive him, wishes +to know at what hour he might lay his repentance at your feet. + +"When can he find you alone? for, you know, confessions must be +made without witnesses." + +I folded this kind of madrigal in prose, and sent it by Joseph, +who handed it to Marguerite herself; she replied that she would +send the answer later. + +I only went out to have a hasty dinner, and at eleven in the +evening no reply had come. I made up my mind to endure it no +longer, and to set out next day. In consequence of this +resolution, and convinced that I should not sleep if I went to +bed, I began to pack up my things. + + + +Chapter 15 + +It was hardly an hour after Joseph and I had begun preparing for +my departure, when there was a violent ring at the door. + +"Shall I go to the door?" said Joseph. + +"Go," I said, asking myself who it could be at such an hour, and +not daring to believe that it was Marguerite. + +"Sir," said Joseph coming back to me, "it is two ladies." + +"It is we, Armand," cried a voice that I recognised as that of +Prudence. + +I came out of my room. Prudence was standing looking around the +place; Marguerite, seated on the sofa, was meditating. I went to +her, knelt down, took her two hands, and, deeply moved, said to +her, "Pardon." + +She kissed me on the forehead, and said: + +"This is the third time that I have forgiven you." + +"I should have gone away to-morrow." + +"How can my visit change your plans? I have not come to hinder +you from leaving Paris. I have come because I had no time to +answer you during the day, and I did not wish to let you think +that I was angry with you. Prudence didn't want me to come; she +said that I might be in the way." + +"You in the way, Marguerite! But how?" + +"Well, you might have had a woman here," said Prudence, "and it +would hardly have been amusing for her to see two more arrive." + +During this remark Marguerite looked at me attentively. + +"My dear Prudence," I answered, "you do not know what you are +saying." + +"What a nice place you've got!" Prudence went on. "May we see the +bedroom?" + +"Yes." + +Prudence went into the bedroom, not so much to see it as to make +up for the foolish thing which she had just said, and to leave +Marguerite and me alone. + +"Why did you bring Prudence?" I asked her. + +"Because she was at the theatre with me, and because when I leave +here I want to have some one to see me home." + +"Could not I do?" + +"Yes, but, besides not wishing to put you out, I was sure that if +you came as far as my door you would want to come up, and as I +could not let you, I did not wish to let you go away blaming me +for saying 'No.'" + +"And why could you not let me come up?" + +"Because I am watched, and the least suspicion might do me the +greatest harm." + +"Is that really the only reason?" + +"If there were any other, I would tell you; for we are not to +have any secrets from one another now." + +"Come, Marguerite, I am not going to take a roundabout way of +saying what I really want to say. Honestly, do you care for me a +little?" + +"A great deal." + +"Then why did you deceive me?" + +"My friend, if I were the Duchess So and So, if I had two hundred +thousand francs a year, and if I were your mistress and had +another lover, you would have the right to ask me; but I am Mlle. +Marguerite Gautier, I am forty thousand francs in debt, I have +not a penny of my own, and I spend a hundred thousand francs a +year. Your question becomes unnecessary and my answer useless." + +"You are right," I said, letting my head sink on her knees; "but +I love you madly." + +"Well, my friend, you must either love me a little less or +understand me a little better. Your letter gave me a great deal +of pain. If I had been free, first of all I would not have seen +the count the day before yesterday, or, if I had, I should have +come and asked your forgiveness as you ask me now, and in future +I should have had no other lover but you. I fancied for a moment +that I might give myself that happiness for six months; you would +not have it; you insisted on knowing the means. Well, good +heavens, the means were easy enough to guess! In employing them I +was making a greater sacrifice for you than you imagine. I might +have said to you, 'I want twenty thousand francs'; you were in +love with me and you would have found them, at the risk of +reproaching me for it later on. I preferred to owe you nothing; +you did not understand the scruple, for such it was. Those of us +who are like me, when we have any heart at all, we give a meaning +and a development to words and things unknown to other women; I +repeat, then, that on the part of Marguerite Gautier the means +which she used to pay her debts without asking you for the money +necessary for it, was a scruple by which you ought to profit, +without saying anything. If you had only met me to-day, you would +be too delighted with what I promised you, and you would not +question me as to what I did the day before yesterday. We are +sometimes obliged to buy the satisfaction of our souls at the +expense of our bodies, and we suffer still more, when, afterward, +that satisfaction is denied us." + +I listened, and I gazed at Marguerite with admiration. When I +thought that this marvellous creature, whose feet I had once +longed to kiss, was willing to let me take my place in her +thoughts, my part in her life, and that I was not yet content +with what she gave me, I asked if man's desire has indeed limits +when, satisfied as promptly as mine had been, it reached after +something further. + +"Truly," she continued, "we poor creatures of chance have +fantastic desires and inconceivable loves. We give ourselves now +for one thing, now for another. There are men who ruin themselves +without obtaining the least thing from us; there are others who +obtain us for a bouquet of flowers. Our hearts have their +caprices; it is their one distraction and their one excuse. I +gave myself to you sooner than I ever did to any man, I swear to +you; and do you know why? Because when you saw me spitting blood +you took my hand; because you wept; because you are the only +human being who has ever pitied me. I am going to say a mad thing +to you: I once had a little dog who looked at me with a sad look +when I coughed; that is the only creature I ever loved. When he +died I cried more than when my mother died. It is true that for +twelve years of her life she used to beat me. Well, I loved you +all at once, as much as my dog. If men knew what they can have +for a tear, they would be better loved and we should be less +ruinous to them. + +"Your letter undeceived me; it showed me that you lacked the +intelligence of the heart; it did you more harm with me than +anything you could possibly have done. It was jealousy certainly, +but ironical and impertinent jealousy. I was already feeling sad +when I received your letter. I was looking forward to seeing you +at twelve, to having lunch with you, and wiping out, by seeing +you, a thought which was with me incessantly, and which, before I +knew you, I had no difficulty in tolerating. + +"Then," continued Marguerite, "you were the only person before +whom it seemed to me, from the first, that I could think and +speak freely. All those who come about women like me have an +interest in calculating their slightest words, in thinking of the +consequences of their most insignificant actions. Naturally we +have no friends. We have selfish lovers who spend their fortunes, +riot on us, as they say, but on their own vanity. For these +people we have to be merry when they are merry, well when they +want to sup, sceptics like themselves. We are not allowed to have +hearts, under penalty of being hooted down and of ruining our +credit. + +"We no longer belong to ourselves. We are no longer beings, but +things. We stand first in their self-esteem, last in their +esteem. We have women who call themselves our friends, but they +are friends like Prudence, women who were once kept and who have +still the costly tastes that their age does not allow them to +gratify. Then they become our friends, or rather our guests at +table. Their friendship is carried to the point of servility, +never to that of disinterestedness. Never do they give you advice +which is not lucrative. It means little enough to them that we +should have ten lovers extra, as long as they get dresses or a +bracelet out of them, and that they can drive in our carriage +from time to time or come to our box at the theatre. They have +our last night's bouquets, and they borrow our shawls. They never +render us a service, however slight, without seeing that they are +paid twice its value. You yourself saw when Prudence brought me +the six thousand francs that I had asked her to get from the +duke, how she borrowed five hundred francs, which she will never +pay me back, or which she will pay me in hats, which will never +be taken out of their boxes. + +"We can not, then, have, or rather I can not have more than one +possible kind of happiness, and this is, sad as I sometimes am, +suffering as I always am, to find a man superior enough not to +ask questions about my life, and to be the lover of my +impressions rather than of my body. Such a man I found in the +duke; but the duke is old, and old age neither protects nor +consoles. I thought I could accept the life which he offered me; +but what would you have? I was dying of ennui, and if one is +bound to be consumed, it is as well to throw oneself into the +flames as to be asphyxiated with charcoal. + +"Then I met you, young, ardent, happy, and I tried to make you +the man I had longed for in my noisy solitude. What I loved in +you was not the man who was, but the man who was going to be. You +do not accept the position, you reject it as unworthy of you; you +are an ordinary lover. Do like the others; pay me, and say no +more about it." + +Marguerite, tired out with this long confession, threw herself +back on the sofa, and to stifle a slight cough put up her +handkerchief to her lips, and from that to her eyes. + +"Pardon, pardon," I murmured. "I understood it all, but I wanted +to have it from your own lips, my beloved Marguerite. Forget the +rest and remember only one thing: that we belong to one another, +that we are young, and that we love. Marguerite, do with me as +you will; I am your slave, your dog, but in the name of heaven +tear up the letter which I wrote to you and do not make me leave +you to-morrow; it would kill me." + +Marguerite drew the letter from her bosom, and handing it to me +with a smile of infinite sweetness, said: + +"Here it is. I have brought it back." + +I tore the letter into fragments and kissed with tears the hand +that gave it to me. + +At this moment Prudence reappeared. + +"Look here, Prudence; do you know what he wants?" said +Marguerite. + +"He wants you to forgive him." + +"Precisely." + +"And you do?" + +"One has to; but he wants more than that." + +"What, then?" + +"He wants to have supper with us." + +"And do you consent?" + +"What do you think?" + +"I think that you are two children who haven't an atom of sense +between you; but I also think that I am very hungry, and that the +sooner you consent the sooner we shall have supper." + +"Come," said Marguerite, "there is room for the three of us in my +carriage." + +"By the way," she added, turning to me, "Nanine will be gone to +bed. You must open the door; take my key, and try not to lose it +again." + +I embraced Marguerite until she was almost stifled. + +Thereupon Joseph entered. + +"Sir," he said, with the air of a man who is very well satisfied +with himself, "the luggage is packed." + +"All of it?" + +"Yes, sir." + +"Well, then, unpack it again; I am not going." + + + +Chapter 16 + +I might have told you of the beginning of this liaison in a few +lines, but I wanted you to see every step by which we came, I to +agree to whatever Marguerite wished, Marguerite to be unable to +live apart from me. + +It was the day after the evening when she came to see me that I +sent her Manon Lescaut. + +From that time, seeing that I could not change my mistress's +life, I changed my own. I wished above all not to leave myself +time to think over the position I had accepted, for, in spite of +myself, it was a great distress to me. Thus my life, generally so +calm, assumed all at once an appearance of noise and disorder. +Never believe, however disinterested the love of a kept woman may +be, that it will cost one nothing. Nothing is so expensive as +their caprices, flowers, boxes at the theatre, suppers, days in +the country, which one can never refuse to one's mistress. + +As I have told you, I had little money. My father was, and still +is, receveur general at C. He has a great reputation there for +loyalty, thanks to which he was able to find the security which +he needed in order to attain this position. + +It is worth forty thousand francs a year, and during the ten +years that he has had it, he has paid off the security and put +aside a dowry for my sister. My father is the most honourable man +in the world. When my mother died, she left six thousand francs a +year, which he divided between my sister and myself on the very +day when he received his appointment; then, when I was +twenty-one, he added to this little income an annual allowance of +five thousand francs, assuring me that with eight thousand francs +a year I might live very happily at Paris, if, in addition to +this, I would make a position for myself either in law or +medicine. I came to Paris, studied law, was called to the bar, +and, like many other young men, put my diploma in my pocket, and +let myself drift, as one so easily does in Paris. + +My expenses were very moderate; only I used up my year's income +in eight months, and spent the four summer months with my father, +which practically gave me twelve thousand francs a year, and, in +addition, the reputation of a good son. For the rest, not a penny +of debt. + +This, then, was my position when I made the acquaintance of +Marguerite. You can well understand that, in spite of myself, my +expenses soon increased. Marguerite's nature was very capricious, +and, like so many women, she never regarded as a serious expense +those thousand and one distractions which made up her life. So, +wishing to spend as much time with me as possible, she would +write to me in the morning that she would dine with me, not at +home, but at some restaurant in Paris or in the country. I would +call for her, and we would dine and go on to the theatre, often +having supper as well; and by the end of the evening I had spent +four or five louis, which came to two or three thousand francs a +month, which reduced my year to three months and a half, and made +it necessary for me either to go into debt or to leave +Marguerite. I would have consented to anything except the latter. + +Forgive me if I give you all these details, but you will see that +they were the cause of what was to follow. What I tell you is a +true and simple story, and I leave to it all the naivete of its +details and all the simplicity of its developments. + +I realized then that as nothing in the world would make me forget +my mistress, it was needful for me to find some way of meeting +the expenses into which she drew me. Then, too, my love for her +had so disturbing an influence upon me that every moment I spent +away from Marguerite was like a year, and that I felt the need of +consuming these moments in the fire of some sort of passion, and +of living them so swiftly as not to know that I was living them. + +I began by borrowing five or six thousand francs on my little +capital, and with this I took to gambling. Since gambling houses +were destroyed gambling goes on everywhere. Formerly, when one +went to Frascati, one had the chance of making a fortune; one +played against money, and if one lost, there was always the +consolation of saying that one might have gained; whereas now, +except in the clubs, where there is still a certain rigour in +regard to payments, one is almost certain, the moment one gains a +considerable sum, not to receive it. You will readily understand +why. Gambling is only likely to be carried on by young people +very much in need of money and not possessing the fortune +necessary for supporting the life they lead; they gamble, then, +and with this result; or else they gain, and then those who lose +serve to pay for their horses and mistresses, which is very +disagreeable. Debts are contracted, acquaintances begun about a +green table end by quarrels in which life or honour comes to +grief; and though one may be an honest man, one finds oneself +ruined by very honest men, whose only defect is that they have +not two hundred thousand francs a year. + +I need not tell you of those who cheat at play, and of how one +hears one fine day of their hasty disappearance and tardy +condemnation. + +I flung myself into this rapid, noisy, and volcanic life, which +had formerly terrified me when I thought of it, and which. had +become for me the necessary complement of my love for Marguerite. +What else could I have done? + +The nights that I did not spend in the Rue d'Antin, if I had +spent them alone in my own room, I could not have slept. Jealousy +would have kept me awake, and inflamed my blood and my thoughts; +while gambling gave a new turn to the fever which would otherwise +have preyed upon my heart, and fixed it upon a passion which laid +hold on me in spite of myself, until the hour struck when I might +go to my mistress. Then, and by this I knew the violence of my +love, I left the table without a moment's hesitation, whether I +was winning or losing, pitying those whom I left behind because +they would not, like me, find their real happiness in leaving it. +For the most of them, gambling was a necessity; for me, it was a +remedy. Free of Marguerite, I should have been free of gambling. + +Thus, in the midst of all that, I preserved a considerable amount +of self-possession; I lost only what I was able to pay, and +gained only what I should have been able to lose. + +For the rest, chance was on my side. I made no debts, and I spent +three times as much money as when I did not gamble. It was +impossible to resist an existence which gave me an easy means of +satisfying the thousand caprices of Marguerite. As for her, she +continued to love me as much, or even more than ever. + +As I told you, I began by being allowed to stay only from +midnight to six o'clock, then I was asked sometimes to a box in +the theatre, then she sometimes came to dine with me. One morning +I did not go till eight, and there came a day when I did not go +till twelve. + +But, sooner than the moral metamorphosis, a physical +metamorphosis came about in Marguerite. I had taken her cure in +hand, and the poor girl, seeing my aim, obeyed me in order to +prove her gratitude. I had succeeded without effort or trouble in +almost isolating her from her former habits. My doctor, whom I +had made her meet, had told me that only rest and calm could +preserve her health, so that in place of supper and sleepless +nights, I succeeded in substituting a hygienic regime and regular +sleep. In spite of herself, Marguerite got accustomed to this new +existence, whose salutary effects she already realized. She began +to spend some of her evenings at home, or, if the weather was +fine, she wrapped herself in a shawl, put on a veil, and we went +on foot, like two children, in the dim alleys of the +Champs-Elysees. She would come in tired, take a light supper, and +go to bed after a little music or reading, which she had never +been used to do. The cough, which every time that I heard it +seemed to go through my chest, had almost completely disappeared. + +At the end of six weeks the count was entirely given up, and only +the duke obliged me to conceal my liaison with Marguerite, and +even he was sent away when I was there, under the pretext that +she was asleep and had given orders that she was not to be +awakened. + +The habit or the need of seeing me which Marguerite had now +contracted had this good result: that it forced me to leave the +gaming-table just at the moment when an adroit gambler would have +left it. Settling one thing against another, I found myself in +possession of some ten thousand francs, which seemed to me an +inexhaustible capital. + +The time of the year when I was accustomed to join my father and +sister had now arrived, and I did not go; both of them wrote to +me frequently, begging me to come. To these letters I replied as +best I could, always repeating that I was quite well and that I +was not in need of money, two things which, I thought, would +console my father for my delay in paying him my annual visit. + +Just then, one fine day in summer, Marguerite was awakened by the +sunlight pouring into her room, and, jumping out of bed, asked me +if I would take her into the country for the whole day. + +We sent for Prudence, and all three set off, after Marguerite had +given Nanine orders to tell the duke that she had taken advantage +of the fine day to go into the country with Mme. Duvernoy. + +Besides the presence of Mme. Duvernoy being needful on account of +the old duke, Prudence was one of those women who seem made on +purpose for days in the country. With her unchanging good-humour +and her eternal appetite, she never left a dull moment to those +whom she was with, and was perfectly happy in ordering eggs, +cherries, milk, stewed rabbit, and all the rest of the +traditional lunch in the country. + +We had now only to decide where we should go. It was once more +Prudence who settled the difficulty. + +"Do you want to go to the real country?" she asked. + +"Yes." + +"Well, let us go to Bougival, at the Point du Jour, at Widow +Arnould's. Armand, order an open carriage." + +An hour and a half later we were at Widow Arnould's. + +Perhaps you know the inn, which is a hotel on week days and a tea +garden on Sundays. There is a magnificent view from the garden, +which is at the height of an ordinary first floor. On the left +the Aqueduct of Marly closes in the horizon, on the right one +looks across bill after hill; the river, almost without current +at that spot, unrolls itself like a large white watered ribbon +between the plain of the Gabillons and the island of Croissy, +lulled eternally by the trembling of its high poplars and the +murmur of its willows. Beyond, distinct in the sunlight, rise +little white houses, with red roofs, and manufactories, which, at +that distance, put an admirable finish to the landscape. Beyond +that, Paris in the mist! As Prudence had told us, it was the real +country, and, I must add, it was a real lunch. + +It is not only out of gratitude for the happiness I owe it, but +Bougival, in spite of its horrible name, is one of the prettiest +places that it is possible to imagine. I have travelled a good +deal, and seen much grander things, but none more charming than +this little village gaily seated at the foot of the hill which +protects it. + +Mme. Arnould asked us if we would take a boat, and Marguerite and +Prudence accepted joyously. + +People have always associated the country with love, and they +have done well; nothing affords so fine a frame for the woman +whom one loves as the blue sky, the odours, the flowers, the +breeze, the shining solitude of fields, or woods. However much +one loves a woman, whatever confidence one may have in her, +whatever certainty her past may offer us as to her future, one is +always more or less jealous. If you have been in love, you must +have felt the need of isolating from this world the being in whom +you would live wholly. It seems as if, however indifferent she +may be to her surroundings, the woman whom one loves loses +something of her perfume and of her unity at the contact of men +and things. As for me, I experienced that more than most. Mine +was not an ordinary love; I was as much in love as an ordinary +creature could be, but with Marguerite Gautier; that is to say, +that at Paris, at every step, I might elbow the man who had +already been her lover or who was about to, while in the country, +surrounded by people whom we had never seen and who had no +concern with us, alone with nature in the spring-time of the +year, that annual pardon, and shut off from the noise of the +city, I could hide my love, and love without shame or fear. + +The courtesan disappeared little by little. I had by me a young +and beautiful woman, whom I loved, and who loved me, and who was +called Marguerite; the past had no more reality and the future no +more clouds. The sun shone upon my mistress as it might have +shone upon the purest bride. We walked together in those charming +spots which seemed to have been made on purpose to recall the +verses of Lamartine or to sing the melodies of Scudo. Marguerite +was dressed in white, she leaned on my arm, saying over to me +again under the starry sky the words she had said to me the day +before, and far off the world went on its way, without darkening +with its shadow the radiant picture of our youth and love. + +That was the dream that the hot sun brought to me that day +through the leaves of the trees, as, lying on the grass of the +island on which we had landed, I let my thought wander, free from +the human links that had bound it, gathering to itself every hope +that came in its way. + +Add to this that from the place where I was I could see on the +shore a charming little house of two stories, with a semicircular +railing; through the railing, in front of the house, a green +lawn, smooth as velvet, and behind the house a little wood full +of mysterious retreats, where the moss must efface each morning +the pathway that had been made the day before. Climbing flowers +clung about the doorway of this uninhabited house, mounting as +high as the first story. + +I looked at the house so long that I began by thinking of it as +mine, so perfectly did it embody the dream that I was dreaming; I +saw Marguerite and myself there, by day in the little wood that +covered the hillside, in the evening seated on the grass, and I +asked myself if earthly creatures had ever been so happy as we +should be. + +"What a pretty house!" Marguerite said to me, as she followed the +direction of my gaze and perhaps of my thought. + +"Where?" asked Prudence. + +"Yonder," and Marguerite pointed to the house in question. + +"Ah, delicious!" replied Prudence. "Do you like it?" + +"Very much." + +"Well, tell the duke to take it for you; he would do so, I am +sure. I'll see about it if you like." + +Marguerite looked at me, as if to ask me what I thought. My dream +vanished at the last words of Prudence, and brought me back to +reality so brutally that I was still stunned with the fall. + +"Yes, yes, an excellent idea," I stammered, not knowing what I +was saying. + +"Well, I will arrange that," said Marguerite, freeing my hand, +and interpreting my words according to her own desire. "Let us go +and see if it is to let." + +The house was empty, and to let for two thousand francs. + +"Would you be happy here?" she said to me. + +"Am I sure of coming here?" + +"And for whom else should I bury myself here, if not for you?" + +"Well, then, Marguerite, let me take it myself." + +"You are mad; not only is it unnecessary, but it would be +dangerous. You know perfectly well that I have no right to accept +it save from one man. Let me alone, big baby, and say nothing." + +"That means," said Prudence, "that when I have two days free I +will come and spend them with you." + +We left the house, and started on our return to Paris, talking +over the new plan. I held Marguerite in my arms, and as I got +down from the carriage, I had already begun to look upon her +arrangement with less critical eyes. + + + +Chapter 17 + +Next day Marguerite sent me away very early, saying that the duke +was coming at an early hour, and promising to write to me the +moment he went, and to make an appointment for the evening. In +the course of the day I received this note: + + "I am going to Bougival with the duke; be at Prudence's to-night +at eight." + +At the appointed hour Marguerite came to me at Mme. Duvernoy's. +"Well, it is all settled," she said, as she entered. "The house +is taken?" asked Prudence. "Yes; he agreed at once." + +I did not know the duke, but I felt ashamed of deceiving him. + +"But that is not all," continued Marguerite. + +"What else is there?" + +"I have been seeing about a place for Armand to stay." + +"In the same house?" asked Prudence, laughing. + +"No, at Point du Jour, where we had dinner, the duke and I. While +he was admiring the view, I asked Mme. Arnould (she is called +Mme. Arnould, isn't she?) if there were any suitable rooms, and +she showed me just the very thing: salon, anteroom, and bed-room, +at sixty francs a month; the whole place furnished in a way to +divert a hypochondriac. I took it. Was I right?" I flung my arms +around her neck and kissed her. + +"It will be charming," she continued. "You have the key of the +little door, and I have promised the duke the key of the front +door, which he will not take, because he will come during the day +when he comes. I think, between ourselves, that he is enchanted +with a caprice which will keep me out of Paris for a time, and so +silence the objections of his family. However, he has asked me +how I, loving Paris as I do, could make up my mind to bury myself +in the country. I told him that I was ill, and that I wanted +rest. He seemed to have some difficulty in believing me. The poor +old man is always on the watch. We must take every precaution, my +dear Armand, for he will have me watched while I am there; and it +isn't only the question of his taking a house for me, but he has +my debts to pay, and unluckily I have plenty. Does all that suit +you?" + +"Yes," I answered, trying to quiet the scruples which this way of +living awoke in me from time to time. + +"We went all over the house, and we shall have everything +perfect. The duke is going to look after every single thing. Ah, +my dear," she added, kissing me, "you're in luck; it's a +millionaire who makes your bed for you." + +"And when shall you move into the house?" inquired Prudence. + +"As soon as possible." + +"Will you take your horses and carriage?" + +"I shall take the whole house, and you can look after my place +while I am away." + +A week later Marguerite was settled in her country house, and I +was installed at Point du Jour. + +Then began an existence which I shall have some difficulty in +describing to you. At first Marguerite could not break entirely +with her former habits, and, as the house was always en fete, all +the women whom she knew came to see her. For a whole month there +was not a day when Marguerite had not eight or ten people to +meals. Prudence, on her side, brought down all the people she +knew, and did the honours of the house as if the house belonged +to her. + +The duke's money paid for all that, as you may imagine; but from +time to time Prudence came to me, asking for a note for a +thousand francs, professedly on behalf of Marguerite. You know I +had won some money at gambling; I therefore immediately handed +over to Prudence what she asked for Marguerite, and fearing lest +she should require more than I possessed, I borrowed at Paris a +sum equal to that which I had already borrowed and paid back. I +was then once more in possession of some ten thousand francs, +without reckoning my allowance. However, Marguerite's pleasure in +seeing her friends was a little moderated when she saw the +expense which that pleasure entailed, and especially the +necessity she was sometimes in of asking me for money. The duke, +who had taken the house in order that Marguerite might rest +there, no longer visited it, fearing to find himself in the midst +of a large and merry company, by whom he did not wish to be seen. +This came about through his having once arrived to dine +tete-a-tete with Marguerite, and having fallen upon a party of +fifteen, who were still at lunch at an hour when he was prepared +to sit down to dinner. He had unsuspectingly opened the +dining-room door, and had been greeted by a burst of laughter, +and had had to retire precipitately before the impertinent mirth +of the women who were assembled there. + +Marguerite rose from table, and joined the duke in the next room, +where she tried, as far as possible, to induce him to forget the +incident, but the old man, wounded in his dignity, bore her a +grudge for it, and could not forgive her. He said to her, +somewhat cruelly, that he was tired of paying for the follies of +a woman who could not even have him treated with respect under +his own roof, and he went away in great indignation. + +Since that day he had never been heard of. + +In vain Marguerite dismissed her guests, changed her way of life; +the duke was not to be heard of. I was the gainer in so, far that +my mistress now belonged to me more completely, and my dream was +at length realized. Marguerite could not be without me. Not +caring what the result might be, she publicly proclaimed our +liaison, and I had come to live entirely at her house. The +servants addressed me officially as their master. + +Prudence had strictly sermonized Marguerite in regard to her new +manner of life; but she had replied that she loved me, that she +could not live without me, and that, happen what might, she would +not sacrifice the pleasure of having me constantly with her, +adding that those who were not satisfied with this arrangement +were free to stay away. So much I had heard one day when Prudence +had said to Marguerite that she had something very important to +tell her, and I had listened at the door of the room into which +they had shut themselves. + +Not long after, Prudence returned again. I was at the other end +of the garden when she arrived, and she did not see me. I had no +doubt, from the way in which Marguerite came to meet her, that +another similar conversation was going to take place, and I was +anxious to hear what it was about. The two women shut themselves +into a boudoir, and I put myself within hearing. + +"Well?" said Marguerite. + +"Well, I have seen the duke." + +"What did he say?" + +"That he would gladly forgive you in regard to the scene which +took place, but that he has learned that you are publicly living +with M. Armand Duval, and that he will never forgive that. 'Let +Marguerite leave the young man,' he said to me, 'and, as in the +past, I will give her all that she requires; if not, let her ask +nothing more from me.'" + +"And you replied?" + +"That I would report his decision to you, and I promised him that +I would bring you into a more reasonable frame of mind. Only +think, my dear child, of the position that you are losing, and +that Armand can never give you. He loves you with all his soul, +but he has no fortune capable of supplying your needs, and he +will be bound to leave you one day, when it will be too late and +when the duke will refuse to do any more for you. Would you like +me to speak to Armand?" + +Marguerite seemed to be thinking, for she answered nothing. My +heart beat violently while I waited for her reply. + +"No," she answered, "I will not leave Armand, and I will not +conceal the fact that I am living with him. It is folly no doubt, +but I love him. What would you have me do? And then, now that he +has got accustomed to be always with me, he would suffer too +cruelly if he had to leave me so much as an hour a day. Besides, +I have not such a long time to live that I need make myself +miserable in order to please an old man whose very sight makes me +feel old. Let him keep his money; I will do without it." + +"But what will you do?" + +"I don't in the least know." + +Prudence was no doubt going to make some reply, but I entered +suddenly and flung myself at Marguerite's feet, covering her +hands with tears in my joy at being thus loved. + +"My life is yours, Marguerite; you need this man no longer. Am I +not here? Shall I ever leave you, and can I ever repay you for +the happiness that you give me? No more barriers, my Marguerite; +we love; what matters all the rest?" + +"Oh yes, I love you, my Armand," she murmured, putting her two +arms around my neck. "I love you as I never thought I should ever +love. We will be happy; we will live quietly, and I will say +good-bye forever to the life for which I now blush. You won't +ever reproach me for the past? Tell me!" + +Tears choked my voice. I could only reply by clasping Marguerite +to my heart. + +"Well," said she, turning to Prudence, and speaking in a broken +voice, "you can report this scene to the duke, and you can add +that we have no longer need of him." + +From that day forth the duke was never referred to. Marguerite +was no longer the same woman that I had known. She avoided +everything that might recall to me the life which she had been +leading when I first met her. Never did wife or sister surround +husband or brother with such loving care as she had for me. Her +nature was morbidly open to all impressions and accessible to all +sentiments. She had broken equally with her friends and with her +ways, with her words and with her extravagances. Any one who had +seen us leaving the house to go on the river in the charming +little boat which I had bought would never have believed that the +woman dressed in white, wearing a straw hat, and carrying on her +arm a little silk pelisse to protect her against the damp of the +river, was that Marguerite Gautier who, only four months ago, had +been the talk of the town for the luxury and scandal of her +existence. + +Alas, we made haste to be happy, as if we knew that we were not +to be happy long. + +For two months we had not even been to Paris. No one came to see +us, except Prudence and Julie Duprat, of whom I have spoken to +you, and to whom Marguerite was afterward to give the touching +narrative that I have there. + +I passed whole days at the feet of my mistress. We opened the +windows upon the garden, and, as we watched the summer ripening +in its flowers and under the shadow of the trees, we breathed +together that true life which neither Marguerite nor I had ever +known before. + +Her delight in the smallest things was like that of a child. +There were days when she ran in the garden, like a child of ten, +after a butterfly or a dragon-fly. This courtesan who had cost +more money in bouquets than would have kept a whole family in +comfort, would sometimes sit on the grass for an hour, examining +the simple flower whose name she bore. + +It was at this time that she read Manon Lescaut, over and over +again. I found her several times making notes in the book, and +she always declared that when a woman loves, she can not do as +Manon did. + +The duke wrote to her two or three times. She recognised the +writing and gave me the letters without reading them. Sometimes +the terms of these letters brought tears to my eyes. He had +imagined that by closing his purse to Marguerite, he would bring +her back to him; but when he had perceived the uselessness of +these means, he could hold out no longer; he wrote and asked that +he might see her again, as before, no matter on what conditions. + +I read these urgent and repeated letters, and tore them in +pieces, without telling Marguerite what they contained and +without advising her to see the old man again, though I was half +inclined to, so much did I pity him, but I was afraid lest, if I +so advised her she should think that I wished the duke, not +merely to come and see her again, but to take over the expenses +of the house; I feared, above all, that she might think me +capable of shirking the responsibilities of every consequence to +which her love for me might lead her. + +It thus came about that the duke, receiving no reply, ceased to +write, and that Marguerite and I continued to live together +without giving a thought to the future. + + + +Chapter 18 + +It would be difficult to give you all the details of our new +life. It was made up of a series of little childish events, +charming for us but insignificant to any one else. You know what +it is to be in love with a woman, you know how it cuts short the +days, and with what loving listlessness one drifts into the +morrow. You know that forgetfulness of everything which comes of +a violent confident, reciprocated love. Every being who is not +the beloved one seems a useless being in creation. One regrets +having cast scraps of one's heart to other women, and one can not +believe in the possibility of ever pressing another hand than +that which one holds between one's hands. The mind admits neither +work nor remembrance; nothing, in short, which can distract it +from the one thought in which it is ceaselessly absorbed. Every +day one discovers in one's mistress a new charm and unknown +delights. Existence itself is but the unceasing accomplishment of +an unchanging desire; the soul is but the vestal charged to feed +the sacred fire of love. + +We often went at night-time to sit in the little wood above the +house; there we listened to the cheerful harmonies of evening, +both of us thinking of the coming hours which should leave us to +one another till the dawn of day. At other times we did not get +up all day; we did not even let the sunlight enter our room. + +The curtains were hermetically closed, and for a moment the +external world did not exist for us. Nanine alone had the right +to open our door, but only to bring in our meals and even these +we took without getting up, interrupting them with laughter and +gaiety. To that succeeded a brief sleep, for, disappearing into +the depths of our love, we were like two divers who only come to +the surface to take breath. + +Nevertheless, I surprised moments of sadness, even tears, in +Marguerite; I asked her the cause of her trouble, and she +answered: + +"Our love is not like other loves, my Armand. You love me as if I +had never belonged to another, and I tremble lest later on, +repenting of your love, and accusing me of my past, you should +let me fall back into that life from which you have taken me. I +think that now that I have tasted of another life, I should die +if I went back to the old one. Tell me that you will never leave +me!" + +"I swear it!" + +At these words she looked at me as if to read in my eyes whether +my oath was sincere; then flung herself into my arms, and, hiding +her head in my bosom, said to me: "You don't know how much I love +you!" + +One evening, seated on the balcony outside the window, we looked +at the moon which seemed to rise with difficulty out of its bed +of clouds, and we listened to the wind violently rustling the +trees; we held each other's hands, and for a whole quarter of an +hour we had not spoken, when Marguerite said to me: + +"Winter is at hand. Would you like for us to go abroad?" + +"Where?" + +"To Italy." + +"You are tired of here?" + +"I am afraid of the winter; I am particularly afraid of your +return to Paris." + +"Why?" + +"For many reasons." + +And she went on abruptly, without giving me her reasons for +fears: + +"Will you go abroad? I will sell all that I have; we will go and +live there, and there will be nothing left of what I was; no one +will know who I am. Will you?" + +"By all means, if you like, Marguerite, let us travel," I said. +"But where is the necessity of selling things which you will be +glad of when we return? I have not a large enough fortune to +accept such a sacrifice; but I have enough for us to be able to +travel splendidly for five or six months, if that will amuse you +the least in the world." + +"After all, no," she said, leaving the window and going to sit +down on the sofa at the other end of the room. "Why should we +spend money abroad? I cost you enough already, here." + +"You reproach me, Marguerite; it isn't generous." + +"Forgive me, my friend," she said, giving me her hand. "This +thunder weather gets on my nerves; I do not say what I intend to +say." + +And after embracing me she fell into a long reverie. + +Scenes of this kind often took place, and though I could not +discover their cause, I could not fail to see in Marguerite signs +of disquietude in regard to the future. She could not doubt my +love, which increased day by day, and yet I often found her sad, +without being able to get any explanation of the reason, except +some physical cause. Fearing that so monotonous a life was +beginning to weary her, I proposed returning to Paris; but she +always refused, assuring me that she could not be so happy +anywhere as in the country. + +Prudence now came but rarely; but she often wrote letters which I +never asked to see, though, every time they came, they seemed to +preoccupy Marguerite deeply. I did not know what to think. + +One day Marguerite was in her room. I entered. She was writing. +"To whom are you writing?" I asked. "To Prudence. Do you want to +see what I am writing?" + +I had a horror of anything that might look like suspicion, and I +answered that I had no desire to know what she was writing; and +yet I was certain that letter would have explained to me the +cause of her sadness. + +Next day the weather was splendid.' Marguerite proposed to me to +take the boat and go as far as the island of Croissy. She seemed +very cheerful; when we got back it was five o'clock. + +"Mme. Duvernoy has been here," said Nanine, as she saw us enter. +"She has gone again?" asked Marguerite. + +"Yes, madame, in the carriage; she said it was arranged." + +"Quite right," said Marguerite sharply. "Serve the dinner." + +Two days afterward there came a letter from Prudence, and for a +fortnight Marguerite seemed to have got rid of her mysterious +gloom, for which she constantly asked my forgiveness, now that it +no longer existed. Still, the carriage did not return. + +"How is it that Prudence does not send you back your carriage?" I +asked one day. + +"One of the horses is ill, and there are some repairs to be done. +It is better to have that done while we are here, and don't need +a carriage, than to wait till we get back to Paris." + +Prudence came two days afterward, and confirmed what Marguerite +had said. The two women went for a walk in the garden, and when I +joined them they changed the conversation. That night, as she was +going, Prudence complained of the cold and asked Marguerite to +lend her a shawl. + +So a month passed, and all the time Marguerite was more joyous +and more affectionate than she ever had been. Nevertheless, the +carriage did not return, the shawl had not been sent back, and I +began to be anxious in spite of myself, and as I knew in which +drawer Marguerite put Prudence's letters, I took advantage of a +moment when she was at the other end of the garden, went to the +drawer, and tried to open it; in vain, for it was locked. When I +opened the drawer in which the trinkets and diamonds were usually +kept, these opened without resistance, but the jewel cases had +disappeared, along with their contents no doubt. + +A sharp fear penetrated my heart. I might indeed ask Marguerite +for the truth in regard to these disappearances, but it was +certain that she would not confess it. + +"My good Marguerite," I said to her, "I am going to ask your +permission to go to Paris. They do not know my address, and I +expect there are letters from my father waiting for me. I have no +doubt he is concerned; I ought to answer him." + +"Go, my friend," she said; "but be back early." I went straight +to Prudence. + +"Come," said I, without beating about the bush, "tell me frankly, +where are Marguerite's horses?" + +"Sold." + +"The shawl?" + +"Sold." + +"The diamonds?" + +"Pawned." + +"And who has sold and pawned them?" + +"Why did you not tell me?" + +"Because Marguerite made me promise not to." + +"And why did you not ask me for money?" + +"Because she wouldn't let me." + +"And where has this money gone?" + +"In payments." + +"Is she much in debt?" + +"Thirty thousand francs, or thereabouts. Ah, my dear fellow, +didn't I tell you? You wouldn't believe me; now you are +convinced. The upholsterer whom the duke had agreed to settle +with was shown out of the house when he presented himself, and +the duke wrote next day to say that he would answer for nothing +in regard to Mlle. Gautier. This man wanted his money; he was +given part payment out of the few thousand francs that I got from +you; then some kind souls warned him that his debtor had been +abandoned by the duke and was living with a penniless young man; +the other creditors were told the same; they asked for their +money, and seized some of the goods. Marguerite wanted to sell +everything, but it was too late, and besides I should have +opposed it. But it was necessary to pay, and in order not to ask +you for money, she sold her horses and her shawls, and pawned her +jewels. Would you like to see the receipts and the pawn tickets?" + +And Prudence opened the drawer and showed me the papers. + +"Ah, you think," she continued, with the insistence of a woman +who can say, I was right after all, "ah, you think it is enough +to be in love, and to go into the country and lead a dreamy, +pastoral life. No, my friend, no. By the side of that ideal life, +there is a material life, and the purest resolutions are held to +earth by threads which seem slight enough, but which are of iron, +not easily to be broken. If Marguerite has not been unfaithful to +you twenty times, it is because she has an exceptional nature. It +is not my fault for not advising her to, for I couldn't bear to +see the poor girl stripping herself of everything. She wouldn't; +she replied that she loved you, and she wouldn't be unfaithful to +you for anything in the world. All that is very pretty, very +poetical, but one can't pay one's creditors in that coin, and now +she can't free herself from debt, unless she can raise thirty +thousand francs." + +"All right, I will provide that amount." + +"You will borrow it?" + +"Good heavens! Why, yes!" + +"A fine thing that will be to do; you will fall out with your +father, cripple your resources, and one doesn't find thirty +thousand francs from one day to another. Believe me, my dear +Armand, I know women better than you do; do not commit this +folly; you will be sorry for it one day. Be reasonable. I don't +advise you to leave Marguerite, but live with her as you did at +the beginning. Let her find the means to get out of this +difficulty. The duke will come back in a little while. The Comte +de N., if she would take him, he told me yesterday even, would +pay all her debts, and give her four or five thousand francs a +month. He has two hundred thousand a year. It would be a position +for her, while you will certainly be obliged to leave her. Don't +wait till you are ruined, especially as the Comte de N. is a +fool, and nothing would prevent your still being Marguerite's +lover. She would cry a little at the beginning, but she would +come to accustom herself to it, and you would thank me one day +for what you had done. Imagine that Marguerite is married, and +deceive the husband; that is all. I have already told you all +this once, only at that time it was merely advice, and now it is +almost a necessity." + +What Prudence said was cruelly true. + +"This is how it is," she went on, putting away the papers she had +just shown me; "women like Marguerite always foresee that some +one will love them, never that they will love; otherwise they +would put aside money, and at thirty they could afford the luxury +of having a lover for nothing. If I had only known once what I +know now! In short, say nothing to Marguerite, and bring her back +to Paris. You have lived with her alone for four or five months; +that is quite enough. Shut your eyes now; that is all that any +one asks of you. At the end of a fortnight she will take the +Comte de N., and she will save up during the winter, and next +summer you will begin over again. That is how things are done, my +dear fellow!" + +And Prudence appeared to be enchanted with her advice, which I +refused indignantly. + +Not only my love and my dignity would not let me act thus, but I +was certain that, feeling as she did now, Marguerite would die +rather than accept another lover. + +"Enough joking," I said to Prudence; "tell me exactly how much +Marguerite is in need of." + +"I have told you: thirty thousand francs." + +"And when does she require this sum?" + +"Before the end of two months." + +"She shall have it." + +Prudence shrugged her shoulders. + +"I will give it to you," I continued, "but you must swear to me +that you will not tell Marguerite that I have given it to you." + +"Don't be afraid." + +"And if she sends you anything else to sell or pawn, let me +know." + +"There is no danger. She has nothing left." + +I went straight to my own house to see if there were any letters +from my father. There were four. + + + +Chapter 19 + +In his first three letters my father inquired the cause of my +silence; in the last he allowed me to see that he had heard of my +change of life, and informed me that he was about to come and see +me. + +I have always had a great respect and a sincere affection for my +father. I replied that I had been travelling for a short time, +and begged him to let me know beforehand what day he would +arrive, so that I could be there to meet him. + +I gave my servant my address in the country, telling him to bring +me the first letter that came with the postmark of C., then I +returned to Bougival. + +Marguerite was waiting for me at the garden gate. She looked at +me anxiously. Throwing her arms round my neck, she said to me: +"Have you seen Prudence?" + +"No." + +"You were a long time in Paris." + +"I found letters from my father to which I had to reply." + +A few minutes afterward Nanine entered, all out of breath. +Marguerite rose and talked with her in whispers. When Nanine had +gone out Marguerite sat down by me again and said, taking my +hand: + +"Why did you deceive me? You went to see Prudence." + +"Who told you?" + +"Nanine." + +"And how did she know?" + +"She followed you." + +"You told her to follow me?" + +"Yes. I thought that you must have had a very strong motive for +going to Paris, after not leaving me for four months. I was +afraid that something might happen to you, or that you were +perhaps going to see another woman." + +"Child!" + +"Now I am relieved. I know what you have done, but I don't yet +know what you have been told." + +I showed Marguerite my father's letters. + +"That is not what I am asking you about. What I want to know is +why you went to see Prudence." + +"To see her." + +"That's a lie, my friend." + +"Well, I went to ask her if the horse was any better, and if she +wanted your shawl and your jewels any longer." + +Marguerite blushed, but did not answer. + +"And," I continued, "I learned what you had done with your +horses, shawls, and jewels." + +"And you are vexed?" + +"I am vexed that it never occurred to you to ask me for what you +were in want of." + +"In a liaison like ours, if the woman has any sense of dignity at +all, she ought to make every possible sacrifice rather than ask +her lover for money and so give a venal character to her love. +You love me, I am sure, but you do not know on how slight a +thread depends the love one has for a woman like me. Who knows? +Perhaps some day when you were bored or worried you would fancy +you saw a carefully concerted plan in our liaison. Prudence is a +chatterbox. What need had I of the horses? It was an economy to +sell them. I don't use them and I don't spend anything on their +keep; if you love me, I ask nothing more, and you will love me +just as much without horses, or shawls, or diamonds." + +All that was said so naturally that the tears came to my eyes as +I listened. + +"But, my good Marguerite," I replied, pressing her hands +lovingly, "you knew that one day I should discover the sacrifice +you had made, and that the moment I discovered it I should allow +it no longer." + +"But why?" + +"Because, my dear child, I can not allow your affection for me to +deprive you of even a trinket. I too should not like you to be +able, in a moment when you were bored or worried, to think that +if you were living with somebody else those moments would not +exist; and to repent, if only for a minute, of living with me. In +a few days your horses, your diamonds, and your shawls shall be +returned to you. They are as necessary to you as air is to life, +and it may be absurd, but I like you better showy than simple." + +"Then you no longer love me." + +"Foolish creature!" + +"If you loved me, you would let me love you my own way; on the +contrary, you persist in only seeing in me a woman to whom luxury +is indispensable, and whom you think you are always obliged to +pay. You are ashamed to accept the proof of my love. In spite of +yourself, you think of leaving me some day, and you want to put +your disinterestedness beyond risk of suspicion. You are right, +my friend, but I had better hopes." + +And Marguerite made a motion to rise; I held her, and said to +her: + +"I want you to be happy and to have nothing to reproach me for, +that is all." + +"And we are going to be separated!" + +"Why, Marguerite, who can separate us?" I cried. + +"You, who will not let me take you on your own level, but insist +on taking me on mine; you, who wish me to keep the luxury in the +midst of which I have lived, and so keep the moral distance which +separates us; you, who do not believe that my affection is +sufficiently disinterested to share with me what you have, though +we could live happily enough on it together, and would rather +ruin yourself, because you are still bound by a foolish +prejudice. Do you really think that I could compare a carriage +and diamonds with your love? Do you think that my real happiness +lies in the trifles that mean so much when one has nothing to +love, but which become trifling indeed when one has? You will pay +my debts, realize your estate, and then keep me? How long will +that last? Two or three months, and then it will be too late to +live the life I propose, for then you will have to take +everything from me, and that is what a man of honour can not do; +while now you have eight or ten thousand francs a year, on which +we should be able to live. I will sell the rest of what I do not +want, and with this alone I will make two thousand francs a year. +We will take a nice little flat in which we can both live. In the +summer we will go into the country, not to a house like this, but +to a house just big enough for two people. You are independent, I +am free, we are young; in heaven's name, Armand, do not drive me +back into the life I had to lead once!" + +I could not answer. Tears of gratitude and love filled my eyes, +and I flung myself into Marguerite's arms. + +"I wanted," she continued, "to arrange everything without telling +you, pay all my debts, and take a new flat. In October we should +have been back in Paris, and all would have come out; but since +Prudence has told you all, you will have to agree beforehand, +instead of agreeing afterward. Do you love me enough for that?" + +It was impossible to resist such devotion. I kissed her hands +ardently, and said: + +"I will do whatever you wish." + +It was agreed that we should do as she had planned. Thereupon, +she went wild with delight; danced, sang, amused herself with +calling up pictures of her new flat in all its simplicity, and +began to consult me as to its position and arrangement. I saw how +happy and proud she was of this resolution, which seemed as if it +would bring us into closer and closer relationship, and I +resolved to do my own share. In an instant I decided the whole +course of my life. I put my affairs in order, and made over to +Marguerite the income which had come to me from my mother, and +which seemed little enough in return for the sacrifice which I +was accepting. There remained the five thousand francs a year +from my father; and, whatever happened, I had always enough to +live on. I did not tell Marguerite what I had done, certain as I +was that she would refuse the gift. This income came from a +mortgage of sixty thousand francs on a house that I had never +even seen. All that I knew was that every three months my +father's solicitor, an old friend of the family, handed over to +me seven hundred and fifty francs in return for my receipt. + +The day when Marguerite and I came to Paris to look for a flat, I +went to this solicitor and asked him what had to be done in order +to make over this income to another person. The good man imagined +I was ruined, and questioned me as to the cause of my decision. +As I knew that I should be obliged, sooner or later, to say in +whose favour I made this transfer, I thought it best to tell him +the truth at once. He made none of the objections that his +position as friend and solicitor authorized him to make, and +assured me that he would arrange the whole affair in the best way +possible. Naturally, I begged him to employ the greatest +discretion in regard to my father, and on leaving him I rejoined +Marguerite, who was waiting for me at Julie Duprat's, where she +had gone in preference to going to listen to the moralizings of +Prudence. + +We began to look out for flats. All those that we saw seemed to +Marguerite too dear, and to me too simple. However, we finally +found, in one of the quietest parts of Paris, a little house, +isolated from the main part of the building. Behind this little +house was a charming garden, surrounded by walls high enough to +screen us from our neighbours, and low enough not to shut off our +own view. It was better than our expectations. + +While I went to give notice at my own flat, Marguerite went to +see a business agent, who, she told me, had already done for one +of her friends exactly what she wanted him to do for her. She +came on to the Rue de Provence in a state of great delight. The +man had promised to pay all her debts, to give her a receipt for +the amount, and to hand over to her twenty thousand francs, in +return for the whole of her furniture. You have seen by the +amount taken at the sale that this honest man would have gained +thirty thousand francs out of his client. + +We went back joyously to Bougival, talking over our projects for +the future, which, thanks to our heedlessness, and especially to +our love, we saw in the rosiest light. + +A week later, as we were having lunch, Nanine came to tell us +that my servant was asking for me. "Let him come in," I said. + +"Sir," said he, "your father has arrived in Paris, and begs you +to return at once to your rooms, where he is waiting for you." + +This piece of news was the most natural thing in the world, yet, +as we heard it, Marguerite and I looked at one another. We +foresaw trouble. Before she had spoken a word, I replied to her +thought, and, taking her hand, I said, "Fear nothing." + +"Come back as soon as possible," whispered Marguerite, embracing +me; "I will wait for you at the window." + +I sent on Joseph to tell my father that I was on my way. Two +hours later I was at the Rue de Provence. + + + +Chapter 20 + +My father was seated in my room in his dressing-gown; he was +writing, and I saw at once, by the way in which he raised his +eyes to me when I came in, that there was going to be a serious +discussion. I went up to him, all the same, as if I had seen +nothing in his face, embraced him, and said: + +"When did you come, father?" + +"Last night." + +"Did you come straight here, as usual?" + +"Yes." + +"I am very sorry not to have been here to receive you." + +I expected that the sermon which my father's cold face threatened +would begin at once; but he said nothing, sealed the letter which +he had just written, and gave it to Joseph to post. + +When we were alone, my father rose, and leaning against the +mantel-piece, said to me: + +"My dear Armand, we have serious matters to discuss." + +"I am listening, father." + +"You promise me to be frank?" + +"Am I not accustomed to be so?" + +"Is it not true that you are living with a woman called +Marguerite Gautier?" + +"Yes." + +"Do you know what this woman was?" + +"A kept woman." + +"And it is for her that you have forgotten to come and see your +sister and me this year?" + +"Yes, father, I admit it." + +"You are very much in love with this woman?" + +"You see it, father, since she has made me fail in duty toward +you, for which I humbly ask your forgiveness to-day." + +My father, no doubt, was not expecting such categorical answers, +for he seemed to reflect a moment, and then said to me: + +"You have, of course, realized that you can not always live like +that?" + +"I fear so, father, but I have not realized it." + +"But you must realize," continued my father, in a dryer tone, +"that I, at all events, should not permit it." + +"I have said to myself that as long as I did nothing contrary to +the respect which I owe to the traditional probity of the family +I could live as I am living, and this has reassured me somewhat +in regard to the fears I have had." + +Passions are formidable enemies to sentiment. I was prepared for +every struggle, even with my father, in order that I might keep +Marguerite. + +"Then, the moment is come when you must live otherwise." + +"Why, father?" + +"Because you are doing things which outrage the respect that you +imagine you have for your family." + +"I don't follow your meaning." + +"I will explain it to you. Have a mistress if you will; pay her +as a man of honour is bound to pay the woman whom he keeps, by +all means; but that you should come to forget the most sacred +things for her, that you should let the report of your scandalous +life reach my quiet countryside, and set a blot on the honourable +name that I have given you, it can not, it shall not be." + +"Permit me to tell you, father, that those who have given you +information about me have been ill-informed. I am the lover of +Mlle. Gautier; I live with her; it is the most natural thing in +the world. I do not give Mlle. Gautier the name you have given +me; I spend on her account what my means allow me to spend; I +have no debts; and, in short, I am not in a position which +authorizes a father to say to his son what you have just said to +me." + +"A father is always authorized to rescue his son out of evil +paths. You have not done any harm yet, but you will do it." + +"Father!" + +"Sir, I know more of life than you do. There are no entirely pure +sentiments except in perfectly chaste women. Every Manon can have +her own Des Grieux, and times are changed. It would be useless +for the world to grow older if it did not correct its ways. You +will leave your mistress." + +"I am very sorry to disobey you, father, but it is impossible." + +"I will compel you to do so." + +"Unfortunately, father, there no longer exists a Sainte +Marguerite to which courtesans can be sent, and, even if there +were, I would follow Mlle. Gautier if you succeeded in having her +sent there. What would you have? Perhaps am in the wrong, but I +can only be happy as long as I am the lover of this woman." + +"Come, Armand, open your eyes. Recognise that it is your father +who speaks to you, your father who has always loved you, and who +only desires your happiness. Is it honourable for you to live +like husband and wife with a woman whom everybody has had?" + +"What does it matter, father, if no one will any more? What does +it matter, if this woman loves me, if her whole life is changed +through the love which she has for me and the love which I have +for her? What does it matter, if she has become a different +woman?" + +"Do you think, then, sir, that the mission of a man of honour is +to go about converting lost women? Do you think that God has +given such a grotesque aim to life, and that the heart should +have any room for enthusiasm of that kind? What will be the end +of this marvellous cure, and what will you think of what you are +saying to-day by the time you are forty? You will laugh at this +love of yours, if you can still laugh, and if it has not left too +serious a trace in your past. What would you be now if your +father had had your ideas and had given up his life to every +impulse of this kind, instead of rooting himself firmly in +convictions of honour and steadfastness? Think it over, Armand, +and do not talk any more such absurdities. Come, leave this +woman; your father entreats you." + +I answered nothing. + +"Armand," continued my father, "in the name of your sainted +mother, abandon this life, which you will forget more easily than +you think. You are tied to it by an impossible theory. You are +twenty-four; think of the future. You can not always love this +woman, who also can not always love you. You both exaggerate your +love. You put an end to your whole career. One step further, and +you will no longer be able to leave the path you have chosen, and +you will suffer all your life for what you have done in your +youth. Leave Paris. Come and stay for a month or two with your +sister and me. Rest in our quiet family affection will soon heal +you of this fever, for it is nothing else. Meanwhile, your +mistress will console herself; she will take another lover; and +when you see what it is for which you have all but broken with +your father, and all but lost his love, you will tell me that I +have done well to come and seek you out, and you will thank me +for it. Come, you will go with me, Armand, will you not?" I felt +that my father would be right if it had been any other woman, but +I was convinced that he was wrong with regard to Marguerite. +Nevertheless, the tone in which he said these last words was so +kind, so appealing, that I dared not answer. + +"Well?" said he in a trembling voice. + +"Well, father, I can promise nothing," I said at last; "what you +ask of me is beyond my power. Believe me," I continued, seeing +him make an impatient movement, "you exaggerate the effects of +this liaison. Marguerite is a different kind of a woman from what +you think. This love, far from leading me astray, is capable, on +the contrary, of setting me in the right direction. Love always +makes a man better, no matter what woman inspires it. If you knew +Marguerite, you would understand that I am in no danger. She is +as noble as the noblest of women. There is as much +disinterestedness in her as there is cupidity in others." + +"All of which does not prevent her from accepting the whole of +your fortune, for the sixty thousand francs which come to you +from your mother, and which you are giving her, are, understand +me well, your whole fortune." + +My father had probably kept this peroration and this threat for +the last stroke. I was firmer before these threats than before +his entreaties. + +"Who told you that I was handing this sum to her?" I asked. + +"My solicitor. Could an honest man carry out such a procedure +without warning me? Well, it is to prevent you from ruining +yourself for a prostitute that I am now in Paris. Your mother, +when she died, left you enough to live on respectably, and not to +squander on your mistresses." + +"I swear to you, father, that Marguerite knew nothing of this +transfer." + +"Why, then, do you make it?" + +"Because Marguerite, the woman you calumniate, and whom you wish +me to abandon, is sacrificing all that she possesses in order to +live with me." + +"And you accept this sacrifice? What sort of a man are you, sir, +to allow Mlle. Gautier to sacrifice anything for you? Come, +enough of this. You will leave this woman. Just now I begged you; +now I command you. I will have no such scandalous doings in my +family. Pack up your things and get ready to come with me." + +"Pardon me, father," I said, "but I shall not come." + +"And why?" + +"Because I am at an age when no one any longer obeys a command." + +My father turned pale at my answer. + +"Very well, sir," he said, "I know what remains to be done." + +He rang and Joseph appeared. + +"Have my things taken to the Hotel de Paris," he said to my +servant. And thereupon he went to his room and finished dressing. +When he returned, I went up to him. + +"Promise me, father," I said, "that you will do nothing to give +Marguerite pain?" + +My father stopped, looked at me disdainfully, and contented +himself with saying, "I believe you are mad." After this he went +out, shutting the door violently after him. + +I went downstairs, took a cab, and returned to Bougival. + +Marguerite was waiting for me at the window. + + + +Chapter 21 + +"At last you have come," she said, throwing her arms round my +neck. "But how pale you are!" + +I told her of the scene with my father. + +"My God! I was afraid of it," she said. "When Joseph came to tell +you of your father's arrival I trembled as if he had brought news +of some misfortune. My poor friend, I am the cause of all your +distress. You will be better off, perhaps, if you leave me and do +not quarrel with your father on my account. He knows that you are +sure to have a mistress, and he ought to be thankful that it is +I, since I love you and do not want more of you than your +position allows. Did you tell him how we had arranged our +future?" + +"Yes; that is what annoyed him the most, for he saw how much we +really love one another." + +"What are we to do, then?" + +"Hold together, my good Marguerite, and let the storm pass over." + +"Will it pass?" + +"It will have to." + +"But your father will not stop there." + +"What do you suppose he can do?" + +"How do I know? Everything that a father can do to make his son +obey him. He will remind you of my past life, and will perhaps do +me the honour of inventing some new story, so that you may give +me up." + +"You know that I love you." + +"Yes, but what I know, too, is that, sooner or later, you will +have to obey your father, and perhaps you will end by believing +him." + +"No, Marguerite. It is I who will make him believe me. Some of +his friends have been telling him tales which have made him +angry; but he is good and just, he will change his first +impression; and then, after all, what does it matter to me?" + +"Do not say that, Armand. I would rather anything should happen +than that you should quarrel with your family; wait till after +to-day, and to-morrow go back to Paris. Your father, too, will +have thought it over on his side, and perhaps you will both come +to a better understanding. Do not go against his principles, +pretend to make some concessions to what he wants; seem not to +care so very much about me, and he will let things remain as they +are. Hope, my friend, and be sure of one thing, that whatever +happens, Marguerite will always be yours." + +"You swear it?" + +"Do I need to swear it?" + +How sweet it is to let oneself be persuaded by the voice that one +loves! Marguerite and I spent the whole day in talking over our +projects for the future, as if we felt the need of realizing them +as quickly as possible. At every moment we awaited some event, +but the day passed without bringing us any new tidings. + +Next day I left at ten o'clock, and reached the hotel about +twelve. My father had gone out. + +I went to my own rooms, hoping that he had perhaps gone there. No +one had called. I went to the solicitor's. No one was there. I +went back to the hotel, and waited till six. M. Duval did not +return, and I went back to Bougival. + +I found Marguerite not waiting for me, as she had been the day +before, but sitting by the fire, which the weather still made +necessary. She was so absorbed in her thoughts that I came close +to her chair without her hearing me. When I put my lips to her +forehead she started as if the kiss had suddenly awakened her. + +"You frightened me," she said. "And your father?" + +"I have not seen him. I do not know what it means. He was not at +his hotel, nor anywhere where there was a chance of my finding +him." + +"Well, you must try again to-morrow." + +"I am very much inclined to wait till he sends for me. I think I +have done all that can be expected of me." + +"No, my friend, it is not enough; you must call on your father +again, and you must call to-morrow." + +"Why to-morrow rather than any other day?" + +"Because," said Marguerite, and it seemed to me that she blushed +slightly at this question, "because it will show that you are the +more keen about it, and he will forgive us the sooner." + +For the remainder of the day Marguerite was sad and preoccupied. +I had to repeat twice over everything I said to her to obtain an +answer. She ascribed this preoccupation to her anxiety in regard +to the events which had happened during the last two days. I +spent the night in reassuring her, and she sent me away in the +morning with an insistent disquietude that I could not explain to +myself. + +Again my father was absent, but he had left this letter for me: + +"If you call again to-day, wait for me till four. If I am not in +by four, come and dine with me to-morrow. I must see you." + +I waited till the hour he had named, but he did not appear. I +returned to Bougival. + +The night before I had found Marguerite sad; that night I found +her feverish and agitated. On seeing me, she flung her arms +around my neck, but she cried for a long time in my arms. I +questioned her as to this sudden distress, which alarmed me by +its violence. She gave me no positive reason, but put me off with +those evasions which a woman resorts to when she will not tell +the truth. + +When she was a little calmed down, I told her the result of my +visit, and I showed her my father's letter, from which, I said, +we might augur well. At the sight of the letter and on hearing my +comment, her tears began to flow so copiously that I feared an +attack of nerves, and, calling Nanine, I put her to bed, where +she wept without a word, but held my hands and kissed them every +moment. + +I asked Nanine if, during my absence, her mistress had received +any letter or visit which could account for the state in which I +found her, but Nanine replied that no one had called and nothing +had been sent. + +Something, however, had occurred since the day before, something +which troubled me the more because Marguerite concealed it from +me. + +In the evening she seemed a little calmer, and, making me sit at +the foot of the bed, she told me many times how much she loved +me. She smiled at me, but with an effort, for in spite of herself +her eyes were veiled with tears. + +I used every means to make her confess the real cause of her +distress, but she persisted in giving me nothing but vague +reasons, as I have told you. At last she fell asleep in my arms, +but it was the sleep which tires rather than rests the body. From +time to time she uttered a cry, started up, and, after assuring +herself that I was beside her, made me swear that I would always +love her. + +I could make nothing of these intermittent paroxysms of distress, +which went on till morning. Then Marguerite fell into a kind of +stupor. She had not slept for two nights. + +Her rest was of short duration, for toward eleven she awoke, and, +seeing that I was up, she looked about her, crying: + +"Are you going already?" + +"No," said I, holding her hands; "but I wanted to let you sleep +on. It is still early." + +"What time are you going to Paris?" + +"At four." + +"So soon? But you will stay with me till then?" + +"Of course. Do I not always?" + +"I am so glad! Shall we have lunch?" she went on absentmindedly. + +"If you like." + +"And then you will be nice to me till the very moment you go?" + +"Yes; and I will come back as soon as I can." + +"You will come back?" she said, looking at me with haggard eyes. + +"Naturally." + +"Oh, yes, you will come back to-night. I shall wait for you, as I +always do, and you will love me, and we shall be happy, as we +have been ever since we have known each other." + +All these words were said in such a strained voice, they seemed +to hide so persistent and so sorrowful a thought, that I trembled +every moment lest Marguerite should become delirious. + +"Listen," I said. "You are ill. I can not leave you like this. I +will write and tell my father not to expect me." + +"No, no," she cried hastily, "don't do that. Your father will +accuse me of hindering you again from going to see him when he +wants to see you; no, no, you must go, you must! Besides, I am +not ill. I am quite well. I had a bad dream and am not yet fully +awake." + +From that moment Marguerite tried to seem more cheerful. There +were no more tears. + +When the hour came for me to go, I embraced her and asked her if +she would come with me as far as the train; I hoped that the walk +would distract her and that the air would do her good. I wanted +especially to be with her as long as possible. + +She agreed, put on her cloak and took Nanine with her, so as not +to return alone. Twenty times I was on the point of not going. +But the hope of a speedy return, and the fear of offending my +father still more, sustained me, and I took my place in the +train. + +"Till this evening!" I said to Marguerite, as I left her. She did +not reply. + +Once already she had not replied to the same words, and the Comte +de G., you will remember, had spent the night with her; but that +time was so far away that it seemed to have been effaced from my +memory, and if I had any fear, it was certainly not of Marguerite +being unfaithful to me. Reaching Paris, I hastened off to see +Prudence, intending to ask her to go and keep Marguerite company, +in the hope that her mirth and liveliness would distract her. I +entered without being announced, and found Prudence at her +toilet. + +"Ah!" she said, anxiously; "is Marguerite with you?" + +"No." + +"How is she?" + +"She is not well." + +"Is she not coming?" + +"Did you expect her?" + +Madame Duvernoy reddened, and replied, with a certain constraint: + +"I only meant that since you are at Paris, is she not coming to +join you?" + +"No." + +I looked at Prudence; she cast down her eyes, and I read in her +face the fear of seeing my visit prolonged. + +"I even came to ask you, my dear Prudence, if you have nothing to +do this evening, to go and see Marguerite; you will be company +for her, and you can stay the night. I never saw her as she was +to-day, and I am afraid she is going to be ill." + +"I am dining in town," replied Prudence, "and I can't go and see +Marguerite this evening. I will see her tomorrow." + +I took leave of Mme. Duvernoy, who seemed almost as preoccupied +as Marguerite, and went on to my father's; his first glance +seemed to study me attentively. He held out his hand. + +"Your two visits have given me pleasure, Armand," he said; "they +make me hope that you have thought over things on your side as I +have on mine." + +"May I ask you, father, what was the result of your reflection?" + +"The result, my dear boy, is that I have exaggerated the +importance of the reports that had been made to me, and that I +have made up my mind to be less severe with you." + +"What are you saying, father?" I cried joyously. + +"I say, my dear child, that every young man must have his +mistress, and that, from the fresh information I have had, I +would rather see you the lover of Mlle. Gautier than of any one +else." + +"My dear father, how happy you make me!" + +We talked in this manner for some moments, and then sat down to +table. My father was charming all dinner time. + +I was in a hurry to get back to Bougival to tell Marguerite about +this fortunate change, and I looked at the clock every moment. + +"You are watching the time," said my father, "and you are +impatient to leave me. O young people, how you always sacrifice +sincere to doubtful affections!" + +"Do not say that, father; Marguerite loves me, I am sure of it." + +My father did not answer; he seemed to say neither yes nor no. + +He was very insistent that I should spend the whole evening with +him and not go till the morning; but Marguerite had not been well +when I left her. I told him of it, and begged his permission to +go back to her early, promising to come again on the morrow. + +The weather was fine; he walked with me as far as the station. +Never had I been so happy. The future appeared as I had long +desired to see it. I had never loved my father as I loved him at +that moment. + +Just as I was leaving him, he once more begged me to stay. I +refused. + +"You are really very much in love with her?" he asked. + +"Madly." + +"Go, then," and he passed his hand across his forehead as if to +chase a thought, then opened his mouth as if to say something; +but he only pressed my hand, and left me hurriedly, saying: + +"Till to-morrow, then!" + + + +Chapter 22 + +It seemed to me as if the train did not move. I reached Bougival +at eleven. + +Not a window in the house was lighted up, and when I rang no one +answered the bell. It was the first time that such a thing had +occurred to me. At last the gardener came. I entered. Nanine met +me with a light. I went to Marguerite's room. + +"Where is madame?" + +"Gone to Paris," replied Nanine. + +"To Paris!" + +"Yes, sir." + +"When?" + +"An hour after you." + +"She left no word for me?" + +"Nothing." + +Nanine left me. + +Perhaps she had some suspicion or other, I thought, and went to +Paris to make sure that my visit to my father was not an excuse +for a day off. Perhaps Prudence wrote to her about something +important. I said to myself when I was alone; but I saw Prudence; +she said nothing to make me suppose that she had written to +Marguerite. + +All at once I remembered Mme. Duvernoy's question, "Isn't she +coming to-day?" when I had said that Marguerite was ill. I +remembered at the same time how embarrassed Prudence had appeared +when I looked at her after this remark, which seemed to indicate +an appointment. I remembered, too, Marguerite's tears all day +long, which my father's kind reception had rather put out of my +mind. From this moment all the incidents grouped themselves about +my first suspicion, and fixed it so firmly in my mind that +everything served to confirm it, even my father's kindness. + +Marguerite had almost insisted on my going to Paris; she had +pretended to be calmer when I had proposed staying with her. Had +I fallen into some trap? Was Marguerite deceiving me? Had she +counted on being back in time for me not to perceive her absence, +and had she been detained by chance? Why had she said nothing to +Nanine, or why had she not written? What was the meaning of those +tears, this absence, this mystery? + +That is what I asked myself in affright, as I stood in the vacant +room, gazing at the clock, which pointed to midnight, and seemed +to say to me that it was too late to hope for my mistress's +return. Yet, after all the arrangements we had just made, after +the sacrifices that had been offered and accepted, was it likely +that she was deceiving me? No. I tried to get rid of my first +supposition. + +Probably she had found a purchaser for her furniture, and she had +gone to Paris to conclude the bargain. She did not wish to tell +me beforehand, for she knew that, though I had consented to it, +the sale, so necessary to our future happiness, was painful to +me, and she feared to wound my self-respect in speaking to me +about it. She would rather not see me till the whole thing was +done, and that was evidently why Prudence was expecting her when +she let out the secret. Marguerite could not finish the whole +business to-day, and was staying the night with Prudence, or +perhaps she would come even now, for she must know bow anxious I +should be, and would not wish to leave me in that condition. But, +if so, why those tears? No doubt, despite her love for me, the +poor girl could not make up her mind to give up all the luxury in +which she had lived until now, and for which she had been so +envied, without crying over it. I was quite ready to forgive her +for such regrets. I waited for her impatiently, that I might say +to her, as I covered her with kisses, that I had guessed the +reason of her mysterious absence. + +Nevertheless, the night went on, and Marguerite did not return. + +My anxiety tightened its circle little by little, and began to +oppress my head and heart. Perhaps something had happened to her. +Perhaps she was injured, ill, dead. Perhaps a messenger would +arrive with the news of some dreadful accident. Perhaps the +daylight would find me with the same uncertainty and with the +same fears. + +The idea that Marguerite was perhaps unfaithful to me at the very +moment when I waited for her in terror at her absence did not +return to my mind. There must be some cause, independent of her +will, to keep her away from me, and the more I thought, the more +convinced I was that this cause could only be some mishap or +other. O vanity of man, coming back to us in every form! + +One o'clock struck. I said to myself that I would wait another +hour, but that at two o'clock, if Marguerite had not returned, I +would set out for Paris. Meanwhile I looked about for a book, for +I dared not think. Manon Lescaut was open on the table. It seemed +to me that here and there the pages were wet as if with tears. I +turned the leaves over and then closed the book, for the letters +seemed to me void of meaning through the veil of my doubts. + +Time went slowly. The sky was covered with clouds. An autumn rain +lashed the windows. The empty bed seemed at moments to assume the +aspect of a tomb. I was afraid. + +I opened the door. I listened, and heard nothing but the voice of +the wind in the trees. Not a vehicle was to be seen on the road. +The half hour sounded sadly from the church tower. + +I began to fear lest some one should enter. It seemed to me that +only a disaster could come at that hour and under that sombre +sky. + +Two o'clock struck. I still waited a little. Only the sound of +the bell troubled the silence with its monotonous and rhythmical +stroke. + +At last I left the room, where every object had assumed that +melancholy aspect which the restless solitude of the heart gives +to all its surroundings. + +In the next room I found Nanine sleeping over her work. At the +sound of the door, she awoke and asked if her mistress had come +in. + +"No; but if she comes in, tell her that I was so anxious that I +had to go to Paris." + +"At this hour?" + +"Yes. + +"But how? You won't find a carriage." + +"I will walk." + +"But it is raining." + +"No matter." + +"But madame will be coming back, or if she doesn't come it will +be time enough in the morning to go and see what has kept her. +You will be murdered on the way." + +"There is no danger, my dear Nanine; I will see you to-morrow." + +The good girl went and got me a cloak, put it over my shoulders, +and offered to wake up Mme. Arnould to see if a vehicle could be +obtained; but I would hear of nothing, convinced as I was that I +should lose, in a perhaps fruitless inquiry, more time than I +should take to cover half the road. Besides, I felt the need of +air and physical fatigue in order to cool down the over- +excitement which possessed me. + +I took the key of the flat in the Rue d'Antin, and after saying +good-bye to Nanine, who came with me as far as the gate, I set +out. + +At first I began to run, but the earth was muddy with rain, and I +fatigued myself doubly. At the end of half an hour I was obliged +to stop, and I was drenched with sweat. I recovered my breath and +went on. The night was so dark that at every step I feared to +dash myself against one of the trees on the roadside, which rose +up sharply before me like great phantoms rushing upon me. + +I overtook one or two wagons, which I soon left behind. A +carriage was going at full gallop toward Bougival. As it passed +me the hope came to me that Marguerite was in it. I stopped and +cried out, "Marguerite! Marguerite!" But no one answered and the +carriage continued its course. I watched it fade away in the +distance, and then started on my way again. I took two hours to +reach the Barriere de l'Etoile. The sight of Paris restored my +strength, and I ran the whole length of the alley I had so often +walked. + +That night no one was passing; it was like going through the +midst of a dead city. The dawn began to break. When I reached the +Rue d'Antin the great city stirred a little before quite +awakening. Five o'clock struck at the church of Saint Roch at the +moment when I entered Marguerite's house. I called out my name to +the porter, who had had from me enough twenty-franc pieces to +know that I had the right to call on Mlle. Gautier at five in the +morning. I passed without difficulty. I might have asked if +Marguerite was at home, but he might have said "No," and I +preferred to remain in doubt two minutes longer, for, as long as +I doubted, there was still hope. + +I listened at the door, trying to discover a sound, a movement. +Nothing. The silence of the country seemed to be continued here. +I opened the door and entered. All the curtains were hermetically +closed. I drew those of the dining-room and went toward the +bed-room and pushed open the door. I sprang at the curtain cord +and drew it violently. The curtain opened, a faint light made its +way in. I rushed to the bed. It was empty. + +I opened the doors one after another. I visited every room. No +one. It was enough to drive one mad. + +I went into the dressing-room, opened the window, and called +Prudence several times. Mme. Duvernoy's window remained closed. + +I went downstairs to the porter and asked him if Mlle. Gautier +had come home during the day. + +"Yes," answered the man; "with Mme. Duvernoy." + +"She left no word for me?" + +"No." + +"Do you know what they did afterward?" + +"They went away in a carriage." + +"What sort of a carriage?" + +"A private carriage." + +What could it all mean? + +I rang at the next door. + +"Where are you going, sir?" asked the porter, when he had opened +to me. + +"To Mme. Duvernoy's." + +"She has not come back." + +"You are sure?" + +"Yes, sir; here's a letter even, which was brought for her last +night and which I have not yet given her." + +And the porter showed me a letter which I glanced at +mechanically. I recognised Marguerite's writing. I took the +letter. It was addressed, "To Mme. Duvernoy, to forward to M. +Duval." + +"This letter is for me," I said to the porter, as I showed him +the address. + +"You are M. Duval?" he replied. + +"Yes. + +"Ah! I remember. You often came to see Mme. Duvernoy." + +When I was in the street I broke the seal of the letter. If a +thunder-bolt had fallen at my feet I should have been less +startled than I was by what I read. + +"By the time you read this letter, Armand, I shall be the +mistress of another man. All is over between us. + +"Go back to your father, my friend, and to your sister, and +there, by the side of a pure young girl, ignorant of all our +miseries, you will soon forget what you would have suffered +through that lost creature who is called Marguerite Gautier, whom +you have loved for an instant, and who owes to you the only happy +moments of a life which, she hopes, will not be very long now." + +When I had read the last word, I thought I should have gone mad. +For a moment I was really afraid of falling in the street. A +cloud passed before my eyes and my blood beat in my temples. At +last I came to myself a little. I looked about me, and was +astonished to see the life of others continue without pausing at +my distress. + +I was not strong enough to endure the blow alone. Then I +remembered that my father was in the same city, that I might be +with him in ten minutes, and that, whatever might be the cause of +my sorrow, he would share it. + +I ran like a madman, like a thief, to the Hotel de Paris; I found +the key in the door of my father's room; I entered. He was +reading. He showed so little astonishment at seeing me, that it +was as if he was expecting me. I flung myself into his arms +without saying a word. I gave him Marguerite's letter, and, +falling on my knees beside his bed, I wept hot tears. + + + +Chapter 23 + +When the current of life had resumed its course, I could not +believe that the day which I saw dawning would not be like those +which had preceded it. There were moments when I fancied that +some circumstance, which I could not recollect, had obliged me to +spend the night away from Marguerite, but that, if I returned to +Bougival, I should find her again as anxious as I had been, and +that she would ask me what had detained me away from her so long. + +When one's existence has contracted a habit, such as that of this +love, it seems impossible that the habit should be broken without +at the same time breaking all the other springs of life. I was +forced from time to time to reread Marguerite's letter, in order +to convince myself that I had not been dreaming. + +My body, succumbing to the moral shock, was incapable of +movement. Anxiety, the night walk, and the morning's news had +prostrated me. My father profited by this total prostration of +all my faculties to demand of me a formal promise to accompany +him. I promised all that he asked, for I was incapable of +sustaining a discussion, and I needed some affection to help me +to live, after what had happened. I was too thankful that my +father was willing to console me under such a calamity. + +All that I remember is that on that day, about five o'clock, he +took me with him in a post-chaise. Without a word to me, he had +had my luggage packed and put up behind the chaise with his own, +and so he carried me off. I did not realize what I was doing +until the town had disappeared and the solitude of the road +recalled to me the emptiness of my heart. Then my tears again +began to flow. + +My father had realized that words, even from him, would do +nothing to console me, and he let me weep without saying a word, +only sometimes pressing my hand, as if to remind me that I had a +friend at my side. + +At night I slept a little. I dreamed of Marguerite. + +I woke with a start, not recalling why I was in the carriage. +Then the truth came back upon me, and I let my head sink on my +breast. I dared not say anything to my father. I was afraid he +would say, "You see I was right when I declared that this woman +did not love you." But he did not use his advantage, and we +reached C. without his having said anything to me except to speak +of matters quite apart from the event which had occasioned my +leaving Paris. + +When I embraced my sister, I remembered what Marguerite had said +about her in her letter, and I saw at once how little my sister, +good as she was, would be able to make me forget my mistress. + +Shooting had begun, and my father thought that it would be a +distraction for me. He got up shooting parties with friends and +neighbours. I went without either reluctance or enthusiasm, with +that sort of apathy into which I had sunk since my departure. + +We were beating about for game and I was given my post. I put +down my unloaded gun at my side, and meditated. I watched the +clouds pass. I let my thought wander over the solitary plains, +and from time to time I heard some one call to me and point to a +hare not ten paces off. None of these details escaped my father, +and he was not deceived by my exterior calm. He was well aware +that, broken as I now was, I should some day experience a +terrible reaction, which might be dangerous, and, without seeming +to make any effort to console me, he did his utmost to distract +my thoughts. + +My sister, naturally, knew nothing of what had happened, and she +could not understand how it was that I, who had formerly been so +lighthearted, had suddenly become so sad and dreamy. + +Sometimes, surprising in the midst of my sadness my father's +anxious scrutiny, I pressed his hand as if to ask him tacitly to +forgive me for the pain which, in spite of myself, I was giving +him. + +Thus a month passed, but at the end of that time I could endure +it no longer. The memory of Marguerite pursued me unceasingly. I +had loved, I still loved this woman so much that I could not +suddenly become indifferent to her. I had to love or to hate her. +Above all, whatever I felt for her, I had to see her again, and +at once. This desire possessed my mind, and with all the violence +of a will which had begun to reassert itself in a body so long +inert. + +It was not enough for me to see Marguerite in a month, a week. I +had to see her the very next day after the day when the thought +had occurred to me; and I went to my father and told him that I +had been called to Paris on business, but that I should return +promptly. No doubt he guessed the reason of my departure, for he +insisted that I should stay, but, seeing that if I did not carry +out my intention the consequences, in the state in which I was, +might be fatal, he embraced me, and begged me, almost, with +tears, to return without delay. + +I did not sleep on the way to Paris. Once there, what was I going +to do? I did not know; I only knew that it must be something +connected with Marguerite. I went to my rooms to change my +clothes, and, as the weather was fine and it was still early, I +made my way to the Champs-Elysees. At the end of half an hour I +saw Marguerite's carriage, at some distance, coming from the +Rond-Point to the Place de la Concorde. She had repurchased her +horses, for the carriage was just as I was accustomed to see it, +but she was not in it. Scarcely had I noticed this fact, when +looking around me, I saw Marguerite on foot, accompanied by a +woman whom I had never seen. + +As she passed me she turned pale, and a nervous smile tightened +about her lips. For my part, my heart beat violently in my +breast; but I succeeded in giving a cold expression to my face, +as I bowed coldly to my former mistress, who just then reached +her carriage, into which she got with her friend. + +I knew Marguerite: this unexpected meeting must certainly have +upset her. No doubt she had heard that I had gone away, and had +thus been reassured as to the consequences of our rupture; but, +seeing me again in Paris, finding herself face to face with me, +pale as I was, she must have realized that I had not returned +without purpose, and she must have asked herself what that +purpose was. + +If I had seen Marguerite unhappy, if, in revenging myself upon +her, I could have come to her aid, I should perhaps have forgiven +her, and certainly I should have never dreamt of doing her an +injury. But I found her apparently happy, some one else had +restored to her the luxury which I could not give her; her +breaking with me seemed to assume a character of the basest +self-interest; I was lowered in my own esteem as well as in my +love. I resolved that she should pay for what I had suffered. + +I could not be indifferent to what she did, consequently what +would hurt her the most would be my indifference; it was, +therefore, this sentiment which I must affect, not only in her +eyes, but in the eyes of others. + +I tried to put on a smiling countenance, and I went to call on +Prudence. The maid announced me, and I had to wait a few minutes +in the drawing-room. At last Mme. Duvernoy appeared and asked me +into her boudoir; as I seated myself I heard the drawing-room +door open, a light footstep made the floor creak and the front +door was closed violently. + +"I am disturbing you," I said to Prudence. + +"Not in the least. Marguerite was there. When she heard you +announced, she made her escape; it was she who has just gone +out." + +"Is she afraid of me now?" + +"No. but she is afraid that you would not wish to see her." + +"But why?" I said, drawing my breath with difficulty, for I was +choked with emotion. "The poor girl left me for her carriage, her +furniture, and her diamonds; she did quite right, and I don't +bear her any grudge. I met her to-day," I continued carelessly. + +"Where?" asked Prudence, looking at me and seeming to ask herself +if this was the same man whom she had known so madly in love. + +"In the Champs-Elysees. She was with another woman, very pretty. +Who is she?" + +"What was she like?" + +"Blonde, slender, with side curls; blue eyes; very elegant." + +"Ali! It was Olympe; she is really very pretty." + +"Whom does she live with?" + +"With nobody; with anybody." + +"Where does she live?" + +"Rue Troncliet, No.--. Do you want to make love to her?" + +"One never knows." + +"And Marguerite?" + +"I should hardly tell you the truth if I said I think no more +about her; but I am one of those with whom everything depends on +the way in which one breaks with them. Now Marguerite ended with +me so lightly that I realize I was a great fool to have been as +much in love with her as I was, for I was really very much in +love with that girl." + +You can imagine the way in which I said that; the sweat broke out +on my forehead. + +"She was very fond of you, you know, and she still is; the proof +is, that after meeting you to-day, she came straight to tell me +about it. When she got here she was all of a tremble; I thought +she was going to faint." + +"Well, what did she say?" + +"She said, 'He is sure to come here,' and she begged me to ask +you to forgive her." + +"I have forgiven her, you may tell her. She was a good girl; but, +after all, like the others, and I ought to have expected what +happened. I am even grateful to her, for I see now what would +have happened if I had lived with her altogether. It was +ridiculous." + +"She will be very glad to find that you take it so well. It was +quite time she left you, my dear fellow. The rascal of an agent +to whom she had offered to sell her furniture went around to her +creditors to find out how much she owed; they took fright, and in +two days she would have been sold up." + +"And now it is all paid?" + +"More or less." + +"And who has supplied the money?" + +"The Comte de N. Ah, my dear friend, there are men made on +purpose for such occasions. To cut a long story short he gave her +twenty thousand francs, but he has had his way at last. He knows +quite well that Marguerite is not in love with him; but he is +very nice with her all the same. As you have seen, he has +repurchased her horses, he has taken her jewels out of pawn, and +he gives her as much money as the duke used to give her; if she +likes to live quietly, he will stay with her a long time." + +"And what is she doing? Is she living in Paris altogether?" + +"She would never go back to Bougival after you went. I had to go +myself and see after all her things, and yours, too. I made a +package of them and you can send here for them. You will find +everything, except a little case with your initials. Marguerite +wanted to keep it. If you really want it, I will ask her for it." + +"Let her keep it," I stammered, for I felt the tears rise from my +heart to my eyes at the recollection of the village where I had +been so happy, and at the thought that Marguerite cared to keep +something which had belonged to me and would recall me to her. If +she had entered at that moment my thoughts of vengeance would +have disappeared, and I should have fallen at her feet. + +"For the rest," continued Prudence, "I never saw her as she is +now; she hardly takes any sleep, she goes to all the balls, she +goes to suppers, she even drinks. The other day, after a supper, +she had to stay in bed for a week; and when the doctor let her +get up, she began again at the risk of her life. Shall you go and +see her?" + +"What is the good? I came to see you, because you have always +been charming to me, and I knew you before I ever knew +Marguerite. I owe it to you that I have been her lover, and also, +don't I, that I am her lover no longer?" + +"Well, I did all I could to get her away from you, and I believe +you will be thankful to me later on." + +I owe you a double gratitude," I added, rising, for I was +disgusted with the woman, seeing her take every word I said to +her as if it were serious. + +"You are going?" + +"Yes." + +I had learned enough. + +"When shall I be seeing you?" + +"Soon. Good-bye." + +"Good-bye." + +Prudence saw me to the door, and I went back to my own rooms with +tears of rage in my eyes and a desire for vengeance in my heart. + +So Marguerite was no different from the others; so the steadfast +love that she had had for me could not resist the desire of +returning to her former life, and the need of having a carriage +and plunging into dissipation. So I said to myself, as I lay +awake at night though if I had reflected as calmly as I professed +to I should have seen in this new and turbulent life of +Marguerite the attempt to silence a constant thought, a ceaseless +memory. Unfortunately, evil passion had the upper hand, and I +only sought for some means of avenging myself on the poor +creature. Oh, how petty and vile is man when he is wounded in one +of his narrow passions! + +This Olympe whom I had seen was, if not a friend of Marguerite, +at all events the woman with whom she was most often seen since +her return to Paris. She was going to give a ball, and, as I took +it for granted that Marguerite would be there, I tried to get an +invitation and succeeded. + +When, full of my sorrowful emotions, I arrived at the ball, it +was already very animated. They were dancing, shouting even, and +in one of the quadrilles I perceived Marguerite dancing with the +Comte de N., who seemed proud of showing her off, as if he said +to everybody: "This woman is mine." + +I leaned against the mantel-piece just opposite Marguerite and +watched her dancing. Her face changed the moment she caught sight +of me. I saluted her casually with a glance of the eyes and a +wave of the hand. + +When I reflected that after the ball she would go home, not with +me but with that rich fool, when I thought of what would follow +their return, the blood rose to my face, and I felt the need of +doing something to trouble their relations. + +After the contredanse I went up to the mistress of the house, who +displayed for the benefit of her guests a dazzling bosom and +magnificent shoulders. She was beautiful, and, from the point of +view of figure, more beautiful than Marguerite. I realized this +fact still more clearly from certain glances which Marguerite +bestowed upon her while I was talking with her. The man who was +the lover of such a woman might well be as proud as M. de N., and +she was beautiful enough to inspire a passion not less great than +that which Marguerite had inspired in me. At that moment she had +no lover. It would not be difficult to become so; it depended +only on showing enough money to attract her attention. + +I made up my mind. That woman should be my mistress. I began by +dancing with her. Half an hour afterward, Marguerite, pale as +death, put on her pelisse and left the ball. + + + +Chapter 24 + +It was something already, but it was not enough. I saw the hold +which I had upon this woman, and I took a cowardly advantage of +it. + +When I think that she is dead now, I ask myself if God will ever +forgive me for the wrong I did her. + +After the supper, which was noisy as could be, there was +gambling. I sat by the side of Olympe and put down my money so +recklessly that she could not but notice me. In an instant I had +gained one hundred and fifty or two hundred louis, which I spread +out before me on the table, and on which she fastened her eyes +greedily. + +I was the only one not completely absorbed by the game, and able +to pay her some attention. All the rest of the night I gained, +and it was I who gave her money to play, for she had lost all she +had before her and probably all she had in the house. + +At five in the morning, the guests departed. I had gained three +hundred louis. + +All the players were already on their way downstairs; I was the +only one who had remained behind, and as I did not know any of +them, no one noticed it. Olympe herself was lighting the way, and +I was going to follow the others, when, turning back, I said to +her: + +"I must speak to you." + +"To-morrow," she said. + +"No, now." + +"What have you to say?" + +"You will see." + +And I went back into the room. + +"You have lost," I said. + +"Yes. + +"All that you had in the house?" + +She hesitated. + +"Be frank." + +"Well, it is true." + +"I have won three hundred louis. Here they are, if you will let +me stay here to-night." + +And I threw the gold on the table. + +"And why this proposition?" + +"Because I am in love with you, of course." + +"No, but because you love Marguerite, and you want to have your +revenge upon her by becoming my lover. You don't deceive a woman +like me, my dear friend; unluckily, I am still too young and too +good-looking to accept the part that you offer me." + +"So you refuse?" + +"Yes. + +"Would you rather take me for nothing? It is I who wouldn't +accept then. Think it over, my dear Olympe; if I had sent some +one to offer you these three hundred louis on my behalf, on the +conditions I attach to them, you would have accepted. I preferred +to speak to you myself. Accept without inquiring into my reasons; +say to yourself that you are beautiful, and that there is nothing +surprising in my being in love with you." + +Marguerite was a woman in the same position as Olympe, and yet I +should never have dared say to her the first time I met her what +I had said to the other woman. I loved Marguerite. I saw in her +instincts which were lacking in the other, and at the very moment +in which I made my bargain, I felt a disgust toward the woman +with whom I was making it. + +She accepted, of course, in the end, and at midday I left her +house as her lover; but I quitted her without a recollection of +the caresses and of the words of love which she had felt bound to +shower upon me in return for the six thousand francs which I left +with her. And yet there were men who had ruined themselves for +that woman. + +From that day I inflicted on Marguerite a continual persecution. +Olympe and she gave up seeing one another, as you might imagine. +I gave my new mistress a carriage and jewels. I gambled, I +committed every extravagance which could be expected of a man in +love with such a woman as Olympe. The report of my new +infatuation was immediately spread abroad. + +Prudence herself was taken in, and finally thought that I had +completely forgotten Marguerite. Marguerite herself, whether she +guessed my motive or was deceived like everybody else, preserved +a perfect dignity in response to the insults which I heaped upon +her daily. Only, she seemed to suffer, for whenever I met her she +was more and more pale, more and more sad. My love for her, +carried to the point at which it was transformed into hatred, +rejoiced at the sight of her daily sorrow. Often, when my cruelty +toward her became infamous, Marguerite lifted upon me such +appealing eyes that I blushed for the part I was playing, and was +ready to implore her forgiveness. + +But my repentance was only of a moment's duration, and Olympe, +who had finally put aside all self-respect, and discovered that +by annoying Marguerite she could get from me whatever she wanted, +constantly stirred up my resentment against her, and insulted her +whenever she found an opportunity, with the cowardly persistence +of a woman licensed by the authority of a man. + +At last Marguerite gave up going to balls or theatres, for fear +of meeting Olympe and me. Then direct impertinences gave way to +anonymous letters, and there was not a shameful thing which I did +not encourage my mistress to relate and which I did not myself +relate in reference to Marguerite. + +To reach such a point I must have been literally mad. I was like +a man drunk upon bad wine, who falls into one of those nervous +exaltations in which the hand is capable of committing a crime +without the head knowing anything about it. In the midst of it +all I endured a martyrdom. The not disdainful calm, the not +contemptuous dignity with which Marguerite responded to all my +attacks, and which raised her above me in my own eyes, enraged me +still more against her. + +One evening Olympe had gone somewhere or other, and had met +Marguerite, who for once had not spared the foolish creature, so +that she had had to retire in confusion. Olympe returned in a +fury, and Marguerite fainted and had to be carried out. Olympe +related to me what had happened, declared that Marguerite, seeing +her alone, had revenged herself upon her because she was my +mistress, and that I must write and tell her to respect the woman +whom I loved, whether I was present or absent. + +I need not tell you that I consented, and that I put into the +letter which I sent to her address the same day, everything +bitter, shameful, and cruel that I could think of. + +This time the blow was more than the unhappy creature could +endure without replying. I felt sure that an answer would come, +and I resolved not to go out all day. About two there was a ring, +and Prudence entered. + +I tried to assume an indifferent air as I asked her what had +brought her; but that day Mme. Duvernoy was not in a laughing +humour, and in a really moved voice she said to me that since my +return, that is to say for about three weeks, I had left no +occasion untried which could give pain to Marguerite, that she +was completely upset by it, and that the scene of last night and +my angry letter of the morning had forced her to take to her bed. +In short, without making any reproach, Marguerite sent to ask me +for a little pity, since she had no longer the moral or physical +strength to endure what I was making her suffer. + +"That Mlle. Gautier," I said to Prudence, "should turn me out of +her own house is quite reasonable, but that she should insult the +woman whom I love, under the pretence that this woman is my +mistress, is a thing I will never permit." + +"My friend," said Prudence, "you are under the influence of a +woman who has neither heart nor sense; you are in love with her, +it is true, but that is not a reason for torturing a woman who +can not defend herself." + +"Let Mlle. Gautier send me her Comte de N. and the sides will be +equal." + +"You know very well that she will not do that. So, my dear +Armand, let her alone. If you saw her you would be ashamed of the +way in which you are treating her. She is white, she coughs--she +won't last long now." + +And Prudence held out her hand to me, adding: + +"Come and see her; it will make her very happy." + +"I have no desire to meet M. de N." + +"M. de N. is never there. She can not endure him." + +"If Marguerite wishes to see me, she knows where I live; let her +come to see me, but, for my part, I will never put foot in the +Rue d'Antin." + +"Will you receive her well?" + +"Certainly." + +"Well, I am sure that she will come." + +"Let her come." + +"Shall you be out to-day?" + +"I shall be at home all the evening." + +"I will tell her." + +And Prudence left me. + +I did not even write to tell Olympe not to expect me. I never +troubled much about her, scarcely going to see her one night a +week. She consoled herself, I believe, with an actor from some +theatre or other. + +I went out for dinner and came back almost immediately. I had a +fire lit in my room and I told Joseph he could go out. + +I can give you no idea of the different impressions which +agitated me during the hour in which I waited; but when, toward +nine o'clock, I heard a ring, they thronged together into one +such emotion, that, as I opened the door, I was obliged to lean +against the wall to keep myself from falling. + +Fortunately the anteroom was in half darkness, and the change in +my countenance was less visible. Marguerite entered. + +She was dressed in black and veiled. I could scarcely recognise +her face through the veil. She went into the drawing-room and +raised her veil. She was pale as marble. + +"I am here, Armand," she said; "you wished to see me and I have +come." + +And letting her head fall on her hands, she burst into tears. + +I went up to her. + +"What is the matter?" I said to her in a low voice. + +She pressed my hand without a word, for tears still veiled her +voice. But after a few minutes, recovering herself a little, she +said to me: + +"You have been very unkind to me, Armand, and I have done nothing +to you." + +"Nothing?" I answered, with a bitter smile. + +"Nothing but what circumstances forced me to do." + +I do not know if you have ever in your life experienced, or if +you will ever experience, what I felt at the sight of Marguerite. + +The last time she had come to see me she had sat in the same +place where she was now sitting; only, since then, she had been +the mistress of another man, other kisses than mine had touched +her lips, toward which, in spite of myself, my own reached out, +and yet I felt that I loved this woman as much, more perhaps, +than I had ever loved her. + +It was difficult for me to begin the conversation on the subject +which brought her. Marguerite no doubt realized it, for she went +on: + +"I have come to trouble you, Armand, for I have two things to +ask: pardon for what I said yesterday to Mlle. Olympe, and pity +for what you are perhaps still ready to do to me. Intentionally +or not, since your return you have given me so much pain that I +should be incapable now of enduring a fourth part of what I have +endured till now. You will have pity on me, won't you? And you +will understand that a man who is not heartless has other nobler +things to do than to take his revenge upon a sick and sad woman +like me. See, take my hand. I am in a fever. I left my bed to +come to you, and ask, not for your friendship, but for your +indifference." + +I took Marguerite's hand. It was burning, and the poor woman +shivered under her fur cloak. + +I rolled the arm-chair in which she was sitting up to the fire. + +"Do you think, then, that I did not suffer," said I, "on that +night when, after waiting for you in the country, I came to look +for you in Paris, and found nothing but the letter which nearly +drove me mad? How could you have deceived me, Marguerite, when I +loved you so much? + +"Do not speak of that, Armand; I did not come to speak of that. I +wanted to see you only not an enemy, and I wanted to take your +hand once more. You have a mistress; she is young, pretty, you +love her they say. Be happy with her and forget me." + +"And you. You are happy, no doubt?" + +"Have I the face of a happy woman, Armand? Do not mock my sorrow, +you, who know better than any one what its cause and its depth +are." + +"It only depended on you not to have been unhappy at all, if you +are as you say." + +"No, my friend; circumstances were stronger than my will. I +obeyed, not the instincts of a light woman, as you seem to say, +but a serious necessity, and reasons which you will know one day, +and which will make you forgive me." + +"Why do you not tell me those reasons to-day?" + +"Because they would not bring about an impossible reunion between +us, and they would separate you perhaps from those from whom you +must not be separated." + +"Who do you mean?" + +"I can not tell you." + +"Then you are lying to me." + +Marguerite rose and went toward the door. I could not behold this +silent and expressive sorrow without being touched, when I +compared in my mind this pale and weeping woman with the madcap +who had made fun of me at the Opera Comique. + +"You shall not go," I said, putting myself in front of the door. + +"Why?" + +"Because, in spite of what you have done to me, I love you +always, and I want you to stay here." + +"To turn me out to-morrow? No; it is impossible. Our destinies +are separate; do not try to reunite them. You will despise me +perhaps, while now you can only hate me." + +"No, Marguerite," I cried, feeling all my love and all my desire +reawaken at the contact of this woman. "No, I will forget +everything, and we will be happy as we promised one another that +we would be." + +Marguerite shook her head doubtfully, and said: + +"Am I not your slave, your dog? Do with me what you will. Take +me; I am yours." + +And throwing off her cloak and hat, she flung them on the sofa, +and began hurriedly to undo the front of her dress, for, by one +of those reactions so frequent in her malady, the blood rushed to +her head and stifled her. A hard, dry cough followed. + +"Tell my coachman," she said, "to go back with the carriage." + +I went down myself and sent him away. When I returned Marguerite +was lying in front of the fire, and her teeth chattered with the +cold. + +I took her in my arms. I undressed her, without her making a +movement, and carried her, icy cold, to the bed. Then I sat +beside her and tried to warm her with my caresses. She did not +speak a word, but smiled at me. + +It was a strange night. All Marguerite's life seemed to have +passed into the kisses with which she covered me, and I loved her +so much that in my transports of feverish love I asked myself +whether I should not kill her, so that she might never belong to +another. + +A month of love like that, and there would have remained only the +corpse of heart or body. + +The dawn found us both awake. Marguerite was livid white. She did +not speak a word. From time to time, big tears rolled from her +eyes, and stayed upon her cheeks, shining like diamonds. Her thin +arms opened, from time to time, to hold me fast, and fell back +helplessly upon the bed. + +For a moment it seemed to me as if I could forget all that had +passed since I had left Bougival, and I said to Marguerite: + +"Shall we go away and leave Paris?" + +"No, no!" she said, almost with affright; "we should be too +unhappy. I can do no more to make you happy, but while there is a +breath of life in me, I will be the slave of your fancies. At +whatever hour of the day or night you will, come, and I will be +yours; but do not link your future any more with mine, you would +be too unhappy and you would make me too unhappy. I shall still +be pretty for a while; make the most of it, but ask nothing +more." + +When she had gone, I was frightened at the solitude in which she +left me. Two hours afterward I was still sitting on the side of +the bed, looking at the pillow which kept the imprint of her +form, and asking myself what was to become of me, between my love +and my jealousy. + +At five o'clock, without knowing what I was going to do, I went +to the Rue d'Antin. + +Nanine opened to me. + +"Madame can not receive you," she said in an embarrassed way. + +"Why?" + +"Because M. le Comte de N. is there, and he has given orders to +let no one in." + +"Quite so," I stammered; "I forgot." + +I went home like a drunken man, and do you know what I did during +the moment of jealous delirium which was long enough for the +shameful thing I was going to do? I said to myself that the woman +was laughing at me; I saw her alone with the count, saying over +to him the same words that she had said to me in the night, and +taking a five-hundred-franc note I sent it to her with these +words: + +"You went away so suddenly that I forgot to pay you. Here is the +price of your night." + +Then when the letter was sent I went out as if to free myself +from the instantaneous remorse of this infamous action. + +I went to see Olympe, whom I found trying on dresses, and when we +were alone she sang obscene songs to amuse me. She was the very +type of the shameless, heartless, senseless courtesan, for me at +least, for perhaps some men might have dreamed of her as I +dreamed of Marguerite. She asked me for money. I gave it to her, +and, free then to go, I returned home. + +Marguerite had not answered. + +I need not tell you in what state of agitation I spent the next +day. At half past nine a messenger brought me an envelope +containing my letter and the five-hundred-franc note, not a word +more. + +"Who gave you this?" I asked the man. + +"A lady who was starting with her maid in the next mail for +Boulogne, and who told me not to take it until the coach was out +of the courtyard." + +I rushed to the Rue d'Antin. + +"Madame left for England at six o'clock," said the porter. + +There was nothing to hold me in Paris any longer, neither hate +nor love. I was exhausted by this series of shocks. One of my +friends was setting out on a tour in the East. I told my father I +should like to accompany him; my father gave me drafts and +letters of introduction, and eight or ten days afterward I +embarked at Marseilles. + +It was at Alexandria that I learned from an attache at the +embassy, whom I had sometimes seen at Marguerite's, that the poor +girl was seriously ill. + +I then wrote her the letter which she answered in the way you +know; I received it at Toulon. + +I started at once, and you know the rest. + +Now you have only to read a few sheets which Julie Duprat gave +me; they are the best commentary on what I have just told you. + + + +Chapter 25 + +Armand, tired by this long narrative, often interrupted by his +tears, put his two hands over his forehead and closed his eyes to +think, or to try to sleep, after giving me the pages written by +the hand of Marguerite. A few minutes after, a more rapid +breathing told me that Armand slept, but that light sleep which +the least sound banishes. + +This is what I read; I copy it without adding or omitting a +syllable: + +To-day is the 15th December. I have been ill three or four days. +This morning I stayed in bed. The weather is dark, I am sad; +there is no one by me. I think of you, Armand. And you, where are +you, while I write these lines? Far from Paris, far, far, they +tell me, and perhaps you have already forgotten Marguerite. Well, +be happy; I owe you the only happy moments in my life. + +I can not help wanting to explain all my conduct to you, and I +have written you a letter; but, written by a girl like me, such a +letter might seem to be a lie, unless death had sanctified it by +its authority, and, instead of a letter, it were a confession. + +To-day I am ill; I may die of this illness, for I have always had +the presentiment that I shall die young. My mother died of +consumption, and the way I have always lived could but increase +the only heritage she ever left me. But I do not want to die +without clearing up for you everything about me; that is, if, +when you come back, you will still trouble yourself about the +poor girl whom you loved before you went away. + +This is what the letter contained; I shall like writing it over +again, so as to give myself another proof of my own +justification. + +You remember, Armand, how the arrival of your father surprised us +at Bougival; you remember the involuntary fright that his arrival +caused me, and the scene which took place between you and him, +which you told me of in the evening. + +Next day, when you were at Paris, waiting for your father, and he +did not return, a man came to the door and handed in a letter +from M. Duval. + +His letter, which I inclose with this, begged me, in the most +serious terms, to keep you away on the following day, on some +excuse or other, and to see your father, who wished to speak to +me, and asked me particularly not to say anything to you about +it. + +You know how I insisted on your returning to Paris next day. + +You had only been gone an hour when your father presented +himself. I won't say what impression his severe face made upon +me. Your father had the old theory that a courtesan is a being +without heart or reason, a sort of machine for coining gold, +always ready, like the machine, to bruise the hand that gives her +everything, and to tear in pieces, without pity or discernment, +those who set her in motion. + +Your father had written me a very polite letter, in order that I +might consent to see him; he did not present himself quite as he +had written. His manner at first was so stiff, insolent, and even +threatening, that I had to make him understand that I was in my +own house, and that I had no need to render him an account of my +life, except because of the sincere affection which I had for his +son. + +M. Duval calmed down a little, but still went on to say that he +could not any longer allow his son to ruin himself over me; that +I was beautiful, it was true, but, however beautiful I might be, +I ought not to make use of my beauty to spoil the future of a +young man by such expenditure as I was causing. + +At that there was only one thing to do, to show him the proof +that since I was your mistress I had spared no sacrifice to be +faithful to you without asking for more money than you had to +give me. I showed him the pawn tickets, the receipts of the +people to whom I had sold what I could not pawn; I told him of my +resolve to part with my furniture in order to pay my debts, and +live with you without being a too heavy expense. I told him of +our happiness, of how you had shown me the possibility of a +quieter and happier life, and he ended by giving in to the +evidence, offering me his hand, and asking pardon for the way in +which he had at first approached me. + +Then he said to me: + +"So, madame, it is not by remonstrances or by threats, but by +entreaties, that I must endeavour to obtain from you a greater +sacrifice than you have yet made for my son." + +I trembled at this beginning. + +Your father came over to me, took both my hands, and continued in +an affectionate voice: + +"My child, do not take what I have to say to you amiss; only +remember that there are sometimes in life cruel necessities for +the heart, but that they must be submitted to. You are good, your +soul has generosity unknown to many women who perhaps despise +you, and are less worthy than you. But remember that there is not +only the mistress, but the family; that besides love there are +duties; that to the age of passion succeeds the age when man, if +he is to be respected, must plant himself solidly in a serious +position. My son has no fortune, and yet he is ready to abandon +to you the legacy of his mother. If he accepted from you the +sacrifice which you are on the point of making, his honour and +dignity would require him to give you, in exchange for it, this +income, which would always put you out of danger of adversity. +But he can not accept this sacrifice, because the world, which +does not know you, would give a wrong interpretation to this +acceptance, and such an interpretation must not tarnish the name +which we bear. No one would consider whether Armand loves you, +whether you love him, whether this mutual love means happiness to +him and redemption to you; they would see only one thing, that +Armand Duval allowed a kept woman (forgive me, my child, for what +I am forced to say to you) to sell all she had for him. Then the +day of reproaches and regrets would arrive, be sure, for you or +for others, and you would both bear a chain that you could not +sever. What would you do then? Your youth would be lost, my son's +future destroyed; and I, his father, should receive from only one +of my children the recompense that I look for from both. + +"You are young, beautiful, life will console you; you are noble, +and the memory of a good deed will redeem you from many past +deeds. During the six months that he has known you Armand has +forgotten me. I wrote to him four times, and he has never once +replied. I might have died and he not known it! + +"Whatever may be your resolution of living otherwise than as you +have lived, Armand, who loves you, will never consent to the +seclusion to which his modest fortune would condemn you, and to +which your beauty does not entitle you. Who knows what he would +do then! He has gambled, I know; without telling you of it, I +know also, but, in a moment of madness, he might have lost part +of what I have saved, during many years, for my daughter's +portion, for him, and for the repose of my old age. What might +have happened may yet happen. + +"Are you sure, besides, that the life which you are giving up for +him will never again come to attract you? Are you sure, you who +have loved him, that you will never love another? Would you +not-suffer on seeing the hindrances set by your love to your +lover's life, hindrances for which you would be powerless to +console him, if, with age, thoughts of ambition should succeed to +dreams of love? Think over all that, madame. You love Armand; +prove it to him by the sole means which remains to you of yet +proving it to him, by sacrificing your love to his future. No +misfortune has yet arrived, but one will arrive, and perhaps a +greater one than those which I foresee. Armand might become +jealous of a man who has loved you; he might provoke him, fight, +be killed. Think, then, what you would suffer in the presence of +a father who should call on you to render an account for the life +of his son! + +"Finally, my dear child, let me tell you all, for I have not yet +told you all, let me tell you what has brought me to Paris. I +have a daughter, as I have told you, young, beautiful, pure as an +angel. She loves, and she, too, has made this love the dream of +her life. I wrote all that to Armand, but, absorbed in you, he +made no reply. Well, my daughter is about to marry. She is to +marry the man whom she loves; she enters an honourable family, +which requires that mine has to be no less honourable. The family +of the man who is to become my son-in-law has learned what manner +of life Armand is leading in Paris, and has declared to me that +the marriage must be broken off if Armand continues this life. +The future of a child who has done nothing against you, and who +has the right of looking forward to a happy future, is in your +hands. Have you the right, have you the strength, to shatter it? +In the name of your love and of your repentance, Marguerite, +grant me the happiness of my child." + +I wept silently, my friend, at all these reflections which I had +so often made, and which, in the mouth of your father, took a yet +more serious reality. I said to myself all that your father dared +not say to me, though it had come to his lips twenty times: that +I was, after all, only a kept woman, and that whatever excuse I +gave for our liaison, it would always look like calculation on my +part; that my past life left me no right to dream of such a +future, and that I was accepting responsibilities for which my +habits and reputation were far from giving any guarantee. In +short, I loved you, Armand. + +The paternal way in which M. Duval had spoken to me; the pure +memories that he awakened in me; the respect of this old man, +which I would gain; yours, which I was sure of gaining later on: +all that called up in my heart thoughts which raised me in my own +eyes with a sort of holy pride, unknown till then. When I thought +that one day this old man, who was now imploring me for the +future of his son, would bid his daughter mingle my name with her +prayers, as the name of a mysterious friend, I seemed to become +transformed, and I felt a pride in myself. + +The exaltation of the moment perhaps exaggerated the truth of +these impressions, but that was what I felt, friend, and these +new feelings silenced the memory of the happy days I had spent +with you. + +"Tell me, sir," I said to your father, wiping away my tears, "do +you believe that I love your son?" + +"Yes," said M. Duval. + +"With a disinterested love?" + +"Yes. + +"Do you believe that I had made this love the hope, the dream, +the forgiveness--of my life?" + +"Implicitly." + +"Well, sir, embrace me once, as you would embrace your daughter, +and I swear to you that that kiss, the only chaste kiss I have +ever had, will make me strong against my love, and that within a +week your son will be once more at your side, perhaps unhappy for +a time, but cured forever." + +"You are a noble child," replied your father, kissing me on the +forehead, "and you are making an attempt for which God will +reward you; but I greatly fear that you will have no influence +upon my son." + +"Oh, be at rest, sir; he will hate me." + +I had to set up between us, as much for me as for you, an +insurmountable barrier. + +I wrote to Prudence to say that I accepted the proposition of the +Comte de N., and that she was to tell him that I would sup with +her and him. I sealed the letter, and, without telling him what +it contained, asked your father to have it forwarded to its +address on reaching Paris. + +He inquired of me what it contained. + +"Your son's welfare," I answered. + +Your father embraced me once more. I felt two grateful tears on +my forehead, like the baptism of my past faults, and at the +moment when I consented to give myself up to another man I glowed +with pride at the thought of what I was redeeming by this new +fault. + +It was quite natural, Armand. You told me that your father was +the most honest man in the world. + +M. Duval returned to his carriage, and set out for Paris. + +I was only a woman, and when I saw you again I could not help +weeping, but I did not give way. + +Did I do right? That is what I ask myself to-day, as I lie ill in +my bed, that I shall never leave, perhaps, until I am dead. + +You are witness of what I felt as the hour of our separation +approached; your father was no longer there to support me, and +there was a moment when I was on the point of confessing +everything to you, so terrified was I at the idea that you were +going to bate and despise me. + +One thing which you will not believe, perhaps, Armand, is that I +prayed God to give me strength; and what proves that he accepted +my sacrifice is that he gave me the strength for which I prayed. + +At supper I still had need of aid, for I could not think of what +I was going to do, so much did I fear that my courage would fail +me. Who would ever have said that I, Marguerite Gautier, would +have suffered so at the mere thought of a new lover? I drank for +forgetfulness, and when I woke next day I was beside the count. + +That is the whole truth, friend. judge me and pardon me, as I +have pardoned you for all the wrong that you have done me since +that day. + + + +Chapter 26 + +What followed that fatal night you know as well as I; but what +you can not know, what you can not suspect, is what I have +suffered since our separation. + +I heard that your father had taken you away with him, but I felt +sure that you could not live away from me for long, and when I +met you in the Champs-Elysees, I was a little upset, but by no +means surprised. + +Then began that series of days; each of them brought me a fresh +insult from you. I received them all with a kind of joy, for, +besides proving to me that you still loved me, it seemed to me as +if the more you persecuted me the more I should be raised in your +eyes when you came to know the truth. + +Do not wonder at my joy in martyrdom, Armand; your love for me +had opened my heart to noble enthusiasm. + +Still, I was not so strong as that quite at once. + +Between the time of the sacrifice made for you and the time of +your return a long while elapsed, during which I was obliged to +have recourse to physical means in order not to go mad, and in +order to be blinded and deafened in the whirl of life into which +I flung myself. Prudence has told you (has she not?) how I went +to all the fetes and balls and orgies. I had a sort of hope that +I should kill myself by all these excesses, and I think it will +not be long before this hope is realized. My health naturally got +worse and worse, and when I sent Mme. Duvernoy to ask you for +pity I was utterly worn out, body and soul. + +I will not remind you, Armand, of the return you made for the +last proof of love that I gave you, and of the outrage by which +you drove away a dying woman, who could not resist your voice +when you asked her for a night of love, and who, like a fool, +thought for one instant that she might again unite the past with +the present. You had the right to do what you did, Armand; people +have not always put so high a price on a night of mine! + +I left everything after that. Olympe has taken my place with the +Comte de N., and has told him, I hear, the reasons for my leaving +him. The Comte de G. was at London. He is one of those men who +give just enough importance to making love to women like me for +it to be an agreeable pastime, and who are thus able to remain +friends with women, not hating them because they have never been +jealous of them, and he is, too, one of those grand seigneurs who +open only a part of their hearts to us, but the whole of their +purses. It was of him that I immediately thought. I joined him in +London. He received me as kindly as possible, but he was the +lover there of a woman in society, and he feared to compromise +himself if he were seen with me. He introduced me to his friends, +who gave a supper in my honour, after which one of them took me +home with him. + +What else was there for me to do, my friend? If I had killed +myself it would have burdened your life, which ought to be happy, +with a needless remorse; and then, what is the good of killing +oneself when one is so near dying already? + +I became a body without a soul, a thing without a thought; I +lived for some time in that automatic way; then I returned to +Paris, and asked after you; I heard then that you were gone on a +long voyage. There was nothing left to hold me to life. My +existence became what it had been two years before I knew you. I +tried to win back the duke, but I had offended him too deeply. +Old men are not patient, no doubt because they realize that they +are not eternal. I got weaker every day. I was pale and sad and +thinner than ever. Men who buy love examine the goods before +taking them. At Paris there were women in better health, and not +so thin as I was; I was rather forgotten. That is all the past up +to yesterday. + +Now I am seriously ill. I have written to the duke to ask him for +money, for I have none, and the creditors have returned, and come +to me with their bills with pitiless perseverance. Will the duke +answer? Why are you not in Paris, Armand? You would come and see +me, and your visits would do me good. + +December 20. + +The weather is horrible; it is snowing, and I am alone. I have +been in such a fever for the last three days that I could not +write you a word. No news, my friend; every day I hope vaguely +for a letter from you, but it does not come, and no doubt it will +never come. Only men are strong enough not to forgive. The duke +has not answered. + +Prudence is pawning my things again. + +I have been spitting blood all the time. Oh, you would be sorry +for me if you could see me. You are indeed happy to be under a +warm sky, and not, like me, with a whole winter of ice on your +chest. To-day I got up for a little while, and looked out through +the curtains of my window, and watched the life of Paris passing +below, the life with which I have now nothing more to do. I saw +the faces of some people I knew, passing rapidly, joyous and +careless. Not one lifted his eyes to my window. However, a few +young men have come to inquire for me. Once before I was ill, and +you, though you did not know me, though you had had nothing from +me but an impertinence the day I met you first, you came to +inquire after me every day. We spent six months together. I had +all the love for you that a woman's heart can hold and give, and +you are far away, you are cursing me, and there is not a word of +consolation from you. But it is only chance that has made you +leave me, I am sure, for if you were at Paris, you would not +leave my bedside. + +December 25. + +My doctor tells me I must not write every day. And indeed my +memories only increase my fever, but yesterday I received a +letter which did me good, more because of what it said than by +the material help which it contained. I can write to you, then, +to-day. This letter is from your father, and this is what it +says: + +"MADAME: I have just learned that you are ill. If I were at Paris +I would come and ask after you myself; if my son were here I +would send him; but I can not leave C., and Armand is six or +seven hundred leagues from here; permit me, then, simply to write +to you, madame, to tell you how pained I am to hear of your +illness, and believe in my sincere wishes for your speedy +recovery. + +One of my good friends, M. H., will call on you; will you kindly +receive him? I have intrusted him with a commission, the result +of which I await impatiently. "Believe me, madame, + + "Yours most faithfully." + +This is the letter he sent me. Your father has a noble heart; +love him well, my friend, for there are few men so worthy of +being loved. This paper signed by his name has done me more good +than all the prescriptions of our great doctor. + +This morning M. H. called. He seemed much embarrassed by the +delicate mission which M. Duval had intrusted to him. As a matter +of fact, he came to bring me three thousand francs from your +father. I wanted to refuse at first, but M. H. told me that my +refusal would annoy M. Duval, who had authorized him to give me +this sum now, and later on whatever I might need. I accepted it, +for, coming from your father, it could not be exactly taking +alms. If I am dead when you come back, show your father what I +have written for him, and tell him that in writing these lines +the poor woman to whom he was kind enough to write so consoling a +letter wept tears of gratitude and prayed God for him. + +January 4. + +I have passed some terrible days. I never knew the body could +suffer so. Oh, my past life! I pay double for it now. + +There has been some one to watch by me every night; I can not +breathe. What remains of my poor existence is shared between +being delirious and coughing. + +The dining-room is full of sweets and all sorts of presents that +my friends have brought. Some of them, I dare say, are hoping +that I shall be their mistress later on. If they could see what +sickness has made of me, they would go away in terror. + +Prudence is giving her New Year's presents with those I have +received. + +There is a thaw, and the doctor says that I may go out in a few +days if the fine weather continues. + +January 8. + +I went out yesterday in my carriage. The weather was lovely. The +Champs-Elysees was full of people. It was like the first smile of +spring. Everything about me had a festal air. I never knew before +that a ray of sunshine could contain so much joy, sweetness, and +consolation. + +I met almost all the people I knew, all happy, all absorbed in +their pleasures. How many happy people don't even know that they +are happy! Olympe passed me in an elegant carriage that M. de N. +has given her. She tried to insult me by her look. She little +knows how far I am from such things now. A nice fellow, whom I +have known for a long time, asked me if I would have supper with +him and one of his friends, who, he said, was very anxious to +make my acquaintance. I smiled sadly and gave him my hand, +burning with fever. I never saw such an astonished countenance. + +I came in at four, and had quite an appetite for my dinner. Going +out has done me good. If I were only going to get well! How the +sight of the life and happiness of others gives a desire of life +to those who, only the night before, in the solitude of their +soul and in the shadow of their sick-room, only wanted to die +soon! + +January 10. + +The hope of getting better was only a dream. I am back in bed +again, covered with plasters which burn me. If I were to offer +the body that people paid so dear for once, how much would they +give, I wonder, to-day? + +We must have done something very wicked before we were born, or +else we must be going to be very happy indeed when we are dead, +for God to let this life have all the tortures of expiation and +all the sorrows of an ordeal. + +January 12. + +I am always ill. + +The Comte de N. sent me some money yesterday. I did not keep it. +I won't take anything from that man. It is through him that you +are not here. + +Oh, that good time at Bougival! Where is it now? + +If I come out of this room alive I will make a pilgrimage to the +house we lived in together, but I will never leave it until I am +dead. + +Who knows if I shall write to you to-morrow? + +January 25. + +I have not slept for eleven nights. I am suffocated. I imagine +every moment that I am going to die. The doctor has forbidden me +to touch a pen. Julie Duprat, who is looking after me, lets me +write these few lines to you. Will you not come back before I +die? Is it all over between us forever? It seems to me as if I +should get well if you came. What would be the good of getting +well? + +January 28. + +This morning I was awakened by a great noise. Julie, who slept in +my room, ran into the dining-room. I heard men's voices, and hers +protesting against them in vain. She came back crying. + +They had come to seize my things. I told her to let what they +call justice have its way. The bailiff came into my room with his +hat on. He opened the drawers, wrote down what he saw, and did +not even seem to be aware that there was a dying woman in the bed +that fortunately the charity of the law leaves me. + +He said, indeed, before going, that I could appeal within nine +days, but he left a man behind to keep watch. My God! what is to +become of me? This scene has made me worse than I was before. +Prudence wanted to go and ask your father's friend for money, but +I would not let her. + +I received your letter this morning. I was in need of it. Will my +answer reach you in time? Will you ever see me again? This is a +happy day, and it has made me forget all the days I have passed +for the last six weeks. I seem as if I am better, in spite of the +feeling of sadness under the impression of which I replied to +you. + +After all, no one is unhappy always. + +When I think that it may happen to me not to die, for you to come +back, for me to see the spring again, for you still to love me, +and for us to begin over again our last year's life! + +Fool that I am! I can scarcely hold the pen with which I write to +you of this wild dream of my heart. + +Whatever happens, I loved you well, Armand, and I would have died +long ago if I had not had the memory of your love to help me and +a sort of vague hope of seeing you beside me again. + +February 4. + +The Comte de G. has returned. His mistress has been unfaithful to +him. He is very sad; he was very fond of her. He came to tell me +all about it. The poor fellow is in rather a bad way as to money; +all the same, he has paid my bailiff and sent away the man. + +I talked to him about you, and he promised to tell you about me. +I forgot that I had been his mistress, and he tried to make me +forget it, too. He is a good friend. + +The duke sent yesterday to inquire after me, and this morning he +came to see me. I do not know how the old man still keeps alive. +He remained with me three hours and did not say twenty words. Two +big tears fell from his eyes when he saw how pale I was. The +memory of his daughter's death made him weep, no doubt. He will +have seen her die twice. His back was bowed, his head bent toward +the ground, his lips drooping, his eyes vacant. Age and sorrow +weigh with a double weight on his worn-out body. He did not +reproach me. It looked as if he rejoiced secretly to see the +ravages that disease had made in me. He seemed proud of being +still on his feet, while I, who am still young, was broken down +by suffering. + +The bad weather has returned. No one comes to see me. Julie +watches by me as much as she can. Prudence, to whom I can no +longer give as much as I used to, begins to make excuses for not +coming. + +Now that I am so near death, in spite of what the doctors tell +me, for I have several, which proves that I am getting worse, I +am almost sorry that I listened to your father; if I had known +that I should only be taking a year of your future, I could not +have resisted the longing to spend that year with you, and, at +least, I should have died with a friend to hold my hand. It is +true that if we had lived together this year, I should not have +died so soon. + +God's will be done! + +February 5. + +Oh, come, come, Armand! I suffer horribly; I am going to die, O +God! I was so miserable yesterday that I wanted to spend the +evening, which seemed as if it were going to be as long as the +last, anywhere but at home. The duke came in the morning. It +seems to me as if the sight of this old man, whom death has +forgotten, makes me die faster. + +Despite the burning fever which devoured me, I made them dress me +and take me to the Vaudeville. Julie put on some rouge for me, +without which I should have looked like a corpse. I had the box +where I gave you our first rendezvous. All the time I had my eyes +fixed on the stall where you sat that day, though a sort of +country fellow sat there, laughing loudly at all the foolish +things that the actors said. I was half dead when they brought me +home. I coughed and spat blood all the night. To-day I can not +speak, I can scarcely move my arm. My God! My God! I am going to +die! I have been expecting it, but I can not get used to the +thought of suffering more than I suffer now, and if-- + +After this the few characters traced by Marguerite were +indecipherable, and what followed was written by Julie Duprat. + +February 18. + +MONSIEUR ARMAND: + +Since the day that Marguerite insisted on going to the theatre +she has got worse and worse. She has completely lost her voice, +and now the use of her limbs. + +What our poor friend suffers is impossible to say. I am not used +to emotions of this kind, and I am in a state of constant fright. + +How I wish you were here! She is almost always delirious; but +delirious or lucid, it is always your name that she pronounces, +when she can speak a word. + +The doctor tells me that she is not here for long. Since she got +so ill the old duke has not returned. He told the doctor that the +sight was too much for him. + +Mme. Duvernoy is not behaving well. This woman, who thought she +could get more money out of Marguerite, at whose expense she was +living almost completely, has contracted liabilities which she +can not meet, and seeing that her neighbour is no longer of use +to her, she does not even come to see her. Everybody is +abandoning her. M. de G., prosecuted for his debts, has had to +return to London. On leaving, he sent us more money; he has done +all he could, but they have returned to seize the things, and the +creditors are only waiting for her to die in order to sell +everything. + +I wanted to use my last resources to put a stop to it, but the +bailiff told me it was no use, and that there are other seizures +to follow. Since she must die, it is better to let everything go +than to save it for her family, whom she has never cared to see, +and who have never cared for her. You can not conceive in the +midst of what gilded misery the poor thing is dying. Yesterday we +had absolutely no money. Plate, jewels, shawls, everything is in +pawn; the rest is sold or seized. Marguerite is still conscious +of what goes on around her, and she suffers in body, mind, and +heart. Big tears trickle down her cheeks, so thin and pale that +you would never recognise the face of her whom you loved so much, +if you could see her. She has made me promise to write to you +when she can no longer write, and I write before her. She turns +her eyes toward me, but she no longer sees me; her eyes are +already veiled by the coming of death; yet she smiles, and all +her thoughts, all her soul are yours, I am sure. + +Every time the door opens her eyes brighten, and she thinks you +are going to come in; then, when she sees that it is not you, her +face resumes its sorrowful expression, a cold sweat breaks out +over it, and her cheek-bones flush. + +February 19, midnight. + +What a sad day we have had to-day, poor M. Armand! This morning +Marguerite was stifling; the doctor bled her, and her voice has +returned to her a while. The doctor begged her to see a priest. +She said "Yes," and he went himself to fetch an abbe' from Saint +Roch. + +Meanwhile Marguerite called me up to her bed, asked me to open a +cupboard, and pointed out a cap and a long chemise covered with +lace, and said in a feeble voice: + +"I shall die as soon as I have confessed. Then you will dress me +in these things; it is the whim of a dying woman.? + +Then she embraced me with tears and added: + +"I can speak, but I am stifled when I speak; I am stifling. Air!" + +I burst into tears, opened the window, and a few minutes +afterward the priest entered. I went up to him; when he knew +where he was, he seemed afraid of being badly received. + +"Come in boldly, father," I said to him. + +He stayed a very short time in the room, and when he came out he +said to me: + +"She lived a sinner, and she will die a Christian." + +A few minutes afterward he returned with a choir boy bearing a +crucifix, and a sacristan who went before them ringing the bell +to announce that God was coming to the dying one. + +They went all three into the bed-room where so many strange words +have been said, but was now a sort of holy tabernacle. + +I fell on my knees. I do not know how long the impression of what +I saw will last, but I do not think that, till my turn comes, any +human thing can make so deep an impression on me. + +The priest anointed with holy oil the feet and hands and forehead +of the dying woman, repeated a short prayer, and Marguerite was +ready to set out for the heaven to which I doubt not she will go, +if God has seen the ordeal of her life and the sanctity of her +death. + +Since then she has not said a word or made a movement. Twenty +times I should have thought her dead if I had not heard her +breathing painfully. + +February 20, 5 P.M. + +All is over. + +Marguerite fell into her last agony at about two o'clock. Never +did a martyr suffer such torture, to judge by the cries she +uttered. Two or three times she sat upright in the bed, as if she +would hold on to her life, which was escaping toward God. + +Two or three times also she said your name; then all was silent, +and she fell back on the bed exhausted. Silent tears flowed from +her eyes, and she was dead. + +Then I went up to her; I called her, and as she did not answer I +closed her eyes and kissed her on the forehead. + +Poor, dear Marguerite, I wish I were a holy woman that my kiss +might recommend you to God. + +Then I dressed her as she had asked me to do. I went to find a +priest at Saint Roch, I burned two candles for her, and I prayed +in the church for an hour. + +I gave the money she left to the poor. + +I do not know much about religion, but I think that God will know +that my tears were genuine, my prayers fervent, my alms-giving +sincere, and that he will have pity on her who, dying young and +beautiful, has only had me to close her eyes and put her in her +shroud. + +February 22. + +The burial took place to-day. Many of Marguerite's friends came +to the church. Some of them wept with sincerity. When the funeral +started on the way to Montmartre only two men followed it: the +Comte de G., who came from London on purpose, and the duke, who +was supported by two footmen. + +I write you these details from her house, in the midst of my +tears and under the lamp which burns sadly beside a dinner which +I can not touch, as you can imagine, but which Nanine has got for +me, for I have eaten nothing for twenty-four hours. + +My life can not retain these sad impressions for long, for my +life is not my own any more than Marguerite's was hers; that is +why I give you all these details on the very spot where they +occurred, in the fear, if a long time elapsed between them and +your return, that I might not be able to give them to you with +all their melancholy exactitude. + + + +Chapter 27 + +"You have read it?" said Armand, when I had finished the +manuscript. + +"I understand what you must have suffered, my friend, if all that +I read is true." + +"My father confirmed it in a letter." + +We talked for some time over the sad destiny which had been +accomplished, and I went home to rest a little. + +Armand, still sad, but a little relieved by the narration of his +story, soon recovered, and we went together to pay a visit to +Prudence and to Julie Duprat. + +Prudence had become bankrupt. She told us that Marguerite was the +cause of it; that during her illness she had lent her a lot of +money in the form of promissory notes, which she could not pay, +Marguerite having died without having returned her the money, and +without having given her a receipt with which she could present +herself as a creditor. + +By the help of this fable, which Mme. Duvernoy repeated +everywhere in order to account for her money difficulties, she +extracted a note for a thousand francs from Armand, who did not +believe it, but who pretended to, out of respect for all those in +whose company Marguerite had lived. + +Then we called on Julie Duprat, who told us the sad incident +which she had witnessed, shedding real tears at the remembrance +of her friend. + +Lastly, we went to Marguerite's grave, on which the first rays of +the April sun were bringing the first leaves into bud. + +One duty remained to Armand--to return to his father. He wished +me to accompany him. + +We arrived at C., where I saw M. Duval, such as I had imagined +him from the portrait his son had made of him, tall, dignified, +kindly. + +He welcomed Armand with tears of joy, and clasped my hand +affectionately. I was not long in seeing that the paternal +sentiment was that which dominated all others in his mind. + +His daughter, named Blanche, had that transparence of eyes, that +serenity of the mouth, which indicates a soul that conceives only +holy thoughts and lips that repeat only pious words. She welcomed +her brother's return with smiles, not knowing, in the purity of +her youth, that far away a courtesan had sacrificed her own +happiness at the mere invocation of her name. + +I remained for some time in their happy family, full of indulgent +care for one who brought them the convalescence of his heart. + +I returned to Paris, where I wrote this story just as it had been +told me. It has only one merit, which will perhaps be denied it; +that is, that it is true. + +I do not draw from this story the conclusion that all women like +Marguerite are capable of doing all that she did--far from it; +but I have discovered that one of them experienced a serious love +in the course of her life, that she suffered for it, and that she +died of it. I have told the reader all that I learned. It was my +duty. + +I am not the apostle of vice, but I would gladly be the echo of +noble sorrow wherever I bear its voice in prayer. + +The story of Marguerite is an exception, I repeat; had it not +been an exception, it would not have been worth the trouble of +writing it. + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg Etext of Camille[La Dame aux Camilias] by Dumas + diff --git a/old/cmlle10.zip b/old/cmlle10.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..18b9a1a --- /dev/null +++ b/old/cmlle10.zip |