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diff --git a/old/cmlle10.txt b/old/cmlle10.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..ff9d26d --- /dev/null +++ b/old/cmlle10.txt @@ -0,0 +1,8858 @@ +Project Gutenberg Etext of Camille[La Dame aux Camilias] by Dumas +Also see our collection of Dumas, pere. + + +Copyright laws are changing all over the world, be sure to check +the copyright laws for your country before posting these files!! + +Please take a look at the important information in this header. +We encourage you to keep this file on your own disk, keeping an +electronic path open for the next readers. Do not remove this. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**Etexts Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*These Etexts Prepared By Hundreds of Volunteers and Donations* + +Information on contacting Project Gutenberg to get Etexts, and +further information is included below. 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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 + |