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, orto try to sleep, after giving me the pages written by the hand ofMarguerite. A few minutes after, a more rapid breathing told me thatArmand 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. Thismorning I stayed in bed. The weather is dark, I am sad; there is no oneby me. I think of you, Armand. And you, where are you, while I writethese lines? Far from Paris, far, far, they tell me, and perhaps youhave already forgotten Marguerite. Well, be happy; I owe you the onlyhappy moments in my life.
I can not help wanting to explain all my conduct to you, and I havewritten you a letter; but, written by a girl like me, such a lettermight 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 thepresentiment that I shall die young. My mother died of consumption, andthe way I have always lived could but increase the only heritage sheever left me. But I do not want to die without clearing up for youeverything about me; that is, if, when you come back, you will stilltrouble yourself about the poor girl whom you loved before you wentaway.
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 atBougival; you remember the involuntary fright that his arrival causedme, and the scene which took place between you and him, which you toldme of in the evening.
Next day, when you were at Paris, waiting for your father, and he didnot 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 seriousterms, to keep you away on the following day, on some excuse orother, and to see your father, who wished to speak to me, and asked meparticularly 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. Iwon't say what impression his severe face made upon me. Your father hadthe old theory that a courtesan is a being without heart or reason, asort 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 mightconsent 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 Ihad to make him understand that I was in my own house, and that I had noneed to render him an account of my life, except because of the sincereaffection which I had for his son.
M. Duval calmed down a little, but still went on to say that he couldnot any longer allow his son to ruin himself over me; that I wasbeautiful, it was true, but, however beautiful I might be, I ought notto make use of my beauty to spoil the future of a young man by suchexpenditure as I was causing.
At that there was only one thing to do, to show him the proof that sinceI was your mistress I had spared no sacrifice to be faithful to youwithout asking for more money than you had to give me. I showed him thepawn tickets, the receipts of the people to whom I had sold what I couldnot pawn; I told him of my resolve to part with my furniture in orderto pay my debts, and live with you without being a too heavy expense. Itold him of our happiness, of how you had shown me the possibility ofa 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 atfirst approached me.
Then he said to me:
"So, madame, it is not by remonstrances or by threats, but byentreaties, that I must endeavour to obtain from you a greater sacrificethan 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 anaffectionate voice:
"My child, do not take what I have to say to you amiss; only rememberthat there are sometimes in life cruel necessities for the heart, butthat they must be submitted to. You are good, your soul has generosityunknown to many women who perhaps despise you, and are less worthy thanyou. But remember that there is not only the mistress, but the family;that besides love there are duties; that to the age of passion succeedsthe age when man, if he is to be respected, must plant himself solidlyin a serious position. My son has no fortune, and yet he is ready toabandon to you the legacy of his mother. If he accepted from you thesacrifice which you are on the point of making, his honour and dignitywould require him to give you, in exchange for it, this income, whichwould always put you out of danger of adversity. But he can not acceptthis sacrifice, because the world, which does not know you, would give awrong interpretation to this acceptance, and such an interpretation mustnot tarnish the name which we bear. No one would consider whetherArmand loves you, whether you love him, whether this mutual love meanshappiness to him and redemption to you; they would see only one thing,that Armand Duval allowed a kept woman (forgive me, my child, for whatI am forced to say to you) to sell all she had for him. Then the day ofreproaches and regrets would arrive, be sure, for you or for others, andyou would both bear a chain that you could not sever. What would you dothen? Your youth would be lost, my son's future destroyed; and I, hisfather, should receive from only one of my children the recompense thatI look for from both.
"You are young, beautiful, life will console you; you are noble, and thememory of a good deed will redeem you from many past deeds. During thesix months that he has known you Armand has forgotten me. I wrote to himfour times, and he has never once replied. I might have died and he notknown it!
"Whatever may be your resolution of living otherwise than as you havelived, Armand, who loves you, will never consent to the seclusion towhich his modest fortune would condemn you, and to which your beautydoes 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 ofmadness, he might have lost part of what I have saved, during manyyears, for my daughter's portion, for him, and for the repose of my oldage. What might have happened may yet happen.
"Are you sure, besides, that the life which you are giving up for himwill never again come to attract you? Are you sure, you who have lovedhim, that you will never love another? Would you not-suffer on seeingthe hindrances set by your love to your lover's life, hindrances forwhich you would be powerless to console him, if, with age, thoughts ofambition 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 youof yet proving it to him, by sacrificing your love to his future. Nomisfortune has yet arrived, but one will arrive, and perhaps a greaterone than those which I foresee. Armand might become jealous of a man whohas loved you; he might provoke him, fight, be killed. Think, then, whatyou would suffer in the presence of a father who should call on you torender an account for the life of his son!
"Finally, my dear child, let me tell you all, for I have not yettold you all, let me tell you what has brought me to Paris. I have adaughter, as I have told you, young, beautiful, pure as an angel. Sheloves, and she, too, has made this love the dream of her life. I wroteall that to Armand, but, absorbed in you, he made no reply. Well, mydaughter is about to marry. She is to marry the man whom she loves; sheenters an honourable family, which requires that mine has to be no lesshonourable. The family of the man who is to become my son-in-law haslearned what manner of life Armand is leading in Paris, and has declaredto me that the marriage must be broken off if Armand continues thislife. The future of a child who has done nothing against you, and whohas 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 th
e name ofyour love and of your repentance, Marguerite, grant me the happiness ofmy child."
I wept silently, my friend, at all these reflections which I had sooften made, and which, in the mouth of your father, took a yet moreserious reality. I said to myself all that your father dared not say tome, 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, itwould always look like calculation on my part; that my past life leftme no right to dream of such a future, and that I was acceptingresponsibilities for which my habits and reputation were far from givingany guarantee. In short, I loved you, Armand.
The paternal way in which M. Duval had spoken to me; the pure memoriesthat 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 myheart 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 nowimploring me for the future of his son, would bid his daughter mingle myname with her prayers, as the name of a mysterious friend, I seemed tobecome transformed, and I felt a pride in myself.
The exaltation of the moment perhaps exaggerated the truth of theseimpressions, but that was what I felt, friend, and these new feelingssilenced the memory of the happy days I had spent with you.
"Tell me, sir," I said to your father, wiping away my tears, "do youbelieve 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, theforgiveness--of my life?"
"Implicitly."
"Well, sir, embrace me once, as you would embrace your daughter, and Iswear to you that that kiss, the only chaste kiss I have ever had, willmake me strong against my love, and that within a week your son will beonce more at your side, perhaps unhappy for a time, but cured forever."
"You are a noble child," replied your father, kissing me on theforehead, "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 insurmountablebarrier.
I wrote to Prudence to say that I accepted the proposition of the Comtede 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, askedyour 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 myforehead, like the baptism of my past faults, and at the moment when Iconsented to give myself up to another man I glowed with pride at thethought of what I was redeeming by this new fault.
It was quite natural, Armand. You told me that your father was the mosthonest 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 mybed, 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 momentwhen I was on the point of confessing everything to you, so terrifiedwas 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 prayedGod to give me strength; and what proves that he accepted my sacrificeis 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 wasgoing to do, so much did I fear that my courage would fail me. Who wouldever have said that I, Marguerite Gautier, would have suffered so at themere thought of a new lover? I drank for forgetfulness, and when I wokenext day I was beside the count.
That is the whole truth, friend. Judge me and pardon me, as I havepardoned 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 cannot know, what you can not suspect, is what I have suffered since ourseparation.
I heard that your father had taken you away with him, but I felt surethat you could not live away from me for long, and when I met you in theChamps-Elysees, I was a little upset, but by no means surprised.
Then began that series of days; each of them brought me a fresh insultfrom you. I received them all with a kind of joy, for, besides provingto me that you still loved me, it seemed to me as if the more youpersecuted me the more I should be raised in your eyes when you came toknow the truth.
Do not wonder at my joy in martyrdom, Armand; your love for me hadopened 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 yourreturn a long while elapsed, during which I was obliged to have recourseto physical means in order not to go mad, and in order to be blinded anddeafened in the whirl of life into which I flung myself. Prudencehas told you (has she not?) how I went to all the fetes and balls andorgies. I had a sort of hope that I should kill myself by all theseexcesses, 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. Duvernoyto 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 proofof love that I gave you, and of the outrage by which you drove away adying woman, who could not resist your voice when you asked her for anight of love, and who, like a fool, thought for one instant that shemight again unite the past with the present. You had the right to dowhat you did, Armand; people have not always put so high a price on anight of mine!
I left everything after that. Olympe has taken my place with the Comtede N., and has told him, I hear, the reasons for my leaving him. TheComte de G. was at London. He is one of those men who give just enoughimportance to making love to women like me for it to be an agreeablepastime, and who are thus able to remain friends with women, not hatingthem because they have never been jealous of them, and he is, too, oneof those grand seigneurs who open only a part of their hearts to us, butthe whole of their purses. It was of him that I immediately thought. Ijoined him in London. He received me as kindly as possible, but hewas the lover there of a woman in society, and he feared to compromisehimself if he were seen with me. He introduced me to his friends, whogave a supper in my honour, after which one of them took me home withhim.
What else was there for me to do, my friend? If I had killed myself itwould have burdened your life, which ought to be happy, with a needlessremorse; and then, what is the good of killing oneself when one is sonear dying already?
I became a body without a soul, a thing without a thought; I lived forsome time in that automatic way; then I returned to Paris, and askedafter you; I heard then that you were gone on a long voyage. There wasnothing left to hold me to life. My existence became what it had beentwo years before I knew you. I tried to win back the duke, but I hadoffended him too deeply. Old men are not patient, no doubt because theyrealize that they are not eternal. I got weaker every day. I was paleand sad and thinner than ever. Men who buy love examine the goods beforetaking them. At Paris there were women in better health, and not so thinas 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 withtheir bills with pitiless perseverance. Will the duke answer? Why areyou not in Paris, Armand? You would come and see me, and your visitswould do me good.
December 20.
The weather is horrible; it is snowing, and I am alone. I have been insuch 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, butit does not come, and no doubt it will never come. Only men are strongenough 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 meif you could see me. You are indeed happy to be under a warm sky, andnot, like me, with a whole winter of ice on your chest. To-day I got upfor 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 havenow nothing more to do. I saw the faces of some people I knew, passingrapidly, 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 wasill, and you, though you did not know me, though you had had nothingfrom me but an impertinence the day I met you first, you came to inquireafter me every day. We spent six months together. I had all the love foryou that a woman's heart can hold and give, and you are far away, youare cursing me, and there is not a word of consolation from you. But itis only chance that has made you leave me, I am sure, for if you were atParis, you would not leave my bedside.
December 25.
My doctor tells me I must not write every day. And indeed my memoriesonly increase my fever, but yesterday I received a letter which did megood, more because of what it said than by the material help which itcontained. I can write to you, then, to-day. This letter is from yourfather, and this is what it says:
"MADAME: I have just learned that you are ill. If I were at Paris Iwould come and ask after you myself; if my son were here I would sendhim; but I can not leave C., and Armand is six or seven hundred leaguesfrom here; permit me, then, simply to write to you, madame, to tellyou how pained I am to hear of your illness, and believe in my sincerewishes for your speedy recovery.
"One of my good friends, M. H., will call on you; will you kindly receivehim? I have intrusted him with a commission, the result of which I awaitimpatiently.
"Believe me, madame,
"Yours most faithfully."
This is the letter he sent me. Your father has a noble heart; love himwell, 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 theprescriptions of our great doctor.
This morning M. H. called. He seemed much embarrassed by the delicatemission which M. Duval had intrusted to him. As a matter of fact, hecame to bring me three thousand francs from your father. I wanted torefuse 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 Imight need. I accepted it, for, coming from your father, it could not beexactly taking alms. If I am dead when you come back, show your fatherwhat I have written for him, and tell him that in writing these linesthe poor woman to whom he was kind enough to write so consoling a letterwept tears of gratitude and prayed God for him.
January 4.
I have passed some terrible days. I never knew the body could suffer so.Oh, my past life! I pay double for it now.
There has been someone to watch by me every night; I can not breathe.What remains of my poor existence is shared between being delirious andcoughing.
The dining-room is full of sweets and all sorts of presents that myfriends have brought. Some of them, I dare say, are hoping that I shallbe their mistress later on. If they could see what sickness has made ofme, 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 ifthe fine weather continues.
January 8.
I went out yesterday in my carriage. The weather was lovely. TheChamps-Elysees was full of people. It was like the first smile ofspring. Everything about me had a festal air. I never knew before that aray of sunshine could contain so much joy, sweetness, and consolation.
I met almost all the people I knew, all happy, all absorbed in theirpleasures. 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. Shetried to insult me by her look. She little knows how far I am from suchthings now. A nice fellow, whom I have known for a long time, asked meif 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 myhand, burning with fever. I never saw such an astonished countenance.
I came in at four, and had quite an appetite for my dinner. Going outhas done me good. If I were only going to get well! How the sight of thelife and happiness of others gives a desire of life to those who, onlythe night before, in the solitude of their soul and in the shadow oftheir 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 thatpeople 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 wemust be going to be very happy indeed when we are dead, for God to letthis life have all the tortures of expiation and all the sorrows of anordeal.
January 12.
I am always ill.
The Comte de N. sent me some money yesterday. I did not keep it. I won'ttake 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 housewe 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 everymoment that I am going to die. The doctor has forbidden me to toucha pen. Julie Duprat, who is looking after me, lets me write thesefew lines to you. Will you not come back before I die? Is it all overbetween 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 inmy room, ran into the dining-room. I heard men's voices, and hersprotesting against them in vain. She came back crying.
They had come to seize my things. I told her to let what they calljustice have its way. The bailiff came into my room with his hat on. Heopened the drawers, wrote down what he saw, and did not even seem tobe aware that there was a dying woman in the bed that fortunately thecharity 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 goand 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 answerreach you in time? Will you ever see me again? This is a happy day, andit 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 theimpression 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 tobegin over again our last year's life!
Fool that I am! I can scarcely hold the pen with which I write to you ofthis wild dream of my heart.
Whatever happens, I loved you well, Armand, and I would have died longago if I had not had the memory of your love to help me and a sort ofvague 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 aboutit. The poor fellow is in rather a bad way as to money; all the same, hehas paid my bailiff and sent away the man.
I talked to him about you, and he promised to tell you about me. Iforgot that I had been his mistress, and he tried to make me forget it,too. He is a good fri
end.
The duke sent yesterday to inquire after me, and this morning he cameto see me. I do not know how the old man still keeps alive. He remainedwith me three hours and did not say twenty words. Two big tears fellfrom his eyes when he saw how pale I was. The memory of his daughter'sdeath made him weep, no doubt. He will have seen her die twice. His backwas bowed, his head bent toward the ground, his lips drooping, his eyesvacant. 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 theravages that disease had made in me. He seemed proud of being still onhis 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 byme as much as she can. Prudence, to whom I can no longer give as much asI used to, begins to make excuses for not coming.
Now that I am so near death, in spite of what the doctors tell me, forI have several, which proves that I am getting worse, I am almost sorrythat I listened to your father; if I had known that I should only betaking a year of your future, I could not have resisted the longingto spend that year with you, and, at least, I should have died with afriend to hold my hand. It is true that if we had lived together thisyear, 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, whichseemed as if it were going to be as long as the last, anywhere but athome. The duke came in the morning. It seems to me as if the sight ofthis old man, whom death has forgotten, makes me die faster.
Despite the burning fever which devoured me, I made them dress me andtake me to the Vaudeville. Julie put on some rouge for me, without whichI should have looked like a corpse. I had the box where I gave you ourfirst rendezvous. All the time I had my eyes fixed on the stall whereyou sat that day, though a sort of country fellow sat there, laughingloudly at all the foolish things that the actors said. I was half deadwhen 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! Iam going to die! I have been expecting it, but I can not get used to thethought 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 hasgot worse and worse. She has completely lost her voice, and now the useof her limbs.
What our poor friend suffers is impossible to say. I am not used toemotions of this kind, and I am in a state of constant fright.
How I wish you were here! She is almost always delirious; but deliriousor lucid, it is always your name that she pronounces, when she can speaka word.
The doctor tells me that she is not here for long. Since she got so illthe old duke has not returned. He told the doctor that the sight was toomuch for him.
Mme. Duvernoy is not behaving well. This woman, who thought she couldget more money out of Marguerite, at whose expense she was living almostcompletely, has contracted liabilities which she can not meet, andseeing that her neighbour is no longer of use to her, she does not evencome to see her. Everybody is abandoning her. M. de G., prosecuted forhis debts, has had to return to London. On leaving, he sent us moremoney; he has done all he could, but they have returned to seize thethings, and the creditors are only waiting for her to die in order tosell everything.
I wanted to use my last resources to put a stop to it, but the bailifftold 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 itfor her family, whom she has never cared to see, and who have nevercared for her. You can not conceive in the midst of what gilded miserythe 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 shesuffers in body, mind, and heart. Big tears trickle down her cheeks, sothin and pale that you would never recognise the face of her whom youloved so much, if you could see her. She has made me promise to write toyou when she can no longer write, and I write before her. She turns hereyes toward me, but she no longer sees me; her eyes are already veiledby the coming of death; yet she smiles, and all her thoughts, all hersoul are yours, I am sure.
Every time the door opens her eyes brighten, and she thinks you aregoing to come in; then, when she sees that it is not you, her faceresumes its sorrowful expression, a cold sweat breaks out over it, andher cheek-bones flush.
February 19, midnight.
What a sad day we have had to-day, poor M. Armand! This morningMarguerite was stifling; the doctor bled her, and her voice has returnedto 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 acupboard, 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 inthese 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 thepriest entered. I went up to him; when he knew where he was, he seemedafraid 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 tome:
"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 thatGod was coming to the dying one.
They went all three into the bed-room where so many strange words havebeen 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 sawwill last, but I do not think that, till my turn comes, any human thingcan make so deep an impression on me.
The priest anointed with holy oil the feet and hands and forehead of thedying woman, repeated a short prayer, and Marguerite was ready to setout for the heaven to which I doubt not she will go, if God has seen theordeal of her life and the sanctity of her death.
Since then she has not said a word or made a movement. Twenty times Ishould 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 amartyr suffer such torture, to judge by the cries she uttered. Two orthree times she sat upright in the bed, as if she would hold on to herlife, which was escaping toward God.
Two or three times also she said your name; then all was silent, and shefell back on the bed exhausted. Silent tears flowed from her eyes, andshe was dead.
Then I went up to her; I called her, and as she did not answer I closedher eyes and kissed her on the forehead.
Poor, dear Marguerite, I wish I were a holy woman that my kiss mightrecommend you to God.
Then I dressed her as she had asked me to do. I went to find a priest atSaint Roch, I burned two candles for her, and I prayed in the church foran hour.
I gave the money she left to the poor.
I do not know much about religion, but I think that God will know thatmy tears were genuine, my prayers fervent, my alms-giving sincere, andthat he will have pity on her who, dying young and beautiful, has onlyhad 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 thechurch. Some of them wept with sincerity. When the funeral started onthe way to Montmartre only two men followed it: the Comte de G., whocame from London on purpose, and the duke, who was suppo
rted by twofootmen.
I write you these details from her house, in the midst of my tears andunder 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 eatennothing for twenty-four hours.
My life can not retain these sad impressions for long, for my life isnot my own any more than Marguerite's was hers; that is why I give youall these details on the very spot where they occurred, in the fear, ifa long time elapsed between them and your return, that I might not beable 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 readis true."
"My father confirmed it in a letter."
We talked for some time over the sad destiny which had beenaccomplished, 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 toJulie Duprat.
Prudence had become bankrupt. She told us that Marguerite was the causeof it; that during her illness she had lent her a lot of money in theform of promissory notes, which she could not pay, Marguerite havingdied without having returned her the money, and without having given hera receipt with which she could present herself as a creditor.
By the help of this fable, which Mme. Duvernoy repeated everywhere inorder to account for her money difficulties, she extracted a note for athousand francs from Armand, who did not believe it, but who pretendedto, 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 shehad witnessed, shedding real tears at the remembrance of her friend.
Lastly, we went to Marguerite's grave, on which the first rays of theApril sun were bringing the first leaves into bud.
One duty remained to Armand--to return to his father. He wished me toaccompany him.
We arrived at C., where I saw M. Duval, such as I had imagined him fromthe portrait his son had made of him, tall, dignified, kindly.
He welcomed Armand with tears of joy, and clasped my handaffectionately. I was not long in seeing that the paternal sentiment wasthat which dominated all others in his mind.
His daughter, named Blanche, had that transparence of eyes, thatserenity of the mouth, which indicates a soul that conceives onlyholy thoughts and lips that repeat only pious words. She welcomed herbrother's return with smiles, not knowing, in the purity of her youth,that far away a courtesan had sacrificed her own happiness at the mereinvocation of her name.
I remained for some time in their happy family, full of indulgent carefor one who brought them the convalescence of his heart.
I returned to Paris, where I wrote this story just as it had been toldme. 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 likeMarguerite are capable of doing all that she did--far from it; butI have discovered that one of them experienced a serious love in thecourse of her life, that she suffered for it, and that she died of it. Ihave 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 noblesorrow wherever I bear its voice in prayer.
The story of Marguerite is an exception, I repeat; had it not been anexception, it would not have been worth the trouble of writing it.
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