Camille (La Dame aux Camilias)
had seen no one since I went out.
If Marguerite had been going to answer me she would have answered long
before.
Then I began to regret the terms of my letter; I should have said
absolutely nothing, and that would undoubtedly have aroused her
suspicions, for, finding that I did not keep my appointment, she would
have inquired the reason of my absence, and only then I should have
given it to her. Thus, she would have had to exculpate herself, and
what I wanted was for her to exculpate herself. I already realized that
I should have believed whatever reasons she had given me, and anything
was better than not to see her again.
At last I began to believe that she would come to see me herself; but
hour followed hour, and she did not come.
Decidedly Marguerite was not like other women, for there are few who
would have received such a letter as I had just written without
answering it at all.
At five, I hastened to the Champs-Elysées. “If I meet her,” I thought,
“I will put on an indifferent air, and she will be convinced that I no
longer think about her.”
As I turned the corner of the Rue Royale, I saw her pass in her
carriage. The meeting was so sudden that I turned pale. I do not know
if she saw my emotion; as for me, I was so agitated that I saw nothing
but the carriage.
I did not go any farther in the direction of the Champs-Elysées. I
looked at the advertisements of the theatres, for I had still a chance
of seeing her. There was a first night at the Palais Royal. Marguerite
was sure to be there. I was at the theatre by seven. The boxes filled
one after another, but Marguerite was not there. I left the Palais
Royal and went to all the theatres where she was most often to be seen:
to the Vaudeville, the Variétés, the Opera Comique. She was nowhere.
Either my letter had troubled her too much for her to care to go to the
theatre, or she feared to come across me, and so wished to avoid an
explanation. So my vanity was whispering to me on the boulevards, when
I met Gaston, who asked me where I had been.
“At the Palais Royal.”
“And I at the Opera,” said he; “I expected to see you there.”
“Why?”
“Because Marguerite was there.”
“Ah, she was there?”
“Yes.
“Alone?”
“No; with another woman.”
“That all?”
“The Comte de G. came to her box for an instant; but she went off with
the duke. I expected to see you every moment, for there was a stall at
my side which remained empty the whole evening, and I was sure you had
taken it.”
“But why should I go where Marguerite goes?”
“Because you are her lover, surely!”
“Who told you that?”
“Prudence, whom I met yesterday. I give you my congratulations, my dear
fellow; she is a charming mistress, and it isn’t everybody who has the
chance. Stick to her; she will do you credit.”
These simple reflections of Gaston showed me how absurd had been my
susceptibilities. If I had only met him the night before and he had
spoken to me like that, I should certainly not have written the foolish
letter which I had written.
I was on the point of calling on Prudence, and of sending her to tell
Marguerite that I wanted to speak to her; but I feared that she would
revenge herself on me by saying that she could not see me, and I
returned home, after passing through the Rue d’Antin. Again I asked my
porter if there was a letter for me. Nothing! She is waiting to see if
I shall take some fresh step, and if I retract my letter of to-day, I
said to myself as I went to bed; but, seeing that I do not write, she
will write to me to-morrow.
That night, more than ever, I reproached myself for what I had done. I
was alone, unable to sleep, devoured by restlessness and jealousy, when
by simply letting things take their natural course I should have been
with Marguerite, hearing the delicious words which I had heard only
twice, and which made my ears burn in my solitude.
The most frightful part of the situation was that my judgment was
against me; as a matter of fact, everything went to prove that
Marguerite loved me. First, her proposal to spend the summer with me in
the country, then the certainty that there was no reason why she should
be my mistress, since my income was insufficient for her needs and even
for her caprices. There could not then have been on her part anything
but the hope of finding in me a sincere affection, able to give her
rest from the mercenary loves in whose midst she lived; and on the very
second day I had destroyed this hope, and paid by impertinent irony for
the love which I had accepted during two nights. What I had done was
therefore not merely ridiculous, it was indelicate. I had not even paid
the woman, that I might have some right to find fault with her;
withdrawing after two days, was I not like a parasite of love, afraid
of having to pay the bill of the banquet? What! I had only known
Marguerite for thirty-six hours; I had been her lover for only
twenty-four; and instead of being too happy that she should grant me
all that she did, I wanted to have her all to myself, and to make her
sever at one stroke all her past relations which were the revenue of
her future. What had I to reproach in her? Nothing. She had written to
say she was unwell, when she might have said to me quite crudely, with
the hideous frankness of certain women, that she had to see a lover;
and, instead of believing her letter, instead of going to any street in
Paris except the Rue d’Antin, instead of spending the evening with my
friends, and presenting myself next day at the appointed hour, I was
acting the Othello, spying upon her, and thinking to punish her by
seeing her no more. But, on the contrary, she ought to be enchanted at
this separation. She ought to find me supremely foolish, and her
silence was not even that of rancour; it was contempt.
I might have made Marguerite a present which would leave no doubt as to
my generosity and permit me to feel properly quits of her, as of a kept
woman, but I should have felt that I was offending by the least
appearance of trafficking, if not the love which she had for me, at all
events the love which I had for her, and since this love was so pure
that it could admit no division, it could not pay by a present, however
generous, the happiness that it had received, however short that
happiness had been.
That is what I said to myself all night long, and what I was every
moment prepared to go and say to Marguerite. When the day dawned I was
still sleepless. I was in a fever. I could think of nothing but
Marguerite.
As you can imagine, it was time to take a decided step, and finish
either with the woman or with one’s scruples, if, that is, she would
still be willing to see me. But you know well, one is always slow in
taking a decided step; so, unable to remain within doors and not daring
to call on Marguerite, I made one attempt in her direction, an attempt
that I could always look upon as a mere chance if it succeeded.
It was nine o’clock, and I went at once to call upon Prudence, who
asked to what she owed this early visit. I dared not tell her frankly
what brought me. I replied that I had gone out early in order to
reserve a place in the diligence for C., where my father lived.
“You are fortunate,” she said, “in being able to get away from Paris in
this fine weather.”
I looked at Prudence, asking myself whether she was laughing at me, but
her face was quite serious.
“Shall you go and say good-bye to Marguerite?” she continued, as
seriously as before.
“No.”
“You are quite right.”
“You think so?”
“Naturally. Since you have broken with her, why should you see her
again?”
“You know it is broken off?”
“She showed me your letter.”
“What did she say about it?”
“She said: ‘My dear Prudence, your _protégé_ is not polite; one thinks
such letters, one does not write them.”’
“In what tone did she say that?”
“Laughingly,” and she added: “He has had supper with me twice, and
hasn’t even called.”
That, then, was the effect produced by my letter and my jealousy. I was
cruelly humiliated in the vanity of my affection.
“What did she do last night?”
“She went to the opera.”
“I know. And afterward?”
“She had supper at home.”
“Alone?”
“With the Comte de G., I believe.”
So my breaking with her had not changed one of her habits. It is for
such reasons as this that certain people say to you: Don’t have
anything more to do with the woman; she cares nothing about you.
“Well, I am very glad to find that Marguerite does not put herself out
for me,” I said with a forced smile.
“She has very good reason not to. You have done what you were bound to
do. You have been more reasonable than she, for she was really in love
with you; she did nothing but talk of you. I don’t know what she would
not have been capable of doing.”
“Why hasn’t she answered me, if she was in love with me?”
“Because she realizes she was mistaken in letting herself love you.
Women sometimes allow you to be unfaithful to their love; they never
allow you to wound their self-esteem; and one always wounds the
self-esteem of a woman when, two days after one has become her lover,
one leaves her, no matter for what reason. I know Marguerite; she would
die sooner than reply.”
“What can I do, then?”
“Nothing. She will forget you, you will forget her, and neither will
have any reproach to make against the other.”
“But if I write and ask her forgiveness?”
“Don’t do that, for she would forgive you.”
I could have flung my arms round Prudence’s neck.
A quarter of an hour later I was once more in my own quarters, and I
wrote to Marguerite:
“Some one, who repents of a letter that he wrote yesterday and who will
leave Paris to-morrow if you do not forgive him, wishes to know at what
hour he might lay his repentance at your feet.
“When can he find you alone? for, you know, confessions must be made
without witnesses.”
I folded this kind of madrigal in prose, and sent it by Joseph, who
handed it to Marguerite herself; she replied that she would send the
answer later.
I only went out to have a hasty dinner, and at eleven in the evening no
reply had come. I made up my mind to endure it no longer, and to set
out next day. In consequence of this resolution, and convinced that I
should not sleep if I went to bed, I began to pack up my things.
Chapter XV
It was hardly an hour after Joseph and I had begun preparing for my
departure, when there was a violent ring at the door.
“Shall I go to the door?” said Joseph.
“Go,” I said, asking myself who it could be at such an hour, and not
daring to believe that it was Marguerite.
“Sir,” said Joseph coming back to me, “it is two ladies.”
“It is we, Armand,” cried a voice that I recognised as that of
Prudence.
I came out of my room. Prudence was standing looking around the place;
Marguerite, seated on the sofa, was meditating. I went to her, knelt
down, took her two hands, and, deeply moved, said to her, “Pardon.”
She kissed me on the forehead, and said:
“This is the third time that I have forgiven you.”
“I should have gone away to-morrow.”
“How can my visit change your plans? I have not come to hinder you from
leaving Paris. I have come because I had no time to answer you during
the day, and I did not wish to let you think that I was angry with you.
Prudence didn’t want me to come; she said that I might be in the way.”
“You in the way, Marguerite! But how?”
“Well, you might have had a woman here,” said Prudence, “and it would
hardly have been amusing for her to see two more arrive.”
During this remark Marguerite looked at me attentively.
“My dear Prudence,” I answered, “you do not know what you are saying.”
“What a nice place you’ve got!” Prudence went on. “May we see the
bedroom?”
“Yes.”