Camille (La Dame aux Camilias)

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.