Camille (La Dame aux Camilias)

"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."