Camille (La Dame aux Camilias)

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.