Camille (La Dame aux Camilias)

When I embraced my sister, I remembered what Marguerite had said about

her in her letter, and I saw at once how little my sister, good as she

was, would be able to make me forget my mistress.

Shooting had begun, and my father thought that it would be a distraction

for me. He got up shooting parties with friends and neighbours. I went

without either reluctance or enthusiasm, with that sort of apathy into

which I had sunk since my departure.

We were beating about for game and I was given my post. I put down my

unloaded gun at my side, and meditated. I watched the clouds pass. I

let my thought wander over the solitary plains, and from time to time I

heard some one call to me and point to a hare not ten paces off. None of

these details escaped my father, and he was not deceived by my exterior

calm. He was well aware that, broken as I now was, I should some day

experience a terrible reaction, which might be dangerous, and, without

seeming to make any effort to console me, he did his utmost to distract

my thoughts.

My sister, naturally, knew nothing of what had happened, and she could

not understand how it was that I, who had formerly been so lighthearted,

had suddenly become so sad and dreamy.

Sometimes, surprising in the midst of my sadness my father's anxious

scrutiny, I pressed his hand as if to ask him tacitly to forgive me for

the pain which, in spite of myself, I was giving him.

Thus a month passed, but at the end of that time I could endure it no

longer. The memory of Marguerite pursued me unceasingly. I had loved,

I still loved this woman so much that I could not suddenly become

indifferent to her. I had to love or to hate her. Above all, whatever I

felt for her, I had to see her again, and at once. This desire possessed

my mind, and with all the violence of a will which had begun to reassert

itself in a body so long inert.

It was not enough for me to see Marguerite in a month, a week. I had to

see her the very next day after the day when the thought had occurred to

me; and I went to my father and told him that I had been called to Paris

on business, but that I should return promptly. No doubt he guessed the

reason of my departure, for he insisted that I should stay, but, seeing

that if I did not carry out my intention the consequences, in the state

in which I was, might be fatal, he embraced me, and begged me, almost,

with tears, to return without delay.