Camille (La Dame aux Camilias)

What else was there for me to do, my friend? If I had killed myself it

would have burdened your life, which ought to be happy, with a needless

remorse; and then, what is the good of killing oneself when one is so

near dying already?

I became a body without a soul, a thing without a thought; I lived for

some time in that automatic way; then I returned to Paris, and asked

after you; I heard then that you were gone on a long voyage. There was

nothing left to hold me to life. My existence became what it had been

two years before I knew you. I tried to win back the duke, but I had

offended him too deeply. Old men are not patient, no doubt because they

realize that they are not eternal. I got weaker every day. I was pale

and sad and thinner than ever. Men who buy love examine the goods before

taking them. At Paris there were women in better health, and not so thin

as I was; I was rather forgotten. That is all the past up to yesterday.

Now I am seriously ill. I have written to the duke to ask him for money,

for I have none, and the creditors have returned, and come to me with

their bills with pitiless perseverance. Will the duke answer? Why are

you not in Paris, Armand? You would come and see me, and your visits

would do me good.

December 20.

The weather is horrible; it is snowing, and I am alone. I have been in

such a fever for the last three days that I could not write you a word.

No news, my friend; every day I hope vaguely for a letter from you, but

it does not come, and no doubt it will never come. Only men are strong

enough not to forgive. The duke has not answered.

Prudence is pawning my things again.

I have been spitting blood all the time. Oh, you would be sorry for me

if you could see me. You are indeed happy to be under a warm sky, and

not, like me, with a whole winter of ice on your chest. To-day I got up

for a little while, and looked out through the curtains of my window,

and watched the life of Paris passing below, the life with which I have

now nothing more to do. I saw the faces of some people I knew, passing

rapidly, joyous and careless. Not one lifted his eyes to my window.

However, a few young men have come to inquire for me. Once before I was

ill, and you, though you did not know me, though you had had nothing

from me but an impertinence the day I met you first, you came to inquire

after me every day. We spent six months together. I had all the love for

you that a woman's heart can hold and give, and you are far away, you

are cursing me, and there is not a word of consolation from you. But it

is only chance that has made you leave me, I am sure, for if you were at

Paris, you would not leave my bedside.