Camille (La Dame aux Camilias)

Prudence is giving her New Year's presents with those I have received.

There is a thaw, and the doctor says that I may go out in a few days if

the fine weather continues.

January 8.

I went out yesterday in my carriage. The weather was lovely. The

Champs-Elysees was full of people. It was like the first smile of

spring. Everything about me had a festal air. I never knew before that a

ray of sunshine could contain so much joy, sweetness, and consolation.

I met almost all the people I knew, all happy, all absorbed in their

pleasures. How many happy people don't even know that they are happy!

Olympe passed me in an elegant carriage that M. de N. has given her. She

tried to insult me by her look. She little knows how far I am from such

things now. A nice fellow, whom I have known for a long time, asked me

if I would have supper with him and one of his friends, who, he said,

was very anxious to make my acquaintance. I smiled sadly and gave him my

hand, burning with fever. I never saw such an astonished countenance.

I came in at four, and had quite an appetite for my dinner. Going out

has done me good. If I were only going to get well! How the sight of the

life and happiness of others gives a desire of life to those who, only

the night before, in the solitude of their soul and in the shadow of

their sick-room, only wanted to die soon!

January 10.

The hope of getting better was only a dream. I am back in bed again,

covered with plasters which burn me. If I were to offer the body that

people paid so dear for once, how much would they give, I wonder,

to-day?

We must have done something very wicked before we were born, or else we

must be going to be very happy indeed when we are dead, for God to let

this life have all the tortures of expiation and all the sorrows of an

ordeal.

January 12.

I am always ill.

The Comte de N. sent me some money yesterday. I did not keep it. I won't

take anything from that man. It is through him that you are not here.

Oh, that good time at Bougival! Where is it now?

If I come out of this room alive I will make a pilgrimage to the house

we lived in together, but I will never leave it until I am dead.

Who knows if I shall write to you to-morrow?

January 25.

I have not slept for eleven nights. I am suffocated. I imagine every

moment that I am going to die. The doctor has forbidden me to touch

a pen. Julie Duprat, who is looking after me, lets me write these

few lines to you. Will you not come back before I die? Is it all over

between us forever? It seems to me as if I should get well if you came.

What would be the good of getting well?