Camille (La Dame aux Camilias)

January 28.

This morning I was awakened by a great noise. Julie, who slept in

my room, ran into the dining-room. I heard men's voices, and hers

protesting against them in vain. She came back crying.

They had come to seize my things. I told her to let what they call

justice have its way. The bailiff came into my room with his hat on. He

opened the drawers, wrote down what he saw, and did not even seem to

be aware that there was a dying woman in the bed that fortunately the

charity of the law leaves me.

He said, indeed, before going, that I could appeal within nine days,

but he left a man behind to keep watch. My God! what is to become of me?

This scene has made me worse than I was before. Prudence wanted to go

and ask your father's friend for money, but I would not let her.

I received your letter this morning. I was in need of it. Will my answer

reach you in time? Will you ever see me again? This is a happy day, and

it has made me forget all the days I have passed for the last six weeks.

I seem as if I am better, in spite of the feeling of sadness under the

impression of which I replied to you.

After all, no one is unhappy always.

When I think that it may happen to me not to die, for you to come back,

for me to see the spring again, for you still to love me, and for us to

begin over again our last year's life!

Fool that I am! I can scarcely hold the pen with which I write to you of

this wild dream of my heart.

Whatever happens, I loved you well, Armand, and I would have died long

ago if I had not had the memory of your love to help me and a sort of

vague hope of seeing you beside me again.

February 4.

The Comte de G. has returned. His mistress has been unfaithful to him.

He is very sad; he was very fond of her. He came to tell me all about

it. The poor fellow is in rather a bad way as to money; all the same, he

has paid my bailiff and sent away the man.

I talked to him about you, and he promised to tell you about me. I

forgot that I had been his mistress, and he tried to make me forget it,

too. He is a good friend.

The duke sent yesterday to inquire after me, and this morning he came

to see me. I do not know how the old man still keeps alive. He remained

with me three hours and did not say twenty words. Two big tears fell

from his eyes when he saw how pale I was. The memory of his daughter's

death made him weep, no doubt. He will have seen her die twice. His back

was bowed, his head bent toward the ground, his lips drooping, his eyes

vacant. Age and sorrow weigh with a double weight on his worn-out body.

He did not reproach me. It looked as if he rejoiced secretly to see the

ravages that disease had made in me. He seemed proud of being still on

his feet, while I, who am still young, was broken down by suffering.