Camille (La Dame aux Camilias)

The doctor tells me that she is not here for long. Since she got so ill

the old duke has not returned. He told the doctor that the sight was too

much for him.

Mme. Duvernoy is not behaving well. This woman, who thought she could

get more money out of Marguerite, at whose expense she was living almost

completely, has contracted liabilities which she can not meet, and

seeing that her neighbour is no longer of use to her, she does not even

come to see her. Everybody is abandoning her. M. de G., prosecuted for

his debts, has had to return to London. On leaving, he sent us more

money; he has done all he could, but they have returned to seize the

things, and the creditors are only waiting for her to die in order to

sell everything.

I wanted to use my last resources to put a stop to it, but the bailiff

told me it was no use, and that there are other seizures to follow.

Since she must die, it is better to let everything go than to save it

for her family, whom she has never cared to see, and who have never

cared for her. You can not conceive in the midst of what gilded misery

the poor thing is dying. Yesterday we had absolutely no money. Plate,

jewels, shawls, everything is in pawn; the rest is sold or seized.

Marguerite is still conscious of what goes on around her, and she

suffers in body, mind, and heart. Big tears trickle down her cheeks, so

thin and pale that you would never recognise the face of her whom you

loved so much, if you could see her. She has made me promise to write to

you when she can no longer write, and I write before her. She turns her

eyes toward me, but she no longer sees me; her eyes are already veiled

by the coming of death; yet she smiles, and all her thoughts, all her

soul are yours, I am sure.

Every time the door opens her eyes brighten, and she thinks you are

going to come in; then, when she sees that it is not you, her face

resumes its sorrowful expression, a cold sweat breaks out over it, and

her cheek-bones flush.

February 19, midnight.

What a sad day we have had to-day, poor M. Armand! This morning

Marguerite was stifling; the doctor bled her, and her voice has returned

to her a while. The doctor begged her to see a priest. She said "Yes,"

and he went himself to fetch an abbe' from Saint Roch.