Camille (La Dame aux Camilias)

Poor, dear Marguerite, I wish I were a holy woman that my kiss might

recommend you to God.

Then I dressed her as she had asked me to do. I went to find a priest at

Saint Roch, I burned two candles for her, and I prayed in the church for

an hour.

I gave the money she left to the poor.

I do not know much about religion, but I think that God will know that

my tears were genuine, my prayers fervent, my alms-giving sincere, and

that he will have pity on her who, dying young and beautiful, has only

had me to close her eyes and put her in her shroud.

February 22.

The burial took place to-day. Many of Marguerite's friends came to the

church. Some of them wept with sincerity. When the funeral started on

the way to Montmartre only two men followed it: the Comte de G., who

came from London on purpose, and the duke, who was supported by two

footmen.

I write you these details from her house, in the midst of my tears and

under the lamp which burns sadly beside a dinner which I can not touch,

as you can imagine, but which Nanine has got for me, for I have eaten

nothing for twenty-four hours.

My life can not retain these sad impressions for long, for my life is

not my own any more than Marguerite's was hers; that is why I give you

all these details on the very spot where they occurred, in the fear, if

a long time elapsed between them and your return, that I might not be

able to give them to you with all their melancholy exactitude.