Camille (La Dame aux Camilias)

A good while elapsed before I heard anything more of Armand, but, on the

other hand, I was constantly hearing of Marguerite.

I do not know if you have noticed, if once the name of anybody who might

in the natural course of things have always remained unknown, or at all

events indifferent to you, should be mentioned before you, immediately

details begin to group themselves about the name, and you find all your

friends talking to you about something which they have never mentioned

to you before. You discover that this person was almost touching you and

has passed close to you many times in your life without your noticing

it; you find coincidences in the events which are told you, a real

affinity with certain events of your own existence. I was not absolutely

at that point in regard to Marguerite, for I had seen and met her, I

knew her by sight and by reputation; nevertheless, since the moment

of the sale, her name came to my ears so frequently, and, owing to the

circumstance that I have mentioned in the last chapter, that name was

associated with so profound a sorrow, that my curiosity increased in

proportion with my astonishment. The consequence was that whenever I met

friends to whom I had never breathed the name of Marguerite, I always

began by saying: "Did you ever know a certain Marguerite Gautier?"

"The Lady of the Camellias?"

"Exactly."

"Oh, very well!"

The word was sometimes accompanied by a smile which could leave no doubt

as to its meaning.

"Well, what sort of a girl was she?"

"A good sort of girl."

"Is that all?"

"Oh, yes; more intelligence and perhaps a little more heart than most."

"Do you know anything particular about her?"

"She ruined Baron de G."

"No more than that?"

"She was the mistress of the old Duke of..."

"Was she really his mistress?"

"So they say; at all events, he gave her a great deal of money."

The general outlines were always the same. Nevertheless I was anxious

to find out something about the relations between Marguerite and Armand.

Meeting one day a man who was constantly about with known women, I asked

him: "Did you know Marguerite Gautier?"

The answer was the usual: "Very well."

"What sort of a girl was she?"

"A fine, good girl. I was very sorry to hear of her death."

"Had she not a lover called Armand Duval?"