Camille (La Dame aux Camilias)

"Tall and blond?"

"Yes.

"It is quite true."

"Who was this Armand?"

"A fellow who squandered on her the little money he had, and then had to

leave her. They say he was quite wild about it."

"And she?"

"They always say she was very much in love with him, but as girls like

that are in love. It is no good to ask them for what they can not give."

"What has become of Armand?"

"I don't know. We knew him very little. He was with Marguerite for five

or six months in the country. When she came back, he had gone."

"And you have never seen him since?"

"Never."

I, too, had not seen Armand again. I was beginning to ask myself if,

when he had come to see me, the recent news of Marguerite's death had

not exaggerated his former love, and consequently his sorrow, and I

said to myself that perhaps he had already forgotten the dead woman, and

along with her his promise to come and see me again. This supposition

would have seemed probable enough in most instances, but in Armand's

despair there had been an accent of real sincerity, and, going from one

extreme to another, I imagined that distress had brought on an illness,

and that my not seeing him was explained by the fact that he was ill,

perhaps dead.

I was interested in the young man in spite of myself. Perhaps there was

some selfishness in this interest; perhaps I guessed at some pathetic

love story under all this sorrow; perhaps my desire to know all about it

had much to do with the anxiety which Armand's silence caused me.

Since M. Duval did not return to see me, I decided to go and see him. A

pretext was not difficult to find; unluckily I did not know his address,

and no one among those whom I questioned could give it to me.

I went to the Rue d'Antin; perhaps Marguerite's porter would know where

Armand lived. There was a new porter; he knew as little about it as I.

I then asked in what cemetery Mlle. Gautier had been buried. It was

the Montmartre Cemetery. It was now the month of April; the weather was

fine, the graves were not likely to look as sad and desolate as they do

in winter; in short, it was warm enough for the living to think a little

of the dead, and pay them a visit. I went to the cemetery, saying to

myself: "One glance at Marguerite's grave, and I shall know if Armand's

sorrow still exists, and perhaps I may find out what has become of him."