Camille (La Dame aux Camilias)

"Nanine!" cried Marguerite. "Light M. le Comte to the door."

We heard the door open and shut.

"At last," cried Marguerite, coming back, "he has gone! That man gets

frightfully on my nerves!"

"My dear child," said Prudence, "you really treat him too badly, and he

is so good and kind to you. Look at this watch on the mantel-piece, that

he gave you: it must have cost him at least three thousand francs, I am

sure."

And Mme. Duvernoy began to turn it over, as it lay on the mantel-piece,

looking at it with covetous eyes.

"My dear," said Marguerite, sitting down to the piano, "when I put on

one side what he gives me and on the other what he says to me, it seems

to me that he buys his visits very cheap."

"The poor fellow is in love with you."

"If I had to listen to everybody who was in love with me, I shouldn't

have time for my dinner."

And she began to run her fingers over the piano, and then, turning to

us, she said: "What will you take? I think I should like a little punch."

"And I could eat a little chicken," said Prudence. "Suppose we have

supper?"

"That's it, let's go and have supper," said Gaston.

"No, we will have supper here."

She rang, and Nanine appeared.

"Send for some supper."

"What must I get?"

"Whatever you like, but at once, at once."

Nanine went out.

"That's it," said Marguerite, jumping like a child, "we'll have supper.

How tiresome that idiot of a count is!"

The more I saw her, the more she enchanted me. She was exquisitely

beautiful. Her slenderness was a charm. I was lost in contemplation.

What was passing in my mind I should have some difficulty in explaining.

I was full of indulgence for her life, full of admiration for her

beauty. The proof of disinterestedness that she gave in not accepting a

rich and fashionable young man, ready to waste all his money upon her,

excused her in my eyes for all her faults in the past.

There was a kind of candour in this woman. You could see she was still

in the virginity of vice. Her firm walk, her supple figure, her rosy,

open nostrils, her large eyes, slightly tinged with blue, indicated

one of those ardent natures which shed around them a sort of voluptuous

perfume, like Eastern vials, which, close them as tightly as you will,

still let some of their perfume escape. Finally, whether it was simple

nature or a breath of fever, there passed from time to time in the eyes

of this woman a glimmer of desire, giving promise of a very heaven for

one whom she should love. But those who had loved Marguerite were not to

be counted, nor those whom she had loved.