Camille (La Dame aux Camilias)

The room to which she had fled was lit only by a single candle. She lay

back on a great sofa, her dress undone, holding one hand on her heart,

and letting the other hang by her side. On the table was a basin half

full of water, and the water was stained with streaks of blood.

Very pale, her mouth half open, Marguerite tried to recover breath. Now

and again her bosom was raised by a long sigh, which seemed to

relieve her a little, and for a few seconds she would seem to be quite

comfortable.

I went up to her; she made no movement, and I sat down and took the hand

which was lying on the sofa.

"Ah! it is you," she said, with a smile.

I must have looked greatly agitated, for she added: "Are you unwell, too?"

"No, but you: do you still suffer?"

"Very little;" and she wiped off with her handkerchief the tears which

the coughing had brought to her eyes; "I am used to it now."

"You are killing yourself, madame," I said to her in a moved voice. "I

wish I were a friend, a relation of yours, that I might keep you from

doing yourself harm like this."

"Ah! it is really not worth your while to alarm yourself," she replied

in a somewhat bitter tone; "see how much notice the others take of me!

They know too well that there is nothing to be done."

Thereupon she got up, and, taking the candle, put it on the mantel-piece

and looked at herself in the glass.

"How pale I am!" she said, as she fastened her dress and passed her

fingers over her loosened hair. "Come, let us go back to supper. Are you

coming?"

I sat still and did not move.

She saw how deeply I had been affected by the whole scene, and, coming

up to me, held out her hand, saying: "Come now, let us go."

I took her hand, raised it to my lips, and in spite of myself two tears

fell upon it.

"Why, what a child you are!" she said, sitting down by my side again.

"You are crying! What is the matter?"

"I must seem very silly to you, but I am frightfully troubled by what I

have just seen."

"You are very good! What would you have of me? I can not sleep. I must

amuse myself a little. And then, girls like me, what does it matter, one

more or less? The doctors tell me that the blood I spit up comes from my

throat; I pretend to believe them; it is all I can do for them."