Camille (La Dame aux Camilias)

At five o'clock in the morning, as the light began to appear through the

curtains, Marguerite said to me: "Forgive me if I send you away; but I

must. The duke comes every morning; they will tell him, when he comes,

that I am asleep, and perhaps he will wait until I wake."

I took Marguerite's head in my hands; her loosened hair streamed about

her; I gave her a last kiss, saying: "When shall I see you again?"

"Listen," she said; "take the little gilt key on the mantelpiece, open

that door; bring me back the key and go. In the course of the day

you shall have a letter, and my orders, for you know you are to obey

blindly."

"Yes; but if I should already ask for something?"

"What?"

"Let me have that key."

"What you ask is a thing I have never done for any one."

"Well, do it for me, for I swear to you that I don't love you as the

others have loved you."

"Well, keep it; but it only depends on me to make it useless to you,

after all."

"How?"

"There are bolts on the door."

"Wretch!"

"I will have them taken off."

"You love, then, a little?"

"I don't know how it is, but it seems to me as if I do! Now, go; I can't

keep my eyes open."

I held her in my arms for a few seconds and then went.

The streets were empty, the great city was still asleep, a sweet

freshness circulated in the streets that a few hours later would be

filled with the noise of men. It seemed to me as if this sleeping

city belonged to me; I searched my memory for the names of those whose

happiness I had once envied; and I could not recall one without finding

myself the happier.

To be loved by a pure young girl, to be the first to reveal to her the

strange mystery of love, is indeed a great happiness, but it is the

simplest thing in the world. To take captive a heart which has had no

experience of attack, is to enter an unfortified and ungarrisoned city.

Education, family feeling, the sense of duty, the family, are strong

sentinels, but there are no sentinels so vigilant as not to be deceived

by a girl of sixteen to whom nature, by the voice of the man she loves,

gives the first counsels of love, all the more ardent because they seem

so pure.