Camille (La Dame aux Camilias)

For twenty-five days of the month the camellias were white, and for five

they were red; no one ever knew the reason of this change of colour,

which I mention though I can not explain it; it was noticed both by her

friends and by the habitue's of the theatres to which she most often

went. She was never seen with any flowers but camellias. At the

florist's, Madame Barjon's, she had come to be called "the Lady of the

Camellias," and the name stuck to her.

Like all those who move in a certain set in Paris, I knew that

Marguerite had lived with some of the most fashionable young men in

society, that she spoke of it openly, and that they themselves

boasted of it; so that all seemed equally pleased with one another.

Nevertheless, for about three years, after a visit to Bagnees, she was

said to be living with an old duke, a foreigner, enormously rich, who

had tried to remove her as far as possible from her former life, and, as

it seemed, entirely to her own satisfaction.

This is what I was told on the subject. In the spring of 1847 Marguerite

was so ill that the doctors ordered her to take the waters, and she went

to Bagneres. Among the invalids was the daughter of this duke; she

was not only suffering from the same complaint, but she was so like

Marguerite in appearance that they might have been taken for sisters;

the young duchess was in the last stage of consumption, and a few days

after Marguerite's arrival she died. One morning, the duke, who had

remained at Bagneres to be near the soil that had buried a part of his

heart, caught sight of Marguerite at a turn of the road. He seemed to

see the shadow of his child, and going up to her, he took her hands,

embraced and wept over her, and without even asking her who she was,

begged her to let him love in her the living image of his dead child.

Marguerite, alone at Bagneres with her maid, and not being in any fear

of compromising herself, granted the duke's request. Some people who

knew her, happening to be at Bagneres, took upon themselves to explain

Mademoiselle Gautier's true position to the duke. It was a blow to

the old man, for the resemblance with his daughter was ended in one

direction, but it was too late. She had become a necessity to his heart,

his only pretext, his only excuse, for living. He made no reproaches,

he had indeed no right to do so, but he asked her if she felt herself

capable of changing her mode of life, offering her in return for the

sacrifice every compensation that she could desire. She consented.