Camille (La Dame aux Camilias)

"Ah, she was there?"

"Yes.

"Alone?"

"No; with another woman."

"That all?"

"The Comte de G. came to her box for an instant; but she went off with

the duke. I expected to see you every moment, for there was a stall at

my side which remained empty the whole evening, and I was sure you had

taken it."

"But why should I go where Marguerite goes?"

"Because you are her lover, surely!"

"Who told you that?"

"Prudence, whom I met yesterday. I give you my congratulations, my dear

fellow; she is a charming mistress, and it isn't everybody who has the

chance. Stick to her; she will do you credit."

These simple reflections of Gaston showed me how absurd had been my

susceptibilities. If I had only met him the night before and he had

spoken to me like that, I should certainly not have written the foolish

letter which I had written.

I was on the point of calling on Prudence, and of sending her to tell

Marguerite that I wanted to speak to her; but I feared that she would

revenge herself on me by saying that she could not see me, and I

returned home, after passing through the Rue d'Antin. Again I asked my

porter if there was a letter for me. Nothing! She is waiting to see if I

shall take some fresh step, and if I retract my letter of to-day, I said

to myself as I went to bed; but, seeing that I do not write, she will

write to me to-morrow.

That night, more than ever, I reproached myself for what I had done. I

was alone, unable to sleep, devoured by restlessness and jealousy, when

by simply letting things take their natural course I should have been

with Marguerite, hearing the delicious words which I had heard only

twice, and which made my ears burn in my solitude.

The most frightful part of the situation was that my judgment was

against me; as a matter of fact, everything went to prove that

Marguerite loved me. First, her proposal to spend the summer with me in

the country, then the certainty that there was no reason why she should

be my mistress, since my income was insufficient for her needs and even

for her caprices. There could not then have been on her part anything

but the hope of finding in me a sincere affection, able to give her

rest from the mercenary loves in whose midst she lived; and on the very

second day I had destroyed this hope, and paid by impertinent irony for

the love which I had accepted during two nights. What I had done was

therefore not merely ridiculous, it was indelicate. I had not even

paid the woman, that I might have some right to find fault with her;

withdrawing after two days, was I not like a parasite of love, afraid of

having to pay the bill of the banquet? What! I had only known Marguerite

for thirty-six hours; I had been her lover for only twenty-four; and

instead of being too happy that she should grant me all that she did,

I wanted to have her all to myself, and to make her sever at one stroke

all her past relations which were the revenue of her future. What had I

to reproach in her? Nothing. She had written to say she was unwell, when

she might have said to me quite crudely, with the hideous frankness of

certain women, that she had to see a lover; and, instead of believing

her letter, instead of going to any street in Paris except the Rue

d'Antin, instead of spending the evening with my friends, and presenting

myself next day at the appointed hour, I was acting the Othello, spying

upon her, and thinking to punish her by seeing her no more. But, on the

contrary, she ought to be enchanted at this separation. She ought to

find me supremely foolish, and her silence was not even that of rancour;

it was contempt.