Camille (La Dame aux Camilias)

I might have made Marguerite a present which would leave no doubt as to

my generosity and permit me to feel properly quits of her, as of a

kept woman, but I should have felt that I was offending by the least

appearance of trafficking, if not the love which she had for me, at all

events the love which I had for her, and since this love was so pure

that it could admit no division, it could not pay by a present, however

generous, the happiness that it had received, however short that

happiness had been.

That is what I said to myself all night long, and what I was every

moment prepared to go and say to Marguerite. When the day dawned I

was still sleepless. I was in a fever. I could think of nothing but

Marguerite.

As you can imagine, it was time to take a decided step, and finish

either with the woman or with one's scruples, if, that is, she would

still be willing to see me. But you know well, one is always slow in

taking a decided step; so, unable to remain within doors and not daring

to call on Marguerite, I made one attempt in her direction, an attempt

that I could always look upon as a mere chance if it succeeded.

It was nine o'clock, and I went at once to call upon Prudence, who asked

to what she owed this early visit. I dared not tell her frankly what

brought me. I replied that I had gone out early in order to reserve a

place in the diligence for C., where my father lived.

"You are fortunate," she said, "in being able to get away from Paris in

this fine weather."

I looked at Prudence, asking myself whether she was laughing at me, but

her face was quite serious.

"Shall you go and say good-bye to Marguerite?" she continued, as

seriously as before.

"No."

"You are quite right."

"You think so?"

"Naturally. Since you have broken with her, why should you see her

again?"

"You know it is broken off?"

"She showed me your letter."

"What did she say about it?"

"She said: 'My dear Prudence, your protege is not polite; one thinks

such letters, one does not write them."' "In what tone did she say that?"

"Laughingly," and she added: "He has had supper with me twice, and hasn't

even called."

That, then, was the effect produced by my letter and my jealousy. I was

cruelly humiliated in the vanity of my affection.