Camille (La Dame aux Camilias)

The time of the year when I was accustomed to join my father and sister

had now arrived, and I did not go; both of them wrote to me frequently,

begging me to come. To these letters I replied as best I could, always

repeating that I was quite well and that I was not in need of money, two

things which, I thought, would console my father for my delay in paying

him my annual visit.

Just then, one fine day in summer, Marguerite was awakened by the

sunlight pouring into her room, and, jumping out of bed, asked me if I

would take her into the country for the whole day.

We sent for Prudence, and all three set off, after Marguerite had given

Nanine orders to tell the duke that she had taken advantage of the fine

day to go into the country with Mme. Duvernoy.

Besides the presence of Mme. Duvernoy being needful on account of the

old duke, Prudence was one of those women who seem made on purpose for

days in the country. With her unchanging good-humour and her eternal

appetite, she never left a dull moment to those whom she was with, and

was perfectly happy in ordering eggs, cherries, milk, stewed rabbit, and

all the rest of the traditional lunch in the country.

We had now only to decide where we should go. It was once more Prudence

who settled the difficulty.

"Do you want to go to the real country?" she asked.

"Yes."

"Well, let us go to Bougival, at the Point du Jour, at Widow Arnould's.

Armand, order an open carriage."

An hour and a half later we were at Widow Arnould's.

Perhaps you know the inn, which is a hotel on week days and a tea garden

on Sundays. There is a magnificent view from the garden, which is at

the height of an ordinary first floor. On the left the Aqueduct of Marly

closes in the horizon, on the right one looks across bill after hill;

the river, almost without current at that spot, unrolls itself like a

large white watered ribbon between the plain of the Gabillons and the

island of Croissy, lulled eternally by the trembling of its high poplars

and the murmur of its willows. Beyond, distinct in the sunlight, rise

little white houses, with red roofs, and manufactories, which, at that

distance, put an admirable finish to the landscape. Beyond that, Paris

in the mist! As Prudence had told us, it was the real country, and, I

must add, it was a real lunch.

It is not only out of gratitude for the happiness I owe it, but

Bougival, in spite of its horrible name, is one of the prettiest places

that it is possible to imagine. I have travelled a good deal, and seen

much grander things, but none more charming than this little village

gaily seated at the foot of the hill which protects it.