Camille (La Dame aux Camilias)

One evening, seated on the balcony outside the window, we looked at the

moon which seemed to rise with difficulty out of its bed of clouds,

and we listened to the wind violently rustling the trees; we held each

other's hands, and for a whole quarter of an hour we had not spoken,

when Marguerite said to me: "Winter is at hand. Would you like for us to go abroad?"

"Where?"

"To Italy."

"You are tired of here?"

"I am afraid of the winter; I am particularly afraid of your return to

Paris."

"Why?"

"For many reasons."

And she went on abruptly, without giving me her reasons for fears: "Will you go abroad? I will sell all that I have; we will go and live

there, and there will be nothing left of what I was; no one will know

who I am. Will you?"

"By all means, if you like, Marguerite, let us travel," I said. "But

where is the necessity of selling things which you will be glad of when

we return? I have not a large enough fortune to accept such a sacrifice;

but I have enough for us to be able to travel splendidly for five or six

months, if that will amuse you the least in the world."

"After all, no," she said, leaving the window and going to sit down

on the sofa at the other end of the room. "Why should we spend money

abroad? I cost you enough already, here."

"You reproach me, Marguerite; it isn't generous."

"Forgive me, my friend," she said, giving me her hand. "This thunder

weather gets on my nerves; I do not say what I intend to say."

And after embracing me she fell into a long reverie.

Scenes of this kind often took place, and though I could not discover

their cause, I could not fail to see in Marguerite signs of disquietude

in regard to the future. She could not doubt my love, which increased

day by day, and yet I often found her sad, without being able to get any

explanation of the reason, except some physical cause. Fearing that so

monotonous a life was beginning to weary her, I proposed returning to

Paris; but she always refused, assuring me that she could not be so

happy anywhere as in the country.

Prudence now came but rarely; but she often wrote letters which I never

asked to see, though, every time they came, they seemed to preoccupy

Marguerite deeply. I did not know what to think.