Waverley Library (Quarto Edition) (no. 69) (1881 03 08)
The text was read from the page scans by machine (OCR), so it has mistakes and its columns may run together. See the pages · About this title · At the Internet Archive
Page 1
| The Only Young Ladies’ Library of Fi t-Class Copyrig! ht Novels Published! Price, but 5 cents each. m RaPRG O iy \ BY ALEXANDRE DUMAS. ' PREFACE. 6 year of grace 1645, it the season of abundance and peace, when all the favor Piping featty and talent surrounded the France oft the day, there was a young ron whose charining face by its presence alone attrac a certain feeling of mingled admiration and deference, even from those who saw_her for thefirst time)/and wére ignorant of both her namie and condition, She. was sed of the natural air, the ingenuous look, the attractive bearing—a bear- ing-at’once bold and»tiodest—of a woman used to society. Her face, was serious, and her very smile was imposing, and from simply seeing her walk, one might, like Bllevion say, with certainty: ‘That woman is either a virgin or. a duchess." , She was ‘no duchess; for she was born at the foot ofa difficult ladder, and needed to be beautiful and charming to have ascended with so light a step the first rounds of that ladder, in the eighteen oa which might have passed over her head. I remember that I met her for the first time in the abominable pit of a theater in the Boulevards; badly lighted, and filled with the crowds that usually run after melodramas. Among the audience there were more blouses than coats, more round caps’ than hats, more paletots than new coats. The audience talked of everything—of the drama and of fried potatoes—of the gym- nasia of Greece and Paris—but whenever this woman appeared on the stage, one might say that she illuminated everything, whether serious. or burlesque, with her glance, She crossed the mud-stained passageway, as she would the Bouleyard on a rainy day; and instinctively raised her dress that she might not touch its filth, without any idea of showing—why should she?—her tiny boot, round ankle, and silken stockings. Her whole toilette was in harmony with her blithe and youthful bearing. Her oval and pale face corresponded with the grace she diffused, like a perfume, around her. : She entered and crossed before this confused crowd. We were amazed, Listz and I, when shesat familiarly on the bench on which we were, for neither : of, us had ever seen her. She was a IG | I woman of sense and intelligence,and NUT Wali sogeppele to the great artist. She | H ! i told him. that she had heard him Hh dreamed o He ! il . He,like one of those sonorous il GI i instruments which reply to the first | AN breeze of May, listened with admi- Hii ration to a tongue so instinct with WMH ideas, at once so eloquent and dreamy—with that wonderful in- Ne stinet which he ‘possesses, and with é the habit of the world of officials, also ased in the highest degree by the world. of artists, he asked himself who the woman could be, who thus approached him so famil- iarly,; and who, after the exchange of a few words, treated him haugh- tily, as if he had been presented in London’ to one of the coterie of the Duchéss of Sutherland. The performance was, however, about tobe resumed, and the salon was empty, The unknown lady, her companion and ourselves alone were left, She approached the fire-place, and she placed her shivering feet in front of the sparkling grate so that we were able to see from the broid- ered hem of her under-clothing to her pink bonnet, her glove so fitting herhand that it seemed a picture, her handkerchief adorned with roy- al lace, and in hét ears two pearls which would have made an Indian een jealous. ‘All’this she wore as if she’ had ‘been! born in silk and velvet, beneath the gilt draperies of the old faubourgs, With a crown on hér brow and a crowd of’ flatter- ers at her feet. Her bearing corre- Pip an with her language, her thought, her smile; her toilette suit- ed@’her person, and one would have sought in vain, in the loftiest places in thé world for’a being more beauti- ful and moré in harmony with = vy ag dress’ ahd conver- a : S; | ‘Liste, amazed at such a wonder in once and that she him aa such a place, and at so pleasant an interlude, after so terrible a melo- drama, gave full vent to his phantasy: He is not only a great artist, but.an eloquent man; he knows how to speak to women, passing, as they do, from one idea to another, selecting those which are the most opposite, e adores’ paradoxes, and flits from the serious to the burlesque. I cannot describe to you with what art; with what tact and infinite taste he sed over with this woman, the name of whom even he was ignorant of, the whole mati of ng, aha igh and all the elegant garniture of the conversation of every day: ; Thus they. talked during the whole of the third act of the said melodrama:, for mere pone sake, a question from time to. tine was: put me, but, asl was just then in a most ill-humored mood, whemall enthusiasm is forbidden. to: the human soul, I am assured that the lady thought me very stupid. and absurd, and that she was perfectly correct. of a benefit at the opera, with a certain! something of ostentation, we saw the: bouquet in her hand, come to, the front seat, She it was, but mow she was dressed in the most brilliant, manner, and shone with all the lustre of conquest, Her hair was beautifully dressed. with diamonds and flowers, and trimmed with that buoyant grace which gave them the semblance of life; she had her arms and throat bare, and wore bracelets and necklaces of emeralds. She had in her the imaginations of a child would, be needed to. distinguish. the flower at which she had looked; at.our age, we attend vo about cons j that point of view, even, has enough to do, : On that evening, Duprez was to contend with that rebel voice, the final revolt of which he foresaw, but which the public. as yet did not suspect. Among a most attentive audience, only a few amateurs saw fatigue concealed by weari- ness, and divined the artist’s exhaustion by his vast efforts to deceive himself. Beyond all doubt, the young woman of whom I speak was a skillful judge, and after a few moments’ attention, one might see that she was not under the usual charm, for she threw herself back in the box, and with her opera:glass | began to examine the physiognomy of the audience, She certainly knew many of the ; pai a thea most select. of. the spectators, In ut Wi] From. the snowing of her: glass, AA AMAT one might have known the fair | i i i i spectatress could have told more MM Wil than one thing about young men of every rank. She first looked at one, then at another, without a either any peculiar attention, while all, by a smile, or a rapid glance acknowledged the attention she had bestowed on them. From the dark- er boxes, and from the orchestra, glances, burning as the flashes.of a voleano, were directed at the yo woman; the latter, however, she di not see. If, however, her glance chanced to be directed at the wo- men who really belonged to the Pa- risian fashion, a something, which was most painful, at once passed into her whole attitude... She louked bitterly aside, however, if her glance fell on’ one of those Spree ie tations, yet beautiful faces, which usurp the best, places at . public amusements on days of great theat- rical festivals, : Her companion—for on this oe- casion she was escorted by a gentle- man—was.a young man, half Pari- sian, but yet preserving some relics of his paternal home, which he had come, acre by acre, to eat up.in this city of perdition. This young man, in. his. dawn, was proud of. this beauty in her apogee, and was not ashamed to show that she ee was his, by, surrounding ,her wi the thousand attentions so; dear to @ young woman when extended by one she loves, but:,which are) so unpleasant when. addressed » to; @ soul otherwise occupied. They were heard unheeded, and tenes seen. not noticed, What, did» he say? The lady did not -know,. but sought to reply,.and the few words abe uttered really ,became _pain- ‘ul. Though. they. did) not» know‘: it, they: were not alone in this box, the cost of which was equivalent to the Leu LN A | S Ss = SHE CLASPED MY HAND, BUT, DID NOT REPLY? THE THARS ROLLED DOWN HER CHEERS, at ‘ tothe cheek and to the brilliancy of the eye; we care little about aeaoronens if one ever hatniene juences, One does so in connection with the person’s self, and in The winter, summer and autumn passed, and again ; but in all the brilliancy — , door of one of the front boxes open, and, the beauty I have described, with a. — na hand a bonguel of, I cannot tell what color, for the eyes of a young man ee coe of any
Page 2
* glancing at once'at the talljyoung man, who was _er to her praise; that this young woman, who in the = CAMILLE; OR, THE FATE OF A COQUETTE, ' . support of a family for half a year. Between them sat the assiduous physician of the sick at heart, of broken spirits, of the wretched and hopeless—Ennui —the huge Mephistophiles of errant Marguerites and lost Clari of all those aes aughters of chance, who wander through life to ruin. This r sinner, then, surrounded by the adora- tion and hom of youth, was a victim of ennui, which was both her pardon and excuse, as it was the ano of her geht prosperity. Ennui had, en the great evil of her life. ith crushed affec- tions, forced to submit to the necessity of ephem-_ eral connections, and passing insensibly from one love to another, why did she stifle this dawning in- clination? She had odie indifferent to a)! things, forgot the bond of yesterday, and thought no more of the passion of to-day than she did of that which would come with to-morrow. i woman! she needed solitude, and was com- Be ly besieged; she needed silence, and the same hings forever were rung in her ear; She wished to be calm, and was forever hurried to tumults and public places; she wished to be loved—they told her she was beautiful; she, therefore, abandoned herself | without resistance to the whirlpool which swept her away. Whata youth washers! _How well she un- derstood Mile. de l’Enclos, who, when at the summit of rity almést fabulous, the friend of Conde an bg tb de Maintenon, said, with a sigh of re- ret: ‘‘Had any one foretold me such a life, I would ve died of terror and grief." : When the opera was over the young woman left, though the performance was but half concluded. | They expected Bouffe; Dejazet, and the comedians from the Palais’ Royal; without mentioning Carlotta | Grisi-in the ballet, an actress in her days of intoxica- tion and youth, so very attractive. he would ‘not wait for the Vaudeville, butimsisted at once on re- turning home, at a time when all the rest of the! world ted three hours more ‘pleasure amid music. and the lustre of light. Isaw her leave her box and wrap herself in her double cloak of ermine. The young man who had accompanied her seemed annoyed, and, as he no longer had to deck himself with this: woman, he was | not at all uneasy about her being cold~1 remember that he aided her in putting her cloak on her shoul- der, which was very white, and that she looked at me, though without recognizing me, with a painful smile, then paying the box-keeper and waiting for change for a five-frane piece. ‘Keep it all, madame,” said she; with a gracious courtesy. ; I saw her go down the great stairway, her white | dress contrasting with her red cloak, and her hand- | kerchief fastened over her head under her chin; the | jealous lace fell over her eyes, but what mattered} that? The lady had played her ade her day was! over, and she no longer wished to beautiful. On that night she left the young man at the door. There is one thing worthy of remark and altogeth- season of her youth, had expended gold and silver by | the handful—for, in her, caprice and berevolence | were united, and she cared little for that money | which cost her so dearly—was the heroine of none of those stories of scandal and sins, gaming, debts, and duels, which so many other women in their lives have excited. She, on the contrary, was famed for her beauty alone, for her taste, and for the fashions | she originated and imposed on the world; none ever connected her with ruined fortunes, with the debtor's prison, with the treachery which usually accompa- nies stolen loves. There was around this woman so | soon torn away by death, a certain bearing, a cer- | tain irresistible decency. She had lived apart, isolated irom the world in which she dwelt, and, instead of a calmer region, where all might be gained, she’ lived, alas! where all is lost. I saw her again, for the third time, on the day of the inauguration of the Northern Railroad, on the oc- casion of one of those entertainments given by Brussels to Franee—become its neighbor and asso- ciate. On this occasion an immense assemblage of all | the railroads of North Belgium had amassed all its’ bs parry the product of its hedges and gardens, and the diamonds of its crowns—a crowd of uniforms, or- ders and gauze robes, filled up the site of a fete, the | like of which will never be seen again. The French} pemede, the German nobles, Spanish, Belgium, Flan- } ers, and. Holland, decked in the old jewels contem- | porary with Louis XIV and his court, the massive ac- | uisitions of industry; and more than one = od arisian, like a butterfly amid a swarm of bees, hur- | ried to this festival of industry and travel, of van-| quished iron, of flame obeying conquered time. It_ wasa strange’pell-mell, in which all the power and | of creation was represented, from the oak to | 1 Tace fhe flower, from mud to the amethyst—amid this movement of people and kings, of princes, artists, smiths, and the great coquettes of Europe, they, or rather I, saw appear, paler and whiter than usual, the charming person already stricken with the terrible malady which was to drag her to the grave. She had come to the ll in spite of ber name, prote by her dazzling capecy She attrac! every eye, and was followed by the homage of all; a Stuttering eee saluted her passage, and those even who knew, bowed to her; she, though in the calmness of her habitual disdain, received p as homage due to her. She was not amazed to tread on carpets which the feet of the queen had pressed. More than one ptince paused to see her, and their lances told her what women understand so well: “1 think you very beautiful, and am sorry to you. On that évening she hung on the arm of a stran- ger, fair as a German, im le as an English- man -overdressed—who, by his coat and by his gait, showed that at that moment he was committing ene | WARE, | tions of certain women, and of them alone. leave | which of those actions for which men ever reproach them- selves. The Bearing of this: man was certainly unpleasant to the sensitive being on his arm. he disceve: this by means of her sixth sense,.and’ redoubled her hauteur, for her wonderful instinct told her that her escort was ashamed of himself; then her-insolence increased, and she began,‘more and moré, to tram- pe on the remorse of the angry boy. Few ean un- erstand how much she then suffered. What did that nameless woman, on the arm of a nameless man, feel? The man seemed to disapprove, and his atti- tude seemed menacing, and betokened disapproba- tion, and a heart undecided and ill at ease. ‘This Angio-German, Rare = ey pees when, e turming of a great pathway of light an: verd our Parisian met a friend of her own—a man with pretense, who, from time to time, asked the tip of her finger, or a wreath of her smile—an artist or painter who knew, better than any one who had seen so little of her, how perfect a model she was of all that is elegant and attractive in youth. “Ah!” said she, “‘you here? Give me your arm, and let us dance.” Quitting the arm of her cavalier, she at once. began the valse a deux temps, which is seduction itself when Strauss inspires, and when in- stinct with the German Rhine, its true country. She ‘danced wonderfully—neither too quickly, nor too Janguidly—obedient to the interior cadence as well as to the visible melody, scarcely touching the elastic floor with her light foot, bounding along,' with her eyes fixed on those of her partner. A circle was formed around them, and all were emulous of being touched +4 the tresses which followed the waltz, or who would touch the robe impressed with light per- fumes. Gradually the circle was again narrowed, and other dancers paused to look at them, until the young man who had brought her with him lost her in the crowd, and sought in vain to possess himself of the charming arm to which he had lent his own with so mnch repugnance. Two days afterward she went from Brussels to Spa. She traveled at that hour when the mount- ains, covered with verdure, suffer the stn to pene- trate'them. Then the invalids are seen’ to repose, after the fatigues of the entertainments of the passed winter, and to prepare themselves for those of the season which is to comeat Spa. No other fever than that of the dance is known; and there is no other languor than that of absence—no other remedies than gossip about dancing and music, and the gamester’s emotion, In the evening, when the roulette is open, and the lustre of its countless lights illumines mountains of gold, and when the echo of the orchestra fills the mountains. At Spa our Parisian was received with an em- pressment which was strange, indeed, for a little village of peculiarly sedate manners, which wil- lingly abandons to Baden, its rival, the distinguished persons without name, fame, or fortune. At Spa, therefore, there was a general surprise when it was said that a woman so young and beautiful was seriously sick, and when the afflicted physicians an- nounced that they had rarely met with more cour- age and resignation. er health was asked after with great zeal and care; and, after a serious consultation, calmness, uiet, sleep, and repose, were recommended to her. hese were the dreams of her life. At this advice she smiled, and shook her head with an incredulous air, for she knew that all was possible to her, except the possession of those chosen blisses which are as cS) promised, however, to obey for a few days, and to restrict herself to this regimen of isolation. The ef- fort, however, was vain; for soon after, wild and mad with artificial joy, she was seen ascending on horseback the most difficult passages, astonishin by her gaiety the alley of the Seven Hours, whic had found her dreaming and reading beneath its trees, __ She soon became the lionne of this beautiful vicin- ity. She presided at every festival, and gave the ini- tiative to every ball—imposing her favorite airs on the orchestra; and at night, at the hour when a lit- tle sleep would have done her so much good, she amazed the most intrepid gamesters by the masses of gold she heaped up before her, and which she risked at once, perfect! gain. She had appealed to gaming as an appendix to her profession, to kill the hours which were mak- ing hersuch as she was. She had yet this piece of good fortune in the cruel Cinna of life: by a rare chance she had preserved friends. It is almost one of the characteristics of these sad liaisons, after adoration, they leave but ashes, and dust, an annihilation! How often-has the lover passed mistress without recognition, and how often has the unfortunate woman gate to him in vain for aid! How often is the hand consecrated to flowers vainly extended for alms! This was not the case with ourheroine. She fell without complaint, and having fallen, found aid and assistance from amid those who adored her in her better da: Those who had been her rivals, and, perhaps, her enemies, contended for the privilege of watching at the foot of her bed, to expiate their pishie folly by nights of devotion; now when th drew near, and was prepared to tear aside the raise | veil, and when, with the victim stretched before him, her accomplices saw the truth of that sad sentence, Ve us! Woe to those who laugh! Woe, that is to say, woe to profane joys! woe to volatile love! woe, woe, to ing fancies! woe to youth sireya in oxi wars, ‘or at certain spots of the pathway it is alg. age wood | to retrace our ste po Bor fall into abyss which awaits us twen' Thus she died; kindly rocked and consoled by-a thousand fraternal modes. She no longer had lov- indifferent either to loss or | p his | when a boo! ers, but never had so many friends. She did not, however, regret life. She knew what awaited her if she_ returned again to health, and that she would again have to bear to her pale figs the cup of pleas: ure, the dregs.of which she had drank prematurely. She died, then, in silence, concealing in her death 2t more than she had exhibited in her life; and, af- r so much luxury and scandal, she had the Euro- taste to wish low. 3 It happened, though, in spite hersel’, that her ets es a A — or pas ¥ wis of for ree days—a me that of noise. 4 sions, and of perpetual renewed” estivals. which never pall, ter three days the doors of house were occupied; and the long windows which looked on the Boulevard, opposite the church of St. - len, her patron, were opened, and again adm sunlight and. air into the rooms from which they had been excluded. One might have said she was about to reappear; not a trace of the edor of death had remained in the silken curtains,in the long drapery, or on the Gobelin tapestry, whenee flowers .seeme: 2 spring whenever they were touched by her child- ike feet. Every piece of furniture in this sumptuous room was exactly ‘in order. Th@ bed fon which she died was scarcely rumpled. At the, foot of the bed, a cushioned stool preserved the traces of the knees of the man who had closed her eyes. The old clock, which had rung the hour to Madame Dubarry an Madame pc rong yet struck as of yore. The silver candelabras were decked with candles pre- pared for thé last conversazione. The monthly rose and ‘the hardy sweetbriar yetseontended with deatn: they were wren for the want. of a little water; their mistress had died for the want.of a little hap- piness and hope. . Alas! on the walls were hung the pictures of Dias, whom she bad been one of the first. to adopt as the - true painter of the spring of the year; and her por- trait, drawn @ trois crayons, by Vidal, who br drawn her beautiful, head, ravishing, and chaste, and of finished elegance; and since the death of this goddess, he has ever refused to paint any but chaste women, but made an exception,of her who contri- buted so much to the rising renown, both of; the artist and the world. All yet spoke of her. The birds sung in. their gilded cages; and on the buhl furniture, under the glass door, was seen a collection, ‘worthy of the most careful antiquary, of the choicest manufac- tures of Sevres, the most exquisite paintings of Sax- ony, the enamel of Pelitot, the nudities of Klinstadt, the Pampines of Boucher. She loved this uctish art, for it is graceful and elegant—vice ever having its intellect where innocence has its nudities. She loved shepherds and shepherdésses. in biscuit, Flor- entine bronzes, terra cottas, enamels, and all the charms of taste, luxury, and society. In them she saw'so many emblems of her beauty and of her life. Alas! she also was a useless ornament, a fancy, a frivolous toy, crushed by the first shock; a brilliant product of expiring society; a bird of passage; the aurora of a moment. She had carried to such a height the science of in- terior comfort and self-adulation, that nothing could compare with her dresses, her linen, and the least trifle she used; for the decking of her beauty was, by ek bs dearesS and most charming occupation of er life. IT have heard ladies of the first rank, and most coquetish tastes of Paris, express surprise at the careful luxury of the merest article of the toilet. Her comb had cost an immense price, and her hair- he gloves she had. The boots pictures, her love-letters were sold; her hair—all h looked aside They kept mosiven o “Hieerla possessing suc est, and especially d It was called the “Lady with the Camelias.” It was at once spoken of, ordinarily as one speaks of pages im- ressed with the sincere emotion of youth; and all seemed pleased to say that the son of Alexander Dumas, just rele from college, was eer treading in the brilliant footsteps of his father. He had vivacity and inward emotion; he had his rapid style, with a little of that natural dialogue, so varied and facile, which confers on the romances of this great inventor the charm, taste, and accent of com- edy. The book had a ES; success; but soon, readers, shaking off their first impression, observed that the ** Lady with the Camelias”’ was not a ; that she had lived and loved recently; that this drama was not imaginary, but a ¥ in_private life—the wounds of which were yet new and bieed- . Then one became ious about the name o! we heroi d - position rhe society, her fortune, . and ornament, and rumors 0! r amours. Tbe pa lic, anxious to know everything—and which, . knows all—learned the details, and the book was os romance;
Page 3
_ pCAMILLE; OR, THE FATE OF A COQUETTE. again read, so that, the truth being recsghized, the in t of the recital was Biilianced. has written Cay, such success and happiness. JuLEs JANIN, CHAPTER Tf. Inotiry the reader to feel sure of the reality of this story, all the characters of which, except the heroine, yet exist. ‘ There are also in Paris persons cognizant of the majority of the factsI relate here, who would con- firm them if my testimony did not ice. Peculiar circumstances enable mé alone to write them, forI was the confidant of the last details, without which, I could not make the story interesting and complete. Now, how did Lbecome acquainted with these details?. On the 12th of March, 1847, I read in La Rue Lafitte, a guatvellow bill, announcing asale of furniture, and of rich objects of curiosity, caused by the death of the owner. tthe name of the person deceased, but the sale took lace at the Chaussee d’Antin, No. 9, and would con- inue from noon to five o'clock. The bill also stated ‘that, from the 13th to the 14th, the articles could be examined. I wasalwaysa lover of curiosities, and I resolved not to lose this opportunity, if not of pur- chasing, at leastof examining. On the next day I went to the number Sietitioned: It was early; yet in the room were visitors, some of the female sex, who, though clad_ in velvet, and covered with eashmere, and waited for at the door by elegant equi, e8, SAW with astonishment, and even with admiration, the them, Subsequently, I under- luxury spread before stood this admiration and amazement, for I, also, when I pia ge to examine, saw atonee that I was in the domicil of a woman not a wife. Now, if there be one thing which fashionable women wish to see, {and fashionable women were there), it is the in- ternal life of one of those women, the equipages of whom every day crash against their own, for they both have side by side, their boxes at the opera, and at the Italians, and who exhibit the insolent opulence ‘of their beauty, their gems, and their scandals. She, at whose house I was, was dead, and the most doubtful woman could Lipeprag to her very cham- ber. Death had purified the air of this splendid cess- pool, but they had, besides, the excuse that they had come tothe sale of the effects of they knew not whom, They had read the advertisements, and wished to see what they had spoken of, and to make their selection in advance. There was nothing won- derful in that, and nothing to prevent their seeking, amid all these wenders, the traces of the courtesan’s life, of which they had heard such strange. stories. Unfortunately, mystery had died with the goddess, and, in spite of their anxiety, these ladies saw that the sale took place after decease, and that no trace of the existence of the mistress was for sale. There was, howeyer, enough to occupy them. The furni- ture was superb rosewoodand buhl; Sevres and China, Saxon statuettes,and velvet and lace were not hig ae ys I walked through the room, and followed the curi- ous dames who preceded me. They entered a room hung with Persian carpets, and I was about to follow when they left, when they came out smiling, as if they were ashamed of their curiosity. I became at once more anxious to enter the room, which was the toilette, filled with all the minute details in which the deceased seemed to have been enwrapped, even to the extremity of prodigality. On a table, leaning against the wall, which was three feet broad by six in length, shone all the treas- ure of Ancoc and Audiot. It was.a magnificent col- lection, and not one of the thousand objects needed for the toilet of one like her, at whose house we were, wasof any other metal than gold and silver; yet this ie Sp Hore oo (mere gradually, and had not even n comple leath, I was ant offended at the sight of the oilette of an unmarried mistress, and 1 was amused by the exam- ination of the details; and observed that all these mag- nificently-covered utensils had various names and crests. I looked at all these things, each re: nena the prostitution of the poor girl, and I said, God had been merciful to her, in as much as he did not permit her to reach the usual punishment, and suffered her to die in her season of Juxury and beauty, before age, the first death of courtesans, intervened. , in is more to see than the oldage of a woman who has no dignity, and inspires no in- terest? Theeternal repentance, not for the evil life led, but for erroneous calculation, and money badly spent, is one of the saddest stories one can tell. once knew an old woman of this class, who retained of her antecedents only a daughter, of whom it has been said that she was almost as beautiful. This r girl—to whom her mother never said: “ You are she surrendered herself without passion or pleasure, she wuld I never shall. forget young girl, every day down the Boulevards at the same hour. Her mother almost always accompanied her, as & The bill did not mention | d true mother accompanies a true daughter. I was then young, and was disposed to receive the facile moral- ity of that age, but remember that the advice of this scan —— surveilance filled me with contempt and ust. Add to this, that no virgin’s fallever seemed to me so full of innocence, or with such a sad and suffering a She seemed the picture of resigna- ion. In the morning the face of the young girl was beau- tiful; amid the Hotienctiety, the programme of which her mother ii seemed the sinner retained yet one happiness. Why, after all, had God, who made her without force, left her without consolation under the harmful burden of life? On the she saw herself to be a mother, all that yet re- mained chaste within her, quivered with joy. The soul has strange refuges, and Louise announced the Bows which made her so happy to her mother. It is to say, but we do not write immorality here, be- cause it is our pleasure to do so; but, to recount a true story, it would perchance be best for us to con- ceal, did we net think it would from time to time be better to reveal the martyrdom of ings who are despised withont me at it is shameful we say, but the mother told the dau hter that they had not enough for two ahd too little for three; that chil- ren are and that the cares of maternity is time lost. On the next day a sage femme, whom at another time we will point out.as a friend of the mother, came to see Louise, who remained a few days in bed, and who then pe see paler and weaker than before. Three months after a man pitied her, and under- took her moral and physical cure. The shock, how- ever, had been too violent, and Louise died of the consequences of her indiscretion. How does the mother now live? God only knows. This story recurred to me while I contemplated the toilette accessories of silver, and some time rolled around while I made these reflections, for there was no one in the room but myself, anda keeper at the door, the business of whom it was to see I stole nothing. ‘ I approached this man, who, as I did so, seemed most uneasy. “Sir,” said T, ‘can you tell me the name of the per- son Who lived here?’ “ i Who—Camille Gautier? I knew her by name and sight. What!” said I, “is she dead?” “Yes, sir.”” es, sir. “When?” “ About three weeks since.” ““Why do they suffer her rooms to be visited?’ “The creditors thought it would enhance the sale. Persons would examine the articlesin advance, That, you see, encourages competition.”’ ‘*Then she was in debt?” “ Ah, sir, toa great extent.” “The sale will satisfy them?” “Tt willdo much more.” ““ What will become of the surplus?” “Tt will go to her family.” “She has friends?"’ “So it seems.” “Thank you, sir.’ : The offiser was satisfied about my honesty, and I left. Poor girl! said I, as I went home. Her death must have been a sad one, for in this world one has no friends except on the condition of good behavior. I could not but pity Camille Gautier. Many people will think this very ridiculous, but I am very indulgent to courtesans, and will not even take the trouble to argue about the matter. One day, as I was going to the Prefecture fora pass- port, I saw a girl being led away by the gens-d’armes. do not know what she had done, but sheshed warm tears as she embraced a child, from whom her arrest separated her. From that time forward, I never, at the first glance, felt contempt for a woman. CHAPTER IL. Tuesale was fixed for the 16th. The interval of a day was interposed, which enabled the upholsterers to take down the curtains and hangings. At that time I had just returned from my travels and it would not have been natural if lhad not hea of the death of Camille, as_one of those great events always told to persons on their return to the capital, fromthe country. Camille was beautiful; during their lives, such women make so much noise, that their deaths excite no attention. They are like those gems which set as they arose, without any brilliancy. When ee die young, all their lovers learn their fate at once, for at Paris, all the admirers of a well-known rl tive in intimacy. A few recollections on the sub- ject are exchanged, and the lives of all pass without incident calling forth even a tear. Now that Iam twenty-five, tears are so scarce that I cannot shed them for everybody. It is much to weep even for ‘Parents, and they are right in estimating tears so highly. Though my cyphers were on none of Camille's articles, the paetege ath ae the natural intelligence which I just now owned, made methink of her death longer, perhaps, than I expected to h Lremember that I often met Camille at the Champs Elysees, whither she came every day in her little blue panne, drawn by two magnificent bay horses, and ob- served a ee: in her, rare indeed in those of her erm and which was enchanced by a yet rarer uty. These unfortunate beings, when they go out, are always accompanied by one knows not whom. As no man w! to advertise the secret love he en- tertains for them—as they entertain a horror of soli- tude, they take with them, or at least those who are ave done, day then that | h least happy, and have no coach, one of those old wo- men of society, every motion of whom is instinct with elegance, but whom all ean address without fear, if they need any information about the person they accompany. . This was not the case with Camille, who always went tothe Champs Hlysees alone in her i where she sank, as much as possible; in the winter, wrapping herself ina great cashmere, and in sum- mer, dressed in the simplest habit. { She did not pass from the Rond-port to the tiga & the Sena oe ysees, as all her colleagues do, drove rapidly into the road. There she left her riage, walked foran hour, and returried as rapidly as er horses could draw her. All these circumstances, which I had frequently witnessed, passed before me, and I regretted the death of this woman, as we regret the total destruc: tion of a beautiful work of art, It was impossible te see one more charmingly beautiful than Camille. Tall and lithe, even to exaggeration, she the greatest power of causing to disappear that ob- livion of on by an arrangement of what she wore, Her shawl, the point of which'trailed on the ft eta me rage on every side the full folds of her silken dress, and ‘the full sleeves, concealing the hands she folded on her bosom, were surrounded sleeves so elaborately made, that nothing could be either added or taken away. The head was @ perfect wonder, and was instinet with peculiar coquetry. It was small, and her mother, as Musset said, seemed to have made it thus to give birth to her with ease. In an oval of inexpressible grace, were eyes surmounted with arched brows, 80 exact that they seemed to have been painted. Veil these eyes with tong lashes so black, that when drooped, they seemed -to cast a shadow over the cheek; define a fine, straight nose, with intellectual nostrils, half opened by an ardent’ aspiration towards sensual life; draw a regular mouth, the lips of which were gradually expanded over teeth white as milkj and cover the cheek with down like that on a peach, which no hand has touch- ed, and you can form an idea of this charmi girl. Her hair, black as jet, waving naturally, lay in two large bands over her brow, and disappeared at the back of her head, exhibiting the extremities of her’ ears, in each of which hung a diamond worth four or five thousand francs. : “ How was it that the wild life of Camille left th virginal and childish expression on herface? We ean ree that such was, not why it was, the character of er face. of it car Camille had a wonderful portrait of herself by — Vidal, the only man whose pencil could reproduce her. Since her death I had this portrait for a few days in my possession, and it was so wonderfully like that it revived circumstances which had escaped my memory. er the ‘details of this chapter are some I acquired at a late day, but I write them out at once that | may not have to return to them when I begin the anecdote history of this woman. Camille was present at every first performance, ‘and went every evening to the theater or the ball. When a new pice was performed they were sure to see her with three things; she was never without her lorgnette, a sack of bon-bons, and a bouquet of ca- melias; Twenty-five days in every month the ca- melias were white, on other days they weré red. None other knew the reason of this change of colors, which I mention to attract the attention of other per- sons who used to frequent the same theaters, and which they as well as I may have observed. She was never observed to have any other flowers than camelias, and for that reason Madame Bargon’s florist had called her, ‘‘La’ Dame aux Camelias,’”’ @ sirname she had retained. I also knew, as all ‘here in a certain clique in Paris, that Camille had been the mistress of the most elegant young men—a fact . that proved that they loved and were satisfied with other. Three years after, however, it was said that she only lived with an old regs duke she had met at Baigneres, who was very rich, and did all he he could to make her forget her past life, which she seemed, be it said, not soriy to do. ‘This is the story told on the matter: : ; Farly in 1842 she was so weak and changed that the —_ prescribed the waters of Baigneres for er, and thither she went. Among the patients was the daughter of the duke, who not only had the same disease fot who looked like Camille, so that they might be taken for sisters. The young Duchess was, however, in a third state of phthisis, and died within three days of Camille's arrival. One morning, the duke having remained at Baign- eres as one remains at a place where partof his heart has been buried, saw Camille’ on the angle of an alley. He fancied that he saw the shade of his child pass by, and advancing to her, seized her hand! He kissed her, folded her in his arms, and without asking who she was, “pi leave of her to adore the image of his dead child. 2 Camille was alone at = y ipr with her de , and not fearing compromise lt yielded to the duke’s request. 1 ys At Baigneres there were persons who knew her, and» who officiously went to inform the duke of the true ~ position of Mile. Gautier. This was a severe blow to the old man, for then the resemblance to his daughter ceased. It was, however, too 1 for the young woman had become a ee of his heart, ' and only a pretext for his wishing to live longer. _ He did not reprove her, for he had no ht t but asked if she thought: herself capable of change ing her life, offering her every inducement in ex«- change. She consented, We must say, that from that moment, Camille," whose nature was most enthusiastic, was sick. The past appeared to her one of the principal causes of ~ a : , Pn | a my
Page 4
CAMILLE; OR, THE FATE OF A COQUETTE. her disease, and a kind of superstition made her think God would grant her beauty and health in ex- change for repefitance and conversion. The waters, exercise, natural fatigue and sleep, had by the end of summer almost restored her, The duke accompanied Camille to Paris, where he visited;her as he had done at Baigneres. The. liaison, the origin and cause of which none knew, caused freak sensation, for the duke, hither- to known b wealth, now became famous for his prodigality. This was attributed to libertinage common enough among rich old men, All but the fact was suspect- The sentiment of this father for Camille was so chaste, that all other than sentimental feelings would have, seemed to him a kind of incest—and he had never uttered a word to her his own daughter could not have heard. Far from us the idea to make. our heroine aught but what she was. We willsay that while she re- ed neres, the promise she had made was not difficult to keep, and she kept it; but when once in Paris, it seemed to this girl, so used to a dissipated life, to. and orgiés, that even her solitude was troubled by the periodical visits,of the duke, which almost killed her with ennui, while the burni: breath of her past life passed both over her body an soul, Let us add that Camille had returned more beauti- ful than ever, that she was twenty, and that the con- cealed lady continued to give her feverish desires such as are almost ever the effects of pulmonary af- fections, The duke suffered greatly on the day his fends, ever anxious to discover scandal in the conduct o! the young woman with whom they said he comprom- ised himself, came to tell him the day and hour when she did not expect him, and when she received visits which were paslonged until the next day. Camille being questioned, confessed all to the duke, advising him unreservedly not to be any longer anx- ious on her account, for she felt unable to keep her romise, and would no longer take advantage of the indness by which he had surrounded her. The duke did not see her for eight days, and then came to beg Camille to receive him again, promising to receive her as she was, and never to reproach her. Such was the state of things three months after Camille’s return, in November, 1842, CHAPTER III, At one o'clock on the 16th I went to thesale, At the porte-exchange I heard the cry of the auctioneers. All the celebrities of elegant vice were there careful- ly but haughtily,examined by a few ladies of rank, who took advantage of the sale to examine closely women whom they would never be able to meet reer te whose false pleasures they perhaps secret- ly envied, Mme, the Duchess of F—— pressed against the el- | P@ bow of Mlle. A~—, one of the most melancholy speci- mens of our modern courtesans. The Marquis of T., hesitated to bid for an article which Madame D., the most elegant and best known adultress of the day, bid for, e@ Duc of G——, who at Madrid is said to elf at Paris, and at Paris to ruin himself at Madrid, but who, after all, does not exceed his in- come, while talking with Mme M., a most spiritual talker, who knows both how to write what she says and to talk what she writes, exchanged confidential lances with Mme. de N., the fair | Promenacion of the Ghamve Elysees, almost always dressed in rose or blue, and whose Carriage was drawn by two great black horses Tony sold her for ten thousand franes; and also Mile. R., who, with her single talent, realizes twice as much as women of the world make with their ee and triple what others do with their ar- mours, had, in spite of the cold, come to make some purchases, and was not the one least admired, ‘We might also mention the initials of many others in this room, and who were much amazed to find — together, but we are afraid to weary the reader, Let us only say that a mad gaiety pervaded all pepeent, many of whom had known the deceased, ut who seemed to have forgotten her. They, laughed loudly. Tire auctioneers cried loudly, the bidders, who occupied the benches placed in front of the articles, sought in vain to impose silence, so that they might calmly attend to their. business; never was there a, more noisy or varied audience. Iglided humbly around amid this sad scene, re- membering that it. was near. the chamber of her whose articles were being sold—to pay her debts, . Having come rather to.examine closely than to buy; has os gard otieds d, called ‘Manon L A ‘Ay volume, und, called ‘ on Les- obgle’ "Gomethiag Llooked at the, faces of the furnishers who ordere: the sale, and whose faces became radiant as often as an article roduced a price they had not expected. Honest folk! they had speculated on the prostitu- of this woman, and had gained.a hundred per eent. by her, yet with law documents had persecuted her last moments, and after her death, came to re- ceive the fruits of their calculation and of. their shameful credit, How right the ancients were when they said there was one god for merchants and thieves. , shawls and gems were sold with fearful Hating suited me, and I waited, All at is written on the first page. Ten { Twelve!” said a voice, after'a silence of a few utes, 4, Hifteen!” said I— —Why {I did not know certainly; I didso, probably, for the few linesof writing. ‘Fifteen! repeated the auctioneer, UE pl said the first bidder, as if he wished to drown all epposition. It had become a real contest. “ Thirty-five!” said I, in the same tone. “ Forty y"? ‘Fifty!’ “Sixty !’? ‘One hundred !”’ I must confess that had I wished to produce an effect, I had been perfectly successful, for at this bid there was perfect silence, and all looked at'me as if they were curious to know who the gentleman was, so determined to possess the volume. It seems that the tone in which I had last spoken had satisfled my ermeoniyt. He relinquished a contest, the only effect of which would have been to make me pay ten times more dearly for the volume, and, looking at me, said Sen caten ye though rather late: “T yield, sir.”’ No one else having spoken, the book was adjudged to me, As I feared lest I should L paren to some new whim which my enthuiasm would perhaps have sustained, but which would have been most inconvenient to my purse, I registered my name, laid down the book and left, Imust have excited much curiosity among the witnesses of the scene, who asked why 1 paid a hundred franes for a book 1. could buy anywhere for twelve or fifteen francs at most. An hour afterwards, I sent for my purchase. On the first page was written with a pen, ina deli- cate hand, the dedication of the book. It was in the following words: “ MANON TO CAMILLE, “ Homiuiry.” It was signed Armand Duval. What meant the word humility? Would Camille, in the opinion of M, Duval, recognize a superiority in debauchery, or in heart, over Manon? The Jatter was more probable, for the former was but an imperti- nent frankness Camille would not have consented to, in spite of her opinion of herself. I went out again, and did not think of the book until bed-time. Certainly Manon Lescault is a touch- ing story, every detail of which is known to me. Yet, when that volume is in my hand, a sympath: ever attracts me, so that, for the hundredth time, read the story of the heroine of the Abbe Prevost. Now this heroine is so truthful that I seem to have known her, and in these new circumstances the kind of comparison between Camille and Manon unex- pectedly induce me to read on, and ny indulgenee amoun to pity, and almost to love, for the poor woman from whom I inherited the volume. Manon died ina desert, it is true, but in tht arms of one who loved her with all the energy of his heart, and who, having dug a grave for her, watered with his tears the spotin which he had buried the remnant of his heart; while. Camille, a sinner like Manon, and converted like her, died amid a scene of complete luxury, if one could believe what I saw, yet in the midst of the desert of the heart, more arid and vast and pitiless than that in which. Manon had been buried. Camille, in fact, as I.learned from a few friends aware of her death and its circumstances, had no real. consolation by her bed during the two months of her painful agony. After Manon and Camille, my thoughts recurred to rime whom I saw pass gaily to an almost invariable eath. Poor creatures! If it be a crime to love, they should at least be pitied. You pity the blind man who has never seen the light of the day; the deaf, who have never heard the symphonies of nature; the dumb, who have never been able to utter the inspira- tion of their hearts, but will not pity the blindness of the heart, the deafness of the soul, the mute con- science which afflict the unfortunate victim with an incapacity to distinguish good from bad, to hear God utter the pure accents of love and faith. Hugo wrote Marion de Lorme, de Musset, Burver- ett, and A, Dumas Fernande, Authors and thinkers of all ages have extended to courtesans the offering of their pity. Sometimes a great man has restored them by his love and his name, If I insist on this, it is because many who will read me are already pre- pared to cast this book aside, because they expect an apology for vice and prostitution, and the age of the author, perhaps, contributes not a little to this fear. Let.such persons undeceive themseves and go on, if this fear alone deters them. Iam more satisfied of one thing; that to a woman to whom education has not done always opens the two pathways which led to it—grief and love. They are difficult, and those who tread them have blood-stained feet, tear their hands, but leave on the road-side all the shreds of vice, and appear before God ina nudity whichevokes no blush. ‘hose who meet these bol apy nese should sustain them, and tell all what they have met them for. Thus they guided their steps, : Itiis not necessary to put two sign-posts on the road-side bearing the inscriptions to good, to evil, and to bid the voyagers choose, It is necessary to tell them of the paths which lead from the evil way to the good, and the commencement of the one road should not be too painful or seem impossible. Christianity intervenes with the wonderful parable of the prodigal son, to advise indulgence and pardon. Jesus was full of love for those whose souls had been wounded by human Cees whose wounds he loved to bathe. preparing the balm which was to cure. He said to Magdalen, *Much shall be forgiven because of your great love.”” A sublime pardon, which should awaken a sublime faith, Why should we be more ‘47 d, God almost’ rigid than Christ? Why be persisting strictly ir erence to the opinions of this world, which is stern to appear strong? Why should we reject bleed- ing souls, with their frames filled with bad: blood, that needs only a hand that is kind to heal thetr wounds? To my generation I address myself, to those for whom theories, by Voltaire, no longer exist, and who see that for some years humanity is one of its loftiest aspirations, ‘The knowledge between good and evil has been acquired, faith has been reformed, the re- spect for holy things restored to us; and if the world be not perfect, it is at least better than it was. The effects of all intelligent men tend to the same object, and all powerful souls have the same principle. Let. us be good, ree , and free—sin is but vanity—anc let us have the pride of virtue, and not yield to des- pair, Let us not despise the woman who is neither mother, wife, girl, nor sister; let us not reduce esteem to the family, indulgence to egotism. As God rejoices more for the repentance of one sinner thai for a. hundred just, who have never sinnéd, let us seek to please God} it may be returned to us with usury, t us leave in our path the alms of pardon for those whom earthly pleasures have lost, but whom Divine hope will, perhaps, save; and as women say when they recommend one of t remedies, if it do no good, it can af least do no harm. It'must certainly seem bold in me to extract such great results from such a subject as big ge I ae one of those that think all is in little. e chil small, but contains the man; the brain is narrow, bu. contains thought; the eye is but a voint, but em- braces leagues. CHAPTER IV» Two days after the sale was over, It had produced 150,000 francs. The creditors took two-thirds, and the family, a sister and nephew, inherited the other third. The sister started when her business man told her she had inherited 25,000 frances. For six or seven years she had not seen her sister, who had disappear- ed one day, withdut herself or any other one, since her disappearance, having the least information about her. She at once hurried to Paris, and those who knew Camille were surprised to see that her sis- ter was alarge, coarse countrywoman, who/had never before left her village. Her fortune was at once made,, and she never knew how orwhence. She returned to her vill much distressed at her sister’s death, a feeling, however, somewhat compensated for by am investment she made at four-and-a-half per cent. All these circumstances repeated in Paris, the old mother of scandal had begun to be forgotten, and 1 had almost forgotten these events, in which I had somewhat participated, when a new circumstance made me acquainted with all the events of Camille’s life, the details of which were so touching that I re- solved to record them. The rooms, stripped of all their furniture, were to let three or four days, and one morning some one rang at my door. My servant, or rather the porter, who did duty as such, brought acard, saying the bear: er wished to speak to me. I looked at the card, and read: ‘*Armand Duval.”’ Ithought where I had seen that name, and remembered the first page of Manon Lescault, Why could the person who had given Camille this. book wish to speak to me? I said, as I bace my at- tendant show himin. I saw a tall, pale young man, in atraveling dress, which he seemed not to have changed forsome days, and to have not even taken the trouble to brush, on his arrival in Paris, for it was covered with dust. M. Duval was much moved, and made no effort to conceal his emotions. With tears in his eyes, and in a quivering voice, he said: “1 crust, sir, you will excuse my visit and my ap- pearance; but, beside the fact that, among your eople, one pays little attention to that, {wasso anx- ous to see you to-day that I took no time to go tomy toilet, but sending thither my things, hurried after, fearing otherwise not to find you,” T asked M. Duval to sit by the fire, which, after tak- ing a handkerchief, and covering his face for a mo- ment, he did. “You cannot comprehend,’’ said he, with a sad smile, “what an unknown visitor can want with you, especially at such an hour, and weeping asI do, I am come, sir, to ask you a favor.” “What is it, sir? You may command me.” “You were present at the sale of Camille Gautier’s effects?” At the mention of her name, the young man’s. emotion was too great for him, and he covered his ridiculous to you, sir. Please eyes. “T must seem et elieve that I will never forget. to excuse me, and your patience.” “Sir,” said I, ‘if the service I may afford you can in any manner make you more calm, tell me, and I will be happy to serve you.” I could not refrain from sympathizing with his sor- row. ‘You bought something at the sale?” “Yes, sir, & book.” ** Manon Lescault?”” “Exactly.” “ You have it?” “Tt is in my bed-room.”” At these words Duval seemed somewhat soothed and thanked me as if I had already done him a great service, I went into’the bed-room and brought the book thence to him, “This is it,” said he, as he looked at the present. ation on the first page. ‘‘ This is it!”"—two large tears blotted the page. ‘‘ Well, sir,” said he, not longer seeking to conceal that he had wept, ‘do you attack much importance to this book?”
Page 5
CAMILLE; OR, THE FATE OF A COQUETTE. “Why, sir?’ : ‘ Because I would ask you to yield it tome.” __ “Exeuse my curiosity,” said I, “ but did you give It to Mlle Gautier?” “The book is yours, sir. Take it. I am glad that IT can restore it fo my “ But,” said M. what it cost you.” : “ Permit me to offer it to you,” said I. “The price of such a yolume ina sale is trifling, and I do not re- member what it cost.” “You paid one hundred francs,” Pri True,” said I, annoyed. ‘‘How did you learn at?” “Easily enough; I expected to reach Paris in time to attend the sale, but did not do so until to-day. I wished to have something which belonged to her, and uval, ‘I must at least repay you the pardon she has granted to me. I would give ten years of my life for an hour at her feét.”’ It is difficult to console a sorrow one is ignorant of, yet Usympathized with the young man, He made me to another, but the accents of Armand’s despair were so natural that, passing from one extreme to another, I fancied that his sorrow was changed’ into disease and that I would hear from him if he were hovsick or the confidant of his love so frankly that I fancied my | dead words would not be unwelcome, and said: “Have you no relations? No friends? Hope. See them. They will console and pity you. “True,” said he, rising, and be | down the room, “Tannoy you. Hxcuse me; but I forgot that my sorrow did not concern you, and that annoy and trouble you.” “You mistake the meaning of my words. I am at your service, but regret that Icannot calm your cha- grin, If my society, and that of my friends interest you; if you need anything, believe me, I shall be de- lighted to serve you.” “Excuse my sensitiveness, it isexaggerated by sor- went to the auctioneer for leave to examine the list } row. Let me remain a few moments longer to dry of purchases. I saw you had purchased this book, to which something of sentiment was attached by me.” As he spoke, Armand seemed so fearful that I had known Camille as he had, that I hastened to reassure him on the matter. my eyes, that loungers in the street may not faney me a great erying baby. You have, by giving methe book, dove me a favor I can never repay.” * By giving me your friendship,” said T, “ and tell- ing me the cause of your sorrow, you may. By talk- “Tknew Mlle Gautier merely. by sight, and her | ing of your troubles, you may also console them.” death affected me only as a pretty woman’s always does a young man who has met her. I wished to buy this book, but had an opponent who seemed resolved tohave it, I therefore say again, sir, the book is at your service, and beg yo to accept it, not as from me but as from her. If purchased it from an auction- “You are right, but to-day I need tears, and would utter meaningless words, me day I will tell you my story, and then you will see that I have reason to regret the poor girl,” said he, again aryin his eyes, and looking at himself in the glass, Pell me that you do not think me a fool, and give me leave to visit eer, but to ike it may, perhaps, have a more inest- | you.” imable value—from other relations.” ‘““Well,”’ said M. Duval, giving me his hané, and T could searcely refrain from embracing the young man, His eyes began to be filled with tears which he poate 3 mine, “I accept it and will be grateful to | saw I noticed. Looking away, I said: G) you as long as I live.” I had every disposition to question Armand about Camilleand the presentation in the book, about his journey and anxiety to have the volume, but by do- “Well, take courage, “Adieu,” said he, Making great efforts not to weep, he fled from, rather than left me. I lifted up the window-curtain ng so feared my visitor would think I refused his | and saw him enter the cabriolet, which waited at my offe: r to mix in his private affairs. He perhaps saw my wish, and said: ‘You read the volume?” * All of it.” “Did you notice two signs I wrote in it?” “T saw at once that the poor girl to whom you ave the book was of the most strange category, for | mand, but [ would not believe those signs an empty compli- ment.” “ You are right, sir; she was an angel,” He gave me a letter, which seemed to have been often read. I opened it, and read as follows: “T have received your letter, dear Armand, and thank God that you have remained kind. My friend, I am ill with one of those diseases whieh never yield; but the interest you take in me lessens my sufferings very much. 1, doubtless, will not live long enough to be able to clasp the hand which wrote the last kind letter 1 received, and which would cure me if anything could. 7 will see you no more, for I am very near death, and hundreds of leagues separate us. My poor friend, the Camille you used to know is much paankeey and, perhaps, it is best that you should not see her again. “You ask me if I forgive aed With all my heart, for the evil you did me was but a i ec of your love. I have beer a month’ in bed, and attach so much importance to your esteem that I every day write in 7 journal of my life that I have kept since we parted, and will keep as long as my strength lasts. “Tf the interest you profess to take in me be real, immediately on your return see Sophie Duprat. She will give you my journal, in which you will find the reason and excuse for what has passed between us. Sophie has been kind, and we have often spoken of you. She was here when your last letter came, and we wept when we read it. ‘*Had I not heard from you, she intended to have iven you these fede on your return from France. Bo not be grateful to me, for this daily return to the happiest days of my life does me much good; and if you find in reading it any excuse for the past, I find perpetual consolation. ‘“T would leave you somethin me, but all has been seized, an me. “So you see, my friend, lam dying; and here, in my bedroom, I can hear the steps of the watchman placed by my creditors to see that nothing is taken away. If Ido not die I shall have nothing. I hope they will not sell out until all is over. Sow pitiless these men are! No,I am wrong; how inflexible God is. Well, my beloved, you will come to the sale, and buy something; for if I set anything aside for you, they might accuse me of in- terfering with articles seized. “The life I leave is sad. ‘How kind it would be in God to permit me to see ‘ou before I die. In all probability, my friend, adieu. ‘orgive me if I write no more, for those who under- take to cure me exhaust me by blood-letting, and amy hand is powerless. to remind you of nothing belongs to * CamiLLe GAUTIER.” ave the letter to Armand, who doubtless repeated it in im: on some time at it jd not, I eannot pardon myself for ees fet ee ae ig thus, , ‘fer, and how good and resigned she was, I thought pardon was not for me;and now I fee) unworthy of door. When in it, he put his handkerchief to his face, and wept. CHAPTER VY, assed before I received any news of Ar- ad often heard of Camille. I do not know that you have observed it, but it seems to me that the name of a person unknown to you, or atleast indifferent, pronounced if but only once before you, has the effect of so grouping details around it, that inStantly every friend seems to speak of things they never were heard to mention before. You will see then that this person always interested you, and you will also see that she has often influenced your life unnoticed, and what you hear possesses a real coin- eidence and affinity with the events of your own ex- istence. This was not exactly the case between Ca- mille and myself, sincé [had seen her, met her, and known her by name and fame, Since the sale, how- ever, her name was so constantly in my ears, and since the interview described in the last chapter the theme of so great a sorrow, that my amazement in- creased, and with it my curiosity. The result was that I approached my friends, to whom I had never spoken of Camille, with the inquiry: “Did you ever hear of a woman named Camille Gautier?” “The lady with the Camelias?” “Yes,” “* Often.” The word “ often "* was leone followed by an inexplicable but most intelligible smile. ‘ Well,” continued I, ** who was she?” “A fine woman.” “Ts thatall?”’ “Yes; she had more mind, perhaps more heart, than most of her kind.” “And you know nothing more of her?” | oo but that they say she ruined the Baron e ‘ * That all?” “She was the mistress of the old Duke de——” ‘Was she really his mistress?” They say so—at all events he gave her much money. Ialways heard the same general details, but was curious to learn about her liaison with Armand. Meeting once one of those persons who know all about such women, I said: “Did you know Camille Gautier?” Thad the usual reply, ‘What was she?’ ential and good woman. Her death pained me much,” “ Had she a lover named Duval?” - Tall and fair?” ” Some time “True,” “What was he?” “A young man who spent with her the little he had and was forced to leave her. They say he has been mad.” “ And she?” : “They say she loved him, too, as much as such women can love, They should not be asked for more than they can bestow.” ‘What has become of Armand?” “Ibis not known. We had seen but little of him. He remained four or five months with Camille in the country, and when she returned to town he was gone, “And you have not seen him since?” ‘ Never.” Nor had I, and had begun to ask if, when he came Searels, te Soran oe eral old love, an nsequent: oud that with herdeath he had exaggerated the ont ise he had made. This supposition would have been natural enough In spite of myself I became interested in the fate of this young man. It'may be there’was.something of egotism in this feeling, and I caught a glimpse of some touching story of the heart, to become acquaint- ed with which mingled much with my anxiety about Armand. ; Mi Ee As M. Duval did not come to see me, I resolved ‘to find him. I had no trouble in finding oe but, unfortunately, none whom I asked coul are me any information. I went tothe rue d’Autin. The portress of Camille perhaps knew of bim. There was a new person there who was as ignorant as Iwas. I asked where Mile. had been buried, and they told’ me at Mont Martre. It was April. The weather was fine, and the graves no longer wore the sad aspect winter confers upon them. Iwent to the ce, tery and said by the very appearance of Camille's grave I can see if Armand’s love lasts, and perhaps I may hear of him. I went to the keeper's house and asked if, on the 22d of Febru- ary, 2 woman named Camille had not been buried at Mont Martre, The man looked at the register, in which all inter- ments are recorded, and told me that at noon on that day a woman of that name had been buried. Iasked him to show me the tomb, for without a cicerone there was no way to recognize, in that city of the dead, oneof the habitations of the dead, ar- ranged like the houses of a street. The keeper called a gardener, to whom he gave the needful order, and who interrupted him by saying: * 1 know—I know.” “ Ah!” said he to me, “ it is easily found,” “How?” “Because it has flowers on it different from the others.” “Do you take care of them?” “Yes, sir, and1I wish all'the friends of the dead were as kind tomeas the young man who recom- mended that to me.” The gardener soon said to me: “Here we are.” There was before us a bed of flowers, and one would never have thought of a graye, had not a white stone and name appeared. The stone was upright, and an iron railing enclosed the purehased ground, which was covered with camelias. “What say you of this?” asked my guide, “Tt is very beautiful.” “And whenever a camelia begins to fade I amor- dered to renew it.” “ By whom?” “A vall young man, who wept much the first time he came here—an old lover of the deceased. She was rather gay, they say, but very beautiful, Did you know her, sin?” “As the other did?” said the gardener, with a mal- icious smile, , ‘No, I never spoke to her.” “And you come hither! It is kind, for those who visit them rarely see their graves.” ‘“None come?” ‘** Except the young man, who was here once,” “ And he has not come again?” ‘No, but he will on his return.” “Do you know where he is?’ “No, but I think he is with the sister of Mlle. Gautier.” ‘““ What has he gone for?” “To ask leave to exhume the body and bury it else- where.” “Why does he wish this?” “You know, sir, that’ people have notions ‘about. the dead. We see this every day. The ground is purchased but for five years, and the young man wishes a perpetuity and a larger plot. In the ition it will be the easier,” : ““What do you call the addition?” = “The new field on theleft, nowfor sale. Were the cemetery always as it isnow, there would not be one — like it inthe world. Before then, though, much— much must be done.” “What mean you?” ‘People are stupidly proud. Poor Mile. Gautier led, excuse the phrase, a bad life; but now the poor girl is dead, those who would not notice her while she was alive, insist on our watering the ger every day. When the relations of those buried by her side learned who she was, they took it into their heads to oppose her being put here,and said that a place should be set aside for such women as for the poor. Was the like ever heard of. T took them np roundly though. Rich men who camé three or four times to visit their dead and bring their flowers—see what flowers—who write on their tombs tears they never shed, and who make outeries in the vicinity. You may believe me, sir, that though Inever saw her E know all about her. She is my favorite subject, for we grow to love the dead, sir, having scarcely time to think of any one else.” : I looked at the man, and somie of my readers wilt understand the emotion he expressed so well that L need not explain it. He saw this and continued: “They tell me there were people who became fa- mous on her account and were ruined, but that she had loyers who adored her. Well, when I think that not one of them will buy a flower for her, it is curious and sad. She, though, has no cause of complaint, for she has her tomb, @ have here, however, poor girls of the same sort and age, who are thrown into common graves, and it makes me weep when I sea coarse people throw the earth on their bodies, and that when once dead they are thought of by none. E haye a tall girl of twenty, and when I amcalled hithe ~~
Page 6
% CAMILLE; OR, THE FATE OF A COQUETTH, nm zt er the funeral of one of her age I think of her, wi I come to bury a great lady or a street- “But my chatterings must annoy yeu, and you did mot come hither to hear them. I was told to take you to the grave. Here it is. Can I be useful in any other way?” ‘ np Fe know the address of M. Armand Duval?” “Yes, in street. I went thither for the price of the flowers you see.”’ “Thank you.” T cast one last look at the flower-strewn tomb, the depth of which I wished to sound, tosee what change death had wrought, and left sadly. Duval?” asked the * Does Monsieur wish to see gardener. “ Yes. ” **T am sure he has not returned, or I would have seen him.” ange are sure, then, he has not forgotten Ca- mille?” ‘ ** Yes, and that his wish to change her grave results from a wish to see her again?” “How?” “The first thing he said was, ‘ How could I see her again?’ This could be by changing the tomb, and I told him of all the formalities necessary to change a body from one tomb to another; it must be identi- fied, and only the family of the deceased ean give authority for this operation, which must be presided over by the commissiary of police. To obtain her consent for this M. Duval went to the sister of Mile. Gautier, and, on his return, his first visit will be hither.’ We were at the gate, and I thanked the gardener, lacing a few coins in his hands, and went to the ad- sn he had given, Ss Armand had not returned. I left a message for him to see me on his return, and to tell me where he might be met. ‘he next morning I received a letter from M. Duval, who informed me of his return, and begged me to come to his house, as, being worn out with fatigue, it was impossible for him to see me. CHAPTER VI. I rounp him in bed. When he saw me, he gave me his burning hand. “You have fever,” said I. “Tt isonly the effects of a rapid journey,” said e. “You are coming from seeing Camille’s sister?” “Yes, Who told you?” “T know. You succeeded?” “Yes, But who told you of my journey, and of its object?” “The gardener of the cemetery.” ** You saw the tomb?” I could scarcely reply, so fully did the tones of his voice tell me that the speaker continued the victim of the emotion I had witnessed, and that his memory and the words of others hurried him, contrary to his wishes, to this subject. I bowed assent. * He takes good care of it?” “ Yes.” Two Mee tears rolled down the invalid’s cheek, and to hide them he turned away. I pretended. not to see them, and said: ‘*You have been absent three weeks.’ rete his hand over his face, he said: ry E remained eight days longer in bed, I would have died.” “Now, though, you must take care of yourself, your friends willcome to see you. Permit me to call m the first.” *T will get up in two hours.” “ How imprudent!” “T must.’ ‘“What have you so important to do?” ““T must go to see the commissionary of police.” “Why? LIwilldosofor you. Your visit will make you more unwell.” “It alone can cure me; I must see her. Since [heard of her death, and especi since I saw her tomb, I cannot sleev. I must satisfy myself, and see what God has done with her [loved so. Perhaps disgust tacle will replace the despair of memory. You will accompany me?” “* What did her sister rig “Nothing. She seemed surprised that a stranger wished to unr Agtare for Camille, and at once gave the consent ed for.” * ntome. Do not move the body until you are well.” “Tam getting better. Besides, I would go mad, if I did not ge on with the discharge of what has become apes ity to ny, ea 1 I reed Pe. ealm until I seen my Camille. ‘ever, perhaps, possesses me—a dream of my sleepless nights—a rumiices pur- sues me; buteven if, like M. de Rance, J become a. Trappist, I must see her.” **T can understand that,” said Ito Armand. ‘Have you seen Julia Dupont?” “Yes, on the day of my first return.” “Did you get the papers Camille laid on the shelf?” “Here they are.” ey are. ae took a roll of paper from his pillow and it. know their contents by heart,” said he. ‘ For three years I have read them tentimes aday. You, a at some future time, shall also read them, when Ican explain to you how much love this confession con- . | have now a favor to ask you.” “What?” “ Have you a carriage here?” “ Yes.” * Will you take my passport, and go te the - restante to see if there be lotters for me? My father and sister were to direct to Paris, and I set out in such haste that I did notinguire. On your return we will eo to inform the authorities of the re- moval,” Armand gave me his passport, and I went to rue 99 Rousseau. There was two letters which I brought him, and on return I found him dressed and ready to go. ‘Thanks,’ said he. ‘ Yes, they must be from my father and sister, who could not understand my long absence.” He opened, and glanced, rather than read the _let- ters, which were each written on four sides, and hav- ing foldec them, said: **Let us go; I will reply to-morrow.” We went to the authorities, to whom Armand gave the document required from Camille’s sister. At nine o’clock the next day, after a night which appeared long, indeed, to him, 1 saw Armand, who was horribly pale, but calm, He smiled, and gave me his hand. The lights had burned out. Before going Armand took a thick letter, address- ed to his father, which had doubtless occupied his sleepless hours. In half an hour we come to Montmartre, The officials waited for us, and we went slowly to- wards Camille’s tomb—an officer first,and Armand and I following. From time to time I felt the arm of my companion quiver convulsively. Iwould then look at him, and he seemed to understand me, for he smiled, From the time, however, we left the house, we did not ex- change a word. , When near the tomb, Armand paused to wipe his face, over which were drops of perspiration. took advantage of this pause to breathe, for even I felt as if my heart was in a vice. What is the origin of the painful pleasure we take in Sg spe of tkis kind? When we came to the tomb, the gardener had taken away all the flowers, the grating was removed, and two men was picking the earth. Armand leaned against a tree and looked on, his whole existence being apparently concentrated in his eyes. Suddenly the pinks grated as against stone, and Armand glanced at me as if he was electrified— clasping my hand so as to hurt it. A grave-digger took a shovel and cleared out the grave, and, when he came to the stones, took them out, one by one, and threw them away. I watched Armand, for I feared lest the violent emotions he was undergoing should crush him. He yet looked on, however, his eyes being fixed in in- sanity, and a faint quivering of his cheeks alone show- | any nervousness, . f myself, I can only say that I regretted having come. When the coffin was bare, the officer told the grave- m diggers to open it. They obeyed. The coffin was of oak, and they began to tear open the outer covering. The dampness o! the ground, had rusted the hinges, and it was opened without difficulty. “My God—my God!’? murmured Armand. Even the Srave civecee shrank back. A white shroud covered the body, exhibiting something of its sinuosities. One portion of the pall was eaten grin! and suffered one foot to be seen. I felt sick, and even now it seems almost impossible for the scene to have occurred, “ Be quick!” said the policeman. Then one of the men put out his hand and rudely uncovered the face of Camille. It was horrible to see and tell of. The eyes were but holes, the lips had disappeared, and the teeth hung against each other, The long, black hair hung in green ringlets, yet I eould recognize the fresh, rosy face I had so often seen. Armand could not look away, but plaeed his hand- kerchief to his lips and bit it. A circle of iron seemed to clasp my brow, a veil came over my. ores, and I could with difficulty open a smelling-bottle I chanced to have pea with me. I heard the officer say to . Duval: “Do you know her?” “Yes,” said the young man, hoarsely. The grave-diggers pulled the shroud in over the face of the corpse, covered it up, and ng hold of the ends, went towards the place designate Armand did not move. His eyes were riveted to the empty grave. He was as ie as the corpse we had seen, and seemed petrified. I saw what was about to happe: said, pointing to Armand: ‘Is his presence any longer necessary ?” “No,” said he; ‘‘and I advise you to take him tits ‘or he seems sick.” “Come,” said I to Armand, taking him by the arm. “What?” said he, looking at meas if he had not nett is all over! _C pale and cold, / all over ome, you are pale and cold, such emotions will kill you.” ~ ‘You are right,” said he, “let us go.” He did not move, however. I took him by the arm and sought to lead him away. He yielded asa child would have done, but murmured: “ Did you see her eyes?” He looked back as if to recall a vision. His gait, however, trembled, and he seemed to ad- vance only by shocks—his hands were cold and his whole frame seemed to suffer from nervousness, n. I drew near the policeman, and | hi) I spoke to him and he did not answer. ‘At the gate we fortunately met a carriage, and he- had nosooner entered it than he had a real nervous: attack. I gave him the bottle I had used, and when he: eae his house he was not yet well, and with the: assistance of a servant I put him to bed. Ithen went: for a physician, to whom I told what had passed, and! who came at once, The patient’s face was flushed, he was detirious and nbtared disconnected words, amid which Camille’s name often occurred, “Well,” said I to the doctor, when he had seen him. “He has a brain fever, and if he is lucky he will get well. Physical malady will, however, destroy the: moral disease, and in a month he will be cured of one or the other.” CHAPTER VII. Mavapres like Armand’s have the advantage of being terminated quickly, either by death or recov- ery. Within a fortnight Armand was convalescent, and we were as intimate as possible. I had scarcely left his room while he was sick, Spring had strewn its flowers, leaves, and birds’ songs profusely, and the windows of my friend opened ona garden, the perfumes of which ascended to it. The physician had given him permission to leave his bed, and we often talked together at the hours—from noon till two—when the sun is warmest, I took care not to refer to Camille, lest I should re- vive a sad memory, lulled to Wee by his illness. He, however, seemed to love to talk of her, often with tears in his eyes, but with a smile which assured me of the state of his soul. Though tong sick he had obstinately refused to in- form his family of his sickness, and when cured his father was ignorant that he had been ill, Once we sat later than usual at the window, the weather had been magnificent and the sun sank in a twilight of brilliant gold, Though in Paris, the verdure which surrounded seemed to isolate us from the rest of the world, and nothing but the wheels of passing carriages interrupted our conversation, “It is,” said Armand, “almost the season of the day and hour when I first met Camille,” was silent, and again speaking to me he said: “ ¥ must tell you a story which, though incredible, may yet enable you to make an interesting book.”’ I told him he must tell me this at some other day, but that he was not then strong enough to do so. “The evening is warm; I have eaten my dinner; I have no fever,” said he, ‘‘ and I will tell you all.” “Tf you insist I must listen.” I have scarcely changed a line of the story he told me, which is as follows: Thad returned to Paris on just such an evening as this, with one of my country friends, Gaston, whom Thad visited, and not knowing what to do, we went to the Varieties. Between the acts we went out, and in the corridor my friend spoke to a woman. ** Who isshe?”’ asked I. é He replied ‘‘ Camille Gautier.” “She seems much changed,”’ said I, with an emotion you will soon understand, for I did not know her. “She has been ill, and will not last long.” I re- member these words as if [ heard them but yester- day. ‘You must know, my friend, that for two years the Bight of that girl has giver me great uneasiness. knew not why, but my heart beat violently. One of my friends, who studies the occult sciences, would call this affinity of the, fluids, and see an intimation that 1 was to love Camille. I foresaw it, The first time I saw her she was near the Bourse. An open calash waited, and a woman in white had just left it, followedjby a murmur of admiration. I stood riveted to the spot from the moment she en- tered a shop until she leftit. I saw her make her urchases, and though I might, did not enter after er. I did not know why I was so interested, and left lest she might suspect why I watched her, I never expected to see her again. She was elegantiy dressed ina robe of muslin. Her: Indian shawl, was richly embroidered, and her straw hat ard solitary bracelet were just becoming fashion- able. She drove away, and one of the bystanders, im reply to a question, said; “It is Mile. Gautier.” I dared ask no more, and left. The recollection of this vision, fer such it was, did not, like others, pass away, but I sought for her everywhere; and a few days after, at a great per- formance of the ra Comique, saw her in one of the front boxes. @ person with me also did, for he: said: “Look at that pretty woman.” Camille just then saw my friend, and smiled at im, “Twill,” said he, “say good-evening to her, and soon be back.” I could but congratulate him on his acquaintance, He asked me if I was smitten with her; but, when I said ‘‘no,’’ but did not promise not to be if’ I knew her, he said: “Come and I will introduce you.” ** Ask her leave,” “It is useless, to talk thus with her,” said he. What he said annoyed me, for I feared to learn the certainty that C le did not deserve what I felt, towards her. Rauchen,”’ a man who proc img and night, a ve sustained in all undertakings. While asking what he could do to gain her, she stops at the corner of the
Page 7
CAMILLE; OR, THE FATE OF A COQUETTE. : v street and asks him to accompany her home. He turns aside and goes sadly ptr i Lrecalled this story, and suffered almost as much as Karr’shero did, Yet I wished him to ask leave to resent me, and I walked up and down the corridors, ‘ancying that she would see me, and thatI would read assent in her countenance. While thinking what Ishould say, my friend joined me and said: “She awaits you.” “tIs she alone?” asked I. “ Except a lady.” We went to the door of the theatre. “This is not the way,” said I. be We must get some bonbons—she asked for em.”’ We went to a confectioner’s near, and feeling as if I could have purchased the shop, looked around me, when my friend said: A pour of raisins glaces.” ** Does she like them?” “ She takes none other.” “Now,” said he, ‘‘do you know to whom I am about to introduce you? Do not fancy her a duchess, for she is merely a kept woman. Say, then, anything you Suan “ Very well,” said I, almost cured of my passion. Camille was laughing loudly when I came.in. I would have preferred her being sad. My friend introduced me, and Camille said, “‘ where are my bonbons?” Here I dropped my eyes, as she looked at me. She whispered a few words to her neighbor, and they both i ae I was beyond all doubt the cause of this laugh, for at that time L[had a little sentiment- al female at whose epistles and letters I used to smije. I felt for five minutes that, perhaps, I did her an injustice, and loved her more than I have ever lone, Camille ate her confectionery, and paid no atten- tion to me. My introducer, however, would not suf- fer me to occupy so insignificant a position. “Camille,” said he, “do not be satisfied if M. Duval says nothing to you, Believe that you have rfectly amazed him.” “T think he accompanied you because you did not wish to come alone.’ “Tf that had been so,’ said I, ‘Ernest would not have had to wait for me to ask for an introduction.” All who have ever met women of Camille's rank know how they like to pique and toy with persons they meet for the first time. This is certainly a re- venge they take for thé humiliations they are often forced to submit to, To reply to them, therefore, one needs to be used tothem. I therefore arose, and said, with a somewhat puis voice: .. “Jf Mademoiselle, you think thus of me, I have only to ask you to excuse me and, while I bid adieu to say that eae impertinence will not be renewed.’ I bowed, and left,—but had no sooner closed the door than T heard a third laugh, and went back to my lace. ¥ Some one tapped me on the shoulder, and, looking back, I saw Ernest; ‘why did you go?” said he, * they think you mad.” — T said, ‘what did Camille say when I left?” “That she never saw anything so odd. Do not, how- ever, think yourself beaten on that account; but never again talk seriously to women of that kind— they do net know what politeness is; but, like dogs, think ean offensive, and rush in the gutter to avoid its savor. I do nob, however, despair of some day seeing you in her box.” ust then the curtain was raised, and my friend was silent. It is impossible for me to tell you what was performed, but only that from time to time I looked up, and that new faces perpetually su¢ceeded each other, T could not, however, but think of Camille, and a new sentiment took possession of me, Tremembered her insult, and I could not but eit she ever became mine, I would make her atone for it. Before the opera Was over, Camille and her friends left the box. I, too, was leaving my seat. “‘ Are you going?’ said Ernest. “ae es. “ b dad Just then he saw that the box was ea “Go,” said he, ‘and the next time good or better 5 6 it aad the stairway heard the rustling of ert, rwi dresses and the sound of wolees. i beet aside, and two young women and young m . went the Foor fas a servant, to whom Camille said: “ pa the CaM ihe wait for us at the Cafe Anglais, We will wa er, ‘A few moments after I saw Camille at ohe of the windows of this great e8tablishment. She was play- ing with the leaves of one of the flowers of her bou- quet. veral men leaned over her shoulder in conversa- tion I went to the Maison d’Or, whence I could sée all, and saw that at one o’clock Camille and her ‘friends got into their carriage. I followed her in a cabriolet to Rue d’Antin, No. 9, . Camille entered alone, and this chance, for such it was, made me very happy. henceforth I never saw her in fiatiltc places. About that time, though, I asked Gaston abottt her, who told me that she was very sick, and that she ha a pulmonary disease, and could not be cured. They said she would not leave her bed again. Our hearts are strange things. I, however, rejoiced at her illness. 3 7 went first every day to ask for her; then left my name, and finally my card. I thus heard of her re- covery and departure for Baigneres, , Thais time rolled by, and the impression she made ae SO , ape being effaced from my mind,’so that one da; she passed me in the corridor of the Varietes, and did not know her. She was veiled, it is true, but two years after no veil would have hidden her from me, for I would have discovered her presence. When I imew it was she my heart beat so that all that had intervened since we left passed away like smoke. CHAPTER VIII. Yet, continued Armand, after a pause, though I knew I still loved, I felt I was stronger, and was anxious to show her that Iwas her superior. What excuses the heart feigns to accomplish what it wish- es. I could not restrain myself in the corridor, but resumed my place in the orchestra, and looked around the boxes to see where she was, She was alone—changed as I have told you—and the careless smile on her lips were gone, for she had yet suffered, and, though April had come, was clad as if it were December, She looked at me for a moment, appeal- ed to her glass, and a smile, the charming salutation of women, played on her lips, as if to invite the recog- nition she expected. from me. I did not reply; how- ever, as if in revenge for her having appeared to for- get me when she did not. She fancied she was mis- taken, and looked aay until the curtain arose, I have often seen her at the play, but never saw her pay the least attention to the performance. Nor did care a great deal for the play, and paid attention to her, all the time, however, striving that she should not see that Idid so, I saw her exchange glances with the person in the opposite box, and Lsaw the latter was a person] knew. She was an old frequent- er of the opera, who had attempted to act, and had failed, and relying on her acquaintance with Paris, had gone into business as a milliner. I saw that she could enable me to meet with Camille, and I took oe- casion when she looked towards me to say good-even- ing. What I foresaw happened, for she called me to her box. Prudence Duverney was the happy name of the milliner. She was a woman of forty, and one of those persons with whom no ieee: diplomacy was needed to make her tell-all she knew, especially when what I wished to know was so simple. I too advantage of the time when she began her telegraph- ing to lier friend to say: * .“* Whom are you thus looking at?” She replied: “Camille Gautier.” “Do you know her?” said I. 4 “T am her milliner and her neighbor.” © You live in Rue d’Antin?”” “No: 7%. Her dressing window is opposite to mine.” “They say she is a charming person,” “You do not know her!” “No; I wish I did.” ‘Shall I call her to our box?” . “No, I had rather you should introduce me to er.?? “At her house?’ ee Yes. ” i It is more difficult,” “She is under the charge of a very jealous old an *‘ Under the charge! That is a charming phrase.” “Yes, to be her lover would annoy the old’ man very much.” Prudence then told how she made the acquaintance of the Duke at Baigneres. “That is the reason, then, that she is here alone?” “But who will take her home?” “The old man.” ‘He will come for her, then?” a wear hid “Who will escort you?” “No one.” * Accept me.” ‘But you are with a friend?” ‘*We both are at your disposal.” “Who is your friend.” ; ‘A pleasant, agreeable fellow, who will be delight- ed to make your acquaintance,” Well, we will leave after this piece; the other I know.” “So be it. Twill tell my friend.” “Do ” “Ah? said Prudenee, just as I left; “there is the ” e. Llooked at him. A man of about seventy sat behind the young wo- man, and handed her a paper of confectionery, which she took with a smile; she then extended the perce towards Prudence in a manner which might translated by, “ Will ace take some?” Prudence said no, and Camille at once began to talk to the duke. The story of these details seems childish, but all that relates to Camille is so impressed on my memory that to-day I cannot refrain from telling it. I went to tell Gaston of the arrangement I had made, and on his consenting we left our stalls to go to Pru- derce’s box. ‘When we came to the door of the orchestra, we were forced to pause, that Camille and the duke, who were going, might pass us. I would have given ten years of my life to have been in the old man’s place. When on the Boulevard putting her in a pheton, he took the reins himself and drove off in a eae {trot. We went into Pru- dence’s box, When the play was over we went in a hackney coach to No.7 d’Antin street, and when at the door, Prudence asked us to enter her ware-rooms, of which she seemed proud, and which we had never seen; Iseemed gradually approaching Camille, and she soon became the theme of conversation. ‘Is the old Duke with your meig bors" asked \. “No,” said Prudence, “she is alone.” “She must suffer terribly from ennui.” “We pass almost all our evenings together, for when shereturnsshecalls me. She never goes to bed beer pei she cannot sleep sooner.” “Why?” ‘Because her lungs are diseased and she almost: always has fever.” “Has she no lover?” “T never see any one when I go. I will not, how- ever, answer for aught—and say that nobody comes after] have gone. Often I see at her house in the evening a Count N., who fancies that he advances his interests by visits at eleven o’clock—and sending her as many jewels as she wishes, She does not like him though—and as he is very rich it is strange. I often say to her: ‘He is just the man you need.’ Ordina- rily she listens kindly enough, but on such occasions, she turns her back on me, and says he is too stupid. That may be the case I confess, yet she would se- cure her position, for the old Duke may die any day. Old men are selfish, and his family oe ly re- proach him with his fondness for Camille, and he thus has two capita reasons for leaving her nothing. When I talk to her so, she says there is time enoug for the Count when the Duke dies, _ ‘This is an odd way of living,” said Prudence, “and I would soon pack the old man off. He is stu- pid; he calls her his daughter, and sticks to her as if she were peeve his child. I am sure, at this very mo- ment, one of his servants is prowling about and watching her door.” Gaston went to the piano and played a waltz. Poor i I did not know all this, but for some time she as looked less gay than usual, “Ah!” said Prudence, listening. Gaston paused, and Prudence said: “ She is calling me.” We listened. A voice called Prudence, who said: “Come, gentlemen, away, with you,”’ “Ts that the way you Understand hospitality, to put us outof the house when ee choose?” “Why should we go?” said 1. r “ Because I am going to see Camille.” ““We will wait here,’ “Impossible!” “We will go with you.” .“ That is utterly out of the question.” ft S T know Camille,” said Gaston, ‘‘and can visit er. “But Armand does not.” “1 will introduce him.” “Impossible!” We heard the voice of Camille again, and Gaston and I followed Prudence to the dressing-room. Throwing open the window, Prudence asked her what she peneene: and was told to. come over at once. “Why?” 5 ‘Counc N. is here yet, and annoys me to death.” “T cannot come now.” o Why oe “There are two young men here who won't go.”” ‘Tell them you must leave them,” F “T have.” “Leave them at your. house, and they will then 0.” : pe After having put everything upside down.” ‘*What do they want?” “To see you.” “What are their names?” “You know one, Gaston R——.”” “Yes, [know him. Who is the other?” “ Armand Duval.” “No. Bring him over, though, anything is better than the count. Come quickly.” The two windows were closed. Camille had remembered my face but not my _ name. “ But, madame,” said I, seeking to make my voice es i
Page 8
+9 fe CAMILLE; Ok, THE FATE OF A COQUETTE. 1 gs _ pleasant as possible, “I have already had that onor. “ Camille’s charming eyes seemed to look ‘back into her memory, but she either forgot, or seemed not to remember me, |” ie “Madame,” said I) “then I am grateful to you for having forgotten my first introductian, for f must havé seemed very ridiculous to you, ' It'was two years ago, at the Opera Comique. I was with Ernest eR A ‘““Ah! I remember,” said she) with @ smile. “It was not you, though, who were ridieulous, but [who was saucy—as IT yet am sometimes. You, however, forgave me, sir?” She gave me her hand, which I kissed. You must know I have a whim for embarrassing people I see for the first time. The doctors tell me that it is because I am nervous, and always: in pain.” y ‘But you seem well.”’ * Ah! I have been very sick,” “T know it,” ‘* Who told you?” “Every one is aware of it. I frequently came to ask after you, and was pleased to hear that you were convalescent.” “Are you the young man who came every day to ask after me, and who would never leave his name?” “Tt was 1.” “Then you are more than indulgent—you are gen- erous. You, Count, would not have acted thus,” said she, turning to N. , after casting on me’ one of those looks with which women complete their opin- ion of men, “IT have but an acquaintance of two months with you. “M. Duval had known me but five minutes. You talk foolishly!” _ Women are pitiless to persons they do not love. The Count’s face flushed, and he bit his lips. I really pitied him, for he seemed as much in love as I was, and Camille's plain frankness, especially in the pres- ence of two strangers, must have made him very pers 1k “You were at the piano when we came,’ said I, for the purpose of changing the conversation; *‘ will you not treat me as an old acquaintance, and return it” **Oh!” said she, throwing herself on the sofa, and making a gesture for us to be seated; “ Gaston knows what kind of thing my music is—good enough when Iam alone with the Count, but I cannot think of inflicting it on you, ‘“Thus you favor me,’’ said the count, with a smile he tried to make ironical. : “You should not refer to it,” said Camille; ‘ itis the only favor I have for you.” The poor fellow could not say a word, and looked at her in the most imploring manner. “Tell me, Prudence, did you do what I requested you?” i “Well, you can tell me of it by-and-by. Do not go without doing so.” “We certainly intrude,” said. I; ‘“‘and now, that I oti been introduced a seccnd time, Gaston and I Ww i “By no means. I do not refer to you, whom! wish to remain.” The count looked at an elegant watch, and said: “Tt is time for me to go to. the club,” Camille was silent. The count approached her, and said: *tAdieu, madame.” _ Camille arose, and said: ** Adieu, count. You goearly.” mata fear Lam dé t 2 : __. “Not more so to-day than at other times. When all I see you Shaped # “When you w ~ This. The count. was He kissed We soon heard it open and close, ** At last,” said Camille, ‘he is gone. He always makes me nervous.’’ “My dear child, you are too stern to the count, who is so kind to you.. There lies gn the mantel a watch he gave you, which costa thousand crowns at the Here Madame eee ey: sap up the watch and be- on to play with it, looking most covetously the while, : _ “ My child,” said Camille, ‘when I compare what: he gives, and what he says, I think I charge too little for his visits.” ** He loves you.” “If I had to listen to all who love me, I would have no time for aught else.” s -Y passed her fingers over the keys ot the piano, and, turning to us, said: .. “Will you take anything? I will take some h; and, if we sup, I eee ‘OWell,” said willtake a piece of chicken.”’ Gaston, “let us go somewhere to sup. ? 3 No, we wie here.) on e rang and Nanine a Fi i Ren nepis far supper. ! ‘or wha ' r x What you please, only be quick with it,” MWe Silt sip sald Oamiliay aovidaing teh iteare ehild. .‘ How stupid that-eountiah The more I saw of her the more enchanted I be- iY tak, came.’ Her very thinness became a grace, I was lost in contemplation of her. What passed in my mind would be difficult to explain, for Iwas full of indulgence for her life, and of admiration for her beauty. Her disinterestednessin refusing a young, elegant and rich man; ready to ruin himself for her, excused all her faults in‘my mind. There was something of candor in her. She was evidently in the virginity of vice. Her bold step, her lithe form, her expanded nostrils, her large eyes, faintly veined on the lids, denoted one of those tem- sd yap which spread an atmosphere around them, ike one of those oriental flacons, which, however tightly sealed, suffer the perfume to escape: Whether from constitution or’ from disease, from time to time there passed across her eyes flashes of passion which would have seemed a revelation to one she loved; but those whom she loved, and who loved 4, found. In fine, in this woman was a virgin, whom an aec- cident had converted into a courtezan, and a courte- zan whom a trifle might have converted into the rey and most loving woman. In Camille pride and ndependence yet existed—two sentiments, which, wounded, are capable of replacing modesty. I said nothing, for’ my whole soul seemed transfused into her heart, an eyes. “Then,” said she to me, ‘it was you who inquired every day after me when I was sick?’ “Ves. “It was kind. How ean I thank you for it?” ‘Let me see you sometimes.” ‘As often as you please--between five and six and eleven and twelve at night. Gaston, play the ‘Invita- tion to the Note’ for me.” “ Why?” said he. nae please me, and because I cannot play it my- self.” ‘“ What is there difficult in it?” “The third part.” Gaston went to the ful melody of Von open on the desk. Camille, with one hand on the desk, looked at. the sheet, accompanying, in a low tone, every note with her voice; and when she came to the passage she had mentioned, sang aloud, 4nd beat the time with her fingers. She made him play it again, and then said: ‘*Now let me try.” She took the stool, but her velvet fingers always mistook the notes she had mentioned. “Tt is strange,’ said she, ina tone of child-like ir- ritation, ‘‘that I cannot play that passage. Now, would you believe it, 1 sometimes am two hours at it, while that stupid count plays it perfectly, and without the notes. 1 believe that is one reason I dis- like him so.” She tried it again and failed. “The devil take Von Weber and pianos,” said she, scattering the music on the floor. She folded her arms and stamped on the floor ane ne blood flushed her cheek and she conghe s tly. there,” said Prudence, who had taken off her bonnet.ard was smoothing her hair before the glass, “you are getting angry, and are injuring yourself. Let us have supper at once—for I die of hunger.” Camille rang again, and going to the piano began in a half-voice to sing a libertine song, in which she did not break down. Gaston inew it, and they made a kind of duo. x “Do not sing such songs,” said I, in a supplicating voice, but somewhat familiarly. “How chaste you are!” said she, giving her hand. “T speak,” said I, “but for you.’ Camille made a motion which said, ‘“‘I have done with chastity long ago.” Just then Nanine_ re- turned. “Ts supper ready?” said Camille. “Yes, madame, ina moment.” “ Apropos,” said Prudence to me, “you have not seen the room. Let:me show it to you.” You. know how beautiful it was, Camille went a little way with us and then ealled Gaston,with whom she went into the dining-room,to see if all was ny 5 : 4 me Pace said Prudence, taking from a pier-table a porcelain figure, “I did not. know you had this.” “Which? ‘The shepherd with a cage.” “Make it if zou like it.” “Ah! butl wpe) you of it.” “I intended © give it to Nanine; I think it hid- eous, Prudence only saw the present and not the manner of it. She took the present, and took me into the dressing-room, where, pointing ou two miniatures, she said, ‘This is the Comte de G,, who was very much in love with Camille. He was her first lover.’” “‘ And this one,”’ said I, ii abe Nipomate de L. He had to leave her.” “He ruined himself. He loved Camille.” “And she loved him?” “She is an odd girl, who riever knows what she is about, The day he left, she went to the play as usual, yet she wept for an hour before.” Just then they told us supper was ready, When wo came into the room Camille leaned against the wall and Gaston held her hands. He was speak- ing to her in.a low tone, You are mad. You know you would not suit me, It is not after knowing a woman like me two years one asks to be her lover. Women like me either wee iat ence or never. Come, gentlemen, sit own, Escaping, wom Gaston, Camille made him sit on her iano and played that wonder- eber, the music of which lay Ls . her, were now neither the one nor the other, to be | my heart to have passed into her | right.and myself on her left, and said to Nanine, “tell the cook not to let anyone in.” y ideal The hour was one o’clock. We ate, laughed, and drank; after’a few minutes gaiety had become’ ex- cessive, and witticisms, which sully the lips they leave, were uttered by Nanine, Camille, and Prudence. Gaston amused himself, for he was a lad of*heart, somewhat deteriorated by familiat association with people his inferior. Fora while l sought’toshun my- self, and to make my bearing and my heart indiffer- ent to the spectacle before me, and to play my part as others did. Gradually, however, I became isolated, my glass remained full, and I became almost sad _ at seeing this beautiful creature’ of twenty drink and speak like a trooper, laughing loudest at the most scandalous jests. Yes, this'mode of speaking and drinking, which elsewhere seemed to me the token of debauch, seemed at Camille’s but an evidence: of forgetfulness and nervous irritability. At every glass of champagne her cheeks flushed with fever, and her laugh, which at the commencement of the supper seemed but slight, grew towards the end so violent that she was forced to lean back and place her hands on her chest at every aecess of coughing.” The effect of daily vice on her constitution pained me. At last whavl foresaw and dreaded took place, Camille was seized with a yet more violent fit of coughing, ‘The poor girl became purple, closed her eyes, and removing her napkin from her lips showed that it was stained with blood. She then arose and turned to her dressing-room, “What is the matter?” asked Gaston. “She laughed so violently that she has spit blood," said Prudence. “It is nothing and happens every day.’ De was not so easily satisfied, and much to the dis- satisfaction of Nanine and Prudence, joined Camille, CHAPTER X. THE room in which she took refuge was lighted _by a single lamp. Thrown on a large sofa, with her dress loosened, one hand was on her heart and the other was hanging by her side. On the table was a silver vase half full of water marbled with threads of blood, She was very pale and her lips were half closed, as if she had a difficulty in breathing, Her bosom heaved with a long sigh, which seemed to_re- lieve her somewhat, and, for a moment or two, left her somewhat better. I approached without her movige, drew nearand sat down, taking one of her hands in mine, *Ah! is it you?’ said she, with a smile. It seems my ae showed agitation, for she added, ** Are you, too, 111?” ‘“ No, madame,” said I, “‘but you suffer. Do you wish to kill yourself. I wish I were your friend— your relation, to be able to restrain you.”’ “Ah! this attack should not. frighten you,” said she, somewhat bitterly. ** Others pay no attention te me, for they know nothing can be done.” ut her candle on the mantel, and looked at herself in the glass. “How pale I am,” said she, fastening her dress, and passing her fingers through her loosened curls. Bah! let us go back to the table—come,” J I did not move, and she saw the emotion the scene had caused me, for she gave me her hand and said “come.” : I took her hand, kissed and wept over it, though I strove long not. to do so. : “You are a child,” said she, sitting by me, “Why do you, weep?” “T may seem foolish, but the sceneI have witnessed has affected me fearfully,” 2 “You are kind; but I cannot sleep, and must amuse myself, After all, what matters it about a woman of my kind, more or less?_ The doctors tell me the blood I spit is bronchial. I seem to believe them, and can do no more.” ‘‘ Hear me, Camille,” said I, with an emotion T could not repress, ‘‘1 know not by what influence you rule me, but only that no one, not even my sister, influ- ences meas you do, Thus it has been since I saw ich For Heaven’s sake change your life, and live no longer as you have done,” : ‘Were I to take caré of agin I should die, All that aids me is the feverish life I lead. Women who have a family and friends can take care of them- selves, but we, when no longer able to minister to the vanity and passion of our lovers, are deserted. Long nights. follow long days. I know, for I was two months in bed, and during three weeks no one came to see me,” “It is true Lam nothing to you,” said I; “ but it ou please I will watch you like a brother, I will not leave, and will cure you. When recovered, if you please, you can resume the life you like, but Lam sure you would like a tranquil life, which could not pa aa you happier, and would preserve your eauty.’ ; “You think so this evening, because I have made you sad; to-morrow you would not have the resolu tion of which you boast,” “Let me tell you, Camille, you were sick for two months, and I then came every day to after ‘ou, ven True,” said she, “but why did you not come up?" 1like me? “T did not know you,” “Why use ceremony with a “T always use ceremony with women,” “Then you would take eare of me?” “ee Yes. ” - * Every night?” f “Whenever I did not annoy soupy doing 80,” “How? Whatis this feeling? ‘ “ Devotion.” ‘Whence comes it?” : ‘From an irresistible sympathy.” Wir
Page 9
CA4MILLE; OR, THE FATE OF A COQUETTE, pa aioe ae 7 * oy wae © prey “Then you love me—tell me?” a “Possibly, but if itever come, this is not the time to oo so.” e ou yas best never say so.” “ But two things would happen if you did.” “ What 1. “Wither I would not accept you, and would dis- | please you, or you would have a mistress, a ner- Yous sick woman, who would spit blood and spend a hundred thousand francsa year. This would suit a rich old duke well enoagh, but not a young man like you, and the evidence of all this is that my lovers soon leave me,” I neither replied to nor heard this frankness, amounting almost to confession, Buopyerinie the pain- ful life over which a golden veil was hung, driving the poor girl from reality to debauch, intoxication and sleeplessness. All thisimpressed me sothatI could not be silent. ‘* Come,” said Camille, ‘‘we talk idly. Give me our hand, we will rejoin them at supper; none should ow what our absence means.” te ge if you please, but suffer me to remain.” ” “Your gaiety distresses me painfully, Letme tell you this:—Since I first met you, I know not how nor why, but you have taken a place in my existence, and that I seek in vain to drive your image from my mind. To-day when I saw you, after a lapse of two years, the ascendaney you had exerted over my mind seemed greater than ever; and now, that I have seen you in your house, I understand the reason. You Lees: become indispensable to me, andI shall be mad. not only if you do not love me, but if you do not suffer me to love you.” : But I must tell you what she said:—“You are rich, butdo not know that I spend six or seven thous- and franes a month, that this expense is become necessary to my life and that I would ruin youin a short time. You do not know that your family would forbid you to live with one like me. Love me as a friend, and come to see me assuch alone. You have a kind heart, but need love, and are too young and sensitive to live with me; love a married woman. You see, Ispeak sincerely to you.” , ‘‘Ah! what on earth are you about?’ said Pru- dence, whom we had not heard come, and who ap- — at the door with her dress loose and her hair n disorder. “Weare talking reason. Leaveus alone and we will rejoin you soon.” “Very well, talk on,”. said Prudence, leaving us and slamming the door, as if to add to the emphasis of herlast words. _ Then,’ said Camille, “it is resolved on, that you will love me no more.” “T will go.” “ That is the state of things?” Ihad gone too far to retreat. She overpowered me. The union of gaiety, sadness, disease and las- civiousness, had developed the acuteness of her sen- sations and irritability of her nerves, telling me thatif I did not at once resume possession of her changeful nature all was lost to me. “ Let me see,”’ said she “if you are serious.” “Tam,” “Why did you_not tell me before?” “When could I?” “On the day after you were introduced to me at ) '“T think iff had come to see you,I should have eon badly received.” ‘*T had been so stupid on the previous evening.” i} wae, But you loved me then?” “Yes. “ «But you still slept calmly afterwards, We un- derstand all this.” »‘'You are wrong. Do, you know how I passed that a 3 0. “T waited for you at the door of the Cafe Anglais, and followed the parrlage which took you and your three friends away, and was delighted when I saw youenter your house alone.” Camille laughed vi see are you laughing at?” wit othing. 24 Tel me. I beg you, or I shall think you laugh at me. “You will be angry. * “What right have I?” “There was a good reason why I entered alone.” sgn rtd for bee” ‘I was waited for here, © ghe could not have wounded me more, and I arose nd gave her my hand. “ Adieu!” said IL. ~ “T knew you would be angry i men are always of- fended at hearing what should distress them.’ “But I assure you,” said I, as if resolved to prove that I was not eured of my passion, * that I am not ‘angry. It was very na that some one should Nratttor you.” “ Have you, too, @ person who waits fer you!” © “No, but I must go.”” “ Adieu, then.”’ “You dismiss me?” “Why do you distress me?” - “ What distress do I give you?” “ You told me some one waited for you.” J could not refrain from laughing at the idea of your being pleased to see me enter aiene, when [had 50 good a reason. mcs Follies often please us, and it is wrong to destroy them when, by suffering them to exist, one can make another happier.” Sr But with whom do you think you have to do? I am neither a virgin nor a duchess. I never’ knew you until to-day, and owe yqu no account for my ac- tions. Even if I should some day become your mis- tress, you must know that Ihaye had other lovers. If you play the jealous lover beforehand, what will be the future state of things? I never saw such a man.” - “None ever loved you as I do,” “Then you really love me?” ‘“‘ As much as man can.” _ : “Well, tell me what I must do in return for this great love?” “Love mé,” said I, and my héart beat so that I could searcely speak; for, in spite of her half-mock- ing smile, it seemed to’ me that she too began to share my trouble, and that the hour I had so long expected was at hand. “ Well, the duke?” said she. “What duke?” “My old duke.” “He will know nothing.” * But if he do?” “ He will forgive you.” “* He will desert, me—and then what will I become?” “You run this risk for another.” “What mean you?” “You gave orders that no’one élse should be ad- mitted.” “True, but that person was but a friend.” “Of whom you are not very fond, as you shut your door in his face.” “You should not reproach me with the act which was committed to enable me to receive you.” Thad gradually approached Camille, had put my arms around her, and felt her gradually sink into them. I murmured: “Tf you knew how much I love you.” “ Really?” “T swear it.” “ Well, if you promise to obey me blindly I will love you, perhaps.” “T will do all you please.’” “T will inform you. I wish to be free to act as I Presse, without giving you any details of my life. I ave long sought a young lover, without distrust, whom I could love without giving him any rights over me. Men, instead of being satisfied with what has | long been granted them, and what they had long scarcely expected to obtain, ask their mistresses to account to them for the present, and even for the past. As they grow used to them they wish to rule. and the more that is yielded the more they exact. I I now take a new lover he must have the rare qualifi-. cations of prudence, submission, and discretion.” “Well, I will seek to satisfy you.” “ We will see.” “When?” ““By-and-by. Because,” said Camille, disengaging herself from my arms, and taking from a large bou- quet of camelias a red one, ‘because treaties cannot always be executed on the day they are signed.” This was easily understood. ‘When shall I see you?” “When the flower changes its color,” ““When?” “To-morrow, between eleven and twelve at night. Are you satisfied?” “Do you ask?” : “Not a word of this to Prudence, to your friend, or to any one else.” + ipromige you.” “ Now kiss me, and let us return to the table.” I did so, and she again smoothed her hair. We left the room, she singing, and I on fire. When in the room, she said: “It may seem strange that I accept you thus read- ily. Do you know why? The reason is,’ continued she, putting my hand on her heart, which beat violent- ly, “‘ that if I should not live so long as others do, I am resolved to live more rapidly.” “Do not talk thus, I beg.” * Be consoled, for sho: outlive your love.” “Where is Nanine?” said she, seeing only Prudence and Gaston, Cs Asleep in your room, waiting for you to go to “Poor girl! Iam killing her. Go, gentlemen; it is gi ' as jtimeto go. At that time I lived in the rue de Prov- high time.” mille clasped my hand, and I left her with Pru- denee. y Well. said Gaston, “what do you think of le “She is an angel, and I am a madman.” , zahoughe so. Did you not tell her so?” =r ha “She promised to believe you?” “ No. .) CHAPTER XI. Ng awe this point of his story Armand paused. He Do you wish to close the window? I gin to be cold, and in the meantime I will go to bed.” T shut the window.. Armand, who was weak, took off his robe de chambre head for a moment on the pillow, like a wearied worn out by Pepe recollections, “You are fatigued; do you wish me to suffer you to rest awhile? You can tell me thefrest of,the story on some other day.” ; ** Does it annoy you?” “Not so—it interests me.” , . ; “Twill goon. If left alone I would not be'able to sleep.” he continued. man it. I did not seek to them, all the details were e adventures of the day. sleep, but to reflect on “? as my life may be; it will | and laid down, resting his | ni; en J went home, though I did not try to recall” My meeting, introduction, Camille’s promise, all were present, and had passed so rapidly that I al- most thought I dreamed. Could. Camille have promised herself to a man for the next evening? In vain did I seek to reflect; the impression she had exerted yet existed, and I was amazed at not finding her like others of her class, and with the character- istic vanity of my sex’ was ready to think that she shared the attraction I feltfor ner. Yet the most strange examples passed before me. I had often héard that, during one season, Camille’s favors had passed from the highest to the lowest price of the market. How, though, could this be'reconcilad with the perpetual refusals she extended to the youn; count. You will tell me that she disliked him, an that as she was chen te sustained by the duke, why should she eas a lover a man who did not please her? “Why then, though, did she not take Gaston, who was pleasant, accomplished, and rich, and give herself to one who was such a theme of ridi- cule when she first saw him? There are things which happen in a moment and are more weighty than those of a year. Of those at supper I alone had been uneasy when she left the table. I had followed her, and had been unable to hide my emotions, and kiss- ed and wept over her hand—and more than that, had paid her daily visits during the two months of her ill- ness. I had showed her that Iwas a man of a differ- ent stamp from those she had yet known, and she might grant to a love thus expressed what she had often done to others without any evil effects. ‘All this was probable enough, but whatever were the reasons of her consent, that she had consented was undeniable. Now, I was in love with Camille; she was to be mine, but I was to ask her nothing. I will, how- ever, tell you I had so poetized her, that, as the time — drew near when my heart should have become more. - full of hope, IT doubted. Af ‘ I did not close my eyes on that night. I did not recognize myself, for I was almost wild. was neither rich nor handsome enough to possess such a woman, and then I felt vain that I'should. 1 then began to fear that Camille would entertain a caprice of a few days forme, and had the presenti- ment of the pain a rupture would produce. I fan- cied it would perhaps be better for me not to see her, and, instead, to write her an explanation of my fears. I said to myself that she would be indebted to me for her physical and moral cure; that I would pass my life with her, and that her love would make me happier than the most virginal love. I cannot re- ne to you the thousand thoughts which ascended rom my heart to my head, and which gradually passed into sleep. When I awoke it was two o’clock. The weather was glorious, and I never remember that it appeared more 80, The évents of the evening came back with- out shadows, and gaily escorted by hope. I was sat- isfied with her best actions, and, from time to time, my heart bounded in. my bosom with 107; I could not account for the reasons which had kept me awake, but saw only the result, and the time when I should possess Camille. It was impossible for me to remain at home, for my room seemed too small to contain my happiness; I needed all Nature to give expansion to myself. I went out, and agora own the Rue d’Antin. The coupe of Camille waited for her. I went in the direc- tion of the Champs Elysees. i After walking up and down between Round Point and the Chevaux de er for about an hour, I saw Camille’s carriage. I did not know, but guessed at it. Just as she turned the angle of the Champs Ely- see she paused, and a tall young man detached him- self from a group to approach her. : They talked together for a few moments, the youn, man‘rejoined his friends, the horses s ; an the tall man I recognized the Count de G—, the trait of whom Prudence had pointed out to me, as the one to. whom she owed her tion. He was the o1 to whom she had forbidden her door, and I fan she stopped her carriage to tell him the reason why, and to make a new excuse for the next night. How the rest of the day passed I know not. I walk- ed, smoked, talked, but preserve no memory of what I saw, or whom I met. When ten o’clock came, I said td myself that it was ince, and going down rae de Mont Blanc, Luis le Grand, Port Mahon, etc., I came to the rue d’Antin, I saw a light in the house, I rang, and asked if M’ll | Gautier was in, and was told she was never in w ; eleven, or a quarter later. xy ‘at’ my watch, I fancied I had walked slowly, having allowed but five minutes walk from the rue de Province to Camille’s house, I then walked down this street, which, being without shops, is, as you know, almost deserted at this hour. “ After about half an hour Camille came. She got out of her carriage and glanced around, asif in search for some one, The carriage was driven off, the stables not being inthe house, and, just as Camille was about to ring, I drew near and e ber good evening. ‘Ah, it is you,” she:said, ina tone which did not as- sure me that she had expected to see me. ms pa you not tell me that you would expect me to- True; bnt I forgot,” — This word overturned all my morning reflections— all my hopes and plans, . I had, however, ‘an to grow used to her ways, and did not leave, as I once rid Reman Masiuehatdberdioen elipads Chen, e wen anine e door aire open, and Camille asked fae. ss had come ia. d o“ “ cr ‘anine. A . _“ Go, bid her come in as soon as she returns. First, hough, put out the lamp in the saloon, and if any one comes, say that I am not in, and will not return. She was evidently annoyed at something: perhaps I fancied I lars certainties
Page 10
fa ee he ¥ 10 CAMILLE; OR, THE FATE OF A. COQUETTE. 8. v1 She took off her velvet cloak, and threw it on the bed, then sinking into a chair, which stood before a hot fire, she said, toying with a heavy gold chain: “Tell. me the news.” “Nothing, except that.I should not have come this evening.” “You seem put out, ane I was Wrong to anney you,” “You do not; but Lhave been ill all day, and suffer with the headache.” “Shall I go aiid suffer you to undress?” “ Not at all, for I can undress before you.” Just then the bellrang. , ‘““Who is that?” she said, impatiently. In. a few moments the bell rang again. “Ts there no one to open-—must I go myself?” She arose, and said: a “ Wait here.” She crossed the room and I heard the front door open. L listened, MiP The person who entered paused in the dining-room, rat as he spoke I recognized the voice of the Count de N.—. ** How are you?” said he, “Til,” said Camille. “Do I disturb you?” “Perhaps.” “How you receive me! What have Idone?” “Nothing. Iamill, I must go to bed, and I wish ‘ou to goaway. Itis too bad that I can never come ora at night without seeing you within five min- utes, Whatdo you mean? Am I your mistress? I tell you that you annoy me horribly, and that yeu had best. go somewhere else, [tell you to-day, for the last time, that I will have nothing to do with you. Nanine is just in time to light you out. Good even- ing.”’ Without hearing a word that the young man ut- tered, Camille returned and shut the door, at which Nanine almost immediately appeared. “Do you hearme, Nanine? Tell that fool always that I will not see him. Iam weary with seeing al- ways those who come for the same thing; who pay me and think themselves always quits, If those who begin our shameful trade knew what it was, they would never be chambermaids. No. The vanity of robes, carriages and diamonds leads usastray, They believe what they say, for libertinism, too, has its faith, and its heart and beauty is soon used up, It is feared like a Pariah, and surrounded by people who always claim more than they bestow, and when they, having ruined others, finally ruin themselves, they whine like dogs.” t Has Soa calm, madame,” said Nanine; ‘you are ill to- night. & This dress is too tight,’ and snatching loose the fastening of her corsage, she said: ‘‘ Give mea wrap- . per. Where is Prudence?” ._ “She has not yet come in, but they will send her _to madame as soon as she comes in.” “There is another, too,” she said, as she puton a wrapper. ‘She is easy enough to be found when she needs me, but cannot dome a favor with_a good grace, She knows I wait for the answer, and yetshe goes hither and thither without attending to me.” “She may have been detained.” ie Bring us the punch.” “You will do yourself an injury.”’ ‘So much the better. Bring us fruit, some pastry, and fowl. Briug it quickly—I am rapdy = J It is vain to attempt to describe'the impression this cene produced, but you can guess at it. “You willsup with me,” said she. ‘Take a book ee excuse me—I wish to go fora moment into my ~ preg dtp She lighted the candle, openeda door at the foot of the bed, and disappeared. began. to reflect on this scene, and my love was increased by pity. I was walking slowly up the room when Prudence appeared. ‘ * “What! you here? Where is Camille?” ‘(In her dressing-room.”’ “J will wait for her, She thinks you,charming. Did Fee gh that” 0. “She did not tell you so?” “ Not at all.” * How came ai here?” “TI came to visit her.” “At midnight?” ““Why not? she received me coldly enough.” “She will receive you better.” “You think so?” I L gene good news." ; All right! then she talked of me?” ‘Yes, when you left with your friend Gaston B——; that is his name, I think.” “Yes, (you will smile at this when you remember the secret Gaston told me. Yet Prudence was not sure of his name. B “What is his busi- a “ “ ) ‘He is handsome,” said she. ness?” ; ‘He has 20,000 francs a year.” |. “Indeed! . Well, but about yourself Camille talked much. She asked me who you ‘were, ‘what. mistress you had, and all the usual questions.” “Thank you—now ted me what commission she gave you oe ge “None—she told me to dismiss the count, She ‘ave me one to day, the answer to which I bring r—"’. Just then Camille came in, elegantly dressed. in de nuit; with yellow ribands, technically call- - @d-les chau She was beautiful Her bare feet : wore in satin slippers. ‘ ‘Well! Did you see the duke?” ity Yes, ” “And he said——” * Nothing, he gave——" “What? “Six thousand——”™ “You have it?” “ Ye ” “Was he annoyed?” “No.” **Poor man!” This. last, phrase I.cannot describe. Camille took the notes, and Prudence continued: “You, know, my. child, that weare within but a few days of the 15th, and if you can lend me three or four hundred franes, you will do me a favor.” “Send to-morrow—it is now too late to make change.” “Do not forget.” “Be at ease. Sup with us.” “No, Charles is waiting for me.”’ “You will not be prudent then, ever.” * Adieu, Armand; adieu, my dear Camille.” Camille opened a drawer, and threw the money in. “Let me go to bed,” said she, smiling as she passed ar , e. ‘Do so, I beg of you.” “Now,” said she, “sit by me and let us talk.” Prudence was right, for the answer she brought to Camille delighted her, “Pray excuse my ill-humor this evening,” said she, taking me by the hand. “Tam ready to forgive you much greater offenc- es.”” “You love me?” i “Madly.” “In spite of my bad repute?” “Tn spite of everything.” ‘“You swear it?” ‘' Yes,’’ I said, in a low tone, Nanine came in with pete a cold chicken, a bottle of Bordeaux claret, and ywo covers. “T did not make the punch. Bordeaux will suit you better, will it not, Monsieur?’ said Nanine. “ Certainly,’ said 1, with my eyes fixed on Camille, yet thinking of her last words. “ Well, put the little table close to the bed; we will wait on ourselves, You have notslept for three nights. Go to bed, I need nothing more.” “Must I bolt the door?” “Yes, let no one in before to-morrow.” CHAPTER XII. At four o'clock in the morning, when day began to shine through the curtains, Camille said: “Hixcuse me, but I must. send you away. The Duke comes every da; partys They will tell him to- Hag Iam asleep, and he will wait until I awake.” took in my hand Camille’s head. Her hair was oo and falling around her, and I gave her a last kiss. ‘When shall I see you again?” asked I. “Take the little gold key behind the door,” said she; “ open the door, and bring me the key. During the day you will receive my order. You know you are to obey me implicitly.” “Yes; but if lasked a favor of you?” “What is it?” “To suffer me to keep this key.””’ “That I have never granted any one. You will not ask me?” , ‘* Well, do so for me, for I swear I love you as no man ever did.” ‘\Keep it, then. I tell you, though, at any time I can Ey a. useless.”’ “There is a bolt inside,” “Wicked!” “Which I will have taken off.” “You love me a little, then?” “YT do not know why, but I think I do.” We remained a few moments in each other’s arms, and I left her. The streets were deserted, The great city slept, and a gentle freshness pervaded those quartiers which the noise of men, would soon possess itself of. The sleeping city seemed to belong to me, and I sought to recall the names of those whose blessings Thad hitherto envied. I could then think of none more blessed,than I. To love a chaste girl, te reveal to her first the mys- tery of love, certainly is a great happiness, but it is not the greatest on earvh. It is simple enough: to take possession of a heart not used to attacks, to | enter an unprotected and unfortified town. Educa- tion, family sentiment and duty are very couching, but anything tender deceives a girl of sixteen, who, in obedience to the voice of honor, receives from him she loves those first lessons which are the more effective in proportion as they are the more pure, (But the more a young woman believes in good, the more readily she abandons herself, if not to the lover, to love: for being without distrust, she is without power, and to make himself loved by her is a _tri- wmph which apy man of twenty-five can have when he pleases, This is so true, that see how poor girls are surrounded by watches and manne eonvents have no walls high enough, and religion no oaths strong enough to restrain those charming birds of ge in the cages in which none have even taken care enough to strew flowers. Thus, they must long for the world concealed from ‘them, Bah they must taney Pla bey love the first. melody of the voice which passes their vars to tell them their secrets, and kiss the hand which had first lifted the veil of a mys- tery to them. Let me, however, return te the commencement of 4 this liaison. When I returned home I was madly gay. Fancying the barriers interposed by my imagi- ation between Camille and myself had disappeared —that she was mine, and that I understood her thoughts perfectly—that I had the key to her room. and the right to use it, I was satisfied, But what good did all this do? One day a young man passes in astreet. He elbows a woman, looks at her, then turns back and passes, He does not know that woman; she has her joys and sorrows, in which he in no respect Perueiraies: He has nothing to do with her, and, if he foo e to her, she would laugh at him, as perhaps Camille has at so many, even at me, Yéars, months roll by, during which they accomplish their destiny, and chance, perhaps, brings them together. This woman has be- come the mistress of a man, and loves him. How? Why? Their existence has become but one. They know each other, and immediately their intimac: a peared to have existed for ever. All that preceded it seems effaced from theirmemory. Thisis curious, I did not remember how I had previously existed. All my being was exalted into joy by memory of the words exchanged on the previous night, Camille was either most skilful in deceit, or she had con- ceived for me one of those sudden passions, revealed by the first kiss, which sometimes goes no further, I sank to sleep, reflecting that Camille had no reason to feign passion for me, and was aroused at an early hour to read the following note: “The following are my orders: Be atthe Vaudeville this evening. Come during the third act, Cot CM I locked up the note, that I might always retain possession of the reality, lest I should ever doubt it. She did not tell me to see her during the day! but I was so anxious to see her before the appointed time, that I went to the Champs Elysees and saw her pass again. I was at the Vaudeville at seven o'clock, though [ had never gone tothe theater at such an early hour before, All the boxes except one in the center of the first circle were taken. At the beginning of the third act the door of that opened, and I saw Camille looking for me. She summoned me to her by a glance. That evening she was wonderfully beau- tiful. WasIthe cause of this coquetry, anddid she love me enough to be anxious for me to admire her? I know not that this was the case, but if so, she suc- ceeded; for, when she entered, the heads of the audience undulated, and even the actors on the stage oe at her who disputed public attention with hem, Yet I had the key of that woman's room, and might know when she came and went. Those who ruin themselves for actresses and other women are censured, when the wonder is that twice as much money is not spent on their charms. One must have lived as I did, to be aware of the thousand ways by which they gratify their lovers daily. Pru- dence also came to the box, and a man, whom I saw afterwards was the Count de G——, sat in the dark portion of it, AsI saw him, a cold chill passed over my heart, amille certainly saw the impression produced on me by the appearance of that man in her box, for she smiled on me again, turned her back on the count, and seemed very attentive to the piece. After the third act she turned around, said a few words, the count left the box, and Camille called me to her. ‘** Be seated,”’ said she. ‘ se tae some one’s place. Will Count de G— re- urn ?" “Yes, I sent him for bonbons, to enable us to talk fora moment alone, Duverney is my confidante.” “Yes, do not be uneasy, for I shall be silent.” “What is the matter this evening, said. Camille, coming into the shade of the box, to be able to kiss me unseen, “Tam not well,” “You must go to bed,” said she with an ironical air. : ‘“ Where?” ‘At your home,” “You know I will be unable. to sleep.” “Then stop pouting, even if there be a man in my it “The fact is so, and you are wrong. Come, after > Prudence’s, and remain there until you Do you know I am afraid of lovingyou? Talk to Prudence about it.”" “Ah!” said the old woman, “she is,” ‘Now go to your place,” said she, ‘‘the Count is eens to return, and need not find you here.” “Because you do not like to see him.” ‘‘No, Because, had you told me you wished to come to the Vaudeville, I could have taken this box for you as well as he.” “Unfortunately, he bought it unasked for, and re- quested leave to accompany me, I could not refuse to accompany him, and I could only write to you that ou might see me. I, too, wished to see you. If, owever, you thank me thus, I will take advantage of the lesson.”” ‘ “Tam wrong. Forgive me.” “Very well, Go back to your box, and do not play the jealous lover,”’ After all, the presence of Count de G—— in Camille's box, was natural enough. That she should accom- pany an old admirer, who had bought a box to the play was simple enough, and soon as a woman like
Page 11
CAMILLE; OR, THE FATE OF A COQUETTE. n Camille became my mistress T had to use myself to it, Iwas not, however, the less unhappy during the rest of the evening, and was not the less so whenI saw Count de G——, Camille, and Prudence, drawn away in the same carriage. _ A quarter of an hour after I was at Prudence’s house. She had just come home, 20 CHAPTER XIII. %” “You came almost as soon as we did,” said Pru- mence. ‘t'Yes. Where is Camille?” “ At home.” ** Alone?” “With de G——” I walked up and down the room. “Well, what is the matter?” “Does it not seem odd for me to wait here until Count de G—- leaves Camille?” “You are unreasonable, for Camille cannot put de G——, who lived long with her, out of the door. He has always given her much money, and does so yet. Camille spends one hundred thousand franes a year, and is much in debt, The duke sends all sho asks for, but she dares not tell him all. She must not uarrel with the count, who gives her an extra ten thousand francs. Camille loves you, but situated as Fou are, your diaison with her must not be serious. yy means of your pension of seven or eight hundred francs, you cannot sustain the luxury of that girl. It would not pay for her carriage. Look on Camille as she really is—a pretty and intellectual girl. Be her lover for a month or two; give her bouquets, bon- bons, and opera boxes; but do not indulge in ridicu- jous scenes. You know with whom you have to do. Please her, love her, and care about nothing else. I am glad You are susceptible. You have the most agreeable mistress in Paris, who receives you in a magnificent room; she is covered with diamonds, and will not cost youa sou. Are you not satisfied? What more would you have?” “You are right; but the idea that de G—— is her lover, is too much for me.”’ “Is he her lover? He is merely a man she needs. She has kad her doors closed on him for two days. He came this morning and asked her to accept of a box, and his company, He. went with her, and on his return has gone for a short time. He will not re- peal eem you wait here. You donot object to the uke “He is an old man, and I am sure Camille is not his mistress. One may submit, too, to one Maison, but not tomore. It looks too much as if a perfect traffic of leve was made.” “Ah! you are behind the age. How many have I seenof the elegant and noble do what I advise you, and without any effort. But how think youso many women of Paris continue to lead the life they do, without three or four lovers each? No fortune what- eve: can meet the extravagances of a woman like Camille. A fortune of five hundred thousand a year in Paris is huge. Well, even that would be spent. And why? A man with such a fortune has an estab- lishment, dependents and horses, Often he is mar- ried, has children who have their extravagances and indulgences. These he eannot restrict without caus- ing scandal, and consequently he cannot give @ wo- man more than fifty thousand francs a year, and that is a good sum, ell, a woman like Camille must have other lovers to make up the deficit. Camille gets on admirably, for she has fortunately met an old man, the wife and daughter of whom are dead, and who gives all she asks for, exacting no return. She cannot, however, eo to him for more than sixty thousand francs, and 1am sure if she asked him for ee in spite of his affection, he would refuse er. “Let us, however,” said Prudence, “admit that Camille loves. you well enough to break with the count and the duke, and the one should tell her to select between him and you, the sacrifice she would make you would be enormous. What equal sacrifice would you make for her? You would have isolated her from the world in which her fortune lay. She would sacrifice her youth to you and be forgotten. If an ordinary man, you would taunt her with the past, and say, in deaving her, you bad but done what many of her lovers h ,and subject her to certain want. Otherwise you would be kind, and feel forced to keep her by you, and subject yourself to trouble, for a liaison of this kind, excusable in a young man, is less so to one of mature age—it permits no family ties, no ambition. Take things, then, as they are, and let no woman ever call herself your creditor.” This was all more logical than I had expected to bear from Prudence. I could only tell her she was right, and give her my hand. * Get rid,” she said, “of those fancies, and laugh! Life is je ‘ous, or not, according to the mirrorthrough which it is contemplated. Consult — friend Gas- ton, who understands love as I do. convinced of this, or you will be an insipid boy. Now, sit at the window with me and wait until the count goes; he will soon do so,” Prudence opened the window, and we looked out of it. She looked at the passers by whileI dreamed. All she had said boiled inmy mind, and I could not but agree that she was right, though my passion was not at all satisfied on that account. I sighedso that Prudence turned, around from time to time, and shrugged her shoulders, as a physician despairing of man’s recovery does. 2 ‘At last the count teft and was driven off in his car- riage. Then Prudence closed her window, and at the same time Camille called up. rf “Come quick, andsitdown. Lam about to sup. When I went in, Camille hurried to me, clung to my neck, and embraced me. She said: “Are you yet in an ill humor?” “No,” said Prudence, “I have been lecturing him, and he has promised to be better.” “Very weil.” Tlooked in the boudoir, nothing had been disturbed. Camille yee had on the white mere per We sat down. Camille had every attraction, and I soon had to own I possessed no right to ask aught of her; that many would rejoice in my place, and that, like the happy shepherd, I had but to enjoy the luxuries of a god, or rather of a goddess... I wished to put the theories of Prudence in practice, and to. be as my two compan- ions. What was natural to them, however, was an effort to me, and my laughter was almost hysterical. Supper was over, and I was alone with Camille, who sat, as usual, on the sofa before the fire, and looked sadly at the blaze. I donot know what she was arg of, but I looked at her with terror when 9 ehmeased what I was about to suffer on account of her. “Sit by me,’ said she, and I did so. Ss Faby vou what I am thinking of?” “What is it?” “T cannot tell you now, but ina monthI shall be free and out of debt, and we will pass the summer together in the country.” ; **Capn you not explain?’ BH aes ove me only as Ido you, and all will suc- cecd.’ “Ts the expedient all your own?” “ Yes.” Can you carry it on alone?” “T alone will have the trouble,” and a smile played on her face, “ but we will share the advantage.” T could not but blush at the idea, for I remembered Manon wasting with Desgreaux the money of M. de B——. I said, with a stern voice: “You must permit me to share none of the benefits of other undertakings than of those I participate in,’ “What is the meaning of this?” “That I suspect the Count de G—— to be your as- sociate in this expedient. That 1 will accept neither benefits nor charges from him.” “You are foolish; [thought you loved me but I was wrong.” She arose, opened her piano, and played the invitation waltz, until she came to the famous part in the major, where she always failed. Was it a mere habit, or wasit to recall to me our first meeting? ea I know is that I approched her, and begged her to orgive me, “You see I do,” said she; “but remember we are only at our second day, and already have much to forgive. You keep your promise of blind obedience but Peay “T fove you too fondly, and am ae ther of your every idea. What you suggested just now would make me mad with joy: but the mystery which pre- cedes the execution of the plan crushes my heart.” ; eo pala me, however, to consent, and I final- ly said: * Be it as you wish.” “Before a month passes, then, we will be in some village, by the water's side. It may seem strange to you to hear me, Camille Gautier, speak thus, but the reason is that this Parisian life, I seem to love so, consumes me; and then I have desires fora calmer life. One ever remembers childhood, whatever may intervene. Be calm, Iam not about to tell you that Iam the daughter of a half-pay colonel, educated at St. Denis. I ama poor country girl, who six years ago was unable to write her name. Why is it you are the first person I ever asked to share this pleasure with me? Because I saw that ey loved me for my- self, while others have done so for theirown. Ihave often been in the country, but never as 1 wished to go. On you rely for this pleasure. It should not be delayed, and I cannot forgive myself for not having mentioned it before.” What could I say, ially with the recollec- tion of our first night? An hour after I had Camille in my arms, and I would have obeyed her had she asked me to commit murder. I left at six in the morning, and said, asI left: “This prening, She embraced me the more, but she did not reply. one the day I received a letter containing these words: “My dear fellow. Lam sick, and my doctor bids me to be quiet. I shall go to bed early this evenin and will be unable to see be To reward you, I shail be at home to-morrow. lL love you.” The first thing [ said was, she deceives me. An icy peremication passed across my brow, forI was too ond of this unfortunate woman for trouble like this not to Overcome me completely. Yet I hadto t such treatment from Camille every day. This had often befallen me with my other acquaintances with- out attracting any great degree of attention. Whence eas then, the influence this woman exerted over me I thought, as [had the key to her room, I would go there. Thus I would know the truth, and if I found aman, I would slap his face. In the interim I went to the Champs Elysees, On the next evening I went te om theater she used to frequent, but she was in- visible. At eleven o’clock I was in the Rue d’Antin. There was no light in any of the windows. I rang the bell. The porter asked me whither I was going. “To see M’lle Gautier.” “She has not come back.” “Twill wait for her.” “‘ There is no one at home."" Evidently i could avoid this order, for I had her key. I feared, however, a ridiculous blunder. I did not go home, and I could not leave the street. tt J pleased me better than not to see seemed to me that I had something to learn, and at least that my suspicions were right. About midnight a cab I knew well stopped at the door, Having dismissed his carriage, the Count de G. entered the house. For a momens I hoped. that, like me, he would be dismissed, but at four o'clock he was yet in. For three weeks I had suffered much, but all was nothing to that night. CHAPTER XIV. WHEN at home! wept like a child. This has hap- ce to everyone more than once, in his life, for all ave been deceived more than once. Under the influence of the feverish resolutions, we ever think ourselves able to adhere to, I resolved to terminate our connection at once, and was anxious for day to come that I might take my place in the diligence and return to my father and sister, the love of whom I was sure would not betray me, I was, however, unwilling to go without Camille knowing why. Only a man who does not love his mistress leaves her without writing to her. I thought over twenty different letters. Ihad been too poetical, and she had treated me. as a schoolboy, using to deceive me a ruse of insulting simplicity. My self-love then became ascendant. I should leave this woman without giving her the satisfaction of a rupture, which was painful to me, and I wrote the following letter, as elegantly as I could, with tears of rage in my eyes: “My Dear CaMILLE:—I trust your illness of yester- day was but trifling. I went, between eleven and midnight, to ask after you, and was told that you had not come in, M, de G., itseems, was more fortunate, for he came a few minutes after, and at fourin the morning had not yet gone. ‘Pardon me the weary hours I have caused ou, and besure that I never will forget the happiness owe to you. ‘*T-would have come to ask after you to-day, but expect to return to my father’s, * Adieu, Camille. Iam not rich enough to sustain you as you wish, nor poor enough to see you as I would. Forget, then, one who must be indifferent to a a happiness which must be impossible, I send ack your key, which I have never used, and which may be useful to you,if you are often attacked as you were last night.” As you see, I could not write this letter without am impertinent irony, showing how much I loved her. I read this letter over and over, thinking that the trouble it would give her would calm me. I grow bold, and when my servant came, bade him delivor the letter, “Must I await an answer?” asked Josephj(liko all his class, his name was Joseph). “Tf they ask if an answer is needed, say you do not know, and wait.” I fancied, weak creatures that we aro, that she would a Be While Joseph was absent, I was in the BPE WS agi- tation, WhenI remembered how Camille had given herself to me, I asked how I dared to write such a let- ter, when she might reply that not I but M, deG@—— was deceived, Sometimes recalling her protestations, I sought to convince myself that, under the circumstances, my letter was too mild, ‘Then I fancied I had better not written, and not have gone to her.all day, and thus have enjoyed the tears she could not have but shed. I then nogek to conjecture what answer she would give, and had already managed an excuse when Jos- eph_returned, “ Well?” said I. “Madame was asleep, but when would send the answer, if there was She slept. Twenty times [ was on the point of sending for the letter, but I did not, fancying it had perhaps already been given her. As the hour for the receipt of her reply drew near, Iregretted the more that I had written. Ten and eleven came. } At noon I was on awh ere of going to the rendez- vous, as if nothing had passed. I could invent no way to extricate myself from the iron band which enc. me. ' 4 L yet waited a tan at one o’clock, ith a superstition peculiar to all anxious people, I fancied if I went out for a short time, on my return I would find a reply. Answers impatiently waited for, always come when not expected. T left then, under the pretext of going to breakfast. Instead of going to the Cafe Foy on the corner of the Boulevard, as I used to, I went to the Palais Royal, to haxe an opportunity of passing under the windows of Camille. As often as I saw a form in the distance I fancied Nanine was bringing me a letter. I met, however, no one; went into you 's, and returned home, after hav- ing ae for a breakfast I did not eat. y eyes were fixed on the clock, and I went home convinced that I would find a letter. None had come. ; Had Camille intended to write, she would bave done so. I then began to regret the terms of the letter. I should certainly have been silent, This would have at least made her uneasy, for when she saw 1 did not keep the appointment she would have asked reasons for my absence, and then I could have replied to her. She then could not but have exculpated hereelé. and I wished her to do so. I felt that I would have yield- ed to any excuses, and that anything would have er she awoke they any.” 4 . zea wie
Page 12
- me that Camille loved me. In the first tay : credit to you.” . fect. I was humbled both in vanity and in love. 12 CAMILLE; OR, THE FATE OF A COQUETTE, I almost began to think that she would herself come] ‘‘ She went to the opera.” tosee me. Time passed, however, and she did not} ‘I know; and then?” $ come, - “Supped at home.” Certainly Camille was unlike other women, for few. ** Alone?” on thereceipt of such a letter as I had written woul not have made some reply. At five o'clock Lhurried to the Champs Elysees,| ‘Not at all. and said to myself, if I meet her I will affectan air| ‘lam glad she has forgotten me,” said I, with a of indifference, and she will be assured that I have | heart-broken smile forgotten her, At the turning in Rue Royale I saw her pass. The meeting was brief, and I grew pale. I know notif she observed. my emotions but I was so troubled. that I scarcely saw her carriage. I did not continue my promenade to the Champs Elysees, but looked at the theater bills. Iwas yet full of the idea of meeting her. A. first mepiescntauion. took place at. the Palais Royal, at which I was sure Camille would be pre- Be! nt. I was at the theater at seven ee and though the boxes were full I did not see Camille. Lleft the house and went into ali‘ the theaters she frequented —the Vaudeville, uhe Varietes, and the Opera Comique. She did not appear, Either my letter gave her so ‘much trouble that she did not come tothe play, or she was afraid to meet me, Such was the whisperings of my vanity, when I met Gaston, who asked me whence I came?’ “From the Palais Royal.” , “I came from the Odeon, where I expected to meet ‘ou.”” “ 9 * With de G—, I think.?’ “Then our quarrel has not affected her habits?” talked more reasonably than she, for she loved you, | of pete, else, and was capable of any folly. ‘“Why did she not answer my letter?” ‘Because she saw she was wrong in loving you. Though women permit their love, they never permit their self-love to be outraged by a man’s leavin: them, after the lapse of but two days; never min what the cause of the rupture may be. I know Ca- mille, and she would die sooner than answer you.”” ““ What mmnst.I do?” “Nothing. You willforgeteach other, and have no cause to reproach yourselves,” bs if f wrote to ask her pardon?” “Be wise; she will pardon you.” I was near bugging Prudence, A quarter of an hour afterwards I was at home, and wrote as follows: ““A person who repents of a letter written yester- day, and who will leave to-morrow if you do not par- don him, asks when he may lay his repentance at oe feet? When will he find you alone?’ You know is confessions must not have witnesses.” I sent my prose madrigal by Joseph, who gave my letter to Camille herself, who said she would send an answer. I cid not go to dinner, but at eleven o’clock there was no answer. I made up ge 4 mind to avoid further suffering, and to set out on the next day. Being resolved to do so, and satisfied that if Llaid down 1 would be unable to sleep, I began to pack up my baggage, “ Camille was there.” % ** Alone?’ “No; with a female friend. The Count de G—— was for a moment in her box, but left with the duke. I expected to see Pe every moment, and a seat stood vacant, next to me, all the evening. Iwas satis- fied you had taken it.” ““Why should I go to see -amille?”’ *“ Because you are her lover.” “Who told you so?” Prudence, whom I saw panereey Icongratulate you, One cannot find a better mistress, She isa CHAPTER XV. Josrps and I had been preparing about an hour for our departure when aloud ringing was heard at the This remark of Gaston proved to me how ridiculous | d my susceptibility was. Had I met him on the pre- vious evening I would not have written such a ridi- culons letter. _ Iwas on the point, of Foin to Prudence and re- mesting her to tell Camille that I wish to speak to er. I was afraid, though, that to avenge herself she would not speak to me, nor receive me, and I -went home after having passed the Rue d’Antin, I asked if there was a letter, and was told there was mone. She wishes to see what I will do next, and whether I will retract my letter of to-day, but seeing that I do not, she will write to me to-morrow. That night, at least, I repented of what I had done. I was alone at home, could not sleep, was devoured by uneasy jealousy, and gave vent to my nerves at an hour when I might have been at Camille’s side and listening to her honeyed words. What was most ‘painful in my situation, was the fact that reflection ‘Bhowed me that I was wrong; for everything told plave was her oor. “Shall I open, sir?” “Yes,” I wondered who couldcome at such an hour, and dared not think it could be Camille. “Monsieur,” said Joseph, ‘“‘two ladies.” “Tv is me, Armand,” said a voice I recognized as Prudence’s. Ileft my chamber. Prudence was. standing, and examined my preparations with curiosity. Camille sat thinking on the sofa, I went to her, took her hand, knelt, and said; “Pardon me.” She kissed me, and said: “This is the third time I have done so.”’ “T was to leave to-morrow.” “‘ Why should my visit alter your resolution? Iam not come to hinder you from leaving Paris, but be- cause I have not all day time to reply, and would not have youangry with me, Prudence, too, sought to prevent me, and said I would probably disturb you.” “How could you?” “You might have some woman here, and it would n of passing a summer in the country with me; he aoa propane Fo her to see two others come,” as La hon tiie certainty that nothing compelled her to be my mistress, for my fortune was insufficient for her Shims and caprices. She had, therefore, no interest ‘in me but the idea or expectation of meeting in me a dence. this observation of Prudence’s, Camille uring looked attentively at me. sincere affection, to replace the mercenary loves| ‘My dear Pru ence,” said I, “you do not know asia witch she ved: On the next day, however, I| what you say,’ ¢rushed this hope, and repaid in irony or impertin-| ‘‘ Your rooms are very pleasant, May Isee where ence a love acknowledged and gran on two occa- you ep e: “Yes,” gone Thad, therefore, been not only ridiculous, but indelicate. I should have, at that time, made Camille She went into my room, less to examine it than to a present sufficiently rich to admit of no doubt of my papete the folly she had committed, thus leaving Ca- mille Senarpsit , and which would have permitted me, by d myself together. ating her as a paid mistress, to think me even did you bring Prudence?” asked I. with her. I feared, however, to offend her by the| ‘‘She was with me at the play, and when I left your room I would need a com on,” * Was I not here?” “Yes; but besides being unwilling to disturb you it was certain that on coming to my door you would wish to come in, and as it was impossible, I did not wish to leave you offended at a refusal.” “Why could you not receive me?” * Because I am watched, and ‘the least suspicion would bea ttmisfortune.”’ “Ts that the only reason?” ‘Were there another I would tell Pomgsor we need no longer have secrets from each other.” *“Oamille, I wish to come to the point at once—tell me frankly, do you love me?” **Much.”” ‘Why do you deceive me?” “Were Ia duchess, with an income of 200,000 franes a year; if I were your mistress,and I had another lover; you would have aright toask me, I least semblance of reward, as I would have offended amyself by any allusion’to traffic. ‘My passion for her “was too to admit of any compensation, and t pale for by any present, rich as it was, no was the hapriness she had conferred on me. , ch things p: all night through my mind, and ‘every moment I was ready to hurry to tell them to Camille. _As you imagine, it was necessary for me to take a decided part, and either to abandon Camille or my scruples. + dawn I was yet awake, hada fever, and could think of no other subject. ' At nine o’clock I hurried to Prudence’s. She asked me to what she was indebted for this morning visit. I dared not tell her frankly what was the matter, but ‘that I had left home thus early to take a place in the c ce to C——, where my father lived. * “You are fortunate,” said she, “in being able to leave Paris so early.” ~ Tlooked to see ifs she was laughing at me; but she ‘seemed serious. am, though, Camille Gautier, 40,000 francs in debt, ine bid Camille adieu?” said she. pases on Fp rep _— ‘* nee 100,000 aa vyear. s 2 ? iton 'e. “You are right,” “True, Reaid I, suffering my head to sink on her '| knees; “but I love you madly.” ‘Well, you must either love me less or understand me better. Your letter pained me much, Had I been free, Iwould not have received the Count yes- terday, or having received him, would have come at once to ask you cocking me, and would promise to have no other lover. I fancied at first that for six months I might allow myself this happiness, but you would not permit, insisting to know how, and by what means. The means were enough to kuow. Lhad but tosay Ineed twenty thousand francs. You loved me, and would soon have raised them. Such , when they have any remnant of heart, are : d to words, what gold can never bring, ** Do you think so?” “ Certainly—as you have quarreled, why see her?” ©’ You know of our rupture?” “T saw your letter.” ) “What said she?” *** Prudence, your protege is not polite. One im- agines such letters, but. never writes them,’” “ And in what tone did she speak?’ “ Smilingly,”’ she ope added; ‘‘‘he supped twice at my house, and did not even return a visit of and my jealousy had produced this ef- “What did she do yesterday?” ‘She is right, and you are also. You have acted | feet of whom I once scarce dared hope with a prodigality other women are ignorant of; and on behalf of Camille Gautier I repeat to you that the means she adopted to pay her debts you should have profited by, and not have been curiousabout. Had you known me only to-day, you would be but too much delighted at my promise. We are often forced to purchase pleasure for our souls at the ex- pense of our bodies, and which are the more painful after the reward has been lost,”* I listened, and looked in admiration at Camille. When T reflected that this wonderful creature, the to kiss, consent- ed thus to make me of some importance in her life,and that I was discontented with what she had granted me, I asked myself if man’s wishes be limitless, when, though brompay satisfied as mine had been, he yet seeks for something more. “True,” continued she, ** we creatures of chance have fantastic desires and wishes, and inconceivable loves. We often give ourselves for one thing and for another. Thereare persons who ruin themselves for us unrewarded, and others who win us with a bouquet. Caprice is the only relaxation and excuse of our hearts. I yielded to you sooner than to any other man, I swear—and why? Because, when you saw me spit blood you took my hand and wept. What I say is foolish, but I once had a dog that looked at me when I pai as you did—it was all that ever loved me. I could, therefore, have but one pleasure, and it was a sad one. Suffering, as I often do; unhappy asI am frequently on finding a superior man, who would ask no explanation cf me, and who would be the lover of my impressions rather than of my life. This man I found in the Duke, but he is old, and can, on that account, neither protect nor console. I thought I could be contented with the life he offered me, but I die of ennwi, and to do so much not to be consumed, I felt that it would be as well to cast myself into the flames or to stifle myself with charcoal. “Then I inet you, young, ardent and happy, and I sought to make you the man for whom I had called from my solitude; what I loved in you was not the actual but the possible. You refused your part, threw it aside as unworthy of you; youare a commonplace lover. Do as others do; pay me, and let us talkno more of it.” ; Camille was fatigued by this long confession and to stifle a cough placed a handkerchief to her lips. “ Excuse allthis. I understood it, but wished, dear Camille, to hear you say it. Let us forget the rest, and remember but one thing, that we are both young and love each other. Do with me, Camille, what you please; I am eee slave, your dog. In heaven's name, tear up the letter and do not let me go to-mor- row, it will kill me.” Camille took my letter from the bosom of her dress, and said, with a smile of ineffable sweetness, “ Here it is, take it.” I tere the letter and kissed her hand, Prudence just then returned. ** Prudence,” said Camille, ‘‘do you know what he asks?” Pardon?” “* Exactly.” “ And you yield?” “J must; but he asks more, “ What?” “To sup with us.’’ “Do you consent?” “Seat do you enon | a ‘That you are stupid youn; le, Talso think that Iam ge hungry, and gpa aeeaa you consent the better. Do as you will.” I kissed Camille. Joseph then came in, looking asif he were delighted with himself, and said: ‘‘ The trunks are packed.” “Entirely?” uo Yes.” “Then unpack them, for I will not go to-morrow.” CHAPTER XVI. “T mout,” said Armand, “ briefly have described to you the commencement of this liaison; I wished, however, for you to see how and by i i, io ha { came to consent to all that Camille wi , and she to be unable to live without me. On the next day I sent her Manon L'Escault. I henceforth, as I could not change the course of the life of my mistress, changed mine. I would not permit myself to reflect. on the part I played, for in spite of a Iwas as sad as ble. My usually calm life all at once assumed an appearance of noise and disorder, Let her be ever so disinterested, do not think that a mis- tress costs nothing, Nothing is more expensive than her ceaseless whims for flowers, suppers, ete., which one can never refuse a mistress, is f told you, I had nofortune. My father was, and is, Receiver Gen- eral at C——. He hasa caer reputation for integrity, _ bearers of which he easily found the securi' en rancs a year, which soem When I was twenty-one he income of five thousand francs more, tel so that, with this sum, I could live very happily at Paris, if t would add to it either by the law or medicine, -I came to rey een having studied, was admitted to the bar, but, like many rors men, I put my diploma in my pocket, and led an idle lifein Paris, My ex- peénses were modest, but in eight months I spent my es income and passed the summer at my father’s, hus having 12,000 a year, and yaining the reputation of being a good son. I did not owe a sou. Such was
Page 13
——__—____— CAMILLE; OR, THE FATE OF A COQUETTE. 28 ¥ I when I made Camille’s acquaintance. You will see that my expenses increased, Camille was of a most caprieious “disposition, and was one of those women who look on their amusements as necessities. Con- sequently, wishing to pass as much time as possible with me, she wrote in the morning’ that» she would dine with me, not at her house, but ‘at some restau- rant either in Paris or in the vicinity. I went with her, and thence we would go to the play, so that I frequently spent four or five louis a day, or francs a month, @ thing which reduced my year to about three months and a half, or else either to incur debt or to break with Camille.” T was willing to submit to all except the last alter- native. Excuse me for giving you these details, but you will see they were the cause of the events that follow. What [ tell you is atrue, simple story, the simple de- tails of which are its only attractions. Ithen saw that as nothing would have influence to make me forget my mistress, I had to find the means she wished to make us meet. This passion took such a possession of me that every moment passed away from Camille seemed a century, that tis tire had to be consumed by some passion, and that I had to live g0 fast that I should not notice the passage of time. I began by borrowing five or six thousand franes on the security of my little capital, and began to play; for, since public gaming houses are destroyed, play iscarried oneverywhere. In old times, when people went to Frascati’s, they had a chance of making their fortunes, and the consolation of saying they went to win, but now, except in certain circles, where securi- a of paymentis maintained, one is almost sure, at the moment of winning an immense sum, not to re- ceive it. It is easy to see why. It is not necessary for me to tell you of those who rob at cards, the condemnation of whom the events of each day record. Into this rapid road I 1 ed, and there is some- thing terrible in the idea, but which was but the development of my love for Camille. What should I ? 0) The night passed in the rue d’AntinI would have assed at home without =i Jealousy would have <ept me awake, and would haye wasted my blood. Play, however, for a while, turned my fever aside int a passion which, in spite of myself, took posses- siowof me. Then, when about to rejoin my mistress, alone did I become aware of the violence of my love, for—whether a gainer or loser—I left the table pity- ing those who, unlike me, were not made happy by leaving the table, o Gaming, in most cases, is a necessity, but to me it wasaremedy. Cured of Camille, I would have been cured of ea Amid ail thisI maintained the greatest sangfroid, and never lost more than I could pay nor more than LIcould lose. As Itold you, I had consented to be received be- tween eleven o'clock and midnight. [t was not. easy to resist a life which permitted me to satisfy, without trouble, Camille’s countless fantasies. She loved me as much as ever, While the ie metamorphosis was effected in me, a physical change had taken place in Camille. I had undertaken her cure, and the poor girl, who had become an object to.me, obeyed ne to evince her atitude. I had contrived to isolate her entirely from er old habits, My physician, whom I made her send for, had told me that prudence and quiet alone could preserve her health, so that for late suppers and sleepless nights L had substituted a hb gienic regime and regular life. In spite of ;herself, Camille grew used to this new life, and felt ils salutary effects. When she began to passa few evenings at home, or when, if the weather was fine, she wrapped herself in a cashmere, we went out like children to thread the alleys of the Champs Elysees, she returned fatigued. and.retired, after a little musie, or after having read a while. . Her health then improved rapidly, and the cough which, whenever I heard it, tore my heart to pieces, was hushed. Before six weeks had passed the count was defin- itely sacrificed, and the existence.of the duke alone forced me to conceal my liaison with Camille. Even he had often been dismissed while Lwas in the house, under the pretext that she slept, and had ordered that she should not be disturbed. . The time when I was wont to rejoin my father and sister was come; and, asI did not go, I received letters from both, urging me to come home, I replied to all these as well as I could, repeating that I was well and did not want money, two things which I fancied would console my father, One day, cheered by a bright sun, Camille sprang out of bed and asked me if I would pass the day in he country w er. f ~ We nando Prudence and left together, Camille telling Nanine to say to the duke that she had taken advantage of the fine day and had gone into the country with Madame Duyernoy. _ Besides the fact of Prudence’s presence being needed to tranquillize the old duke, she was one of those women who seem made for these country parties, Her gaiety and appetite left not amoment of ennui to those she accompanied, and she was perfectly able'to command the prepara- tion of all that-belongs to the traditional dinners of the environs of Paris. { ' We had but to decide whither we would go, and Prudence decided this eee for us. : © you wish really to go into the country?” Yes.” “Then let us go to the Day-break House of Mme. Arnould, at Bourgevat. , take acalash,”’ An hour anda half after we were at Mme. Arnould’s. Perhaps you know that woman’s house, where they ci) mauingiette every Saturday. On the left, where the aqueduct of Morley closes the horizon, there ex- tends on the left an infinite sequence of hills; a river “ “ at this place, almost without’ current, unfolds itself like a broad ribbon of watered silk between the Plain des Gabillons and the vale of Croissy, perpetually sus- pee by the murmur of the poplars and the wil- lows. Ina broad expanse of beautiful sunlight stood lit- tle cottages with red roofs, and manufactories, which, losing their stern character in the distance, complete the landscape. Far in the distance, was Paris. As Prudence had said, we were really in the country, and I must say we had a real breakfast. Madame Arnould offered us a sail in a boat, a thing to which Camille and Prudence readily consented. In the country Camille Gautier, of whom every man the el- bow of whom I touched, might be the lover, became, amid persons who had never seen her, amid scenes of nature, an object of love of which there was no necessity of concealing. The courtezan disappeared, With me was a young and pretty woman whom I loved, and whose name was Camille. The past was forgotten, the future was without clouds, e sun shone on my mistress as it: would have done on the chastest bride. We walked in the charming places which seemed made to recall the verses Lamartine sang to Scudo’s melodies. _Ca- mille was dressed in white, hung on my arm, and re- peated, beneath the starry sky, the words she had uttered the previous evening. The world in the dis- tancé continued its life, without touching us with its shade, but smiling at our youth and our love. You must add to this, that from the place where we were I saw a charming house of two stories, behind which lay an iron gate, opening into a lawn. Behind this was a beautiful little road, full of mysterious en- trances and retirements. Charming flowers covered the entrance to this house, and. reached up to the first story. After looking at this house I became satisfied that it was for me. ‘What a pretty house,” said Camille, who had fol- lowed my eyes, and, perhaps, my thoughts, “Yes,” said Prudence. “There,”’ and she pointed to the house in question. “Tt is charming. Does it please you?” “Very much.” “Well, tell the Duke to buy it for us. I will take charge of it.” Camille looked at me, as if to ask what I thought of the matter. What Prudence had said destroyed my dream, and the reality yet stunned me. ‘Truly, it is an excellent idea,” muttered I. ‘Well, I will arrange that,” said Camille, clasping my, hand. ‘Let us go at once and see if it is to let.” he house was vacant, and to be let at 1,000 francs ayear. ** Will you be satisfied here?” “Am I sure to come?” . 4 A And. for whom shall I bury myself if not for you?’ ‘Well, Camille, let me take this house myself.” “Are you mad? It is not only useless, but it is dangerous, You know that I can accept favors but from one person. Let matters alone, and be silent.” “The result will be, that when I have two leisure ve) I will pass them with you.” e left the house and returned to Paris, both filled with these new resolutions. I had held Camille in my arms so closely that when we left the carriage I already began to understand the arrangement of my mistress, and to look less scrupulously at it, CHAPTER XVIL CAMILLE dismissed me at an ently hour on the next day, saying that the duke would come early; promising to write as soon as he had gone and grant a rendezvous. I soon received this message: “I am going to Bourgeval with the duke, Pradeuce’s at eight to-night.” At the appointed hour, Camille rejoined me at the house of Mme. Duvernoy. “ Allis arranged,” said she, as she came in. **Is the house taken?” **Yes, he consented at once.” I did not know the duke, but was ashamed of de- ceiving him as I was about to do.” rs is not all,” said Camille. ** What else?” “T shall not be uneasy about Armand.” “In the same house?”’ asked Prudence, smiling. “No! but atthe Daybreak House, where we break- fasted; while he was looking af the place in the dis- tance, I asked Mme. Arnoul 1 if she knew of any suitable place. She has a suite porignet of a par- lor, chamber, and ante-chamber. is is all he wants, and she charges sixty franes for it. The whole is furnished in such a style as to keep him from jhypochondria. I took them at once, Was 1 ‘ht? ; nig clasped Camille around the neck. “This will be charming,” added she; “you will have a key of the little door, and I have promised the dukeanother, which he will not take, for he will only come by day, being, between ourselves, en- chanted by the fancy w for some time, removes me from Paris, and which fora time makes his fam- ily hold their tongues. He, however, asked me how I, who. was so fond of Paris, could consent to bury myself in the country. I tola him I was ill and needed repose. The r old man is always on the look-out, e must, therefore, be very careful, my dear Armand, for he will have me watched, and he must not only take a house for me, but. must pay my sobeniand unfortunately have many. Does this suit you “ ” i es,’ said I, seeking to stifle my scruples, which from time to time would arise, comps Be at Bb} ‘“We have examined all the details of the house, which will sutt us wonderfully well. The duke was uneasy about ever 7cning Ah! how unhappy you are to have a millionairefor-your steward.” * When will you fix yourself?’ asked Prudence, ‘* As 800n as ible.” * Wiil you take our carriage and horses?” r “Everything. You will take charge of my rooms during my absence.” ) Eight days after, Camille had taken possession of the country house, and I was‘at the Daybreak House. Then I began a life it would be difficult, indeed, for me to describe. to you. When she first went to Bourgeval, Camille could not at once break: her habits, and as the house was onescene of festival all her companions Came tosee her. Fora whole month not a day passed without there being eight or ten persons at the table. Prudence brought her friends, ane did the honors of the house as if it belonged to er. The duke paid for all this, as you may fancy, yet more than once Prudence: asked me for a 1000:frane note, in the name of Camille. You know that £ had been fortunate at cards, and hurried, therefore, to comply with the request, and fearing that she would need more than I had; went to Paris to borrow what I had previously done, and had repaid exactly. I was then again in possession of 10,000 frances, without counting my pension. The pleasure of receiving her friends was somewhat lessened by the expense of entertaining them, and especially at the necessity of coming sometimes to me for money. The duke, who had taken the house for Camille to rest, no longer came thither, fearing always to meet the joyous company, by whom he was unwilling to be seen. One day having come to dine tete-a-tete with Camille. he found her at table with ten persons, who had no! finished breakfast at the hour he expected to dine. When,suspecting nothing, he opened the door, a burst of laughter greeted him, and he was foreed to retire brusqnely before the rude layghter of the persons he found there. Camille arose, and found the duke in the next room. She did all she could to make him forget the matter, but the self-love of the old man was wounded; he told the — girl that he was weary of paying for the follies of a woman who could not make herself respected in herown home: From that time nothing was heard of him, and though Camille dismissed her friends, the duke sent her no messages. My dream was completely rea- ized, and my mistress was all my own. Without caring for the consequences, Camille made our liat- son notorious, and £ never left her house. The ser- vants ae me master, and looked on me officially as such, Prudence lectured Camille sternly about our new life, but the latter only said that she loved me, and that if the duke came back she would not give me up. She said those who did not like me might stay away. One day I overheard Prudence gay to Camille that she had something very important to communicate, Soon after Prudence came from her chamber. I was sure that an interesting conversation was about to take place. I listened. ‘* Well?” said Camille. “T saw the duke.” ““What did he say?’ “That he willingly forgave the first scene, but that, having learned that you lived publicly with M. Ar mand Duval, he could not excuse you. Let Camille leave him, and he would give her all she wanted, whatever it might be.” “What said you?” “That I would tell’ you, and persuade you to be — reasonable. Reflect that you destroy yourself, and that Armand never will be able to restore you your position. He lovesyou with all his heart, but is poor, and must leave — some day, when the duke will be unwilling to do anything tor you. Shall I speak to Armand?” . ih ¥ Camille was silent, and my heart beat violently. “No,” said she, * I will not leave Armand, nor deny that I live with him, Perhaps it is foolish, but I love him, Now, too, he has grown used to love me with- out obstacle, he would suffer at the idea of leaving me, though but for an hour. Besides, my life will be too short to induce me to make myself miserable for an oldman, the very look of whom enervates me. Let ins Beep his money. I will do without him.” . “ Well! : Prudence was, doubtless, about to make a reply, but I threw myself at the feet of Camille, covering her hands with tears at my happiness, _ *“ My life isyours, Camille; you no longer need that man. I will never leave you, aud will reward. you for the happiness you confer on me. We love each other, and what matters the rest?” ; . “Yes, I love you,” said she, twining her arms around my neck; ‘I love as I never thought I could. We will beso happy. I will bid an eternal adieu to this life at which I now blush, You will never re- proach me with the past?’ Tears stifled my voice, and Icould only reply by clasping Camille to my breast, a Turning to Prudence, she said: ‘ “Go and report this scene to the duke, and tell him we do not need him.” 4 ren From that time there was no allusion to the Aye. Camille was no longer the girl I had known. 8 avoided all that could recall the recollections of the life amid which I met her. Never had woman_hus- d, orman wife, more devoted. When we left the house for brief excursions into the coda nene would have fancied that the lady in the white dress, wrap- ped in a plain silk pelisse,was the Camille Gautier, who had lived in such extravagance and been the theme of such scandal... arin Ley Alas! we hastened to be happy, as if sure that. our pleasure could not last. We not go to Paris for a ee Pst eee
Page 14
ee 4 CAMILLE; OR, THE FATE OF A COQUETTE. ns two months. None came to see us but Prudence, and the Julie Duprat, of whom I have spoken, and to whom Camille pare he be oer ae hae ral Lhave here. I passed whole days at the feet of my mistress. We opened the windows which looked on the en, and watched the flowers open and close—neither Camille nor I had ever been so happy. She was child-like in her amazement at trifles. Some days she ran, like a child, about the garden after a butterfly. The court esan, who had spent so much money in a would sometimes pass an hour examining a violet. Atthis time she read Manon Lescault, and one day I found her making notes on the book. She told me thata woman who really loved could not act as Manon did. « The duke wrote to her two or three times. She knew his hand, and gave me the letters to read. The terms of the letters sometimes brought tears to my eyes. i a) closing his purse he had expected to bring Ca- mille back; but, seeing this was useless, he had writ- ten, asking leave to return on any terms. * Iread those pressing letters, and tore them up— not telling Camille what they contained, and not tell- ing her to see the old man, though a feeling of com- passion induced me to do so. « I feared, though, lest she would look on sucha piece of advice as a wish for the duke to resume the expenses of the house, and thus avoid the responsibility of the future ex- penses of our /iaison. The consequence was, that the duke. being unno- ficed, ceased to write; and, careless of the future, Camille and I continued to live together. CHAPTER XVII. To. describe the details of our new life would be difficult. It was composed of a series of childtsh tri- fles, utterly insignificant to relate, but pleasant to us. You know what it is to love a woman; you know how they abridge days, and, with amorous idleness, they enable us to float on to the morrow. You are not ignorant of the oblivion of all things springing from violent love, when mutual. We regret having previously thrown portions of our heart to other wo- men, and never dream of the possibility of clasping another band than the one held by us: The brain admits neither of toil nor memory, and nothing dis- tracts it from the only thought perpetually offered us. Every day we discover some new charm in our mistress—some unknown voluptuousness.” Existence is but the reiterated accomplishment of a continuous passion, and the soul but the vessel containing the Sometimeés, though, I observed that Camille was sad, and that tears were in her eyes. I asked her the meaning of this chagrin, and she replied: “Ours is not ordinary love, dear Armand. You love me asif I had never belonged to another; and I tremble, lest, repenting some day, you should look on the past as a crime, and force me to return to the life whence you took me. Remember, now, having ted of a new existence, I should die to change it. Say, then, you will never leave me.” “¥ swear I never will.” At those words she looked as if to read in my eyes if my oath were sincere, then threw herself into my ne and said: _ **¥ou do not know how TI love you.” One evening we sat alone on the balcony, and looked at the moon, which seemed to rise with diffi- culty from its cloudy bed, and listened to the wind rustling the leaves. We clasped each other’s hands, and did not speak for a full quarter of an hour. At last Camille said: “Tt is now winter; shall we go?’ “Whither?” ““To Italy.” “ Are you weary?” “T dread to return to Paris.” “Why?” . “On many accounts.” She continued, quickly, without sive me time to reply: “Do you wish to go? I will ‘sell all Ihave, and we will live there. There will remain nothing of what I was, and no one will kaow whoITam. Do you wish to go?” “Let us do so, Camille,” said I, “if you wish it. Why, baie must everything be sold to make you happy. I have not a large fortune, it is true, but enough to enable us to travel for six months, if you wish to do so.” : “Not so,” said she, leaving the window, and sittin; ona sofa in a corner of the room; “* why spend money Thave already cost you enough,” “Tt is not generous, Camille, to reproach me.” “Excuse me,” said she, giving me her hand. *‘ The weather has affected me, and I did not say what I meant.” Having embraced me, she sunk into a deep rev- ery. - a similar scenes took ignorant of what produced t ‘was uneasy about the future. She could not doubt my love, for it increased every day, yet I often saw _ her sad, without any explanation othér than a physi- “cal cause. Fearing that she would weary of too monotonous a life, I proposed to her to return to Paris. She always rejected this proposition, and as- sured mé she would nowhere be as baer Prudence came but rarely to see us, but wrote let- lace, and though I was em, I saw that Camille ters that I never asked to see, though they always nies oe. most thoughtful. I did not know what nk. ‘ ' ¥found Camille one day writing in her room. I went in. . _ “To whom do yon write?” | “Prudence, all Tread you the letter?” “Thad a horror of everything like suspicion, and told appy asin the} Camille no—yet I was sure this letter would have in- formed me of the true cause of her sadness. The next day the weather was fine, and Camille ie a stroll to me to visit the Isle of Croissy. jhe seemed very gay, and it was half-past five when we returned, ‘““Madame Duvernoy has been here,” said Nanine. “Has she gone?” “Yes, she said she was forced to.” “Very well,” said Camille, ‘now let us have din- | ner.” Two days after came a letter from Prudence, and for a fortnight Camille seemed to have laid aside her mysterious melancholy, which, at a time it really did not exist, she asked me to excuse. The earriage did not return. 4 ““Why does not your carriage come?” asked I, one ay. “*One of the horses is sick—and the carriage needs repair, and it had better be done now when we do not need a carriage, than when we are in Paris,” ‘A week after Prudence came to see us, and confirm- ed what Camille had told me. They were together in the garden, and when I join- ed them they changed the conversation. When she left in the evening, Prudence complained of cold, and Camille lent her a cashmere. Thus we passed a. month, and Camille became more joyous and gay than she had ever been, The carriage and the cashmere, however, did not re-appear, and this perplexed me. AsIknewin what drawer Camille kept Prudence’s letters, I took ad- vantage of a moment when she was in the garden, and hurried to the drawer. It was in vain, for it was double locked. I then searched those in which she usually kept her jewels, and they opened easily. The cases, however, were gone. A poignant fear filled my heart. I was about to question Camille about the discovery. Would she answer me? “Camille, I wish you to let me go to Paris, None know where I am, and there must be letters from my father. _ He is uneasy, and I must write to him,” “Go, but come back soon,” I eres to F adenests. ‘Tell me,” said I, without any other preliminar ni be are Camille’s horses ?”. be “y ae ‘So ‘The shawl?” o Sold ” “ Her jewels?” ““Pawned.” “Who did 50?" sypo ‘ Why did you not tell me?” “Camille forbade me.” “Why did you not come to me for money?” **She did not wish it.” ‘“What did you do with the money?” ‘Paid it away.” ** Was she much in debt?’ “Nearly thirty thousand franes; all I said to you was true, but you would not believe me, now youare eonvinced, The carpet-man,; when he called on the duke, was put out of the door, and told that the duke would have nothing to do with Mile, Gautier. This man wanted rg ee. and I gave him the few thousand | ; francs I asked you for on account. Some kind souls then told him his debtor, abandoned by the duke, lived with a young man of no fortune. The other creditors were also informed, and they made seizures, Camille wished to sell everything, but she had not time. I, too, would not have consented te it. She had to pay, and to avoid asking for money sold her horses, her shawl, and pawned her jewels. Do you wish the receipts of the creditors and the tickets of the pawn-broker?”” * Yes—yes, I will give you the amount.” “You will borrow it.” “Yes.” “A pretty scrape you are about to getinto. You will get into Pyareine with your father, and lessen Sed resources, Thirty thousand francs are not to e picked up every day. Believe me, Armand, I know woman better than you do, Do not be so fool- ish, for you will Gertainly repent of it. Be reason- able. Do not leave Camille, but live with her as you did at the commencement of the summer. She will get out of the trouble, and matters will be ually arranged between the duke and herself. 6 Count de N——, if she will accept him, will pay all her debts and give her four or five thousand francs a month. Hehas anincome of 20,000 francs. This wille a position for her, while you, after all; must quit her. Do not wajt to doso until you are ruined, A aesivange as the countis a fool, and you will con- tinue to be her lover. She will shed tears at first, but will afterwards thank you. Only imagine she is married, and deceives her husband. I told you this before, but only in the shape of advice, now I warn you almost of a necessity.’ ; dence was right. “This is the state of things,” said she, folding u the papersshe had shown me. ‘Some women al- ways anticipate being loyed, not loving, or else they would lay money aside, and at thirty you might en- oy the luxury of a lover, Had I known what I know! ay nothing to Camille—take her to Paris. You have lived four or five months alone with her; be reason- able and shut your eyes, ei | more is asked of sy In a fortnight sne will take the Count de N—. he will be economical this winter, and next sum- mer you will resume your present life. Act thus.’ . Prudence seemed enchanted with her advice, which I rejected with indignation. | Not only my love and my eeaty, did not permit me to act thus, but I was satisfied that Camille would die rather than consent to such an arrangement, -< a ae 2 a a % “*No more trifling, Prudence. How much money does Camille need?” “T told you—thirty thousand francs,” “When must this be paid?” * Before two months,” “She shall have it.”” | Prudence shrugged her shoulders. ‘**] will give it you, but you must swear never to: tell her how you got it,” “ Be easy.’ * if she sends you anything else to sell or pawn teil me,” F “There is no danger—she has nothing else.” I went to see if there were letters from my father, anc found four. CHAPTER XIX. In the first three letters ay father was uneasy at my silence, and asked why. In the last, however, he suffered me to see that he was aware of my change of life, and informed me of his speedy arrival. Thad always had great respect and sincere affec- tion for my father; I therefore told him that a, little excursion had been the cause of my silence, and beg- fed him to inform me of the day of his arrival, that might meet him, I gave my servant my address in the country, and bade him Dring me the first letter post-marked. pees I then returned to Bourvegal. Camille waited for me at the door of. the house. Her glance expressed anxiety, and she could not re« frain from saying to me: “* Have youseen Prudence?” ‘_ “T have received letters from my father, to which I must reply.’” A few moments after, Nanine came in panting, Camille spoke to her ina low voice. When Naning left, Camille said, sitting by me and taking my hand! Why did you deceivemet You went to see Prud ence,” “Who told you?” “Nanine,” “How did she know it?” “She followed you.” “Then you bade her do go.”” - “Yes; I fancied you must have some motive te act thus at Paris, when you have not left me for four months. I feared lest some misfortune had happen- eis to you, or that you had gone to see some other lady, “Tam nowsure. I know what you did, but not what has been said to you. This is not what I wish— but I wish to know why you went to see Prudence,” ““To visit her.” “That is not true.” “Well, I went to ask if the horse was better, and if she needed your'shawl and jewelsany longer.” Camille blushed, but did not reply. I continued: “T know the use to which you put your horses, dia- monds, and cashmeres.”’ “What do you wish me to do?” “To ask me for all you need.” 4 “Ina “iatson like ours, if the woman yet retains any ity, she should endure every possible sacrifice ather than demand money from her lover, and make her love venal. I know you love me, but you do not know how tight is the string that binds a love like mine. Who knows? Some day ennui may lead you to fancy all that has passed a careful calculation, What need had I of these horses? Had I any econ- omy in selling them? I can do without them, for you will love me as much without ahorse as if I had thousands, and also without shawls and diamonds.” All this was said in so natural a tone that it brought tears into my eyes. ‘o's “But, Camille,” said I, clasping my mistress’s hands passionately, ““you knew that some day I would tell you of this, and that even then I would not suffer,” “ Why?” * Because I do not wish your love to rob you even of a jewel.’ Ido not wish you to think that you ever lived with any other man and that the time would ever come when you repented that you had’ loved me. Ina few days your diamonds, jewels, shawl, all will be restored to you. You need them as much ag air and life; and, though it be simple, I love you bet- ter sumptous than simple.” “Then you do not love me!" “That is madness; “If you did you would suffer me to love you in my own way. You, though, will look upon me as a per- son to whom luxury is indispensab. le, for which you ever think yourself authorized to pay. You fear to accept these proofs of my love. You expect to leave me and to shake off all suspicion. You are right, but Lhoped better things of you.” . Camille would have risen, but I restrained her, and di said: “Tonly wish you to be happy, and to have no cause. to reproach me.” “We must separate.” “Why, Camille?” cried I. ““You, who will not let mé know your position, and who are vain enough to seek to sustain mine. You, who, by maintaining the luxury amid which I have lived, seek to preserve the moral distance which arates us; and who will not think my affection dis- interested enough to share with me your fortune and enable us to live happily together, Think cae compare a carriage to your love, and’ that I to ruin myself as a slave toa ridiculous prejudice? . pose you pay my debts, and sellall you have to do so! How long willitlast? 'Two or three months, and then it will be too late forme to adopt the life you propose, for then you would accept nothing from me,
Page 15
GAMILLE; OR, THE FATE OF A COQUETTE. Now you have eight or ten thousand francs a year, on which we can live. I will sell all my superfluities, and on this I can make two thousand livres a year. We will hire some pleasant room, in which both of us will live, In the summer we will go into the coun- try; not to such a house as this, but to one large enough for two persons, You will be independent, I will be free, and, for Heaven’s sake, Armand, do not reject me for the life I once had tolead!”’ could not reply, for tears of ney filled my eyes. My voice was stifled, and I flung myself on ‘amille’s neck, “T wished,” said she, “to arrange all without speaking to ee to pay my debts, and to take new rooms, In October we would have gone to Paris, and all would have beentold. As Prudence, however, has told § fone you must give your consent now.” I could not resist such devotion, but kissed Ca- mille’s hands, and said; x “T will doall you wish,” and all she had determinea on was consented to. Then she became madly gay; danced, sang, and chatted about the room, I saw this new determination, which seemed likely to unite us finely, made her happy, and I determin- ed at once. I fixed the state of my fortune, aband- oning to Camille allI inherited from my mother, which seemed altogether insufficient to reward her for the sacrifice I accepted. oo & father allowed me five thousand frances, so that, whatever happened, I had enough to live on. * Idid not tell Camille what I had resolved on, be- ing satisfied that she would object to it. his income came from a mortgage on a house I hadnever seen. All that I knew was that, at the end of every quarter, my father’s old notary sent me seven hundred franes, in exchange for a simple re- ceipt, Qn the day we came to Paris to look for rooms, I went to the notary, and asked him what course I should adopt, and he at once told me all the truth, He did not object, as, in accordance with his position of notary and friend, he might have done, and assur- ed me that he would arrange all matters as well as possible. Tadvised him to be as discreet as possible tomy father, and hurried to meet Camille,at the » house of Julie Duprat, where she preferred to re- main, rather than to hear alecture trom Prudence, We set out in search of rooms. All we saw Camille thought too dear, and I too plain. We finally, how- ever, took them in the quietest part of Paris, in a lit- house isolated from a larger building. Behind these rooms was a charming garden, with walls high enough to separate ourselves from our neighbors, and yet low enough not to shut out the view. This was bet- ter than we had hoped. WhenIwent to my house to give up my rooms, Camille was with her man of business, who had already done fora friend what she wished him to do for her, She met me delighted, The man had promised to ‘pay all her debts and to give her twenty thousand franes for all her furniture. You. see by the prices paid at the sale that thus was gained 20,000 francs by the operation. We returned to Bourgeval perfectly delighted, and econtmued to talk of the future, which, thanks to our carelessness and our love, seemed golden-tinted, . Eight days after, when we were at breakfast, Nanine came to tell me that my servantjwished to see me. “ Monsieur,” said he, ‘your father is in Paris, and is most anxious to see you at home,” This was the most natural thing in the world; ‘but when we heard it, Camille and I exchanged glances. We foresaw trouble. I clasped her hand as an ac- knowledgment of this, and said, ‘‘do not be afraid.” “Come back as soon as you can,’ said Camille, kissing me, “I will wait for you at the window.” I ads Joseph say to my father that I would soon come. 4 Two hours after I was in Province street. CHAPTER XX. My father sat in his Greeeiny cova at the window, writing a letter. Assoonas he put his eyes on me, I saw that he had something to say. 1, however, ap- proached him asif his countenance gave me no in- timation of his meaning, and asked him when he had come “Yesterday evening.” 4 ae you come hither as you were used to?” ‘Yes, “Tam sorry that I was not here to receive you.” I expected at this word to hear the lecture which my father’s face promised, but he said nothing, seal- the letter he had written, and gave it to Joseph. ree preg then arose, leaned against the fireplace, and said: ** Armand, we have serious things to talk of.” “Thear you, father.” ‘Will you be frank?” “Tt is my habit.” “Do you live with a woman named Camille Gautier?” “ Yes.’ “Do you know who she is?” “A kept woman,” ‘On her account you came not to see your sister and myself?” t “Yes; 1 own it,” . “Then you love that woman?” “You see Ido, father, asshe made me forget my duty, to you, for which i humbly ask God to pardon me , My father, evidently, did not expect such categori- eal replies, for, having reflected a minute, he said: S) ou saw that you could not continue to live us: ‘tT feared, but saw not.”’ ‘ “But you knew I would not suffer it?” “T said to myself that I would do nothing contrary to the respect due your name and the traditional honor of our family. I knew, though, I might live as Ido, and that reassured me,’ “The time for you to change your life is come.” “Why, :ather?”? “ Because you do ey now which injure the re- spect due your family. Iwill be explicit. You have amistress, This is all right enough, as long as you pay, asa man should, for his pleasures, You, how- ever, for her, forget the most holy things, and permit the noise of bh scandalous life to reach our province, and cast a shadow over the honorable nameI gave you, This shall not be.” “Let me tell you, father, that those who have thus spoken to you have also kept me well ted up. I live with and love M'lle Gautier, and all this is the simplest thing in the world. I do not confer on her the name I received from you; I pe only what my means allow; I am out of debt, and have been involv- ed in none of those positions which authorize a father to speak to his son as you have done to me.” “A father is always authorized to warn his son against evil ways. As yet, you have done nothing wrong, but you will.’’ * Father!” “TI know the world better than you. No women but those who are perfectly chaste nave perfectly pure sentiments. Any Manon will make a Des Gneux, Times and manners are changed. It would be use- less for the world to grow old if it. did not grow bet- ter, You will leave your mistress?” "7 am sorry to disobey you, father, but I will not.” “You shall!” ; “Unfortunately, father, there is no longer a hos- pitalto which courtesans are sent; if_there were, ] would follow Mlle, Gautier thither, What do you wish? I am wrong, perhaps, but cannot be happy except as her lover.” “Come, Armand, look around you; see yar father, whom you have always loved, and tell him if it be honorable for you to live with a woman to whom all have access.” “What matters all that if she loves me, and be- comes regenerated by the love she bears me and I entertain for her? what if she changes?” “Tell me, sir, do you think it the mission of a man of honor to convert courtesans? Do you think God assigned such a grotesque object. to life, and that the heart should have no other enthusiasm? What will be the conelusion of this wonderful case? And what will you think of to-day, when you shall be forty? You will, if you yet can, laugh at your love, provided there be not too profound traces on your vat life. What would you then be if your father hought as you do, and abandoned his life to these gusts of love, instead of following the path of duty, and honor? Reflect, Armand, and do not talk so foolishly. You will see this woman no more, your father begs you.” I was silent. “ Armand,” continued my father, ‘tin the name of your sainted mother, believe me; renounce this life —which you will forget sooner than you think—to which an impossible theory is attached. You are but twenty-four. Think of the future. You cannot always lead this life, nor can a love this woman, who will cease to love you, ou each exaggerate your love, and you exclude yourself from every ca- reer. Goone step further, and you may leave the right road, and feel remorse during all your youth. Come with me, and cytes a month or two with your sister. The tranquil repose of your father’s house will cure you of this fever, for it is nothing else. Dur- ing this time your mistress will be consoled—will take another lover; and when you see that you came near a trouble with your father,-you will say I was right to come for you, and will bless me, Will you not 5° Armand?” I felt that my father was right in regard to all other women, but I was satisfied that this was not the case with Camille. The tone he used, however, was so mild that I dared not reply to him. ‘Well,’ said he, with emotion. “Father, Ican promise nothing: what you say is above my power. Think,” added I,as he made a new motion of impatience, ‘that you exaggerate this liaison. Camille is not the woman you think her, Her Jove, so far from casting me into the evil way, on the eontrary, may develop the most high-toned sentiments. rue love, it matters not the woman who inspires it, is always a benefit: Did you know Camille, you would see that I exposed iiyself to nothing. She is noble as a woman can be, and is as disinterested as others are covetous.”’ “What you say is noreason why you should not accept my offer, for the sixty thousand francs you inherit from your mother and which you wish to give her, are, remember me, all your fortune,” wee father had probably nursed this threat asa last low, -“ Who told you I would give her this sum?” “My notary. Would an honest man have made such a conveyance without telling me? Well, to prevent you from emi) so foolish a thing, and ruin yourself fora woman, I come to Paris. our moth- er gave fee enough to live honorably, and not to be a prodigal to your mistress.” “Tswear to you Camille knew not my intention.” “Why, then, did you make it?” “ Because this woman you calumniate and wish me to abandon, makes a sacrifice of all she has to live with me.” “And do you accept this sacrifice? What a man you are to permit Camille to sacrifice nothing for you. Come,‘his is enough, leave this woman. order you. I will notsuffer such things in famfly. Pack op your trunks and prepare to follow me." “Excuse me—I will not go, My father grew ale. “Very well,” said he, ‘I know what Ihave to do,” He rang, and Joseph appeared. “Take trunks to the Hotel de Paris.” He then. went into his room and dressed himself. “You promise me, father,” said], “to do nothing to annoy Camille.” My — paused, looked contemptously at me, then said: “T think you are mad.” He left the room, slamming the door as he did se, Ithen took a cabriolet and set out for Bourgeval. Camille waited for me. CHAPTER XXL “AT last,” said she, clasping me by the neck, “ you. are ci i I then told her the scene with my father. “T feared it,” said she; ‘‘ when Joseph came to tell us of the arrival of your father, I trembled as if at. some new misfortune. My poor friend! and I cause- all your sorrows. Perhaps you had better leave me: and not quarrel with your father. Yet k have done: nothing; we lived quietly and would have done so, He knows that you have a mistress and should be: glad it was I, for I love you and ask no more than your position permits. Did you tell him how we ar- ranged the future?” “Yes, and what he said then irritated me most— for he saw in it an evidence of our mutual love.” “What must we do?” ‘Remain together and let the storm pass by.’” “ Will it pass?” ‘ **Tt must,” “Will hot your father be obstinate?” “What elsecan he be?” ,, ‘““What know I of all that a father can do to make his son obey him? He wit remind you-of my past life, and, it may be, will do me the honor of invent- ing some new story on my account to make you aban- don me,” “You know I love you.” ““Yes; but I know that sooner or later you must obey your father, and will be finally convinced.’ hoe 80, Camille, I wil) convince him. This is but the chattering of some one of his friends, which has made him speak angrily. He is kind and just and will recover from his first impressions. After all what, matters?” “Do not say so, Armand. I had rather do any- thing than suffer it to be thought I had made a diffi- culty between you and your father. Let to-day pass, and to-morrow go back to Paris, and both your father: and yourself, having reflected, may come to an un- derstanding. Do not shock his deas, but seem to yield; do not seem to adhere so much to me and he will leave things as they are. Hope everything, and’ be sure of one thing, whatever betides, Camille will! love you,’ “Do you swear?” “Need I swear?” : ’ How pleasant it is to be assured by a voice we love, Camille andI passed the whole day in repeating our lans, as if we understood the need of realizing them.) e waited every moment for some event, but fortu- nately the day brought no news. On the next day I set out at ten o’clock and reach- ed Paris at noon. My father had left. I went to my house, but no one had been there. IT went to the notary’s, no one had been there. to best agen and atsix o'clock M. Duval had not re- turned. I set out for Bourgeval, I found Camille not waiting forme as she had done at the window, on the previous evening, but seated YY the fire, which the season already nade comfort- able. She was lost in thought, so that J stood by her chair before she saw me. en I pressed my lips on her forehead, she quivered as it my lips had suddeén- ly aroused her. “Youscared me,” said she; “‘ what of your father?” “Thave not seen him. I do not know what this: means. He was neither at home, nor at any of the places where I e: to meet him.” “Well, you will have to go again to-morrow.” “T have a great mind to wait until he sends forme, I have, I think, done all I should.” “Notso. You must return to your father, and to- morrow.” “Why sooner then than on another day?” “Because,”” and Camille seemed to blush at the question, “ perseverance on your part will seem maore urgent, and our pardon will be the quicker.” amille seemed thoughtful during all the rest of the day. Iwas forced to repeat what ¥ said to her again and again to get an answer. She accounted for this by fear excited by the events of the last two: days. I passed the whole night in reassuring her confidence, and she induced me to leave, on the next. day, with a pertinacity I could not éxplain to myself. s on the day before, my father was absent, but he left this letter: “Tf you come to see me to-day, adhe until four o'clock. If lam not back by that time, dine with me to-morrow. [must speak with you,” At four, my father had not returned. Tf left. On the previous evening Camille was sad, but to~ day she was feverish and agitated. When she saw me enter, she clung to my neck and wept in my arms: fora oe time, I asked her about this violent grief, the increase of which alarmed me. ' She could assign me no possible reason, saying all that oceurs to a woman's mind ges. Iwent | , Faas
Page 16
16 CAMILLE; OR, THE FATEH OF A) COQUETTE. an excuse. When she was some- her the/ results of my voyage. I showed her the letter of a father, and persuaded her that it promised well. henshe saw the letter, and heard what: said; her tears increased, and i called Nanine. Fearing a nervous attack, we put her to'bed; without Saying a word, she held and clasped my hands, kissing them every instant. I asked Nan- tne if) during my mee, her mistress had received any letter or visit which could occasion the:state in whicheI found her. Nanine told me no.» Yet, since the previous evening, something most unpleasant had oceurred to disturb Camille, which she concealed when'she wishes what calm, I told from mes ‘She seemed calmer than she had on the |* revious evening, and’made me sit by her bed. She hen smiled with an effort, and assured me of her jove. Her eyes were dimmed by tears. I did all I ould to make her tell the truth, but she persisted in refusing to give me other than the vague reasons she had gored assigned, Shé finally went to sleep; but it was that sleep which erushes and does not rest the body. From time to time she uttered a feeble a. sprang up, and, being satisfied that I was by her s de, e me Ya ear that I would always love her. I could not un- Be erstand the prolongation of this sorrow from morn- ang tonight. Camille folsnens into a kind of stupe- faction. For two nigh' she had not slept. Her repose was brief. About eleven o’clock Camille awoke, and, seeing me dressed, she said: Then you will go?’ “No,” said I, taking her hands; “but I wished you tosleep. Itis yet early.” “When will you go to Paris?” ** At four o’clock.” *So soon? Till then will you remain with me?” “Certainly! is it not my delight?” 5 “What happiness! Shall we breakfast, titen?”’ ecmrensed she, in a musing air. 3 ~ “Ifyou wish.” _ And then we will be together until the hour of parting.” - £ ; “Yes, and I will be back as soon as possible.” “You will return?” said she, with haggard eyes. s eseenng: “True. ou will return, and I, as usual, will await you, You willlove me, and we will be as happy as we have been since we met.” This was said in so broken a voice, that I trembled fest Camille should become delirous. * Listen,” said I, ‘‘ you are sick; Icannot leave you thus. Iwill write to my father not to expect me.” “No, do not,” said she, rapidly. ‘“ Your father will think I leapt you from seeing him. No—no, you must go. Besides, 1am not sick, butam much better. I did not seem well when I awoke because I had a bad dream, Camille strove thenceforth to be more gay and shed no tears. linsisted on remaining as long as possible with her; she consented, and taking her cloak went with me. Nanine accompanied her, that she might not return alone, Twenty times I had nearly decided not togo. The hope of a speedy return, however, an a wish not to displease my father again sustained me, and the train bore me away. “ Adieu till this evening,” said I, as I left, Camille did not reply. Once before she had not re- plied similarly. and the Count de G—— had passed “Not well.” ‘ Will'she come?”’ “Did she expect to?” Prudence blushed, and said, in a troubled man- mer; “JT wish to ask whether, when you come to Paris, she ia Join you?” 0. I looked at Prudence, whose eyes fell, for the pur- pose of reading her meaning. “Icame to ask you, if er have nothing to do, to gee Camille. Remain with her, and put her to bed. I have never s¢en her in such a state as she is in to- vy dine in the city,” said Prudence, “and cannot wee her to-day, but will to-morrow,” Itook leave of Madame Duvernoy, who seemed almost as abstracted as Camille, and went to meet my father, who loo! attentively at-me. He gave me his d, and said: : ‘Your. two yisits have pleased me, and make me hope that you have reflected, as I have,” May I ask, father, what has been the result of your reflection?” of Pune ox pupatsird. theimportance of the stories told. me, and tI resolved to be less severe with you.” ; oe What say you?” said I, joyfully, “Tsay that as every young man will havea mis- tress, Lprefer your being the lover of M'lle Gautier than of another.” “fe Been father, how ha) you make me!” We talked ther and down. My father was as De as he eould be, as long as_we were to- .. Lwould have hurried back to Bourgeval to _the result, and looked every moment at my wal wee look at your watch, and are anxious to leave me. Ah, Rigen people, you always sacrifice @incere to artificial affections.’ ete na f [Bok 80} Camille loves me, I am sure!” _ My x did not reply. He seemed neither t- doubt nor to believe. He sought to make mé pass all the evening with kim, and set out the next day; but I had ieftCamilie ill, and asked leave to quit him, promising to return the next day. It was good weather, and he insisted on 4 Sn sSoeegpe to the station, Never had I been so: happy. ie future seemed to open to me as for a long time it had not done. I loved my father better than ever. As Iwas about to leave, he urged me again: to re- main. I refused. **Do you love me?’ he asked. “Madly.” Go, then.” He passed his hand over his brow, as if to vag away & ses as opened his lips, asif about to speak, clasped my hand, and hurried away, saying: “To-morrow, then.” CHAPTER XXII Tue trair. seemed to go slowly, and I was at Bourgeval by eleven. Every window of the house was dark, and I rang the bell without an answer. For the first time this happened. At last the gar- dener appeared, and I wentin, Nanine got a light I went into Camille’s room. “Where is madame?” said I, ‘Gone to Paris.” “To Paris?” “Yes.” ‘“When?” “ An hour after you.” “She left nothing?’ ‘* Nothing.” a ane Did she say she was waited for?” ‘No.” Nanine left me. She may have been afraid, and have gone to Paris to be sure that rf visit to my father was nota pre- text for a day of liberty. r Prudence may have written to her on some important matter. en, though, I was alone, I said that I had seen Prudence, who referred to nothing important as likely to make her write to Camille. All at once, I remembered Madame Duvernoy’s question. | ‘‘She will not come to-day, then?” when I said Camille was unwell. I also remembered Prudence’s manner when I looked at her after this phrase, which seemed to betray an appointment. ‘© this was united Camille’s many tears during the night, and the reception made me by my father. From that moment all the occur- rences of the day grouped themselves around me, and impressed me with all my father’s clemency had suggested. Camille had almost forced me to go to Paris, and affected calmness when I Reps to re- main with her. Had Camille deceived me? Hadshe intended to return in time and been prevented? Why had she said nothing to Nanine? hy had she not written, What these tears, this absence, and mys- tery? Yet, taking into consideration the dispositions we had made, was it not most improbable that she would deceive me? Yes. I sought to fal} back on my first ideas, The peer girl has found a purchaser for her furniture, and has gone to Paris to conclude the sale. She has not been willing to inform me, for she knows that, though I accept it on account of her happiness, it is painful to me, and she is afraid to wound my self-love and my delicacy in spesking of it. She wishes to appear only when all is over, Pru- dence evidently waited for this, and betrayed herself before me; Camille has not been able to conclude her bargain, and has slept at home, or perhaps is_about to come home, for she is aware how uneasy I must be, and certainly will not leave me alone, Why, then, her tears? cement: in spite of her love for me, she could not resolve, without weeping, to abandon the luxury amid which she lived and which made her so mciiinel ft h t, and waited i tient: willingly forgave her regret, and waited impatient- ly to teint: as I kissed her, that. Lsaw the cause of her absence, : Yet as night advanced Camille did not come. This uneasiness gradually increased and clouded my brow and heart, Scmething might have happened. Could she have been injured? ould any messenger come to tell me of a painful accident? . Perhaps day would find me as uncertain and as frightened. i: ‘he idea that Camille deceived me, did not occur oO me. At last, as one o’clock struck, I said to myself that I would wait an hour longer; but that if Camille was not back by two, I would set out for Paris. Itook a book and sought to reflect. Manon Les- cault lay open on the table, and here and there seem- ed marked by tears. After aba ese the leaves, I closed the book, the characters of which seemed obscured by my anxieties, The hours slowly advanced. The sky was over- clouded, an autumn rain pattered on the windows. The empty bed seemed to assume the aspect of a tomb-—I was afraid! T opened the door and heard nothing but the noise of the wind inthe trees. Not a wheel was heard, The half hour rang sadly from the church belfry. I began to fear lest some one should come, It ap- per to me that only trouble could come at such an our. Two o’clock struck, and I listened, The bell alone disturbed the silence of the night. 1 left the room, ane in EPthes apartment saw Nanine asleep over er work. As the door opened she awoke, and asked me if her mistress had returned, “No, but if she does, tell her that I could not resist my uneasiness, and have gone to Paris,” *So early?” “ Yes. ” “Bus ron cannot get a carriage.” “T will go on foot.” “Tt is raining.” “What of it?” “Madame will come, or, if she does not, there is time enough to find out what has become of her, You will be murdered on the road,.”’ “ There is no danger.” The young girl went for my cloak, threw it around my heck, and offered to wake, up Madame Arnould and ask if she had a earriage. LI was not willing, because I feared to lose, in this unfruitful ateny evhaps, more time than I would need in going half the way. I needed air and a physical excitement to exhaust the mental excitement to which I was a prey. I took the key of the rooms in the Rue d’Antin, and, having bid adieu to Nanine, set out, At first I ran, but the ground was newly wet and fatigued me. : After half an hour of this kind of work,I had to stop to take breath. It wasso dark that every mo- ment Istruck against the trees, which, as they ap- peared, looked like phantoms. I met two or three carriages, which I soon passed, A calash came at a full trot from toward Bourgeval. Asit passed, the hope of seeing Camille broke upon me, and I stopped it, calling her name, Noone answered, and the carriage drove on. When I saw it disappear 1 resumed my ppt It took me two hours to reach the darrierre del’ Etoile. The sight of Paris restored my strength, and I hur- ried down the long alley I had so often crossed, No one passed, and the promenade seemea the city of the dead. Day began to break. When IJ reached the rue d’Antin the great city was not yet awake. The bell of St. Roch struck five as I entered Camille’s house, I gave my name to the porter, who had received money enough from me to know that I had a right to enter Mlle. Gautier’s house at all hours. I passed without difficulty, I might have asked if Camille was at home, but he might not have been able to an- swer the question, and I preferred to doubt yet longer, for that doubt included hope. I went up stairs. I listened at the door, seeking to catch a sound or a motion—nothing. All seemed as silent as the country. I opened the door and entered. I went into the bed-room and drew the bed-curtains. The bed was empty. gn almost mad. I went into the dressing-room ans Vee Prudence, but her window remained closed. I then went down and asked the porter if M’lle- Gautier had been at home during the day. “Yes,” said he, “* with Mme, Duvernoy.” PM cog said nothing?” —" “No.” “Do you know whither they went?” “They went in a carriage.” “What kind of’one?” “A coupe.” “What does this mean?” Trang the bell next door, “Where are you going, sir?’ asked the porter “To Madame Duvernoy’s.”” “She is not at home.”” “ Are you sure?” “Yes; a letter was brought here yesterday whichI have not been able to give her.” The porter mechanically showed me the letter. I knew Camille’s hand. I took the letter, which was directed to ** Mme. Duvernoy, for M. Duval.” “This letter is for me,” said I, and I showed him the address, “Are you M. Duval?” Yes,” said I. : “Ah! I often saw you at Mme. Duvernoy’s.” - When in the street I broke the seal, and had a thunderbolt fallén at my feet I could not have been more surprised, “When you read this letter I shall be chosen of another. Return to your father, to that chaste young girl, your sister, who is ignorant of all those miseries we have known, and which would soon have made you suffer as that lost girl called Camille, whom you persisted in loving, and who is indebted to ou for the only happy hours of a life which she ) will not last long.” fancied, when I read the last word, that I had be- come mad, and dreaded lest I should fall on the ips bie A cloud passed before my eyes and the lood rushed to my temples. I gradually recovered, looked around me, amazed that the tenure of others lives was preserved. I was not able to bear the bur- den of the blow Camille had inflicted on me alone, I remembered that my father was in the same city, and that in ten minutes I might be with him and tha I would tell him all the cause of my grief. I ran like a madman to the hotel de Paris, and found my fath- er’s aah in his door. I went in, He was reading. From the little surprise he expressed at seeing me, one might have read that he expected me. I threw myself into his arms without speaking a word, I gare him Camille's letter, and, falling on the bed be- ore him, wept scalding tears. CHAPTER XXIII. WueEn things had resumed their course, I could not think that the day which was about to begin would not be like the previous one. There were moments when I imagined that some circumstance which I could not remember had caused me to pass the night out of Camille’s house, but that if I went back to Bourgeval I would find her as uneasy as I had been, and she would ask me why I had remained away, f.
Page 17
CAMILLE; OR, THE FATE OF A “COQUETTR. >. From time to time I read Camille’s letter, to convince myself that I did not dream. .My physique gave way, beneath the moral shock of anxiety—my night's journey, and the morning’s news, had exhausted me. y father took advantage of this total prostration to ask a formal promise from me that I would leave her. 1 was but too willing to be consoled. All that I can remember is, that about five o'clock on that evening he made me getinto a post-chaise, having Pia yeuely caused my trunks to be packed and placed with his, and took me away, Y I did not know what I was doing until the city had disappeared, and when the solitude of the road told me how desolate was my heart. Then my tears began to flow. My father had seen that even his words did not console me, and he let me weep without speaking a word, merely clgping my Haat as if to recall tomy mind that I had a friend _be- side me. During the nightI slept, and dreamed of Camille, and then I started up to find that I was in a carriage. When I saw the reality of my condition, I es 25 head fall on my breast. At last my father “You see I was right when I denied that she loved ‘Ou. ” He did not abuse his advantage, and we reached C— without his having said pay ching but words completely unconnected with the passed events. When I embraced my sister 1] remembered the words Camille had used in her letter, and saw that, good as she was, my sister could not make me forget my mistress. The hunting season had begun, and my father fancied it would be an amusement for me and he, therefore, got up parties with his friends an neighbors, I went without repugnance and without enthusiasm, with the Sparny which had, since her de ure, characterized all my actions. We were hunting by droves. My gun was un- cocked by me, and I dreamed. I watched the pass- ing clou Ilet my thoughts wander in the lonely plains, and from time to time I heard the huntsman call out that a hare passed within thirty paces of me, These details did not escape my father, and he was not deceived by my exterior calmness on my return, He saw that, crushed as it was, my heart would have some terrible reaction which would, perhaps, be dan- gerous, and while seeking not to seem to console, sought to amuse me, My sister naturally was not in ay, ‘ather’s confidence, and she could not see how or why I had all at once become so moody and abstract- ed. Sometimes, surprised amid my sadness, I gave ler my hand, and she would clasp it asif to ask me for a tacit pardon for the injury I had done her. Thus a month passed, but I could bear no more— memory of Camille constantly pursued me, I had loved and still loved that woman too much for herto become all atonce an object of indifference to me. It was necessary either for me to love or to hate her. It was necessary for me to see her, and at once, This desire took Face of my mind and im- ressed itself with all violence, so that ultimately my Boy yielded toit. Imust see Camille, notin a month, a fortnight or a day, but on the next or the day after, and I told my father I must leave him, as business called me to Paris, but that I would return immedi- ately. He doubtless guessed my motive, for he in- sisted that I should remain, as the transaction of any businessin my irritable state might result in conse- quences fatal to me. He besought me, at length, in tears, to return soon to him. I did not sleep till I reached Paris. What then was Ito do? Idid not know; but it was necessary that I should see Camille, I went to dress, and, as the weather was fine, I strolled to the be) Elysees, In about half an hourI saw in the distance the carriage of Camille, She had repurchased her horses, but. she was not in the carriage. I looked around, having remarked her absence, and saw that she was on foot, accompanied by a woman I had never before seen, Asshe passed me she grew pale, and a nervous smile contracted her lips. My heart beat violently. but I gave a cold expressien to my face and bowed distantly to my old mistress, who at once went to her carriage, into which she and her friend entered. I knew Camille, and saw that an unexpected meet- ing with her had overpowered me. She had ascer- tained my departure, which had calmed her mind about the future, but seeing me pale as I was, she knew my return had an object, and she asked herself what that was. Had I found Camille Motes 48 if to avenge myself had been able to come to her aid, I aya have pardoned her, and at least have’done her no injury. I, however found her happy, or at least apparently so, Another had restored her to the lux- ury in which I could not maintain her, and our rup- ture consequently assumed the character of self in- terest. Iwas humiliated in my self-love and inter- est. Lcould not be indifferent to what she did, con- sequently what injured her most was indifference. I had then to feign this sentiment not only to her, but to others. I sought to keep up asmiling face, and went to see Prudence. The femme de chamber went to announce me, and Thadto wait awhile in the ante-chamber, Prudence at last appeared, and took me into her boudoir, and as soon asthe door was closed I heard a light step inthe passage, and a door violently closed behind me, “ ‘b you?” | “rel Roe ae an. Camille was here, but when she freely, for I was stifled by emotion. get ack see whether I was the man she had really known so much in love. “At the Champs Elysees. She was with another woman, who is very wey Who was she?” “What is she like?” aft: blonde, with curls, blue eyes, and’ very ’ele- gant—— “Olympe. A ve retty girl.” ¥ With whom does aie live? ““ With no one in particular.” ‘She lives——” “Rue Tronchet, No. 13. Do you wish to see her?” ‘“‘No one knows what may happen.” “And Camille?” “To tell you that Thave forgotten her would not betrue. ButI am one of those men on whom a rup- ture has much influence. Now, Camille dismissed me so cavalierly that I am ashamed to have loved her as I did, for T really did.” You may imagine my tone, but the perspiration stood on my brow. “She loved, and yet loves you; and the proof is, that after seeing you, she came at once to tell me of the fact, She was pale and trembling almost toa fainting fit.” “Well, what did she say?” “She told me, he will certainly come to see you, and beg him to pardon me,” ° . “T do. Youcan tellher so. She is @ good girl, but she is, after all, a girl, and I should have expeeted her to act as she did. Iam even teful for her resolution. For I can but ask myself to-day whither a maintainence of our resolutiou to live together would have led us, ¢ { “She will not be satisfied when she hears you un- derstood the necessity of your condition, It was time for her to leave you, for the seamp to whom she sold her furniture, when he saw her creditors, and found out how much she owed, was afraid, and in two days she would have been sold out.” now all is paid?” 1th A ao ‘“Who furnished the means?” “Count de N——. He paid twenty thousand francs, but he came.to the bottom of his means. He knows that Camille is not in love with him, yet he is kind to her.. You have seen him, He purchased her car- riage, horses and jewels, and also gave heras much money as the Duke. If she would be quiet, thisman would remain with her a long time.” “What is she doing? Is she in Paris all'the time?” “She would not go back to Bourgeval after you left. I went to look after all her business, and made up ep ena that belonged to you, which you can sendhere for. There was one little box, with your name on it, which Camille insisted on taking charge of. If you wish it, I will ask for it.” ‘Let her keep it,” said I, for I felt the tears in my eyes, as I remembered the village in which we had lived so happily, and of Camille’s wish to keep some- thing that had belonged to me. Had she entered then, all my plans of vengeance wees yes faded away, and 1 would have fallen at er feet. * Besides,” said Prudence, “I neversaw her as she isnow, She never sleeps, but. hurries to balls, sup- pers, and drinks much wine, Recently, after a sup- Per she remained a week in bed, and when she left t, she began again, though she had nearly killed her- self, Why not see her?” “Why? Icame to see you, because you have al- ways been kind. and that I knew you before I did Camille. To youl am indebted for having been her lover, and you also I owe the fact that 1 am so no bn vt “I did allI could to make her leave you, and I be- lieve some ay. you will thank me for it.” “Tam doubly grateful to you,” forI was disgusted at seeing this woman act thus seriously. “Are you going?” ** Yes. “Soon. Adi “* Adieu.” Prudence escorted ne to the door, and I returned home with tears in my eyes, and with a thirst for vengeance in my heart. Camille was like other women, for the “ When’ shall I see her?” eu,” rofound love she bore me ever contended with a wish to re- sume her past life and luxurious orgies. This T said as I lay awake, for I did not think calmly as I affect- ed, bein, nt pia to seein her orgies the hope of stifling thought and memory. Unfortunately, the evil passion prevailed in me, andI only sought @ means of tormenting the poor creature. The Olympe, with whom I saw Camille—was she not her friend—the person whom she visited most? Soon after my return to Paris she gave a ball, and Ps supposed Camille would be there, I obtained'an invitation. When, full of painful emotions, I reached the ball, it was already in full blast. They were dancing, and in one of the quadrilles I saw Camille with de N—, who seemed proud of her, and seemed to say to all, “This woman is mine.” Tleaned against the fire-place, just opposite to Ca- mille, and looked her in the face: As soon as she saw me she became troubled. When I thought that after the ball I would lose all this, and that she would be- long to the rich foo) with whom ‘she'was, the blood rushed to my face, and I could not but break up their amours. After the contra-dance, I went up to salute the mistress of the house, who exhibited ito her guests magnificent shoulders. ‘She was beautiful, as far'as form was concerned—far more so than Camille. I saw at once that the man who embraced such a form might be as proud of it as de N—-— was of his:mis- S, At that time she had no lover. ' It would not be et difficult to become hers. Ihad only te show a enough to dazzle her. I resolved that she should be tae a I began to play ‘the suitor to Olympe. , rs an hour after, Camille left the room, pale ag Ceath, all Df CHAPTER XXIV. THIS was something, but not enough. I under- stood the power I exerted’ over this woman, and I abused it basely, When I think that now she is dead, I ask God to pardon me for the wrong Idid her. After sw , which was of the most exciting char- acter, they began to play. I sat by Olympe, and risked my money with such boldness phat she could not but notice me. Inamoment I Won a hundred and fifty or two hundred louis, which I placed be- fore me, and at which she looked, Iwas the only person who was not entirely pretesune by. the play. All the rest of the night I won, and lent money to the bank, which had lost all it had, . At five we left, none ‘of these gentlemen. » Olympe held the lam) the othireny, ahd Iwas about to go, when, roateod back, I said: ia ““T must speak with you.” ’ “To-morrow.” “Sitio you tea ave you to say “You shall see,’* She went to her rooms, - w You shave lost?” said I. ‘All you have?” She hesitated. dP m Be frank,” Br . ” es “T have won three hundred louis—here they are.” I threw the money on the table. ‘Why this?” “T love you.” “Not so; you love Camille, and wish to ave yourself, A,woman like me is not mistaken, but I am too young and too handsome to accept the post you propose to me,” " “You refuse?”’ , 4 Yes,” “Reflect, Olympe, yon will have refused a man who offers you three hundred louis. You would not reject an agent who made such propositions. I pre- ferred to treat with you, Accept, without looking at the reasons,” “ Camille, like Olympe, was a courtesan; yet I would never have dared to utter to her what I did to Olympe. The reason was that I loved Camille, and divined in- stincts in Olympe, which, at the moment I was about. to conclude such a bargain, disgusted me. She prcenteds and at noon I Jeft her house—an ac- cepted lover. rom this time I subjected Camille to anor, punish- ment, I gave my new mistress a carriage; I gamed; and, in fine, pred the Rat of a man. in love with a. woman like Olympe. @ news of my new passion soon became known. Prudence herself was deceived, and fancied I had forgotten Camille. She, whether she saw into che motive why I acted thus, or was, like others, mistaken, replied NAL and dignity vo the insults I cast on her every aay. henever, however, I met her, she seem- ed to suffer, and she became pale and sad, My repentence was, however, but a flash, and Olympe, who concluded that it was best to lay all self-respect aside, and that by wounding Camillé she would obtain all she wished from me, excited me and insulted her as often as she met her, with all the insolence of a women authorized by her lover: 3 Camille no longer went either to the ball or to the play lest she should meet me, Anonymous letters then succeeded, and made'my mistress tell many scandal- ous things about Camille. One must have been very mad to reach this point; but I was like a man drunk with bad wine, who falls into one of those conditions where the hand is guilty of any offence. Amid all this I suffered martyrdom, for Camille met all my attacks with calmness, with- oat disdain, and appeared to me superior to my- self. 7 One Sap § Olympe had gone out, I know ‘not whither, and had met Camille, who on that occasion did not spare the fool who had insul her, so that the former had. to give way. hears 2 returned furi- ous, and Camille was taken away fainting. On her return, Olympe told me all that had passed and said that Camille finding her alone, had wishe to insult her because she was my mistress, and that i pe write her word to respect her as the woman oved, I need not'say to you that I consented, and:made td letter as bitter, cruel, and annoying as pos- sible. The blow was too violent for hér to bearit in silence. I feared that an answer would come, and did not leave home'all day. 2 atl About two o’clock in the afternoon Prudence came. andI wr to assume’an indifferent airyas Lasked to what I owed the honor of her visit. Madame Duvernoy was much ‘moved, and isaidithat during the three weeks Ihad been in town I had not: suffered a single opportunity to escape of insulting Camille; and that she was sick, and that the scene of the previous evening, and my letter, had forced her toigo: to bed. In fine, without reproaching mé, she told me, through Prudence, that’ she had neither moral--nor physical force to bear what I inflicted on her. ©) - ; “Mlle Gautier may dismiss me,' but she has no right to insult'a woman love because that: woman is my mistress. To do'so is a pretext.” “You are,” said Prudence, ‘under the influence of I had won three hundred lo iu ; All of the players had gone, forI was the friend of ©
Page 18
wheartless woman. Love her, but that is no reason why: ushould torture a woman who cannot defend he “Tell M’lle Gautier to send de N—— tospeak tome. We will then be on equal terms.” “You know she will not do so—let heralone, Could you see her you would be ashamed of the way you act, She is pale, coughs, ard will not live long.” 2 nce then gave me her hand, adding: andsee her, Your visit may Tad to happy resuits.”” “I do not wish to see de N——” He is never at her house. She will not bear it.” “If Camille wishes tosee me, she knows where I live. Iwill neyer enter her house.” “Will you receive her respectfully?” “ ‘Pe ‘A “Well, she will come.” «Will you goout to-day?” ‘ou Foouw! be home all the morning.” J will tell her so,” Prudence left. Icangive you no idea of the im- 4 which agitated me for some time; but about Progr miock i heard the bell and I was 80. ex- cited that when I o ned the door I was forced to lean against the wall for’su) The ante-cham- ber was fortunately dark, and the state of my coun- tenance was unobserved. Camille came in, She was dressed in black, and wore a vail so thick that I could scarcely see her face, which, when at length I saw it, looked like mar- ble. Ag am here, Armand,” she said. ‘You wished to gee me, She let her head fall and burst into tears, I drew near, and asked her what was the matter. She clasped m:; Leh a Sas ae ee A — oe ter, ha’ recovel er calmness, she fe “You Dave done me much wrong, Armand, with- out a cause.” “No cause?” said I. : “Nothing but what circumstances required.” T donot iow if, inall the course of your life, you ever suffered, or will suffer, as I did at the sight of Camille. When last she was at my house she sat where she now did, but since then she had been the mistress of another, and other kisses than mine had bs ig her lips, other arms than mine had embrac- er. “T have come, Armand,” said she, “because I have two things to ask of you. Forgive me for what Isaid to Olympe yesterday. Whether voluntarily or no, since your return you have wronged me,so that hensetorth Lshall be unable to bear the fourth part of theemotion I have hitherto done. Have pity on me, and learn that a man with soul has worthier things to do than avenge himself on a woman as_ sick asl am. Take my hand and you will see I have fever. I left my bed to ask your pardon, your friend- ship, your indifference.” I took Camille's hand, which shivered beheath her velvet cloak, and pushed the chair in which she sat close to the fire. “ Do you think,” said I, “that Ihave not suffered? Remember the night you left. I went to Paris for you on that night and received the letter, which al- most made meamadman. How, Camille, could you deceive one who loved Pe almost to madness?” “Let us not speak of that, Armand, for I came but toclasp your hand asa friend, not as an enemy. You have a young, pretty mistress, whom you love; be happy with her and forget me!” “You are happy, doubtless?” “Do I look as if I were? Do not aggravate my sorrow, for you, better than any one else, know how great. itis.” “Tt only depends on you to be unhappy no longer, if things are as you say.” » “No; thingsare not controlled by my will. I obeyed an imperious necessity and reason, which you one day will know and forgive.” “ Why not tell me?” “They would not re-unite us, and perhaps would separate you from persons you love.’ ‘What persons?” “T. cannot tell you.” — “ You tell a ood.” Camille arose and went towards the door. I could not see this mute exhibition of grief without emotion, and ELT be § to the door, I said: “You - not gol” “Because, in spite of all that [ have done, I love you Sear wish to keep you here.” **To dismiss me to-morrow?” “No, Camille, no—I will forget all, and we will be as bare as we hoped to be.” Camille shook her head in doubt and said: ““AmI not your slave? Do with me as you please, for Lam yours.” Ei off her cloak and hat, she loosened the bosom of her dress, for the blood was evidently rush- ing to her head and stifled her. A dry cough fol- lowed. : Ten ew fanameatie ell When I returned ive C) m: x en I re Gasiio kp, qrlth ahatteion tooth, botoee the Ban oe took her in my arms, undressed her, and put her my bed. Fora err’ — om aan. what bad passed since we val, ani Camille: “Shall we leave Paris? “No,” said ‘we would both be unhappy, and Leould no longer contribute to ped — As long, though, as my _— lasts I will be the slave of your caprices; at rof the day or night you please, come and I will be yours, but do not link your ‘and two hours a: hand, but did not reply, because [ te! ilo ete too closely with mine, fou would make us th unhappy. I shall be yet pretty fora time, Take advantage of the fact, but no more.” When she had i egg I was amazed at ny. solitude, terl was yetin bed. At five o’clock I went to the Rue d'Antin, and Nanine admitted me. ‘*Madame cannot receive you,” said she, with much ae “The Count de N. isin, and has told meto admit no one.’ “True,” muttered I, “I had forgotten.” Lreturned home like a drunken man, and, in a few moments of delirium, I said to m: self that woman laughs at me, and taking a note of five hundred franes Tenclosed it, saying: “‘ You went away so early this morning that I forgot to pay ‘ger I enclose it.”’ When my letter was gone, I went out to shake off my remorse,. I went to Olympe’s and found her try- ing on dresses. When we were alone, to amuse me, she an to sing me obscene songs. She was the type of the brazen courtesan, without either heart or mind, for me at least!some man might have in- spired her with such a dream as I had of Camille, She asked me for ‘money, Which I gave her and then went home. Camille had, not replied, and I need not tell you with what agitation] awaited the next day. At half- past six the man brought me an envelope with my letter and the note it contained, ‘Who gave you this?” ir who left with a servant In the Boulogue mail, and who bade me take it as soon as the coach was gone.” . I went to Camille's. “Madame left to-day for England,” said the por- r. Neither hatred nor love retained me at Paris, and as one of my friends was about to travel in the east, I told my father of my wish to accompany him and at once received letters and funds. A week after I sailed for Marseilles. At Alexandria I learned from an attache of the con- sulate-general whom J had met, of Camille’s iliness. I wrote the letter, the answer to which you saw and pin I received at Toulon. I at once sought to know the rest. Now I have only to show you a few sheets I receiv- ed from Julie pipe and which are indispensable to what I have told you. CHAPTER XXV. ARMAND, wearied by his long story, often interrupt- ed by tears, put both hands on his brow and closed his eyes, as if to think or to seek to do so, after hav- ing given me a few pages in Camille’s hand. | A few moments after, more rapid oar gs proved to me that he was asleep, but so light! y that the least sound might awaken him. Lread as follows, and copied it without adding or erasing a letter: “Mo-day is the 15th of Dec.; [am ill, and have been so three or four days... To-day [took tobed. The weather is bad, and I am melancholy. No one is with me. Iam thinking of Armand; and where you are when I write these lines. They tell me you are far from. Paris, and may almost have forgotten Camille. May you, to whom I owe the happiest hours of my life, be APP. oa “T could not resist the idea of explaining to you my eanduct, and I wrete you a letter—but_coming from one like me, it may be ere as a falsehood, un- less death sanctify its authority and convert the let- ter into a confession. “To-day lam sick; I may die of this disease, hav- ing always had a presentiment that I would die young. y mother was consumptive, and I have ived so as to contract this disease or aggravate my only inheritance. 1am, however, unwilling to die without your knowing what to rely on, when you think of me, a poor girl you once loved more or less. The following are the contents of the letter which L’wish I could re-write to give you another proof of sae eoige ou remember, Armand, that just before your father came and fonnd us at Bou rgeval, the involun- tary terror his coming caused? Of the scene between you, of which you told me? On the next day when you were at Paris a man brought me the following etter from M. Duval. The letter, which I attach to this, besought me in the most earnest terms to get rid of you on the next day on any pretext, and to see pour father, who wished me to tell you nothing of nis communication with me, You remember the urgency of my persuasion to you to go to Paris again. You had been gone about an hour when your father came. I cannot tell you of the impression his serious face caused; your father believed that all women were heartless, irrational, and a kind of man-trap, ly to crush and rate any hand extended to them without discrimination. e had written me such a@ letter that I consented to see him, and he came. In his first words there was enough hauteur menace, ete., to cause me to make him understand that I was in my own house, and had no account to give him of my love for his son. M, Duval grew somewhat calm, but said that he could no longer suffer his son to ruin himself because I was beautiful, and that I should not use my charms to blast the prospects of a young man by leading him into such expenses as. you made, To this there was but one reply. To show that, since I had been your mistress, no sacrifice had been required of you to keep me faithful to you, and that I had asked for no more money than you could give. Ishowed my receipt from the pawnbroker, and o: the people who had the various things I had parted * CAMILLE; OR, THE FATE OF A COQUETTE. ee ree \ with. I told your father of my de mination to self all my furniture to pay my debts, and lve with you without subjecting you to any heavy burden. told him of our happiness, of your having revealed fo me a calmer and gentler life, and he yielded to evidence, and gave me his haud, asking pardon for his first im= pressions. Then he said: “Madame, not by menaces, but by prayers will I undertake to obtain a greater sacrifice than you have made to my son.” Itrembled at this preamble. Your father drew near me, took my hands, and continued in an affec- tionate tone: “Donot be offended at what Isay, but see that life has cruel necessities to which the heart must submititself, You are kind, and your soul has gen- erous impulses which many women who despise ron rhaps, do not appreciate, Remember that there 's afamily as well as a mistress, duty as well as love, that the time will come when Armand to be respect- ed will need a better position, The time will come when, it matters not how you love Armand Duval, people will see in him but a man who, for a kept wo- man, lost all he had. The day of reproach and in- sults would then come, and be sure that, as_ with others, you will each bear the chain you might break. What willyou then do? Your youth will be gone my son’s prospects will be ruined, andTI, his father, must look to one of my children for the reward I ex- pected from both. You are young, youare beautiful, and life will console you, You are noble-hearted, andthe memory of a good action will atone for much that is passed. For six months thathe has known you, Armand forgets I wrote four times to him with- out his once thinking of replying tome. I might have died without his knowingit. Whatever'be year wish to live otherwise, Armand, who loves you, will not consent to it, and will see that no obscure posi- tion suits ont beauty. Who knows, then, what he willdo? Hehas gambled, I know, and also that it was without your knowledge; but in a moment he might have lost what it hastaken me years to amass as the dower of my daughter, and to sustain my old age. That might, and yet may be, “Are you, too, sure that the life you leave for him will not some day attract you again? Are you sure that youlove him so that youcan never love an- other? Will not hidey liaison On NE difficulties in your lover's way, for which your love will be unable to console him? Reflect on all this, madame, You love Armand. Prove it by the only means which are in your A ipdh No misfortune has yet befallen you, but will, perhaps, greater and sooner than I foresee. Armand may become jealous of one who may have loved you; he may be killed and what then would you suffer in the presence of that man who would ask of you the life of his son? “Know what brought me to Paris. I have a daughter, young, pure, chaste as an angel. She loves, and that love has been the dream of her life. I wrote all this to Armand; but, a Biaad by you, be did not reply. The man she loves is a member of an honorable family, and asks that allin mine shall be equally so. The family ef the man whois tobe my son-in-law have learned that Armand is at Paris, an have declared that the marriage will be broken off i he continues this life. The prospects of one who hag not injured you are in your hands, you crush them? In the name of your love and your repent- ance, Camille, grant me. the happiness of my child!” I wept insilence, my friend, at all these reflections, which often occured to me, but which from afather acquired new power. To myself I said what your father dared not, fee the words were twenty times on his lips. Isaid that, after all, 1 was but a woman of pleasure, and that, in spite of any reasons Imight ever give for our /iaison, it would always seem a calculation, for my past life forbids me to dream of the future—and. accepted obligations for the dis- charge of which.I could offer no Mg kad I loved you, Armand, and the manner used by your father, the chaste sentiments he awakened in me, the es- teem of the kind old man which I was about to win, and yours, which sooner or later, I knew would be mine, awoke in my breast noble sentiments which exalted me in my own eyes. When I remembered that, one day, the old man who ial dl me to pre- serve the reputation of his son would mingle mine as a mysterious name in his prayers, I was transformed and proud in spite of myself. The excitement of the moment, peters, exagger- ated these impressions, but such they were, and the new feelings aroused in me crushed all memory of hap days ed with you. “Very well,” said I. “Think you I love your son?” “Yes,” said M. Duval. “ Disinterestedly ?” “ Ye hed “Do you know his love was the dream and hope of my life?” a Frmly. ” “Well, sir, embrace me once, asif I were your pg oe and I swear te you that the only chaste ever received will make me against my love, and that, before a week has d, your son will be at your house; perhaps py, but cured forever.” “You area noble girl,” said your father, placing his irs on my brow; ‘and you undertake a thing that God will aid youin. I fear that you will obtain nothing from my son.” . “Be easy; he shall hate me. He must think there is an impassable barrier between us." I wrote to Prudence that I accepted de N——’s pro- positions, and that she perieae to say that she and I wouldsup with him. I sealed this letter, and begged your father, on his arrival in Paris, to send it to the address. He asked me its contents, and I told him it related to the happiness of his son. Your father bade me adieu, and, as he moved his lips from my Coe
Page 19
CAMILLE; OR, THE FATE OF A COQUETTE, 16 ARR IETS RES TRS SN SEI brow, I saw two tears of gratitude, which seemed like the baptism of my faults; and when I had just con- ‘sented to deliver myself to another man I was proud of this new offence. M. Duval left me; I was but a woman, and when I saw you I could not but weep. Was I right? Task you this question to-day when I am sick and perhaps will never leave my bed. You, know how I suffered as our inevitable separation ‘drew near, : Your father was nof there to sustain me, and there was a moment when I was about to own all, so ter- rified was I at the idea that — would despise me, One thing, Armand, it may be that you will not believe, that I asked God to grant me strength, and that he heard my prayer is proven by the fact that he granted me power. At this supper I yet needed support, for I didnot wish to know what I was about, ‘so fearful was I that my strength would fail. Who would have thought that I, Camille Gautier, would have been so terrified at the thought of a new lover? ‘To forget myself I drank, and when I awoke I was in the count’s This is the whole truth, my friend. Judge me and ‘pardon me, as I forgive you the wrong you did me. CHAPTER XXVI, Waar followed this fatal night you know as wellas Ido; but you can neither know nor suspect what I ‘suffered during our Mp a iy ape Llearned that your father had taken you away, and I did not doubt that you would be long absent, so that was am. and surprised on the day I met you at. the Champs Elysees. Then came a series of days, during.éach of which I was insulted by you, and re- ‘ceived them almost with Joy, for they proved that you yet loved, and never lost sight of me, Do not be’ surprised at this happy, Joyous martyrdom, bus I was not al ph, enough to bear it. I had hop- ed to kill myself rapidly by ex and I think thi hope will soon be realized. My healt! ually gave way, and I told Prudence of you. I will not remind hae Armand, how you rewarded the last proof of love I gave you, and how you drove from Paris a dy- ing woman who could not resist your voice when you asked her to pass the night with you, and who madly believed that by yielding she would obtain absolution for past and present sins, You. had the right to act as you did, Armand] for you paid for my nights more dearly than any other. All is gone, then, for Olympe has replaced me with M. de N—.,, and has undértak- en to tell him the reason of my departure. The Count de G—— was in, London, and is one of those men who attach to the love of a woman like me but its just im- porte and who remain the friends of women they ave had without either hatred or jealousy; he is, in fact, one of those nobles who do not admit us to their hearts but who open both ends of their purses. thought of him at once, and saw him. He received me kindly, but was the lover of a lady of rank, and feared to compromise himself. He introduced me to his friends, and gave a supper, after which one of them took possession of me. WhatwasI todo? Kill myself? It would have overshadowed your life with a useless remorse. Iwas very near death; I was without a soul, so to say, or the life of an automaton; my disease hourly increasing. I grew pale and thin, and men who buy their love look at it in advance. There were hat eg better looking women, and I was forgotten. is was the state of things until esterday; now I am ill, and have written to the duke o ask for money, for I have none, and my creditors have come back, bringing me their bills with the most merciless Penne Will the duke reply? Why are you not in Paris? Your visits would console me. December 20, The weather is horrible, andit snows. For three days I had such a fever that I could not write a word. Nothing new. Every day Ilook more anxiously for a letter from you. It does not and will not come. Men alone never pardon. ‘The duke did not che Prudence has resumed her voyage to the pawubroker. Ispit blood, and it would pain you to see me. You are happy in being beneath a warm sky,and not hay- inga of ice and snow, aswe have. To-day I sat up for a time behind the curtains of the window, and watched the crowds, with which I have done for- ever, No one looks up at my windows, yet a few young people left theirnames. Once when I was sick, when you did not know me, and would have re- ceived nothing from me but rudeness, you asked for me every day., I am sick again.. We have lived six months together. I have loved you as well as woman ean, and I have received not a word of consolation; this, though, is but chance, for if you were in Paris ‘ou would come. / December 23, My physician. will not. fet me write every day. Memory, in fact, does but increase my fever. Yes- terday, however, I received a letter which did me much: good by the sentiments which it contained. It was from your father: Mapame: I have just learned that you are ill. Were Lin Paris I would myself call on you, and if my son were here I would tell him to visit you. Armand i however, six or seven hundred leagues distant, an I, therefore, wrote, to tell you how much Lam pained by your illness, and to express my sincere hopes for your pecovery.. One of my friends, M. H—,, will call on you, pleased to see him, as he has a com- mission to discharge at my request. ive, mad- ame, the assurances of my most sincere interest. winds was aes od I — ived. Your eereee a nd man, and few live who are so wo: of your love. This mornin; H—— came, and seemed much annoyed by the delicacy of the business con- fided to him. I sought to refuse him, but he said to do so would mortify M. Duval, who had ordered him to pay me a certain sum, and more if I needed it. I accepted this, which, coming from your father, can- not looked upon as alms. If, when you return, I am dead, show your father this letter, and tell him the r woman to whom he deigned this consolation shed tears of gratitude as she prayed for him, January 4. Thavepasseda bad night. I did not know the body could suffer so, Oh! my past life! ppay twice for it to-day. Iean scarcely breathe—delirium and cough will make the rest of Pr life miserable. My dining-room is full of bonbons and presents of all kinds, brought me by my friends. Some among the men hope that at some future day 1 will be their mistress, Could they see me! Prudence makes her presentsfrom my stock. Itis thawing, and the doctor tells me if the warm weather continues I may go out. I rode out to-day to the Champs Elysees,which was crowded. One might have fancied it was the first smile of spring. All looked a May day. Ihad never fancied that a sun ray contained so much life and joy as I felt to-day. I met almost all the people I knew, gay and busy with pleasure, How many are happy without being aware of the fact. Olympe passed in an: elegant carriage given herby M. déN——. She sought to insult me, but she does not know how far I am removed from this sort-of aie B A kind lad I have known for some time asked me to sup with him, one of his friends being, he said, most anxious to know me, |‘ Ismiled sadly, and gave him my burning hand, and never did I see such amazement. { went home at four o'clock and dined with some tah ae The exercise did me d. What if I get wel How the aspect of life and the happiness of others make those wish to live who in the solitude of their ‘chambers pray for death. January 10. The hope of health was but a dream, I am again in bed, coveréd with blisters, We must have either,done much that is wrong be- fore our birth, or are to be most happy after death; or God would not permit this life to beso full of trials and tests. January 12, I still suffer. The Count de N—— sent me money yesterday, butIdid not take it. That man is the cause of your not being with me. The old day at Bourgeval, where are you? If I ever leave this house alive it will be to'make a pilgrimage to our old home. I will never leave it alive though. Who knows if I shall write to-morrow? January 25. For eleven nights [have not slept and feared I was about to die. The doctor forbids me to’ touch a pen, but Julie Duprat, who is with me, suffers me to write a few lines. Will you not come back before I die? Is all over for ever betweenus? If you came, I would get well. Why should I? January 27. This morning I was aroused by a Joud noise. Julie, who slept.in the ante-room, rushed into the dining- room, and I heard her voice contending with those of men. They came to seize, and I told her to let them do what they called justice. When I think what may happen if I do not die—if you return, and I see the spring—if you love me and we resume our old life. Fool! 1 ean searcely hold the pen with which I write this wild dream. Whatever betide you, Ar- mand, I love you, and would have been dead long ago if I had not been sustained by the memory of this love and a vague hope that I will see you again. February 3. The Count de G—— has come; his mistress deceived him, and he is very sad, for he loved her. He told me all. The poor fellow is very much pressed or he would pay off the law-officers for me. I told him of ou, and he promised to tell you of me. AsI forgot ¥haa ever been his mistress, he also did so. Heis a kind heart, , = The Duke sent to ask after me. I do not know what reg the old man alive. He remained several hours with me and did not say twenty words. He with all his yous is yet about, while I'am crushed with pain. 6 weather is bad and no one comes to see me. Julie sits with me whenever she can. Pru- dence, to whom I cannot give as I to makes a pretext of business to stay away. : Now, that Iam dying, in spite of what the doctors say, for I have several, I regret that I troubled your father, Had I been able to take but a year of your life, I could not have avoided passing it with you, for, at least, I would die clasping a friend’s hand. Had we lived together I would not be so near death, God’s be done. February 4. Come, Armand, I suffer horribly—I am dying. I was sad yesterday and wished to pass elsewhere than at home an evening that promised to be long. The duke came in and the sight of this old man, forgotten by death, seems to make me die faster. In spite of the burning fever I had myself dressed and taken to the Vaudeville. Julie rouged me or I would have looked like a co I went to the box where we first met, and all time I had my eyes fixed on the seat you eso They took me home half dead, and I spat bl all night. To-day I can- not speak and can scarcely move—my God, I shall die! I expected to die, but not to suffer so. February 18. M. Armand, since yesterday Camille has been worse, She hanips her voice completely and also the use of ° . 4 her limbs. It is impossible to describe what our poor friend suffers. I am not used to emotions of this kind and Iam constantly terrified. How delighted I would be if you were near us, Ca- mille is Meter! | delirious, but. whether in that con- dition or sane. she always pronounces your name when she can speak. The doctor told me that she would not last long, Since she has been so sick the — old duke has not been back, He told the doctor the sight did him too much injury. dame Duvernoy acts badly. This woman, who : expected to get more money out of Camille,on whom ~ she has chiefly subsisted, has contracted obligations she could not keep, and, seeing that her neighbor can no longer aid her, does not even come tosee her. All abandon her. M. de G——., pursued by his creditors, has been forced to return to London. Before he went he sent us some money and did all he could. They die, too, it is better to abando! her family who have never been kind. You cannot imagine her miserable state of yesterday; we had no money at all, covers; jewels, plate, are all in pledge. The rest is either m aware of all that is going on around her, and she ‘suf- fers in ery ae rge tears roll down her cheeks, which have grown so pale that you would not be able to ‘ize them. @ made me promise to write to you when she could no longer do so—and I write before her. Her eyes are directed towards me but she does not ‘see me—her eyes being already veiled by death: She smiles, and I am sure ‘all her thoughts are yours. : Every time the door was opened hereyes brighten« ed as if she era you were about ‘to enter—but when she sees that she is disay oer animates her eyes and her cheeks become purple. a February 19. How sad to-day is! This morning Camille: was ak most stifled, and the physician bled her so that she regained hervoice. The doctor advised her to see a riest, and, as she. consented, he sent to St. Roche ‘or a priest. r During this time Camille called me'to her bed-side, asked me to open a clothes-press, and pointed out @ bonnet and laced chemise. She then said, in a feeble voice: “ After confession, I shall die, and you must dress. mein these. Itis a last Re peg ’ PB ot then kissed me, with tears in her eyes, and “TI can speak, but am stifled when I do.” Ished tears, and opened the window. The priest came insoon after; 1 went to nteet him. When he heard at whose house he was, he seemed to fear a bad reception. “Go in, father,” said I. Heremained a short while in the room, and when he left me, he said: “She lived as a sinner, but she is dying like a Christian.” A few moments after he returned, Spe eae by a chorister and sacristan, who preceeded him, ring- ing a bell to announce the pres of God. They entered the bed-room, which had hitherto resounded with such strange sounds, and which now became a holy tabernacle, I fellonmy knees. I do not know how long the impression produced by the tacle eontinued. I do not think that, until I shall be re- duced to the same condition, I shall be equally prensed. The priest placed the holy oil on the feet, ands and brow of the dying woman, ited a brie prayer, and Camille was yer to soar to Heave' where surely she will go, if God regards the trials 0! her life and holiness of her death. During this.time she said nothing, and made no mo- tion. Twenty minutes after I should have thought per dead, had I not heard the difficulty of her respi- ration. February 20—5 p, . « Allis over. Camille died last mig about two, and no martyr ever suffered as she did, if we hin 6 judge from her cries. Twice or thrice she sat erect in her bed, but sank back from exhaustion; silent tears fell from her eyes, and she died. Then I approached her, and called to her. She did not reply, and I closed her eyes and kissed her. Poor Camille! I wish I were a holy woman that this kiss were commend you to God! I dressed her as she had requested me, and then went for the priest at St. Roche, and had tapers burned for her, and for two hours I prayed in the church. I gave the poor the money she had. I am not well informed in matters of religion, but I think God will know my tears to have been true, my pray- ers fervent, my alms sincere, and that he w: ave meray on her who died young and beautiful, yet had no other to close her eyes. February 28. To-day the funeral took place. Many of Camille’s friends came to the church and wept sincerely. When the p ion_ left for Montmartre two men alone followed it. The duke, who was supported by two footmen, and the Count de G., who came for the pur- pose from London. I write these details from her house, amid my tears, and by the att of a lamp burning. over a din- ner-table I do not touch. Nanine had it prepared, for I had eaten nothing for twenty-four Beate. Ican bear thesejsad impressions no longer, for Tam no moce my own than Camille was, and, therefore, I describe these events from their very scene, lest if E ie over or sold, ‘Camille is yet’ inted a painful ‘ex-:
Page 20
. a ey ‘ amos Wipes BRVRVRBN BEYISS SSS cows re RO ~ CAMILLE; OR, THE FATE OF A, COQUETTE. _ suffered time to pass, I might not be able to give exactitude. ‘ them af their sad CONCLUSION. “Dip -you read it?” said Armand, when I had laid down the manuscript. _“Tsee what you must have suffered, if all I read __ be true.” a .‘* My father has confirmed it.” “ht We talked for some time of her sad fate, and then I went home to rest. Armand was yet sad, but somewhat a ge Ly. = ten of the incidents, and soon revived _ the n went to see Julie Duprat and Prudence Prudence had failed, and she told us that Camille was the cause. of it, as during her illness, she had borrowed much money, for which she had given notes that — eg not pay. Camille had died pine enable hor any aan which would le her to pti earn 8. eredito} means of this fable, Pooh Madaino Duvernoy tole everywhere to examen: herself, she drew a bill of a, thousand francs w Gooch v7 who did not believe nem but paid it out ‘of e's Memory. ‘e then went to Julie seek aoeniand woe aah scenes she had and shed thought of her friend. * tears as she Be Rpg ind to the ve of Camille, which be- April sun w: Maa be Goth tet domes pester nr eae bag g fulfill—to see his father— shape ae ae Sener y him, what, fr th descrip ef “found 4M. Duval ju im w ma the ion, ed Armand with tears Blanc countenance, that calmness of that the ‘euk receives but oly impressions; and and the lips uttered but holy wo return of her. brother, the chaste young.Gxt qint b ignorant that for her a courtesan happiness at the very sound of her name. ed for some time with this happy family, which was fully occupied with him whose return re- stored their hearts. ‘I returned to Paris, where I wrote this story as I heard it. It has one indisputable merit, truth. From this story I could not dra’ draw the conclusion that all eae like Camille, are capable of acting as she did, but-I have known that one of them, in the course of @ life, entertained a serious affection, and that jonny tah a pam I told what I heard as was my duty. am not the a; e of vice; but will make myself the cre of oe e misfortune wherever I find it. pes Beng Camille is an exception, and therefore I tell cone, ad it been a ie egged it would not have been worth Seu to write it, THE END, The Half-Dime Singer's Library. 1 Wxoa, Emma! and. 59 other Songs. 2 Capratn Curr and 57 other Songs. _ 8 Tue Garysporo’ Har and 62 other Songs, OHNNY Moraan and 60 other Songs. Sree You Wirn a Frarxer and 62 othtrs. E THE CHARMER and 56 other Songs. LLE OF Rockaway and 52 other So OUNG FrLLAH, You’RE Too Fresx and 60 of! ers. HY Youne Girt and 65 other eS ‘Mt na GovERNOR'S Sg Son and 58 other Songs, Fan and 65 other ier in’ Toro’ THE Rye and 55 other Songs. nea Voegeli TRIsHMAN and 59 other Songs, og Tray and 62 other Songs. oA, CHARLIE and 59 other nf 6 THIS WHEAT By Anp By and 62 other Songs. Leer and 58 other So: THE Boy THAT’s BounD TO ‘HE Two OrpHANS and 59 other So: HAT ARE THE WILD and 59 other Songs. GNANT PoLLy woe and 59 other Songs. OLp preset and 58 other So: Coney Istanp Bracu and 58 other Songs. Simon, THE Hot-Corn MAN and 60 others, tn Love and 56 other Songs. ‘ARADE OF THE GuaRps and 56 other Songs. ‘Heave, Ho! and 60 other Songs. NEveR Doro Grp rt up So and 60 others. Bive Bonnets Over THE Borper and 54 others. - ‘Tue Merry Lavauine Man and 56 other Songs. 31 Swear Forerer-me-Nor and 55 other Songs. 82° Lerria BAsy Mine and 53 other Songs. 33 Di BANJO AM DE UMENT FOR Mr and 53 others, vs Tarry and 50 other Songs. usT TO PLEASE THE Boys.and 52 other Songs KATING ON ONE IN THE GuTrER and 52 others, 87 Kororep Kranks and 59 other Songs. 4 = Nit DesperanpuM and 53 other Songs. ens gE 8 sf y qa and 57 others. ngs. Waves Sayine, Sister? 48 fe ae 41 a ae : gold ovolpaters by. Newsdealets, at five cents per copy; or sent post-paid, to any address, on, Te- ceipt of Stx cents per number, ; BEADLE AND ADAMS, Pupusiers, 98 WaaraM Street, New York, Waverley’ Library. 1 Tae Masxep Brive. "By Mt Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell,” 2 Was Izy Loye? By Wm. Mason Turner. yee atte bres ts aa, uthwo! ene “F ‘Wonk Giri. Wm.M. Turner Tue Secret MARRIAGE. Sara Claxton. 7 A Daveurer or Eve. B: ee Mary Reed Crowell. Heart to Heart. By Arabella Southworth. 9 ALONE IN THE WorLD. By Author of “Clifton.” 10 A Par or Gray Eyes, 18 His Ipot. Mrs. Crowell. 19 Tue Broken BerroTHat Grace Halpine. 20 OrpHan NELL, THE ORANGE GIRL. By Agile Penne. ‘hac keray, Ele) : 4 > ie e i . y, Mrs. aah 8. Stephens, Her Deak y Sara. De jUET ir “By Ale Penne. Dennison. ot, By A. Southworth. 0! ie 38 His Own Acarn. By Ara 39 Fumration. By Ralph Royal. 40 PtepGEep To Marry. Sara | 41 Buixp Devotion. By Fleming. © 42 BeaTRice, TRE BEAUTIFUL. A. Bouthworth, 43 Tue Baronet’s Secret. By Sara Claxton. 44 Toe ONty DavenTeR. By Alice Fleming. 45 Her Hippen For. By Arabella Southworth. 46 Tue Lirrie Hereess. By Mrs. M. A. ee 47 Because Suz Loven Hia. B 48 In Sprre or HERSELF. 2 iS} b Sarabelie Southworth, A. Denison. THE Epon Mask. Cxcm’s Dxcerr. By — VICKED Heart. By = Maniac Brive. Margaret Biount. CREOLE Sisters. By Mrs. Anna E. Porter. tT JEALousy Dip. By Alice Fleming. Wire's Secret. 1. Juan Le ’s Sux. By Rachel Bernhardt, - RBIDDEN Bans. By Arabella payee kets EAVERS AND Werr. By Miss M. BE. Braddon. — : My ‘YounG Wire. B Pou une Wit 's Hi Faw. iy My poh Matt e’s Husband. Wrnows. By Anni 73 Rose MICHEL. By Maude Hilton. ° A new issue every week, For sale by all Newsdealers, price five cents each, or sent, postage paid, on receipt of six cents, BEADLE AND ADAMS, Publishers, 98 William street, N.Y. DIME DIALOGUES AND SPEAKERS FOR SCHOOL EXHIBITIONS AND HOME ENTERTAINMENTS, Dialozues, Nos. 1 to 27 Sree 15 to %, - lar dialogues and. dramas in each book, vol- ume 100 9. pages. peakers, Nos. 1 to 2 inclusive. Each’ ean er 100 pages 12mo, containing from 50 to 75 pieces, Jennie ae Burton. Sara C > SSSSSRESSASSAZS adap eared #2 ‘YOUNG PEOPLE'S SERIES, Dime Book of Skating and hal Sports, _ Dime Gents’ Letter Write: : noon rian ins : e Fo A Dime Ladies’ Letter Writer. ‘dl wi Dime Lovers’ Casket. Dime Fan ‘Room Com; Dime ook of 1 rr : : ess Instructor, See | ‘6 Book of Beauty, The. above ' bobke are sold by news-dealers everywhere, or Will be sent, post-paid, ‘to any ad: dress, on'receipt of price, ten cents each. BEADLE & Apams, Publishers, 98 William st., N.Y. ans i * r ; ¥ . ee 36 Tat Boy or aes ESSSISARSSASSSRSRESSHSSELSRKLSES The Fireside foo 1 Was Sue His Wire? By M Reed. Crowell. 2 Fixing Frou POE 5 pret, rving. 3 Dip He Love HER? a Cetaniell 44 aoe Woman. a Rate inwood. 6 Two Grris’ Lives. rs, Mary Reed Crowell. 9 Toe War oF Reans Gi F Corinite Cushman. 11 Tae Fatse WOT ia TS. Jennie D. Burton, 12-13 Lost ror Love. a oe raddon, » ; 14-15 TorLeRs OF THE set. ictor Hugo. is Quaproox. By Catharine A. Wartiela. 7-18 Uncre Sruas, By J, 8. Le’ Fanu. 19-20 Dnap-Sea FRurr, By bi us 5 dare sao 21-22 Littie KATE Y. pisces Charles tras ae nee ey ‘s Heart. WO! ed is 4 Rose 18 3 hg Mea ae Lary or. St. Erne. STRan i avi Burto Tha Carer Drab: et Seay Ree Bonet By Rey. J._H. CHARLOTTE’S BN pe oe ANNIE TEMPLE. e-| E ag 9 a 8 Ws ee | oF S| i By. Blount, y Fletirictta E. iy Conde A Wire, sf Corine Cushman. a eas ip jount. rs, M, V. Victer. 4 Seeley Regester. Lisiz's Daueuter. By C. M, Brae: MAN'S Hanp. By Author of i pew etter.” Mrs. M: Crowell, 2 pear 2 ree aes a ce oe Be OLINA; or, WALLED UP ey “By — By Mrs, b> ze ae g y 3 St 2 Q Q Fee oe a : oe TRANGH Girt, By Albert Pretty PurITAn. Mary Reo Parson's’ Daiaghter, See Sin? By Mrs, Reed Cro IOUBLY DIVORCED. Mrs Jennie Davis Burton. Wickep WomAN. le Mb Umsted Blake, LIND BarBara’s Secret. By Mary G. Halpine, \N AMERICAN Cee 5 oie Grace bi eid & MARGovn, THE GE Wm. M ‘piss 63 Wire or Winow. By Rett 64 Tue CREOLE Seater: & PURSUED TO THE ALTAR. 66 oe Apres TruTH. B 67 Exrecant Easerr. Pree Se Corinne Cushman. ennie Davis Burton. : Tue Mysterious GUARDIAN, 63) Wi SHe A Wire? - By Rett Winwood. 4 ApRIA, THE ADOPTED, By Mrs, Jennie D. Burton PreTry AND Provp. By Corinne Cushman. Tue Brrrer Fevp. By Mrs. Jenriie D. Burton. A Woman's Work. By Mrs; EF. F. Ellet. Buack Rippie. _ By Cerinne Cushman, CoraL and Rusy. By Mrs, Jennie Davis Burton. Drvorcep Bur Nor Drvipep. A Parson’s Daughter. 1 Aumost Marriep, By A Parson’s Daughter. fe Two Farr Women. Mie Liga Turner, M.D, 83 Tre INHERITANCE OF + Moris . Burton. orris, Jr. 84 PEARL OF PrARLs. i = 85 For Honor’s Saxe. By ea Mary Reed Crowell. 86 Lance Urquaarr’s Loves, B ‘Rast’ Thomas. Sarety Marriep. By the author of ‘ Carte.” FLoRETTE, CHILD OF THE STREET. By Ingraham, 89 THREE Traes Deap. By Miss M, EB, Braddon. A new issue every week. For sale by all SEAe Paice ten. cents, or sent, pre lak we on rece elye Serie ADAMS. meen ae The Saturday Journal. “The Model Family Paper —AND— Most Charming of the W f? in th ¢: priliibut and se whe wes Bree Serials, Tales, Romances, Sketches, Adventures, Biographies, Pungent Essays, Poetry, Notes ‘and Answers'to Correspondents; Wit and Fun—’ are features in ev number from such sil writers as ayo in America ean 2 LSSSISA B83 The Saruupay JourRNAL is sold everywhere subscribers Pe ice sia centsper number ;or to So pat, We aie following’ cheap font a Thenehs; one etary, sone year, three pelt two Oris dt BOADEMS ADAMS Pa 98 William Street, New York, me)