La dame aux camélias (Novel). English

by Alexandre Dumas

  Chapter 18

  It would be difficult to give you all the details of our new life. Itwas made up of a series of little childish events, charming for us butinsignificant to anyone else. You know what it is to be in love witha woman, you know how it cuts short the days, and with what lovinglistlessness one drifts into the morrow. You know that forgetfulness ofeverything which comes of a violent confident, reciprocated love. Everybeing who is not the beloved one seems a useless being in creation. Oneregrets having cast scraps of one's heart to other women, and one cannot believe in the possibility of ever pressing another hand than thatwhich one holds between one's hands. The mind admits neither work norremembrance; nothing, in short, which can distract it from the onethought in which it is ceaselessly absorbed. Every day one discovers inone's mistress a new charm and unknown delights. Existence itself is butthe unceasing accomplishment of an unchanging desire; the soul is butthe vestal charged to feed the sacred fire of love.

  We often went at night-time to sit in the little wood above the house;there we listened to the cheerful harmonies of evening, both of usthinking of the coming hours which should leave us to one another tillthe dawn of day. At other times we did not get up all day; we did noteven let the sunlight enter our room.

  The curtains were hermetically closed, and for a moment the externalworld did not exist for us. Nanine alone had the right to open our door,but only to bring in our meals and even these we took without gettingup, interrupting them with laughter and gaiety. To that succeeded abrief sleep, for, disappearing into the depths of our love, we were liketwo divers who only come to the surface to take breath.

  Nevertheless, I surprised moments of sadness, even tears, in Marguerite;I asked her the cause of her trouble, and she answered:

  "Our love is not like other loves, my Armand. You love me as if I hadnever belonged to another, and I tremble lest later on, repenting ofyour love, and accusing me of my past, you should let me fall back intothat life from which you have taken me. I think that now that I havetasted of another life, I should die if I went back to the old one. Tellme that you will never leave me!"

  "I swear it!"

  At these words she looked at me as if to read in my eyes whether my oathwas sincere; then flung herself into my arms, and, hiding her head in mybosom, said to me: "You don't know how much I love you!"

  One evening, seated on the balcony outside the window, we looked at themoon which seemed to rise with difficulty out of its bed of clouds,and we listened to the wind violently rustling the trees; we held eachother's hands, and for a whole quarter of an hour we had not spoken,when Marguerite said to me:

  "Winter is at hand. Would you like for us to go abroad?"

  "Where?"

  "To Italy."

  "You are tired of here?"

  "I am afraid of the winter; I am particularly afraid of your return toParis."

  "Why?"

  "For many reasons."

  And she went on abruptly, without giving me her reasons for fears:

  "Will you go abroad? I will sell all that I have; we will go and livethere, and there will be nothing left of what I was; no one will knowwho I am. Will you?"

  "By all means, if you like, Marguerite, let us travel," I said. "Butwhere is the necessity of selling things which you will be glad of whenwe return? I have not a large enough fortune to accept such a sacrifice;but I have enough for us to be able to travel splendidly for five or sixmonths, if that will amuse you the least in the world."

  "After all, no," she said, leaving the window and going to sit downon the sofa at the other end of the room. "Why should we spend moneyabroad? I cost you enough already, here."

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

  "Forgive me, my friend," she said, giving me her hand. "This thunderweather gets on my nerves; I do not say what I intend to say."

  And after embracing me she fell into a long reverie.

  Scenes of this kind often took place, and though I could not discovertheir cause, I could not fail to see in Marguerite signs of disquietudein regard to the future. She could not doubt my love, which increasedday by day, and yet I often found her sad, without being able to get anyexplanation of the reason, except some physical cause. Fearing that somonotonous a life was beginning to weary her, I proposed returning toParis; but she always refused, assuring me that she could not be sohappy anywhere as in the country.

  Prudence now came but rarely; but she often wrote letters which I neverasked to see, though, every time they came, they seemed to preoccupyMarguerite deeply. I did not know what to think.

  One day Marguerite was in her room. I entered. She was writing. "To whomare you writing?" I asked. "To Prudence. Do you want to see what I amwriting?"

  I had a horror of anything that might look like suspicion, and Ianswered that I had no desire to know what she was writing; and yetI was certain that letter would have explained to me the cause of hersadness.

  Next day the weather was splendid.' Marguerite proposed to me totake the boat and go as far as the island of Croissy. She seemed verycheerful; when we got back it was five o'clock.

  "Mme. Duvernoy has been here," said Nanine, as she saw us enter. "Shehas gone again?" asked Marguerite.

  "Yes, madame, in the carriage; she said it was arranged."

  "Quite right," said Marguerite sharply. "Serve the dinner."

  Two days afterward there came a letter from Prudence, and for afortnight Marguerite seemed to have got rid of her mysterious gloom,for which she constantly asked my forgiveness, now that it no longerexisted. Still, the carriage did not return.

  "How is it that Prudence does not send you back your carriage?" I askedone day.

  "One of the horses is ill, and there are some repairs to be done. It isbetter to have that done while we are here, and don't need a carriage,than to wait till we get back to Paris."

  Prudence came two days afterward, and confirmed what Marguerite hadsaid. The two women went for a walk in the garden, and when I joinedthem they changed the conversation. That night, as she was going,Prudence complained of the cold and asked Marguerite to lend her ashawl.

  So a month passed, and all the time Marguerite was more joyous and moreaffectionate than she ever had been. Nevertheless, the carriage did notreturn, the shawl had not been sent back, and I began to be anxious inspite of myself, and as I knew in which drawer Marguerite put Prudence'sletters, I took advantage of a moment when she was at the other end ofthe garden, went to the drawer, and tried to open it; in vain, for itwas locked. When I opened the drawer in which the trinkets and diamondswere usually kept, these opened without resistance, but the jewel caseshad disappeared, along with their contents no doubt.

  A sharp fear penetrated my heart. I might indeed ask Marguerite for thetruth in regard to these disappearances, but it was certain that shewould not confess it.

  "My good Marguerite," I said to her, "I am going to ask your permissionto go to Paris. They do not know my address, and I expect there areletters from my father waiting for me. I have no doubt he is concerned;I ought to answer him."

  "Go, my friend," she said; "but be back early." I went straight toPrudence.

  "Come," said I, without beating about the bush, "tell me frankly, whereare Marguerite's horses?"

  "Sold."

  "The shawl?"

  "Sold."

  "The diamonds?"

  "Pawned."

  "And who has sold and pawned them?"

  "Why did you not tell me?"

  "Because Marguerite made me promise not to."

  "And why did you not ask me for money?"

  "Because she wouldn't let me."

  "And where has this money gone?"

  "In payments."

  "Is she much in debt?"

  "Thirty thousand francs, or thereabouts. Ah, my dear fellow, didn'tI tell you? You wouldn't believe me; now you are convinced. Theupholsterer whom the duke had agreed to settle with was shown out of thehouse when he presented himself, and the duke wrote next day to s
ay thathe would answer for nothing in regard to Mlle. Gautier. This man wantedhis money; he was given part payment out of the few thousand francs thatI got from you; then some kind souls warned him that his debtor had beenabandoned by the duke and was living with a penniless young man; theother creditors were told the same; they asked for their money, andseized some of the goods. Marguerite wanted to sell everything, but itwas too late, and besides I should have opposed it. But it was necessaryto pay, and in order not to ask you for money, she sold her horses andher shawls, and pawned her jewels. Would you like to see the receiptsand the pawn tickets?"

  And Prudence opened the drawer and showed me the papers.

  "Ah, you think," she continued, with the insistence of a woman who cansay, I was right after all, "ah, you think it is enough to be in love,and to go into the country and lead a dreamy, pastoral life. No, myfriend, no. By the side of that ideal life, there is a material life,and the purest resolutions are held to earth by threads which seemslight enough, but which are of iron, not easily to be broken. IfMarguerite has not been unfaithful to you twenty times, it is becauseshe has an exceptional nature. It is not my fault for not advisingher to, for I couldn't bear to see the poor girl stripping herselfof everything. She wouldn't; she replied that she loved you, and shewouldn't be unfaithful to you for anything in the world. All that isvery pretty, very poetical, but one can't pay one's creditors in thatcoin, and now she can't free herself from debt, unless she can raisethirty thousand francs."

  "All right, I will provide that amount."

  "You will borrow it?"

  "Good heavens! Why, yes!"

  "A fine thing that will be to do; you will fall out with your father,cripple your resources, and one doesn't find thirty thousand francs fromone day to another. Believe me, my dear Armand, I know women better thanyou do; do not commit this folly; you will be sorry for it one day. Bereasonable. I don't advise you to leave Marguerite, but live with heras you did at the beginning. Let her find the means to get out of thisdifficulty. The duke will come back in a little while. The Comte deN., if she would take him, he told me yesterday even, would pay all herdebts, and give her four or five thousand francs a month. He has twohundred thousand a year. It would be a position for her, while youwill certainly be obliged to leave her. Don't wait till you are ruined,especially as the Comte de N. is a fool, and nothing would prevent yourstill being Marguerite's lover. She would cry a little at the beginning,but she would come to accustom herself to it, and you would thank meone day for what you had done. Imagine that Marguerite is married, anddeceive the husband; that is all. I have already told you all thisonce, only at that time it was merely advice, and now it is almost anecessity."

  What Prudence said was cruelly true.

  "This is how it is," she went on, putting away the papers she had justshown me; "women like Marguerite always foresee that someone will lovethem, never that they will love; otherwise they would put aside money,and at thirty they could afford the luxury of having a lover fornothing. If I had only known once what I know now! In short, say nothingto Marguerite, and bring her back to Paris. You have lived with heralone for four or five months; that is quite enough. Shut your eyes now;that is all that anyone asks of you. At the end of a fortnight she willtake the Comte de N., and she will save up during the winter, and nextsummer you will begin over again. That is how things are done, my dearfellow!"

  And Prudence appeared to be enchanted with her advice, which I refusedindignantly.

  Not only my love and my dignity would not let me act thus, but I wascertain that, feeling as she did now, Marguerite would die rather thanaccept another lover.

  "Enough joking," I said to Prudence; "tell me exactly how muchMarguerite is in need of."

  "I have told you: thirty thousand francs."

  "And when does she require this sum?"

  "Before the end of two months."

  "She shall have it."

  Prudence shrugged her shoulders.

  "I will give it to you," I continued, "but you must swear to me that youwill not tell Marguerite that I have given it to you."

  "Don't be afraid."

  "And if she sends you anything else to sell or pawn, let me know."

  "There is no danger. She has nothing left."

  I went straight to my own house to see if there were any letters from myfather. There were four.