camille (la dame aux camilias)(卡米勒)-第2章
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〃Thanks。〃
The attendant； reassured as to my intentions； touched his hat； and I
went out。
〃Poor girl！〃 I said to myself as I returned home； 〃she must have had a
sad death； for； in her world； one has friends only when one is perfectly
well。〃 And in spite of myself I began to feel melancholy over the fate of
Marguerite Gautier。
It will seem absurd to many people； but I have an unbounded
sympathy for women of this kind； and I do not think it necessary to
apologize for such sympathy。
One day； as I was going to the Prefecture for a passport； I saw in one
of the neighbouring streets a poor girl who was being marched along by
two policemen。 I do not know what was the matter。 All I know is that she
was weeping bitterly as she kissed an infant only a few months old； from
whom her arrest was to separate her。 Since that day I have never dared to
despise a woman at first sight。
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CHAPTER 2
The sale was to take place on the 16th。 A day's interval had been left
between the visiting days and the sale； in order to give time for taking
down the hangings； curtains； etc。 I had just returned from abroad。 It was
natural that I had not heard of Marguerite's death among the pieces of
news which one's friends always tell on returning after an absence。
Marguerite was a pretty woman； but though the life of such women makes
sensation enough； their death makes very little。 They are suns which set as
they rose； unobserved。 Their death； when they die young； is heard of by all
their lovers at the same moment； for in Paris almost all the lovers of a
well…known woman are friends。 A few recollections are exchanged； and
everybody's life goes on as if the incident had never occurred； without so
much as a tear。
Nowadays； at twenty…five； tears have become so rare a thing that they
are not to be squandered indiscriminately。 It is the most that can be
expected if the parents who pay for being wept over are wept over in
return for the price they pay。
As for me； though my initials did not occur on any of Marguerite's
belongings； that instinctive indulgence； that natural pity that I have already
confessed； set me thinking over her death； more perhaps than it was worth
thinking over。 I remembered having often met Marguerite in the Bois；
where she went regularly every day in a little blue coupe drawn by two
magnificent bays； and I had noticed in her a distinction quite apart from
other women of her kind； a distinction which was enhanced by a really
exceptional beauty。
These unfortunate creatures whenever they go out are always
accompanied by somebody or other。 As no man cares to make himself
conspicuous by being seen in their company； and as they are afraid of
solitude； they take with them either those who are not well enough off to
have a carriage； or one or another of those elegant； ancient ladies； whose
elegance is a little inexplicable； and to whom one can always go for
information in regard to the women whom they accompany。
In Marguerite's case it was quite different。 She was always alone when
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she drove in the Champs…Elysees； lying back in her carriage as much as
possible； dressed in furs in winter； and in summer wearing very simple
dresses； and though she often passed people whom she knew； her smile；
when she chose to smile； was seen only by them； and a duchess might
have smiled in just such a manner。 She did not drive to and fro like the
others； from the Rond…Point to the end of the Champs…Elysees。 She drove
straight to the Bois。 There she left her carriage； walked for an hour；
returned to her carriage； and drove rapidly home。
All these circumstances which I had so often witnessed came back to
my memory； and I regretted her death as one might regret the destruction
of a beautiful work of art。
It was impossible to see more charm in beauty than in that of
Marguerite。 Excessively tall and thin； she had in the fullest degree the art
of repairing this oversight of Nature by the mere arrangement of the things
she wore。 Her cashmere reached to the ground； and showed on each side
the large flounces of a silk dress； and the heavy muff which she held
pressed against her bosom was surrounded by such cunningly arranged
folds that the eye； however exacting； could find no fault with the contour
of the lines。 Her head； a marvel； was the object of the most coquettish care。
It was small； and her mother； as Musset would say； seemed to have made it
so in order to make it with care。
Set； in an oval of indescribable grace； two black eyes； surmounted by
eyebrows of so pure a curve that it seemed as if painted； veil these eyes
with lovely lashes； which； when drooped； cast their shadow on the rosy
hue of the cheeks； trace a delicate； straight nose； the nostrils a little open；
in an ardent aspiration toward the life of the senses； design a regular
mouth； with lips parted graciously over teeth as white as milk； colour the
skin with the down of a peach that no hand has touched； and you will have
the general aspect of that charming countenance。 The hair； black as jet；
waving naturally or not； was parted on the forehead in two large folds and
draped back over the head； leaving in sight just the tip of the ears； in
which there glittered two diamonds； worth four to five thousand francs
each。 How it was that her ardent life had left on Marguerite's face the
virginal； almost childlike expression； which characterized it； is a problem
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which we can but state； without attempting to solve it。
Marguerite had a marvellous portrait of herself； by Vidal； the only man
whose pencil could do her justice。 I had this portrait by me for a few days
after her death； and the likeness was so astonishing that it has helped to
refresh my memory in regard to some points which I might not otherwise
have remembered。
Some among the details of this chapter did not reach me until later； but
I write them here so as not to be obliged to return to them when the story
itself has begun。
Marguerite was always present at every first night； and passed every
evening either at the theatre or the ball。 Whenever there was a new piece
she was certain to be seen； and she invariably had three things with her on
the ledge of her ground…floor box： her opera…glass； a bag of sweets； and a
bouquet of camellias。
For twenty…five days of the month the camellias were white； and for
five they were red； no one ever knew the reason of this change of colour；
which I mention though I can not explain it； it was noticed both by her
friends and by the habitue's of the theatres to which she most often went。
She was never seen with any flowers but camellias。 At the florist's；
Madame Barjon's； she had come to be called 〃the Lady of the Camellias；〃
and the name stuck to her。
Like all those who move in a certain set in Paris； I knew that
Marguerite had lived with some of the most fashionable young men in
society； that she spoke of it openly； and that they themselves boasted of it；
so that all seemed equally pleased with one another。 Nevertheless； for
about three years； after a visit to Bagnees； she was said to be living with
an old duke； a foreigner； enormously rich； who had tried to remove her as
far as possible from her former life； and； as it seemed； entirely to her own
satisfaction。
This is what I was told on the subject。 In the spring of 1847 Marguerite
was so ill that the doctors ordered her to take the waters； and she went to
Bagneres。 Among the invalids was the daughter of this duke； she was not
only suffering from the same complaint； but she was so like Marguerite in
appearance that they might have been taken for sisters； the young duchess
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was in the last stage of consumption； and a few days after Marguerite's
arrival she died。 One morning； the duke； who had remained at Bagneres to
be near the soil that had buried a part of his heart； caught sight of
Marguerite at a turn of the road。 He seemed to see the shadow of his child；
and going up to her； he took her hands； embraced and wept over her； and
without even asking her who she was； begged her to let him love in her the
living image of his dead child。 Marguerite； alone at Bagneres with her
maid； and not being in any fear of compromising herself； granted the
duke's request。 Some people who knew her； happening to be at Bagneres；
took upon themselves to explain Mademoiselle Gautier's true position to
the duke。 It was a blow to the old man； for the resemblance with his
daughter was ended in one direction； but it was too late。 She had become a
necessity to his heart； his only pretext； his only excuse； for living。 He
made no reproaches； he had indeed no right to do so； but he asked her if
she felt herself capable of changing her mode of life； offering her in return
for the sacrifice every compensation that she could desire。 She consented。
It must be said that Marguerite was just then very ill。 The past seemed
to her sensitive nature as if it were one of the main causes of her illness；
and a sort of superstition led her to hope that God would restore to her
both health and beauty in return for her repentance and conversion。 By the
end of the summer； the waters； sleep； the natural fatigue of long walks； had
indeed more or less
