urged her to watch over her herself. She laughingly told him his countenance was too long. When he asked if she had a heart, she said ’twas the only thing left to such as her to throw away.
He looked so sad at her jesting, that she grew grave herself, and she said, “So, this passion is real?”
He told her he had followed her from place to place, and when she lay ill, inquired each day after her health.
“Why did you not ask to see me?”
“What right had I to ask?”
“Right! Do men stand on ceremony with me? So, you say you love me? Now, let me be your friend, and give you this advice—shake me by the hand, and let us part good friends, and for ever.”
“As you will—as you will, good friend, and for ever.”
“Ah! you are so far gone as that, my friend! Many men have told me they would not return, but have come back on the morrow.”
He was going towards the door, when she called him back. “See you, I shall not have long to live, and ’tis but right I should live as I choose through my short span. But I tell you, if I believed your protestations, they would live even for a shorter time than I myself shall. Well, well, perhaps you have a good heart—who knows? Not I. And you seem sincere; perhaps you are for the moment. For this you should have some reward; take this flower. You know they call me the Lady of the Camelias, because I always carry a bouquet of those beautiful flowers. Oh! I give it you that you may return it to me. When? When it is faded.”
“And in how short a time will that be?”
“The time in which all flowers fade, the duration of an evening, or a morning. Good bye, good bye.”
She fell into a reverie as the youth left her, but she was soon startled from it by the cries from the other room.
The next moment they came running in, as he joined them, and was soon as merry as the merriest among them.
Yet not for one mere moment was she really happy.
CHAPTER II.
Away from the hot, crowded city—away from the brilliantly lighted ball room. Away to a peaceful cottage before which rippled a lake, while round the trees whispered sorrowing peace through the livelong day.
Living at peace, but not happy. No, not for one moment happy. Always before her flitting in the air, the menacing fatal future, always treading on a flowery path resting on a volcano.
Again, want stepped in. These ladies always live up to the extent of their means; so, if money suddenly fails them, they are quite poor. Not actual want of bread, but want of luxuries, which are necessities to them. Besides, she had debts: and when she deserted her gay life in Paris, her creditors, who knew of her miserable health, noisily demanded payment. She kept all this from the man whom she had grown to honestly love. So first her carriage, then her diamonds, then her cashmeres went to appease the raging creditors, and pay their daily bills. The youth was poor, there was no income now. So they lived, and she staved off debts by the sale of the presents of old admirers.
A wretched life truly, and useful only as a warning.
He learnt at last the sacrifices she was making, and grew ashamed of himself. He had a small fortune of his own, and at least he was honorable enough to make preparations to throw it into the common vortex. He wrote to his lawyer, desiring him to dispose of his entire property; and a few days after, telling her he had important business in the city, and bidding her keep up her spirits, left the cottage, and came to Paris, meaning to carry his poor fortune back to her, and bid her place it in the common bank.
Gone. Marguerite sat dreaming of her past life and her present position: who, she asked herself, would have thought that she, the gayest of the gay, should ever love such a tranquillity as she now enjoyed—passing days as happy as hers could be wholly with one whom, but three months ago, she did not even know. She would sit for hours hearing him read, and wonder when those hours had fled. At times she doubted whether she was the same woman—pictured her other self, still living the old weary life. And—and then she perhaps hoped that, away there in the hot bustling city, they had forgotten her. She often pictured herself gorgeously attired, the brilliant center of a ball-room crowd, and then shuddering at the sight, she turned from it, and saw herself seated near this new lover in their boat upon the lake and quietly gliding on the peaceful moonlit waters. She asked herself, Who would take this to be Marguerite?
She sat thinking, thinking for a long time, and at last she had a glimpse of such a bright future that she feared she might never live to reach it. She would sell all she possessed, all that could remind her of the past, and then they would live quietly in a couple of little rooms, and live as honest as they might. This was the first break of light in her gloomy life. Nevertheless, a great storm was gathering about her. We set up our little plans, we poor mortals, and the wind passes by and blows them down as easily as a breath overthrows the houses of cards, that children build on winters’ evenings.
The lawyer had, with great prudence, warned the young man’s father of the proposed sale. Coming up to Paris, the old man learnt the whole dismal truth. Portions of it had filtered home, indeed, and had done harm there; terrible harm; but no idea had the father that his son actually proposed to ruin himself for this lost woman.
Duval, the father, immediately took steps to discover his son’s residence; and upon the very day that Armand left his quiet country house for Paris, the father turned his face towards it.
Marguerite was still dreaming—now hopefully—when a servant came and said that a gentleman wished to speak with her.
Given permission to enter, an old gentleman came in with a quick, haughty step, and suddenly announced himself as the youth’s father.
Trembling, she answered that his son was not in the house.
“I know that, but ’tis with you I would speak. I presume that you know my son is degraded, and is ruining himself by remaining with you.”
“Pardon; I know that no one speaks of me, and that I have not ruined your son. I have received not one piece of money from him.”
“By which you mean to say that my son is fallen so low as to dissipate with you what you have received from others.”
“Pardon me again; I am a woman, and in my own house; two reasons which demand your courtesy, and—and you will allow me to—to leave you.”
“Truly, as I look upon and hear you, madame, I can hardly believe the scandals I have heard of you, you, who I have been told, are dangerous company.”
“Dangerous to myself, perhaps.”
“But this lawyer’s letter, does it not prove my poor son’s ruin? does it not show he is realizing all he is worth?”
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