The Lady of the Camellias (5 page)

I raised the curtain by my window and watched him board the carriage that awaited him at the door; he was scarcely inside before he dissolved into tears and hid his face in his handkerchief.

A fairly long time passed before I heard talk of Armand, but the subject of Marguerite, on the other hand, came up quite often.

I don't know if you've noticed, but once the name of someone who is supposed to be unknown to you, or at least indifferent to you, is spoken before you, details begin to cluster around this name, little by little, and you begin to hear your friends speak of things they had never before discussed with you. It is then you discover that this person was practically connected to you, that she had passed unobserved through your life many times; you find coincidences in events people relate that seem to have an actual connection with events in your own life. I had positively never known Marguerite, though I had seen her, bumped into her, and knew her face and her habits; and yet, after that sale, her name came frequently to my ears, and, given the circumstances I related in the previous chapter, this name was blended with a heartache so profound that my astonishment grew, magnifying my curiosity.

The result of this was that every time I ran into friends with whom I had never before spoken of Marguerite, I would say, “Did you ever know someone named Marguerite Gautier?”

“The Lady of the Camellias?”

“Exactly.”

“
Very well!
”

These
Very wells!
were sometimes accompanied by smirks that left no doubt as to their meaning.

“Ah, and what was she like?” I'd continue.

“A grand girl.”

“That's all?”

“My God! Yes, more spirit and maybe a little more heart than the rest.”

“And you know nothing in particular about her?”

“She ruined the Baron de G . . . .”

“Only him?”

“She was the mistress of the old Duc de . . . .”

“Was she really his mistress?”

“So they say. In any case, he gave her a lot of money.”

Always the same generalities.

However, I would have been curious to learn something about the liaison between Marguerite and Armand.

One day I ran into one of those men who continually associate with courtesans. I asked him:

“Did you know Marguerite Gautier?”

The same
very well
was his answer.

“What kind of girl was she?”

“A fine, pretty girl. I was saddened to learn of her death.”

“Didn't she have a lover named Armand Duval?”

“A tall, blond man?”

“That's true. What's Armand's story?”

“He was a guy who squandered what little resources he had on her, I believe, and was forced to leave her. They say he was crazy about her.”

“And she?”

“She loved him very much, too, everyone always says, but only in the way women like that can. You shouldn't expect more from them than they're capable of giving.”

“What's become of Armand?”

“I don't know. We knew him very little. He spent five or six months with Marguerite, but in the countryside. When she came back, he left.”

“And you haven't seen him since?”

“Never.”

Me neither. I had begun to ask myself if, at the time he presented himself at my home, the recent news of Marguerite's death had exaggerated his old love and, as a consequence, his grief, and I told myself that perhaps he had already forgotten, along with her death, the promise he had made to come back and see me.

This suspicion would have been reasonable enough had it been somebody else, but there had been a sincere tenor to Armand's despair, and, passing from one extreme to the other, I wondered if his heartache had turned into illness, and that if I hadn't had news from him, it was because he was sick, or maybe even dead.

I was interested in this young man in spite of myself. Perhaps there was a degree of egotism in this interest; perhaps I had glimpsed a touching love story beneath his pain, and perhaps, in short, it was my desire to know it that was largely responsible for my concern over Armand's silence.

Since M. Duval did not return to visit me, I resolved to visit him. It was not hard to find a pretext, but unfortunately I did not know his address, and none of the people I had questioned could tell me it.

I went to the rue d'Antin. Marguerite's doorman might know where Armand lived. He was a new doorman. He didn't know any more than I did. I then obtained the name of the cemetery where Mlle Gautier had been buried. It was the cemetery of Montmartre.

April had reappeared, the weather was lovely, and the graves no longer had the dolorous, desolate air that winter gives them; at last it was warm enough for the living to remember the dead and to visit them. I went to the cemetery, telling myself, “With one glance at Marguerite's grave I will see if Armand is still suffering, and maybe I will learn what has become of him.”

I entered the caretaker's house and asked if on the twenty-second of the month of February a woman named Marguerite Gautier had been buried in the cemetery of Montmartre.

The man leafed through a fat book where all those who entered this final resting place were inscribed and enumerated, and responded that yes, on the twenty-second of February, at noon, a woman by that name had been interred.

I asked the caretaker to lead me to the grave, as this city of the dead has its streets, just like the city of the living, and there would be no way to identify her grave without a guide. The caretaker called over a gardener, to whom he gave the necessary indications, until the gardener interrupted him, saying: “I know, I know . . . Oh! The grave is easy enough to spot,” he continued, turning toward me.

“Why?” I asked him.

“Because its flowers are much different than the others.”

“Is it you who tends it?”

“Yes, sir, and I could wish all relatives took as good care of their departed as the young man who looks after that one.”

After a few turns, the gardener stopped and said to me, “Here we are.”

Before my eyes was an expanse of flowers that no one would ever have taken for a grave, had not a white marble slab bearing a name been proof.

This marble slab stood upright. An iron trellis demarcated the plot of land that had been bought, and that plot was covered in white camellias.

“What do you make of that?” asked the gardener.

“It's very pretty.”

“And every time a camellia fades, I'm on orders to replace it.”

“And who gives you those orders?”

“A young man who cried a great deal the first time he came—a close friend of the dead woman, no doubt, because she seemed to be a lively sort, that one. They say she was very beautiful. Did the gentleman know her?”

“Yes.”

“The way the other man did?” the gardener asked with a wicked smile.

“No, I never spoke to her.”

“And you come here to see her; that's very good of you, because the cemetery's hardly overrun with visitors to the poor girl.”

“So nobody comes?”

“No one except for the young man, who came once.”

“Just once?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And he hasn't been back since?”

“No, but he'll come back upon his return.”

“Then he's traveling?”

“Yes.”

“And do you know where he is?”

“He is, I believe, staying with Mlle Gautier's sister.”

“And what is he doing there?”

“He is seeking authorization from her to exhume the dead woman and bury her someplace else.”

“Why doesn't he leave her here?”

“You know, sir, people have ideas about what to do with the dead. People like me see that every day. This plot was purchased for five years only, and this young man wants a permanent resting place for her, and a larger plot; in the new quarter it will be better.”

“What do you mean by ‘the new quarter'?”

“The new plots that we're selling now, on the left. If the cemetery had always been kept up the way it is now, there wouldn't have been another like it in the world; but there's still a lot to do before it's just as it should be. And then again, people are so funny.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean there are people who are proud until they come here. And this girl Gautier seems to have lived it up a little, if you'll pardon the expression. Now, the poor girl, she's dead; and there are plenty more that there's nothing to say against and whom we water every day; and, well, when the relatives of the people who are buried beside her heard who she was, didn't they object to her being here—and didn't they say plots should be set apart for women like that, like they are for the poor? Have you ever heard such a thing? I told them what I thought of them, I did; wealthy people who don't even come four times a year to visit their dead, who bring their flowers themselves . . . and just imagine the flowers they bring! They act as if a visit to somebody they're supposed to cry over were a business appointment, they carve mournful sentiments on gravestones for people they've never shed a tear for, and they make trouble for the neighborhood. Believe me if you like, sir, I did not know this young woman, I don't know what she did; and all the same, I love her, that poor little mite, and I take care of her, and I choose camellias for her at the fairest price. She's my favorite of the dead. People like me, sir, are forced to love the dead, because we're so busy that we hardly have time to love anything else.”

I looked at this man, and some of my readers will understand without my needing to explain it the emotion I felt upon hearing him speak this way.

He sensed it, undoubtedly, because he went on, “They say there are people who ruined themselves for that girl, and that she had lovers who adored her; well, when I think that not one of them comes to buy her one solitary flower, that's what I think is strange and sad. And again, she has nothing to complain about, because she has her grave, and if there's only one person who remembers her, well, he can stand in for the rest. But we have poor girls here of the same type and the same age that we throw into paupers' graves, and it breaks my heart when I hear their poor bodies fall to ground. And not one soul thinks of them once they're dead! It's not always so cheerful, this trade of ours, if you've got a soft heart. What do you want? It's too much for me sometimes. I've got a nice, grown-up daughter who's twenty, and when someone brings a dead girl her age here, I think of her; and, whether it's a great lady or a tramp, I can't help but be moved.

“But no doubt I'm boring you with my tales, and you did not come here to listen to me talk. I was told to lead you to the grave of Mlle Gautier—here you are. May I be of any further assistance?”

“Do you know the address of M. Armand Duval?” I asked this man.

“Yes, he lives on rue —. At least that's where I went to get the money to buy all the flowers you see here.”

“Thank you, my friend.”

I cast one last glance at the flower-strewn grave, and despite myself longed to part the depths to see what the earth had done to the beautiful creature who had been surrendered to it. I walked away filled with sadness.

“Would the gentleman like to see M. Duval?” asked the gardener, walking alongside me.

“Yes.”

“It's just that I'm pretty sure he's not back yet; otherwise I would have seen him here already.”

“You therefore are convinced he has not forgotten Marguerite?”

“Not only am I convinced, but I would also bet that his wish to move her grave is nothing more than the desire to see her again.”

“What do you mean?”

“The first thing he said to me when he came to the cemetery was, ‘What do I have to do to see her again?' That could only take place if the grave were moved, and I explained to him all the forms he would need to fill out to make the change, because, you know, to transfer the dead from one grave to another, you must first identify them, and only the family is authorized to make that identification, and it must be done in the presence of a police commissioner. It's to get this authorization that M. Duval has gone to Mlle Gautier's sister, and his first visit will obviously be to us.”

We had arrived at the cemetery gate; I thanked the gardener again, put some money in his hand and went to the address he had given me.

Armand was not back.

I left word for him, asking him to come see me upon his return, or to let me know how I could find him.

The next day, in the morning, I received a letter from Duval, who informed me of his return and asked me to drop by, adding that, worn out with exhaustion, he was unable to leave his house.

I found Armand in bed.

When he saw me he extended a burning hand.

“You have a fever,” I told him.

“It's nothing; I'm tired out from my journey, that's all.”

“You're coming from Marguerite's sister's house?”

“Yes, who told you?”

“I know all about it, and did you get what you wanted?”

“Yes again, but who told you about the trip and about the purpose I had in making it?”

“The gardener at the cemetery.”

“Did you see the grave?”

I hardly dared answer, as the tone in which he asked the question proved to me that the man who asked it was still captive to the emotion I had witnessed, and that for a long time to come, whenever his thoughts or the words of another would bring him back to this painful subject, this emotion would overpower his will.

I contented myself therefore by responding with a nod of the head.

“Has he taken good care of it?” Armand asked.

Two fat tears rolled down the cheeks of the invalid, who turned his head to hide them from me. I pretended not to see them and tried to change the conversation.

“You've been gone three weeks,” I said.

Armand passed his hand across his eyes and said, “Just three weeks.”

“Your trip was long.”

“Oh! I wasn't traveling all the time. I was sick fifteen days; otherwise I would have come back a long time ago, but I'd hardly got there when fever took me, and I was forced to keep to my bed.”

“And you left again before you had recovered.”

“If I'd stayed eight days more in that part of the country, I would have died there.”

“But now that you're back, you've got to take care of yourself; your friends will come see you. Me, first of all, if you permit.”

“In two hours I will get up.”

“What folly!”

“I must.”

“What do you have to do that's so urgent?”

“I must go see the police commissioner.”

“Why don't you send someone else on this mission that's bound to make you sicker still?”

“It's the only thing that can cure me. I must see her. Ever since I learned of her death, and above all ever since I saw her grave, I can't sleep. I cannot comprehend that this woman I left so young and so beautiful is dead. I must assure myself of it in person. I must see what God has made of this creature I loved so much, and perhaps the horror of the sight will replace the despair of my memory. You will accompany me, won't you, if it is not too tedious for you?”

“What did you tell her sister?”

“Nothing. She seemed astonished that a stranger would want to buy a plot and have a tomb made for Marguerite, and immediately signed the authorization I asked for.”

“Believe me, you must put this off until you are fully recovered.”

“Oh! I'll be fine; don't worry. Anyway, I would go crazy if I didn't finish off this task that I've determined to do; my sorrow makes it imperative. I swear to you, I will be calm again only once I have seen Marguerite. Perhaps it's a thirst brought on by the fever that consumes me, an insomniac dream, a product of my delirium, but if seeing her meant I would have to become a Trappist monk afterward like M. de Rancé, I would still want to see her.”

“I understand,” I told Armand. “I am at your disposal. Have you seen Julie Duprat?”

“Yes. Oh! I saw her the very day of my first return.”

“Did she give you the documents Marguerite had left for you?”

“Here they are.”

Armand pulled out a roll of papers from beneath his pillow, and put it back immediately.

“I know by heart what those papers contain,” he told me. “For three weeks I have reread them ten times a day. You will read them too, but later, when I'm calmer, and when I will be able to make you understand everything these confessions reveal about her heart and her love. At the moment I have a favor to ask you.”

“Which is?”

“You have a carriage downstairs?”

“Yes.”

“Could you please take my passport and go ask at the post office if there are any letters for me? My father and my sister must have written to me in Paris, and I left with such precipitate haste that I didn't take time to check before I left. Once you're back we'll go together to alert the police commissioner to tomorrow's ceremony.”

Armand gave me his passport, and I went to rue Jean-Jacques Rousseau.

There were two letters for Duval; I took them and came back.

When I returned, Armand was dressed and ready to go out.

“Thank you,” he said, taking his letters. “Yes,” he added, after having looked at the addresses. “Yes, it's from my father and my sister. They must have been perplexed by my silence.”

He opened the letters, and seemed more to divine their contents than to read them, as they were four pages each, and he folded them back up after an instant.

“Let's go,” he said. “I'll write back tomorrow.”

We went to see the police commissioner, to whom Armand gave the authorization from Marguerite's sister.

In exchange the commissioner gave him a release to give to the caretaker of the cemetery; it was agreed that the transfer would take place the next day at ten in the morning, that I would drop by Armand's an hour beforehand, and that we would go together to the cemetery.

I, too, was curious to attend this spectacle, and I swear I did not sleep at all that night.

Judging from the thoughts that haunted me, it must have been a long night for Armand as well. When I entered his home the next day at nine o'clock, he was horribly pale but seemed to be calm.

He smiled at me and gave me his hand.

His candles had burnt down to the end, and before going out, Armand took up a thick letter, addressed to his father, in which he no doubt had confided his impressions of the night.

Half an hour later we arrived at Montmartre.

The commissioner was already waiting for us.

We walked slowly in the direction of Marguerite's grave. The commissioner was first in line; Armand and I followed a few steps behind.

From time to time I could feel my companion's arm shudder convulsively, as if he had been overtaken by sudden shivering. I would look at him then, and he would understand my look and smile at me, but from the time we left his home we did not exchange one word.

A little before we reached the grave, Armand stopped to wipe his face, which was beaded with perspiration.

I took advantage of this break to breathe, because I myself felt as if my heart were squeezed in a vise.

What is the source of the melancholy pleasure one takes in this sort of spectacle! When we arrived at the grave, the gardener had removed all the flowerpots, the wrought-iron trellis had been removed, and two men were digging up the earth.

Armand leaned against a tree and watched.

It seemed as if all his life were passing before his eyes.

Suddenly one of the two shovels struck stone.

With this noise Armand recoiled as from an electric shock and gripped my hand with such force that he hurt me.

A gravedigger took a broad shovel and emptied the grave little by little; then when there was nothing left but the rocks that covered the coffin, he threw them behind him one by one.

I watched Armand, fearing at every minute that the intense emotions he was so visibly undergoing might break him; but he kept watching, his eyes fixed and open as if in rapture, and only a gentle tremor in his cheeks and lips proved he was the victim of a violent nervous shock.

As for me, I can say only one thing, which is that I was sorry I had come.

When the bier was completely uncovered, the commissioner said to the gravediggers, “Open it.”

The men obeyed as if it were the simplest thing in the world.

The coffin was made of oak, and they began to unscrew the upper casing that covered it. The dampness of the earth had rusted the screws, and it was not without effort that the coffin was opened. An odor of infection seeped out, in spite of the aromatic plants that had been strewn within.

“O my God! My God!” murmured Armand, and again he turned pale.

Even the gravediggers drew back.

A large white shroud covered the corpse, outlining some of its sinuous curves. This shroud was almost completely eaten away at one end; a foot of the dead woman stuck through.

I was very nearly sick, and at the hour in which I write these lines, the memory of this scene appears to me again in its daunting reality.

“Let's hurry,” the commissioner said.

One of the two men extended a hand and began undoing the shroud, and seizing one end he brusquely uncovered the face of Marguerite.

It was terrible to see; it is horrible to describe.

Her eyes were nothing more than two holes, her lips had disappeared, and her white teeth were crowded one against the other. Her long, dry black hair was stuck to her temples, veiling somewhat the green cavities of her cheeks, and yet I could recognize in this visage the white, pink, and joyful face I had so often seen.

Armand, unable to avert his gaze from this face, had brought his handkerchief to his mouth and was biting it.

As for me it seemed as if a circlet of iron were bound around my head, a veil covered my eyes, buzzing filled my ears, and all I could do was open a small vial I had brought by chance and inhale deeply the salts it contained.

In the midst of this daze, I heard the commissioner say to M. Duval, “Do you make the identification?”

“Yes,” the young man replied dumbly.

“Close it up and take it away,” said the commissioner.

The gravediggers threw the shroud back over the face of the dead woman, closed the coffin, and each took it by one end and headed toward the designated place.

Armand did not move. His eyes were riveted on the empty pit; he was as pale as the corpse we had just seen. You would have said he'd been turned to stone.

I understood what was likely to happen once his grief had subsided, reduced by distance from the spectacle; as a result I left his side.

I approached the commissioner.

“Is the presence of the gentleman still necessary?” I asked, indicating Armand.

“No,” he said, “and I would actually advise you to take him away, because he looks ill.”

“Come,” I said to Armand, taking his arm.

“What?” he said, looking at me as if he didn't recognize me.

“It's over,” I said. “You've got to go, my friend—you're pale, you're cold, you'll kill yourself with this distress.”

“You're right. Let's get out of here,” he responded mechanically, without taking a step.

I grabbed him by the arm and led him off.

He let himself be guided like a child, murmuring only now and again, “Did you see her eyes?”

And he turned around, as if that vision had summoned her back.

But his step became irregular; he was no longer able to advance except by jolts. His teeth chattered; his hands were cold; a violent nervous agitation spread across his entire body.

I spoke to him; he did not answer.

All he could do was let himself be guided.

He had hardly sat down when the shivering increased, and he had a true nervous fit, in the middle of which, for fear of frightening me, he murmured while pressing my hand, “It's nothing, it's nothing; I just wish I could cry.”

I heard his chest heave, and a flush spread to his eyes, but tears would not come.

I made him breathe the smelling salts that had served me, and when we arrived at his place, only the shivering still manifested itself.

With help from the servant I put him to bed, had a big fire lit in his bedroom, and ran to find my doctor, to whom I related what had just happened.

He hurried over.

Armand was purple. He was delirious, and stammered incoherent words, in which only the name Marguerite could be distinctly heard.

“Well?” I said to the doctor when he had examined the patient.

“He has brain fever, no more, no less, and that's a good thing, because I believe, God forgive me, that otherwise he would have gone mad. Luckily the physical illness will kill the psychological illness, and in one month he will be delivered from one, and perhaps from the other.”