Camille - fils Alexandre Dumas (i have read the book a hundred times txt) 📗

back soon.”

“Good, good! Talk, my children,” said Prudence, going out and closing the door behind her, as if to further empbasize the tone in which she had said these words.

“Well, it is agreed,” continued Marguerite, when we were alone, “you won’t fall in love with me?”

“I will go away.”

“So much as that?”

I had gone too far to draw back; and I was really carried away. This mingling of gaiety, sadness, candour, prostitution, her very malady, which no doubt developed in her a sensitiveness to impressions, as well as an irritability of nerves, all this made it clear to me that if from the very beginning I did not completely dominate her light and forgetful nature, she was lost to me.

“Come, now, do you seriously mean what you say?” she said.

“Seriously.”

“But why didn’t you say it to me sooner?”

“When could I have said it?”

“The day after you had been introduced to me at the Opera Comique.”

“I thought you would have received me very badly if I had come to see you.”

“Why?”

“Because I had behaved so stupidly.”

“That’s true. And yet you were already in love with me.”

“Yes.”

“And that didn’t hinder you from going to bed and sleeping quite comfortably. One knows what that sort of love means.”

“There you are mistaken. Do you know what I did that evening, after the Opera Comique?”

“No.”

“I waited for you at the door of the Cafe Anglais. I followed the carriage in which you and your three friends were, and when I saw you were the only one to get down, and that you went in alone, I was very happy.”

Marguerite began to laugh.

“What are you laughing at?”

“Nothing.”

“Tell me, I beg of you, or I shall think you are still laughing at me.”

“You won’t be cross?”

“What right have I to be cross?”

“Well, there was a sufficient reason why I went in alone.”

“What?”

“Some one was waiting for me here.”

If she had thrust a knife into me she would not have hurt me more. I rose, and holding out my hand, “Goodbye,” said I.

“I knew you would be cross,” she said; “men are frantic to know what is certain to give them pain.”

“But I assure you,” I added coldly, as if wishing to prove how completely I was cured of my passion, “I assure you that I am not cross. It was quite natural that some one should be waiting for you, just as it is quite natural that I should go from here at three in the morning.”

“Have you, too, some one waiting for you?”

“No, but I must go.”

“Goodbye, then.”

“You send me away?”

“Not the least in the world.”

“Why are you so unkind to me?”

“How have I been unkind to you?”

“In telling me that some one was waiting for you.”

“I could not help laughing at the idea that you had been so happy to see me come in alone when there was such a good reason for it.”

“One finds pleasure in childish enough things, and it is too bad to destroy such a pleasure when, by simply leaving it alone, one can make somebody so happy.”

“But what do you think I am? I am neither maid nor duchess. I didn’t know you till to-day, and I am not responsible to you for my actions. Supposing one day I should become your mistress, you are bound to know that I have had other lovers besides you. If you make scenes of jealousy like this before, what will it be after, if that after should ever exist? I never met any one like you.”

“That is because no one has ever loved you as I love you.”

“Frankly, then, you really love me?”

“As much as it is possible to love, I think.”

“And that has lasted since—?”

“Since the day I saw you go into Susse’s, three years ago.

“Do you know, that is tremendously fine? Well, what am to do in return?”

“Love me a little,” I said, my heart beating so that I could hardly speak; for, in spite of the half-mocking smiles with which she had accompanied the whole conversation, it seemed to me that Marguerite began to share my agitation, and that the hour so long awaited was drawing near.

“Well, but the duke?”

“What duke?”

“My jealous old duke.”

“He will know nothing.”

“And if he should?”

“He would forgive you.”

“Ah, no, he would leave me, and what would become of me?”

“You risk that for some one else.”

“How do you know?” “By the order you gave not to admit any one tonight.” “It is true; but that is a serious friend.”

“For whom you care nothing, as you have shut your door against him at such an hour.”

“It is not for you to reproach me, since it was in order to receive you, you and your friend.”

Little by little I had drawn nearer to Marguerite. I had put my arms about her waist, and I felt her supple body weigh lightly on my clasped hands.

“If you knew how much I love you!” I said in a low voice. “Really true?”

“I swear it.”

“Well, if you will promise to do everything I tell you, without a word, without an opinion, without a question, perhaps I will say yes.”

“I will do everything that you wish!”

“But I forewarn you I must be free to do as I please, without giving you the slightest details what I do. I have long wished for a young lover, who should be young and not self-willed, loving without distrust, loved without claiming the right to it. I have never found one. Men, instead of being satisfied in obtaining for a long time what they scarcely hoped to obtain once, exact from their mistresses a full account of the present, the past, and even the future. As they get accustomed to her, they want to rule her, and the more one gives them the more exacting they become. If I decide now on taking a new lover, he must have three very rare qualities: he must be confiding, submissive, and discreet.”

“Well, I will be all that you wish.”

“We shall see.”

“When shall we see?”

“Later on.”

“Why?”

“Because,” said Marguerite, releasing herself from my arms, and, taking from a great bunch of red camellias a single camellia, she placed it in my buttonhole, “because one can not always carry out agreements the day they are signed.”

“And when shall I see you again?” I said, clasping her in my arms.

“When this camellia changes colour.”

“When will it change colour?”

“Tomorrow night between eleven and twelve. Are you satisfied?”

“Need you ask me?”

“Not a word of this either to your friend or to Prudence, or to anybody whatever.”

“I promise.”

“Now, kiss me, and we will go back to the dining-room.”

She held up her lips to me, smoothed her hair again, and we went out of the room, she singing, and I almost beside myself.

In the next room she stopped for a moment and said to me in a low voice:

“It must seem strange to you that I am ready to take you at a moment’s notice. Shall I tell you why? It is,” she continued, taking my hand and placing it against her heart so that I could feel how rapidly and violently it palpitated; “it is because I shall not live as long as others, and I have promised myself to live more quickly.”

“Don’t speak to me like that, I entreat you.”

“Oh, make yourself easy,” she continued, laughing; “however short a time I have to live, I shall live longer than you will love me!”

And she went singing into the dining-room.

“Where is Nanine?” she said, seeing Gaston and Prudence alone.

“She is asleep in your room, waiting till you are ready to go to bed,” replied Prudence.

“Poor thing, I am killing her! And now gentlemen, it is time to go.”

Ten minutes after, Gaston and I left the house. Marguerite shook hands with me and said good-bye. Prudence remained behind.

“Well,” said Gaston, when we were in the street, “what do you think of Marguerite?”

“She is an angel, and I am madly in love with her.” “So I guessed; did you tell her so?”

“Yes.”

“And did she promise to believe you?”

“No.”

“She is not like Prudence.”

“Did she promise to?”

“Better still, my dear fellow. You wouldn’t think it; but she is still not half bad, poor old Duvernoy!”