Each time the door opens, her eyes light up, for each time she believes that you will walk in. Then, when she sees that it is not you, her face reverts to its expression of suffering, breaks into a cold sweat and her cheeks turn crimson.
19 February, midnight
Oh, poor Monsieur Armand! What a sad day today has been! This morning, Marguerite could not get her breath. The doctor bled her, and her voice came back a little. The doctor advised her to see a priest. She said she would, and he himself went off to find one at the Church of Saint Roch.
Meanwhile, Marguerite called me close to her bedside, asked me to open her wardrobe, pointed out a lace cap and a long shift, also richly decked with lace, and then said in a weakened voice:
"I shall die after I have made my confession. When it's over, you are to dress me in these things. It is the whim of a dying woman."
Then, weeping, she kissed me and added:
"I can speak, but I can't get my breath when I do. I can't breathe! Give me air!"
I burst into tears and opened the window. A few moments later, the priest walked in.
I went to greet him.
When he realized in whose apartment he was, he seemed afraid of the reception he might get.
"Come in, father, there's nothing to fear," I said.
He stayed no time in the room where Marguerite lay so ill, and when he emerged, he said:
"She has lived a sinful life, but she will die a Christian death."
A few moments later, he returned with an altar-boy carrying a crucifix, and a sacristan who walked before them ringing a bell to announce that the Lord was coming to the house of the dying woman.
All three entered the bedroom which, in times gone by, had echoed with so many extravagant voices, and was now nothing less than a holy tabernacle.
I fell to my knees. I cannot say how long the effect of these proceedings on me will last, but I do not believe that any human thing will ever produce such an effect on me again until I myself reach the same pass.
The priest took the holy oils, anointed the dying woman's feet, hands and brow, read a short prayer, and Marguerite was ready for heaven, where she is surely bound if God has looked down on the tribulations of her life and the saintly character of her death.
Since that moment, she has not spoken or stirred. There were a score of times when I would have thought she was dead, had I not heard her laboured breathing.
20 February, 5 o'clock in the afternoon
It is all over.
Marguerite began her mortal agony last night, around two o'clock. No martyr ever suffered such torment, to judge by the screams she uttered. Two or three times, she sat bolt upright in her bed, as though she would snatch at the life which was winging its way back to God.
And two or three times she said your name. Then everything went quiet, and she slumped back on the bed exhausted. Silent tears welled up in her eyes, and she died.
I went close to her, called her name and, when she did not answer, I closed her eyes and kissed her on the forehead.
Poor, dear Marguerite! How I wished I had been a holy woman so that my kiss might commend your soul to God!
Then I dressed her as she had asked. I went to fetch a priest at Saint-Roch. I lit two candies for her, and stayed in the church for an hour to pray.
I gave money of hers to some poor people there.
I am not well versed in religion, but I believe that the good Lord will acknowledge that my tears were genuine, my prayers fervent and my charity sincere, and He will have pity on one who died young and beautiful, yet had only me to close her eyes and lay her in her grave.
22 February
The funeral was today. Many of Marguerite's women friends came to the church. A few wept honest tears. When the cortege set off for Montmartre, only two men followed the hearse: Count de G, who had returned specially from London, and the Duke, who walked with the aid of two of his footmen.
I am writing to tell you of these happenings from Marguerite's apartment, with tears in my eyes, by the light of the lamp which burns mournfully and with my dinner untouched, as you might imagine, though Nanine had it sent up for me, for I have not eaten in more than twenty-four hours.
Life moves on and will not allow me to keep these distressing pictures clear in my mind for long, for my life is no more mine than Marguerite's was hers. Which is why I am writing down all these things here in the place where they happened, for I fear that if any length of time were to elapse between what has occurred and your return, I should not be able to give you an account of it in all its sorry detail.'
Chapter 27
'HAVE you finished it?' Armand asked me when I reached the end of the manuscript.
'I understand what you must have been through, my friend, if all that I've read is true!'
'My father vouches for it in a letter he wrote me.'
We talked for some while longer of the unhappy destiny which had just been played out, then I went home to get a little rest.
Armand, unhappy still, but a little easier now that his story was told, recovered quickly, and together we went to call on Prudence and Julie Duprat.
Prudence had just been declared bankrupt. She said that it was Marguerite's fault: during her final illness, she had loaned Marguerite considerable sums of money for which she, Prudence, had signed promissory notes. She had not been able to repay these notes because Marguerite had died without reimbursing her, nor had she signed any receipts which would have allowed Prudence to join the other creditors.
With the help of this unlikely tale, which Madame Duvernoy put about generally as an excuse for the mishandling of her own affairs, she succeeded in getting a thousand francs out of Armand who did not believe a word of it but wanted to appear as though he did, such was his respect for anyone and anything that had once been close to his mistress.
Next, we called on Julie Duprat, who went over the unhappy course of events which she had witnessed and wept sincerely as she remembered her dead friend.
Finally, we went to see Margrerite's grave over which the early rays of the April sun were uncurling the first leaves.
There remained one final call of duty for Armand to answer, which was to rejoin his father. Once more, he asked me to accompany him.
We arrived at C where I met Monsieur Duval, who looked exactly as I had pictured him from the description his son had given me: a tall, dignified, kindly man.
He welcomed Armand with tears of happiness, and shook my hand affectionately. I quickly realized that among the Collector's sentiments, fatherly feeling was by far the strongest.
His daughter, whose name was Blanche, had the cleareyed gaze and serene mouth which point to a soul that conceives only saintly thoughts and lips that speak only pious words. She greeted her brother's return with smiles, unaware, chaste young woman that she was, that in a far country a courtesan had sacrificed her own happiness to the mere mention of her name.
I stayed for some time with this happy family which directed every waking thought to the son who had brought them a convalescent heart.
I returned to Paris where I wrote this story exactly as it had been told to me. It has just one quality to commend it, which may be contested: it is true.
From this tale, I do not draw the conclusion that all women of Marguerite's sort are capable of behaving as she did. Far from it. But I have learned that one such woman, once in her life, experienced deep love, that she suffered for it and that she died of it. I have told the reader what I learned. It was a duty.
I am not an advocate of vice, but I shall always be a sounding board for any noble heart in adversity wherever I hear its voice raised in prayer.
Marguerite's history is an exception, I say again. Had it been a commonplace, it would not have been worth writing down.
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