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第二天，有一位助产婆——我们姑且把她当作那位母亲的一个朋友——来看望路易丝。路易丝在床上躺了几天，后来下床了，但脸色比过去更苍白，身体比过去更虚弱。

三个月以后，有一个男人出于怜悯，设法医治她身心的创伤，但是那次的打击太厉害了，路易丝终究还是因为流产的后遗症而死了。

那母亲仍旧活着，生活得怎么样？天知道！

当我凝视着这些金银器皿的时候，这个故事就浮现在我的脑海之中。时光似乎随着我的沉思默想已悄然逝去，屋子里只剩下我和一个看守人，他正站在门口严密地监视着我是不是在偷东西。

我走到这位看守人跟前，他已被我搞得心神不定了。

“先生，”我对他说，“您可以把原来住在这里的房客的姓名告诉我吗？”

“玛格丽特·戈蒂埃小姐。”

我知道这位姑娘的名字，也见到过她。

“怎么！”我对看守人说，“玛格丽特·戈蒂埃死了吗？”

“是呀，先生。”

“什么时候死的？”

“有三个星期了吧。”

“那为什么让人来参观她的住宅呢？”

“债权人认为这样做可以抬高价钱。您知道，让大家预先看看这些织物和家具，这样可以招徕顾客。”

“那么说，她还欠着债？”

“哦，先生，她欠了好多哪！”

“卖下来的钱大概可以付清了吧？”

“还有得剩。”

“那么，剩下来的钱给谁呢？”

“给她家属。”

“她还有家？”

“好像有。”

“谢谢您，先生。”

看守人摸清了我的来意后感到放心了，对我行了一个礼，我就走了出来。

“可怜的姑娘！”我在回家的时候心里想，“她一定死得很惨，因为在她这种生活圈子里，只有身体健康才会有朋友。”

我不由自主地对玛格丽特的命运产生了怜悯的心情。

很多人对此可能会觉得可笑，但是我对烟花女子总是无限宽容的，甚至也不想为这种宽容态度与人争辩。

一天，在我去警察局领取护照的时候，瞥见邻街有两个警察要押走一个姑娘。我不知道这个姑娘犯了什么罪，只见她痛哭流涕地抱着一个才几个月大的孩子亲吻，因为她被捕后，母子就要骨肉分离。从这一天起，我就再也不轻易地蔑视一个女人了。

Chapter 2

THE sale was due to be held on the 16th.

An interval of one day had been left between the viewing and the sale in order to give the upholsterers enough time to take down the hangings, curtains and so forth.

I was at that time recently returned from my travels. It was quite natural that no one had told me about Marguerite's death, for it was hardly one of those momentous news-items which friends always rush to tell anybody who has just got back to the capital city of News. Marguerite had been pretty, but the greater the commotion that attends the sensational lives of these women, the smaller the stir once they are dead. They are like those dull suns which set as they have risen: they are unremarkable. News of their death, when they die young, reaches all their lovers at the same instant, for in Paris the lovers of any celebrated courtesan see each other every day. A few reminiscences are exchanged about her, and the lives of all and sundry continue as before without so much as a tear.

For a young man of twenty-five nowadays, tears have become so rare a thing that they are not to be wasted on the first girl who comes along. The most that may be expected is that the parents and relatives who pay for the privilege of being wept for are indeed mourned to the extent of their investment.

For my own part, though my monogram figured on none of Marguerite's dressing-cases, the instinctive forbearance and natural pity to which I have just admitted led me to dwell on her death for much longer than it perhaps warranted.

I recalled having come across Marguerite very frequently on the Champs-Elysees, where she appeared assiduously each day in a small blue brougham drawn by two magnificent bays, and I remembered having also remarked in her at that time an air of distinction rare in women of her kind and which was further enhanced by her truly exceptional beauty.

When these unfortunate creatures appear in public, they are invariably escorted by some companion or other.

Since no man would ever consent to flaunt by day the predilection he has for them by night, and because they abhor solitude, they are usually attended either by less fortunate associates who have no carriages of their own, or else by elderly ladies of refinement who are not the least refined and to whom an interested party may apply without fear, should any information be required concerning the woman they are escorting.

It was not so with Marguerite. She always appeared alone on the Champs- Elysees, riding in her own carriage where she sat as unobtrusively as possible, enveloped on winter days in a large Indian shawl and, in summer, wearing the simplest dresses. And though there were many she knew along her favourite route, when she chanced to smile at them, her smile was visible to them alone. A Duchess could have smiled no differently.

She did not ride from the Rond- Point down to the entrance, to the Champs-Elysees as do ?and did ?all her sort. Her two horses whisked her off smartly to the Bois de Boulogne. There she alighted, walked for an hour, rejoined her brougham and returned home at a fast trot.

These circumstances, which I had occasionally observed for myself, now came back to me and I sorrowed for this girl's death much as one might regret the total destruction of a beautiful work of art.

For it was impossible to behold beauty more captivating than Marguerite's.

Tall and slender almost to a fault, she possessed in the highest degree the art of concealing this oversight of nature simply by the way she arranged the clothes she wore. Her Indian shawl, with its point reaching down to the ground, gave free movement on either side to the flounced panels of her silk dress, while the thick muff, which hid her hands and which she kept pressed to her bosom, was encompassed by folds so skillfully managed that even the most demanding eye would have found nothing wanting in the lines of her figure.

Her face, a marvel, was the object of her most fastidious attentions. It was quite small and, as Musset might have said, her mother had surely made it so to ensure it was fashioned with care.

Upon an oval of indescribable loveliness, place two dark eyes beneath brows so cleanly arched that they might have been painted on; veil those eyes with lashes so long that, when lowered, they cast shadows over the pink flush of the cheeks; sketch a delicate, straight, spirited nose and nostrils slightly flared in a passionate aspiration towards sensuality; draw a regular mouth with lips parting gracefully over teeth as white as milk; tint the skin with the bloom of peaches which no hand has touched ?and you will have a comprehensive picture of her entrancing face.

Her jet-black hair, naturally or artfully waved, was parted over her forehead in two thick coils which vanished behind her head, just exposing the lobes of her ears from which hung two diamonds each worth four or five thousand francs.

Exactly how the torrid life she led could possibly have left on Marguerite's face the virginal, even childlike expression which made it distinctive, is something which we are forced to record as a fact which we cannot comprehend.

Marguerite possessed a marvelous portrait of herself by Vidal, the only man whose pencil strokes could capture her to the life. After her death, this portrait came into my keeping for a few days and the likeness was so striking that it has helped me to furnish details for which memory alone might not have sufficed.

Some of the particulars contained in the present chapter did not become known to me until some time later, but I set them down here so as not to have to return to them once the narrative account of this woman's life has begun.

Marguerite was present at all first nights and spent each evening in the theatre or at the ball. Whenever a new play was performed, you could be sure of seeing her there with three things which she always had with her and which always occupied the ledge of her box in the stalls: her opera- glasses, a box of sweets and a bunch of camellias.

For twenty-five days in every month the camellias were white, and for five they were red. No one ever knew the reason for this variation in colour which I mention but cannot explain, and which those who frequented the theatres where she was seen most often, and her friends too, had noticed as I had.

Marguerite had never been seen with any flowers but camellias. Because of this, her florist, Madame Barjon, had finally taken to calling her the Lady of the Camellias, and the name had remained with her.

Like all who move in certain social circles in Paris, I knew further that Marguerite had been the mistress of the most fashionable young men, that she admitted the fact openly, and that they themselves boasted of it. Which only went to show that loves and mistress were well pleased with each other.

However, for some three years previously, ever since a visit she had made to Bagneres, she was said to be living with just one man, an elderly foreign duke who was fabulously wealthy and had attempted to detach her as far as possible form her old life. This she seems to have been happy enough to go along with.

Here is what I have been told of the matter.

In the spring of 1842, Marguerite was so weak, so altered in her looks, that the doctors had ordered her to take the waters. She accordingly set out for Bagneres.

Among the other sufferers there, was the Duke's daughter who not only had the same complaint but a face so like Marguerite's that they could have been taken for sisters. The fact was that the young Duchess was in the tertiary stage of consumption and, only days after Marguerite's arrival, she succumbed.

One morning the Duke, who had remained at Bagneres just as people will remain on ground where a piece of their heart lies buried, caught sight of Marguerite as she turned a corner of a gravel walk.

It seemed as though he was seeing the spirit of his dead child and, going up to her, he took both her hands, embraced her tearfully and, without asking who she was, begged leave to call on her and to love in her person the living image of his dead daughter.

Marguerite, alone at Bagneres with her maid, and in any case having nothing to lose by compromising herself, granted the Duke what he asked.

Now there were a number of people at Bagneres who knew her, and they made a point of calling on the Duke to inform him of Mademoiselle Gautier's true situation. It was a terrible blow for the old man, for any resemblance with his daughter stopped there. But it was too late. The young woman had become an emotional necessity, his only pretext and his sole reason for living.

He did not reproach her, he had no right to, but he did ask her if she felt that she could change her way of life, and, in exchange for this sacrifice, offered all the compensations she could want. She agreed.

It should be said that at this juncture Marguerite, who was by nature somewhat highly strung, was seriously ill. Her past appeared to her to be one of the major causes of her illness, and a kind of superstition led her to hope that God would allow her to keep her beauty and her health in exchange for her repentance and conversion.

And indeed the waters, the walks, healthy fatigue and sleep had almost restored her fully by the end of that summer.

The Duke accompanied Marguerite to Paris, where he continued to call on her as at Bagneres.

This liaison, of which the true origin and true motive were known to no one, gave rise here to a great deal of talk, since the Duke, known hitherto as an enormously wealthy man, now began to acquire a name for the prodigality.

The relationship between the old Duke and the young woman was put down to the salacity which is frequently found in rich old men. People imagined all manner of things, except the truth.

The truth was that the affection of this father for Marguerite was a feeling so chaste, that anything more than a closeness of hearts would have seemed incestuous in his eyes. Never once had he said a single word to her that his daughter could not have heard.

The last thing we wish is to make our heroine seem anything other than what she was. We shall say therefore that, as long as she remained at Bagneres, the promise given to the Duke had not been difficult to keep, and she had kept it. But once she was back in Paris, it seemed to her, accustomed as she was to a life of dissipation, balls and even orgies, that her new-found solitude, broken only by the periodic visits of the Duke, would make her die of boredom, and the scorching winds of her former life blew hot on both her head and her heart.

Add to this that Marguerite had returned from her travels more beautiful than she had ever been, that she was twenty years old and that her illness, subdued but far from conquered, continued to stir in her those feverish desires which are almost invariably a result of consumptive disorders.

The Duke was therefore sadly grieved the day his friends, constantly on the watch for scandalous indiscretions on the part of the young woman with whom he was, they said, compromising himself, called to inform him, indeed to prove to him that at those times when she could count on his not appearing, she was in the habit of receiving other visitors, and that these visitors often stayed until the following morning.

When the Duke questioned her, Marguerite admitted everything, and, without a second thought, advised him not to concern himself with her any more, saying she did not have the strength to keep faith with the pledges she had given, and adding that she had no wish to go on receiving the liberalities of a man whom she was deceiving.

The Duke stayed away for a week, but this was as long as he could manage. One week later to the day, he came and implored Marguerite to take him back, promising to accept her as she was, provided that he could see her, and swearing that he would die before he uttered a single word of reproach.

This was how things stood three months after Marguerite's return, that is, in November or December 1842.

拍卖定于十六日举行。在参观和拍卖之间有一天空隙时间，这是留给地毯商拆卸帷幔、壁毯等墙上饰物用的。

那时候，我正好从外地旅游归来。当一个人回到消息灵通的首都时，别人总是要告诉他一些重要新闻的。但是没有人把玛格丽特的去世当作什么大事情来对我讲，这也是很自然的。玛格丽特长得很漂亮，但是，这些女人生前考究的生活越是闹得满城风雨，她们死后也就越是无声无息。她们就像某些星辰，陨落时和初升时一样黯淡无光。如果她们年纪轻轻就死了，那么她们所有的情人都会同时得到消息；因为在巴黎，一位名妓的所有情人彼此几乎都是密友。大家会相互回忆几件有关她过去的逸事，然后各人将依然故我，丝毫不受这事的影响，甚至谁也不会因此而掉一滴眼泪。

如今，人们到了二十五岁这年纪，眼泪就变得非常珍贵，决不能轻易乱流，充其量只对为他们花费过金钱的双亲才哭上几声，作为对过去为他们破费的报答。

而我呢，虽然玛格丽特任何一件用品上都没有我姓名的开头字母，可是我刚才承认过的那种出于本能的宽容和那种天生的怜悯，使我对她的死久久不能忘怀，虽说她也许并不值得我如此想念。

记得我过去经常在香榭丽舍大街遇到玛格丽特，她坐着一辆由两匹栗色骏马驾着的蓝色四轮轿式小马车，每天一准来到那儿。她身上有一种不同于她那一类人的气质，而她那风致韵绝的姿色，又更衬托出了这种气质的与众不同。

这些不幸的人儿出门的时候，身边总是有个什么人陪着的。

因为没有一个男人愿意把他们和这种女人的暧昧关系公开化，而她们又不堪寂寞，因此总是随身带着女伴。这些陪客有些是因为境况不如她们，自己没有车子；有些是怎么打扮也好看不了的老妇人。如果有人要想知道她们陪同的那位马车女主人的任何私情秘事，那么尽可以放心大胆地向她们去请教。

玛格丽特却不落窠臼，她总是独个儿坐车到香榭丽舍大街去，尽量不招人注意。她冬天裹着一条开司米大披肩，夏天穿着十分淡雅的长裙。在这条她喜欢散步的大道上尽管有很多熟人，她偶尔也对他们微微一笑，但这是一种只有公爵夫人才有的微笑，而且也唯有他们自己才能觉察。

她也不像她所有那些同行一样，习惯在圆形广场和香榭丽舍大街街口之间散步，她的两匹马飞快地把她拉到郊外的布洛涅树林①，她在那里下车，漫步一个小时，然后重新登上马车，疾驰回家。

①布洛涅树林：在巴黎近郊，是当时上流社会人物的游乐胜地。

所有这些我亲眼目睹的情景至今还历历在目，我很惋惜这位姑娘的早逝，就像人们惋惜一件精美的艺术品被毁掉了一样。

的确，玛格丽特可真是个绝色女子。

她身材颀长苗条稍许过了点分，可她有一种非凡的才能，只要在穿着上稍稍花些功夫，就把这种造化的疏忽给掩饰过去了。她披着长可及地的开司米大披肩，两边露出绸子长裙的宽阔的镶边，她那紧贴在胸前藏手用的厚厚的暖手笼四周的褶裥都做得十分精巧，因此无论用什么挑剔的眼光来看，线条都是无可指摘的。

她的头样很美，是一件绝妙的珍品，它长得小巧玲珑，就像缪塞①所说的那样，她母亲好像是有意让它生得这么小巧，以便把它精心雕琢一番。

①缪塞（１８１０—１８５７）：法国浪漫主义诗人和戏剧家。

在一张流露着难以描绘其风韵的鹅蛋脸上，嵌着两只乌黑的大眼睛，上面两道弯弯细长的眉毛，纯净得犹如人工画就的一般，眼睛上盖着浓密的睫毛，当眼帘低垂时，给玫瑰色的脸颊投去一抹淡淡的阴影；细巧而挺直的鼻子透出股灵气，鼻翼微鼓，像是对情欲生活的强烈渴望；一张端正的小嘴轮廓分明，柔唇微启，露出一口洁白如奶的牙齿；皮肤颜色就像未经人手触摸过的蜜桃上的绒衣：这些就是这张美丽的脸蛋给您的大致印象。

黑玉色的头发，不知是天然的还是梳理成的，像波浪一样地鬈曲着，在额前分梳成两大绺，一直拖到脑后，露出两个耳垂，耳垂上闪烁着两颗各值四五千法郎的钻石耳环。

玛格丽特过着热情纵欲的生活，但是她的脸上却呈现出处女般的神态，甚至还带着稚气的特征，这真使我们百思而不得其解。

玛格丽特有一幅她自己的画像，是维达尔①的杰作，也唯有他的画笔才能把玛格丽特画得如此惟妙惟肖。在她去世以后，有几天，这幅画在我手里。这幅画画得跟真人一样，它弥补了我记忆力的不足。

①维达尔（１８１１—１８８７）：法国著名肖像画家，是法国名画家保罗·德拉罗什的学生；善绘当时巴黎上流社会的人士。

这一章里叙述的情节，有些是我后来才知道的，不过我现在就写下来，免得以后开始讲述这个女人的故事时再去重新提起。