Illness like the one to which Armand had succumbed have at least this much to be said for them：they either kill you at once or let them selves be conquered very quickly. A fortnight after the events which I have just recounted，Armand was convalescing very satisfactorily， and we were bound by a firm friend ship.I had scarcely left his sick room throughout the whole time of his illness. Spring had dispensed its flowers ，leaves，birds，and harmomes mabundance，and my friend's window cheerfully overlooked his garden which wafted its healthy draughts up to him. The doctor had allowed him to get up，and we often sat talking by the open window at that hour of the day when the sun is at it swarmest，between noon and two o'clock.I studiously avoided speaking to him of Marguerite，for I was still a fraid that the name would reawaken some sad memory which slumbered beneath the sick man's apparent calm. But Armand，on the contrary，seemed to take pleasure in speaking of her-not as he had done previously，with tears in his eyes，but with a gentle smile whichallayed my fears for his state of mind.I had noticed that， since his last visit to the cemetery and thespectacle which had been responsible for causing his seriousbreakdown，the measure of his mental anguish seemed to have been taken by his physical illness， and Marguerite's death had ceased to present itself through the eyes of the past.A kind of solace had come with the certainty he had acquired and，to drive off the somber image which often thrust itself into his mind，he plunged into the happier memories of his affair with Marguerite and appeared willing to recall no others.His body was too exhausted by his attack of fever，and even by it streat ment，to allow his mind to acknowledge any violent emotions，and despite himself the universal joy of spring by which Armand was surrounded directed his thoughts to happier images.All this time，he had stubbornly refused to inform his family of the peril he was in，and when the danger was past，his father still knew nothing of his illness.One evening，we had remained longer by the window than usual.The weather had been superb and the sun was setting in a brilliant twilight of blue and gold. Although we were in Paris， the greenery around us seemed to cut us off from the world，and only the rare sound of a passing carriage from time to time disturbed our conversation. "It was about this time of year，and during the evening of a day like today，that I first met Marguerite，" said Armand， heedingo his own thoughts rather than what I was saying. I made no reply. Then he turned to me and said： "But I must tell you the story， you shall turn it into a book which no one will believe，though it may be interesting to write. " " You shall tell it to me some other time，my friend，" I told him， "you are still not well enough. " "The evening is warm，I have eaten my breast of chicken，" he said with a snule; "I am not the least feverish~，we have nothing else to do，I shall tell you everything. " " Since you are so set on it，I'll listen. " "It's a very simple tale，" he then added，" and I shall tell it in the order in which it happened. If at some stage you do make something of it，you are perfectly free to tell it another way. " Here is what he told me，and I have scarcely changed a word of his moving story. Yes（Armand went on，letting his head fall against the back of his armchair），yes，it was on an evening like this ！ I had spent the day in the country with one of my friends，Gaston R. We had returned toParis in the evening and，for want of anything better to do，had gone to the Theatre des Varietes. During one of the intervals，we left our seats and，in the comdor，we saw a tall woman whom my friend greeted with a bow. "Who was that you just bowed to？" I asked him. "Marguerite Gautier，" he replied. "It strikes me she is very much changed，for I didn't recognizeher，" I said with a tremor which you will understand in a moment. " She's been ill. The poor girl's not long for this world. " I recall these words as though they had been said to me yesterday. Now，my friend，l must tell you that for two years past，when ever I met her，the sight of that girl had always made a strange impressionon me. Without knowing why，l paled and my heart beat violently. Ihave a friend who dabbles in the occult，and he would call what I felt an aff inity of fluids; I myself believe quite simply that I wasdestined to fall in love with Marguerite， and that this was apresentiment. The fact remains that she made a strong impression on me. Several of my friends had seen how I reacted， and they had hooted with laughter when they realized from what quarter~ that impression came. ……
展开
