CHAPTER I.

[The author makes no apology for laying before his readers the tale of this popular opera, for never yet was fester cured by covering it up. Whereby, he means to say that no social wrong will be remedied, if the mention of it be ignored. But “La Dame aux Camelias” does not only rest upon this justification, it has yet another, “morality” itself. Let any unprejudiced man take the younger Alexandre Dumas’s play, (I do not say the novel of the same name, which is terribly inferior,) and read it through, and I think he will admit, if he has read thoughtfully, that it is perhaps one of the best homilies he has ever perused. Let us now consider the subject. The heroine was a notorious woman, rich, handsome, courted. Seen going in her carriage to the opera, seen at balls, at gardens, always courted, always fêted; did she not excite envy in the heart of many a pretty girl, leaning on the arm of a not rich father? Dead--her history before the world, on the stage--let this said pretty girl see the real life of this woman, and her envy will change to pity; surely, a better armor than envy to defend _her_ virtue! Let her look into the depths of that life, with no hope, one brilliant blank, surrounded by selfishness, and almost without a friend, and it will be no worthless lesson. Observe that all through the play the heroine is sad, and even in her poor yearnings after virtue, she does injury. And setting aside this real character, however, the play is a magnificent exposition of the heartlessness of sinful life, which may be read with profit by us all.]

There were many present, great lords and gentlemen, and several women. They were waiting for Marguerite’s return.

What Marguerite was, all knew. The reigning beauty and toast of Paris. The woman for whom men fought duels, and before whom jewellers bowed low. She had more diamonds than the richest lady at court. Her carriages were perfection, her house as sumptuously furnished as a nobleman’s.

And yet how wretched was her life. Not a young mother toiling for her children’s bread, but she envied; and though she had thousands of diamonds, she had not a single friend. To be sure her maid liked her, but she sighed for one nearer and dearer.

Rich men fêted her and named her with honor over their wine, but she knew how little their friendship was worth; and so, amidst all her admirers and female companions, she was as lonely as a land bird on a rock at sea, and she as often sighed as would the wind about that same barren rock.

Well, on this night her house was full of company, waiting her return from the opera.

She soon came amongst them, radiant, splendidly dressed, and apparently as joyous as any there. But now and then she coughed, for near her always sat an unseen skeleton, holding an hour glass.

This evening, a gentleman named Armand was introduced to her, who, it was declared, had loved her for a long time, but who was too timid to tell her so.

Some one proposing to dance, Marguerite started up and began waltzing, but soon her cough came upon her, and she was obliged to sit down half-fainting.

The youth Armand ran to her, almost stranger as he was. “You suffer, lady!”

“Oh! no, no! take no heed of me; leave me for a little, and I shall soon be myself again.”

They left the room, laughing and chattering (so used were they to her attacks); but the youth called Armand came gently back, as this poor lady looked at herself in a glass, with affright.

“You are still pale--”

“Ah! ’tis you, Monsieur Armand! Thank you, I am better; besides, I have grown accustomed to these attacks.”

“If I were your friend, your relation, I would say you are killing yourself, and would prevent you from continuing this wretched life.”

“Bah! you could not prevent me; but tell me, why are you yourself so pale?”

“I am sorry, perhaps, as I look upon you.”

“You are very gentle; you see the others take no notice of me--”

“Perhaps--perhaps they do not love you as I do, lady.”

“Ah! I forgot, this grand secret love of yours.”

“You are laughing at me, lady.”

“No, no--no, no--not laughing; I have heard the same declaration so often that I do not laugh at it.”

“Ah! well, make some return for it, so take care of your health.”

“Take care of my health, my friend! If I did, I should die at once. Bah! I can but live in this feverish life. Truly, good women, with families and friends, may seek quiet and rest, not such as I. The moment we cease to attract, we are alone, and our days then are _so_ long, _so_ long. Did I not keep my bed two months? At the end of the third week my last visitor came to see me!”

He again urged her to watch over her herself. She laughingly told him his countenance was too long. When he asked if she had a heart, she said ’twas the only thing left to such as her to throw away.

He looked so sad at her jesting, that she grew grave herself, and she said, “So, this passion is real?”

He told her he had followed her from place to place, and when she lay ill, inquired each day after her health.

“Why did you not ask to see me?”

“What right had I to ask?”

“Right! Do men stand on ceremony with me? So, you say you love me? Now, let me be your friend, and give you this advice--shake me by the hand, and let us part good friends, and for ever.”

“As you will--as you will, good friend, and for ever.”

“Ah! you are so far gone as that, my friend! Many men have told me they would not return, but have come back on the morrow.”

He was going towards the door, when she called him back. “See you, I shall not have long to live, and ’tis but right I should live as I choose through my short span. But I tell you, if I believed your protestations, they would live even for a shorter time than I myself shall. Well, well, perhaps you have a good heart--who knows? Not I. And you seem sincere; perhaps you are for the moment. For this you should have some reward; take this flower. You know they call me the Lady of the Camelias, because I always carry a bouquet of those beautiful flowers. Oh! I give it you that you may return it to me. When? When it is faded.”

“And in how short a time will that be?”

“The time in which all flowers fade, the duration of an evening, or a morning. Good bye, good bye.”

She fell into a reverie as the youth left her, but she was soon startled from it by the cries from the other room.

The next moment they came running in, as he joined them, and was soon as merry as the merriest among them.

Yet not for one mere moment was she really happy.