Chapter 27
"You have read it?" said Armand, when I had finished the
manuscript.
"I understand what you must have suffered, my friend, if all that
I read is true."
"My father confirmed it in a letter."
We talked for some time over the sad destiny which had been
accomplished, and I went home to rest a little.
Armand, still sad, but a little relieved by the narration of his
story, soon recovered, and we went together to pay a visit to
Prudence and to Julie Duprat.
Prudence had become bankrupt. She told us that Marguerite was the
cause of it; that during her illness she had lent her a lot of
money in the form of promissory notes, which she could not pay,
Marguerite having died without having returned her the money, and
without having given her a receipt with which she could present
herself as a creditor.
By the help of this fable, which Mme. Duvernoy repeated
everywhere in order to account for her money difficulties, she
extracted a note for a thousand francs from Armand, who did not
believe it, but who pretended to, out of respect for all those in
whose company Marguerite had lived.
Then we called on Julie Duprat, who told us the sad incident
which she had witnessed, shedding real tears at the remembrance
of her friend.
Lastly, we went to Marguerite's grave, on which the first rays of
the April sun were bringing the first leaves into bud.
One duty remained to Armand--to return to his father. He wished
me to accompany him.
We arrived at C., where I saw M. Duval, such as I had imagined
him from the portrait his son had made of him, tall, dignified,
kindly.
He welcomed Armand with tears of joy, and clasped my hand
affectionately. I was not long in seeing that the paternal
sentiment was that which dominated all others in his mind.
His daughter, named Blanche, had that transparence of eyes, that
serenity of the mouth, which indicates a soul that conceives only
holy thoughts and lips that repeat only pious words. She welcomed
her brother's return with smiles, not knowing, in the purity of
her youth, that far away a courtesan had sacrificed her own
happiness at the mere invocation of her name.
I remained for some time in their happy family, full of indulgent
care for one who brought them the convalescence of his heart.
I returned to Paris, where I wrote this story just as it had been
told me. It has only one merit, which will perhaps be denied it;
that is, that it is true.
I do not draw from this story the conclusion that all women like
Marguerite are capable of doing all that she did--far from it;
but I have discovered that one of them experienced a serious love
in the course of her life, that she suffered for it, and that she
died of it. I have told the reader all that I learned. It was my
duty.
I am not the apostle of vice, but I would gladly be the echo of
noble sorrow wherever I bear its voice in prayer.
The story of Marguerite is an exception, I repeat; had it not
been an exception, it would not have been worth the trouble of
writing it.
