Chapter 5 chapter Five

There was no news of Armand for a long time, but Marguerite was often mentioned. I don't know if you've ever had the feeling that a person you don't seem to know, or at least have nothing to do with, and whose name is mentioned in front of you, all sorts of trivia about him It will slowly come together, and all your friends will come to talk to you about things they have never talked to you before, and you will almost feel as if this person is right next to you.You will find that this person has appeared many times in your life, but you just didn't pay attention to it.You will find in the things that others tell you something that matches and agrees with certain experiences in your own life.This is not the case with Marguerite, because I have seen her and met her.I still remember her face and know her habits.Since that auction, though, I've heard her name mentioned a lot.I mentioned this situation in a previous chapter, and this name is associated with a great sorrow.So I feel more and more surprised and more and more curious.

In the past, I never talked about Marguerite with my friends; now, whenever I meet them, I ask: "Do you know a woman named Marguerite Gautier?" "La Traviata?" "It's her." "Very familiar!" "Very familiar!" When they said this, sometimes they still had that obvious smile on their faces. "So, how is this girl?" I continued. "A nice girl." "Only this?" "My God! Yes, smarter than the other girls, and probably kinder than them." "You don't know anything special about her?"

"She once bankrupted Baron G." "Is that all?" "She was... the old prince's mistress." "Is she really his mistress?" "That's what everyone says. Anyway, the old duke gave her a lot of money." What you hear is always the same set of generalities. However, I am very eager to know something about the relationship between Marguerite and Armand. One day, I met a man.This person had a close relationship with those celebrities in the romantic field.I ask her: "Do you know Marguerite Gautier?" The answer was "very familiar".

"What kind of girl is she?" "A beautiful and kind girl. I'm sorry she died." "Has she had a lover named Armand Duval?" "A tall blond guy?" "yes!" "There is such a person." "What kind of man is Armand?" "A young man, I believe he spent what little money he had with Marguerite and both, and he was obliged to leave her afterwards. It is said that he was almost mad for her." "And what about Margaret?" "She loves him very much, too, they keep saying. But it's like the love of girls. You can't ask them for what they can't give."

"What happened to Armand then?" "I don't know anything. We don't know him well. He and Marguerite lived together in the country for five or six months. But it was in the country, and when she came back to Paris he left." "Have you not seen him since?" "No." I never saw Armand again.I even wondered if he came to my house because he was more sad because the news of Margaret's death had just aroused old feelings.I thought that maybe he had long ago thrown away his promise to see me again along with the deceased. It might be so to others, but not to Armand.The tone of his grief-stricken voice at the time was very sincere.So I went from one extreme to the other, and I thought that Armand must be sick with grief, and that I could not hear from him because he was sick and probably dead.

I couldn't help but care about this young man.This kind of concern may be mixed with some selfishness. Maybe under his pain, I have speculated that there is a lingering love story; or maybe it is because I am eager to know this story that I feel so sorry for Armand's disappearance. so disturbed. Since M. Duval did not come to see me again, I resolved to go to his house.It's not hard to find an excuse to visit him, but unfortunately I don't know his address.I've asked everywhere, but no one can tell me. I went to the Rue d'Antin to inquire.Marguerite's porter probably knew where Armand lived.The porter had already replaced it with a new one, and he did not know Armand's address as much as I did.So I asked where Mademoiselle Gautier was buried.In the Montmartre cemetery.

It was April now, and the weather was fine and sunny, and the grave was no longer so gloomy and gloomy as it had been in winter.In short, the climate has been quite warm, so the living think of the dead and visit their graves.I thought on the way to the cemetery that I would only have to look at Marguerite's grave to see if Armand was still sad, and perhaps to know what was going on with him. I went into the cemetery keeper's room and asked him if a woman named Marguerite Gautier had been buried in the Montmartre cemetery on February 22nd. The man flipped through a thick book, which recorded the names of all the people who came to this final destination in numerical order.Then he replied to me that at noon on February 22, a woman with that name was indeed buried here.

I asked him to have me taken to her grave, for in this city of the dead, as in the city of the living, the streets are criss-crossed, and it is difficult to know your way without someone to guide you.The warden called a gardener, and attended to him as necessary.The gardener interjected, "I know, I know..." and then turned to me and said, "Ah! That grave is so recognizable!" "Why?" I asked him. "Because the flowers on it are completely different from those on other graves." "Is that grave your care?" "Yes, a young man entrusted me with my care. I wish, sir, all the relatives of the dead man thought as much of the dead man as he did."

After turning a few turns, the gardener stopped and said to me: "Here we are." Sure enough, a square of flowers appeared before my eyes, and no one would have recognized it as a tomb if there had not been a piece of white marble engraved with the name to testify there. This piece of marble stood upright, and a round iron fence surrounded the purchased cemetery, which was covered with white camellias. "What do you think?" the gardener asked me. "so gorgeous." "As long as a camellia withers, I will replace it with a new one as instructed." "Then who ordered you?"

"A young man who wept bitterly when he first came, probably an old friend of the deceased, for the woman seemed not to be a gentleman. They say she used to be very pretty. Do you know her, sir?" "I know." "Same as that gentleman," said the gardener to me with a sly smile. "No, I never spoke to her." "And you are kind enough to come here to see her! For the poor girl is a rare visitor to the cemetery!" "You mean no one ever came?" "No one has been here except the young gentleman once." "Only once?"

"Yes, sir." "Didn't he come later?" "Not yet, but he will come when he comes back." "So he's gone out?" "yes." "Do you know where he went?" "I think he went to Mademoiselle Gautier's sister." "What was he doing there?" "He went to ask Margaret's sister to agree to move the dead man, and he wanted Margaret to be buried elsewhere." "Why not let her be buried here?" "You know, sir, people have all sorts of opinions about the dead. We see it every day. The lease for this cemetery is only five years, and this young man wants a permanent lease of a larger size." A larger cemetery, preferably in the new district." "What new district?" "It's the new burial plots on the left that are being sold right now. If this cemetery had been managed as it is now, it would probably be unique in the world. But it's not far from perfect. . Besides, people are so ridiculous. " "What do you mean by that?" "I mean, there are some people who are still pompous all the way here. Just this Mademoiselle Gautier, as if she lived a bit of a loose life, pardon me for using that word. Now, the poor lady, she dead; but now we have no reason to talk about the same women whose graves we water every day? However, the relatives of the dead who were buried next to her knew what kind of person she was. They figured it out, said they objected to her being buried here, and said that such a woman should be like a poor person, and have another special burial place. Who has seen such a thing? I pushed them back hard: some Rich people come to visit their dead relatives, not more than four times a year, and they bring their own bouquets to see what flowers are! They say they will cry for the dead, but they will not spend money to repair the grave; Written with grief, but never shed a tear, and coming to make trouble with the neighbors of their relatives' graves. Can you believe it? Sir, I don't know this lady, and I don't know what she has done, But I like her, the poor little girl, I care for her, the camellias I bring her are fair, she's my favorite dead. Sir, there's nothing we people can do but love dead, because we're too busy So open, there's hardly any time left to love anything else." I looked at the man, and without my explaining, some readers will understand how much my heart was agitated when I heard him say these things. He might have seen it too.For he went on to say: "It is said that some people lost their fortunes for this girl, and that she had lovers who were very enamored of her. Why, it is both strange and sad when I think that there is no one who buys her a single flower. But she There's nothing to complain about, because she still has a grave after all, and though there's only one person who remembers her, that person has done these things for others. But we've got a few other poor ones of the same birth and age as her Girl, they are buried in the public cemetery. My heart is always torn to pieces when I hear their poor bodies thrown into the cemetery. Once they are dead, no one cares about them. In our line of work, especially if you have a conscience, sometimes you can't be happy. What can you do? I can't help it! I have a beautiful girl of twenty years old, whenever someone When the corpse of a woman of her age was delivered, I thought of her. Whether it was a wealthy lady or a homeless woman, I would inevitably be moved. "I'm sure you're tired of hearing all this nonsense, and you're not here to hear these stories. They want me to take you to Mademoiselle Gautier's grave, and here it is. Is there anything else you want me to do?" "Do you know the address of M. Armand Duval?" I asked the gardener. "I know. He lives in ... Street. You see these flowers. That's where I collected the money for them." "Thank you, my friend." I took one last look at the flower-strewn grave, and an involuntary thought occurred to me to probe its depths, to see what had become of the pretty woman who had been thrown in the dirt, and then, sadly, left Margaret's grave. "Does Monsieur want to visit Monsieur Duval?" went on the gardener, who was walking beside me. "yes." "I'm sure he hasn't come back, or he would have been here long ago." "Then you are sure that he has not forgotten Marguerite?" "Not only is it certain, but I can bet that he wanted to bury Margaret just because he wanted to see her again." "How is this going?" "The first thing he said when he came to the cemetery last time was 'how can I see her again?' This kind of thing can only be done unless the burial is done. I told him all the procedures needed for the burial, because you I know that in order to bury the dead, the body must first be examined, and this can only be done with the permission of the family of the deceased, and it must be presided over by the sheriff. M. Duval went to Mademoiselle Gautier's sister to ask her agrees. He will certainly come to us first when he comes back." When we reached the gate of the cemetery, I thanked the gardener again, gave him some change, and walked to the address he had told me. Armand has not returned yet. I left a message at his house, asking him to come and see me when he came back, or let me know where I could find him. The next morning I received a letter from M. Duval, telling me that he had returned, inviting me to his house, and saying that he was too tired to go out.