l, for Heaven's sake, take care of yourself, and do not live as
you are living now."

"If I took care of myself I should die. All that supports me is the
feverish life I lead. Then, as for taking care of oneself, that is
all very well for women with families and friends; as for us, from the
moment we can no longer serve the vanity or the pleasure of our lovers,
they leave us, and long nights follow long days. I know it. I was in bed
for two months, and after three weeks no one came to see me."

"It is true I am nothing to you," I went on, "but if you will let me, I
will look after you like a brother, I will never leave your side, and I
will cure you. Then, when you are strong again, you can go back to the
life you are leading, if you choose; but I am sure you will come to
prefer a quiet life, which will make you happier and keep your beauty
unspoiled."

"You think like that to-night because the wine has made you sad, but you
would never have the patience that you pretend to."

"Permit me to say, Marguerite, that you were ill for two months, and
that for two months I came to ask after you every day."

"It is true, but why did you not come up?"

"Because I did not know you then."

"Need you have been so particular with a girl like me?"

"One must always be particular with a woman; it is what I feel, at
least."

"So you would look after me?"

"Yes."

"You would stay by me all day?"

"Yes.

"And even all night?"

"As long as I did not weary you."

"And what do you call that?"

"Devotion."

"And what does this devotion come from?"

"The irresistible sympathy which I have for you."

"So you are in love with me? Say it straight out, it is much more
simple."

"It is possible; but if I am to say it to you one day, it is not
to-day."

"You will do better never to say it."

"Why?"

"Because only one of two things can come of it."

"What?"

"Either I shall not accept: then you will have a grudge against me; or
I shall accept: then you will have a sorry mistress; a woman who is
nervous, ill, sad, or gay with a gaiety sadder than grief, a woman who
spits blood and spends a hundred thousand francs a year. That is all
very well for a rich old man like the duke, but it is very bad for a
young man like you, and the proof of it is that all the young lovers
I have had have very soon left me." I did not answer; I listened. This
frankness, which was almost a kind of confession, the sad life, of which
I ca