dless
remorse; and then, what is the good of killing oneself when one is so
near dying already?

I became a body without a soul, a thing without a thought; I lived for
some time in that automatic way; then I returned to Paris, and asked
after you; I heard then that you were gone on a long voyage. There was
nothing left to hold me to life. My existence became what it had been
two years before I knew you. I tried to win back the duke, but I had
offended him too deeply. Old men are not patient, no doubt because they
realize that they are not eternal. I got weaker every day. I was pale
and sad and thinner than ever. Men who buy love examine the goods before
taking them. At Paris there were women in better health, and not so thin
as I was; I was rather forgotten. That is all the past up to yesterday.

Now I am seriously ill. I have written to the duke to ask him for money,
for I have none, and the creditors have returned, and come to me with
their bills with pitiless perseverance. Will the duke answer? Why are
you not in Paris, Armand? You would come and see me, and your visits
would do me good.

December 20.

The weather is horrible; it is snowing, and I am alone. I have been in
such a fever for the last three days that I could not write you a word.
No news, my friend; every day I hope vaguely for a letter from you, but
it does not come, and no doubt it will never come. Only men are strong
enough not to forgive. The duke has not answered.

Prudence is pawning my things again.

I have been spitting blood all the time. Oh, you would be sorry for me
if you could see me. You are indeed happy to be under a warm sky, and
not, like me, with a whole winter of ice on your chest. To-day I got up
for a little while, and looked out through the curtains of my window,
and watched the life of Paris passing below, the life with which I have
now nothing more to do. I saw the faces of some people I knew, passing
rapidly, joyous and careless. Not one lifted his eyes to my window.
However, a few young men have come to inquire for me. Once before I was
ill, and you, though you did not know me, though you had had nothing
from me but an impertinence the day I met you first, you came to inquire
after me every day. We spent six months together. I had all the love for
you that a woman's heart can hold and give, and you are far away, you
are cursing me, and there is not a word of consolation from you. But it
is only chance that has made you le