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CAMILLE: 
 
 
 PLAY IN FITVE ACTS: 
 
 TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH OF ALEXANDER DUMAS. Jr. 
 
 BY 
 
 MATILDA HERON, 
 
 WHILE ! Pi PARIS 
 
 CINCINNATI: 
 
 T WRIGHTS ON & CO., PRINTERS 
 
 167 Walnut Street. 
 
 1856. 
 
'b 
 
 •V 
 
 «»>< 
 
 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1856, by 
 MATILDA HERON, 
 
 In the Clerk's Office of the District Court for the Southern District of Ohio. 
 
 ,, 
 
CHARACTERS IN THE PLAT 
 
 ARMAND DUVAL. 
 
 MONSIEUR DUVAL, Father of Armand. 
 
 COUNT DE VARVILLE. 
 
 GASTON. 
 
 GU STAVE. 
 
 MESSENGER. 
 
 CAMILLE. 
 PRUDENCE. 
 OLIMPE. 
 NICHETTE. 
 
 NAN1NE. 
 
CAMILLE. 
 
 ACT FIRST. 
 
 Scene: — A room in the house of Camille. 
 
 Count de Varville and Nanine Discovered. 
 
 Door-bell rings as the curtain rises. 
 
 Varville. Some one has rung the bell. 
 
 Nanine. Yes, I hear. Valentine will attend to the door. 
 
 Varville. Perhaps it is Camille. 
 
 Nanine. No, not yet. She said she would return at half- 
 past ten, and it is not ten yet. [Nichette speaks without.'] 
 Ah, it is Madmoiselle Nichette's voice. 
 
 Nichette. [Entering.'] Oh, excuse me ! I thought Mad- 
 moiselle Camille was here. 
 
 Nanine. No, Nichette, she is not in. You wish to see 
 her? 
 
 Nichette. I was merely passing the door, and I felt like 
 coming up to say good-night to her. But since she is not 
 here, you will please tell her that I called. 
 
 Nanine. Will you wait awhile? She will soon be in. 
 
 Nichette. No, thank you! Gustave is at the door. Is 
 she well ? 
 
 Nanine. Ah, — always the same. 
 
 Nichette. Did she leave with you the little bundle that I 
 requested of her the other day ? 
 
 Nanine. Yes ; but you are not going to carry it ? 
 
 Nichette. Why not? It is not heavy. 
 
 
CAMILLE,, 
 
 Nanine. You had better let me send it to you, and save 
 you the trouble. 
 
 Nichette. I thank you. But nothing is a trouble that I 
 do for Camille. Please tell her that I will do these very nicely, 
 and bring them to her in a few days, and that I left my love 
 for her. Adieu, Nanine ! Adieu, Monsieur! [Uxit. 
 
 Varville. Umph ! A very pretty girl ! Who is she ? 
 
 Nanine. That is Madmoiselle Nichette. 
 
 Varville. Nichette ! That's the name of a cat, not a woman. 
 
 Nanine. It is a pet name that Camille gave her. They 
 are very fond of each other. They used to be companions, 
 and worked together in the same room. 
 
 Varville. What ! Worked ? Did Camille ever work ? 
 
 Nanine. Yes — she was an embroidress. 
 
 Varville. Why, I never knew that before. 
 
 Nanine. It was your own fault, Monsieur; for Madam 
 has made no secret of it. 
 
 Varville. This little puss — puss — what's her name ? Ah ! 
 this Nichette, as you call her, is rather pretty. 
 
 Nanine. And more — she is wise. 
 
 Varville. Wise! Ah, yes, — well, wise is a good word. 
 But who is this Monsieur Gustave who was waiting for her 
 below ? 
 
 Nanine. He is her husband. 
 
 Varville. Oh, then he is Monsieur Nichette ! 
 
 Nanine. That is, he is not her husband yet ; but he will 
 be, and that is the same thing. 
 
 Varville. I understand. She is wise as the world goes. 
 But she has a lover. 
 
 Nanine. Who loves but her, and who will marry her, and 
 make her a good husband. And take my word for it, she is 
 a good girl, and deserves all the happiness he can bestow 
 upon her. 
 
 Varville. So thrives everybody's suit but mine. Nanine, 
 do you think Camille cares any more for me than she used 
 to ? That is, do you think she really loves me ? 
 
CAMILLE. 
 
 Nanine. Not the least little bit in the world! 
 
 Varville. What ? Pheugh ! [Aside.] A strange way of 
 answering a civil question that girl's got! [To Nanine.'] 
 But it must be said that she has strange taste, or she never 
 could endure the tedious visits of that old Monsieur de Meu- 
 riac. They must be very annoying. 
 
 Nanine. You would not think so if you could hear how 
 Madam speaks of him. Besides, poor old man, it is the only 
 happiness he has, and he regards her as his own child. 
 
 Varville. Oh, yes ! By the way, I heard of that verj 
 pathetic and interesting story ; but unhappily I Gannot be- 
 lieve it. 
 
 Nanine. Then listen to me and I will endeavor to con- 
 vince you. There are many evil things said of Madam, and 
 with truth ; but that is the very reason why things that are 
 not true should not be said. About two years ago, Camille, 
 after a long illness, determined to visit the celebrated waters 
 of Bagneres, to recover, if possible, her health. I ac- 
 companied her. Among the invalids at the hotel there was a 
 lovely young girl, the same age as Camille, suffering from 
 the same complaint, and bearing such strong resemblance to 
 her, that wherever they went, they were called the twin sisters. 
 This young girl was Madmoiselle de Meuriac, daughter of the 
 Duke. 
 
 Varville. Madmoiselle de Meuriac died. 
 
 Nanine. She did. 
 
 Varville. Oh, yes ! I have heard this story before; and 
 that the Duke implored Camille to change her course of life, 
 promising that if she would consent to do so, he would charge 
 himself with all her wants, and introduce her to society in 
 which she would be loved and honored. Camille at length 
 consented. This was not two years since; and to-night she 
 is at the opera, the Queen of the Camelias, fifty thousand 
 francs in debt. 
 
 Nanine. Which you have kindly offered to pay. Yes, you 
 are right, Mon. de Varville. Madam is gayer now than she 
 
CAMILLE. 
 
 ever was before; but no one knows her heart. Ah, sir, you 
 would have pitied her had you seen her efforts to please the 
 world in which the Duke de Meuriac sought to gain her a 
 position. She was so gentle, so child-like, it seemed as if the 
 spirit of the dead girl had left its innocence with her, and 
 blotted out all record of the past. Day by day all who knew 
 her grew to love her. But this was not to last. The Duke 
 was called away. In his absence her story reached the circle 
 in which she moved. From that moment it was closed against 
 her. She was shunned as an adder ; and in their cruel sneers 
 they told her to go back to Paris and wear Camelias. She 
 did return to Paris — met old friends, who gave a warmer 
 welcome to her faults than the better world had given to her 
 virtues. [Boor-bell rings.'] Ah, here she is ! Shall I tell 
 her what you were saying ? 
 
 Varville. No, Nanine — you are too amiable to make mis- 
 chief. 
 
 [Enter Camille.~] 
 
 Camille. [To Nanine. ~] Order supper. Olimpe and Gas- 
 ton will be here presently. I met them at the opera. [Exit 
 Nanine. Seeing Varville.^ Ah, you are there ! 
 
 Varville. Yes, it is my destiny to await you. 
 
 Camille. And it is my destiny to find you ever here on 
 my return. 
 
 Varville. And it shall continue to be until you forbid 
 me your door. 
 
 Camille. Indeed ! am I never to enter this house without 
 finding you here before me ? What have you got to say, now 
 that you are here ? 
 
 Varville. You know the only subject of my heart. 
 
 Camille. Heart ! I'm sick of that. 
 
 Varville. Is it my fault if I love you too well ? 
 
 Camille. There it is again ! My good friend, if I were 
 to listen to every man who tells me he loves me, I would not 
 have time to breakfast. For the hundreth time, I repeat, 
 Mon. de Varville, it will not do ! You are losing time. You 
 
CAMILLE. 
 
 are ever welcome to enter here — when I go out, and to leave 
 when I enter: but if you will insist on speaking to me of 
 your love, you must not come at all. 
 
 Varville. A year ago, at Bagneres, Camille, you thought 
 differently. 
 
 Camille. Yes ; but that was a year ago. At Bagneres. A 
 very dull place. I was sick. Things have changed. This 
 is Paris. I am better now. 
 
 Varville. Especially, since the Duke de Meuriac has 
 adopted you. 
 
 Camille. You are a fool ! 
 
 Varville. Or, perhaps, since the Count de Giray has been 
 the chosen one. 
 
 Camille. Monsieur de Varville, I am at liberty to love 
 whom I please. That is purely my affair — certainly not 
 yours. And if you have nothing else to say, go home. Good 
 night. [He goes up and sits at the fire. She goes to the 
 piano and plays.'] 
 
 Varville. Bravo ! Bravo ! 
 Camille. Are you not gone yet ? 
 
 Varville. No, not yet. I am waiting your better humor. 
 [She coughs.'] You are ill, Camille. What's the matter. 
 Camille. Nothing, I will be better — when you are gone. 
 Varville. Ah, I see my star is not propitious. So, 
 I will say good night. Camille, shall I call to-morrow at 
 one? 
 
 Camille. Yes, do. [Aside.] I shall be out from twelve till 
 five. 
 
 Varville. Adieu. [Goes up.~\ 
 [Enter Nanine, who announces Mademoiselle Olimpe and 
 Monsieur Gaston, and exits. — Enter Olimpe and Gaston. 
 Camille. Come in, Olimpe, I thought you were never com- 
 ing to see me any more. 
 
 Olimpe. It was all his fault. 
 
 Gaston. Yes, all my fault ! It always is, you know. Ah, 
 how are you, Varville ? 
 
 Varville. How are you, Gaston ? Glad to see you. 
 
10 CAMILLE. 
 
 Gaston. You sup with us to-night ; do you not. 
 
 Varville. Do I, Camille ? 
 
 Camille. 'No — no ! Why, I thought you bid me good night 
 just now. 
 
 Varville. So I did ; but I thought you called me back. 
 
 Cfaston. Well, my little girl ; how have you been all this 
 time. 
 
 Camille. Oh, very well ! 
 
 Gaston. So much the better. In passing the Cafe de 
 Paris, I ordered some fine oysters and a basket of champagne 
 of a certain brand, which they keep expressly for my use. 
 It is excellent, I assure you ! So vive lajoil— -there will be 
 no scarcity of amusement. 
 
 Olimpe. There never is when you are about. 
 
 Gaston. Mademoiselle Olimpe, you are a wicked woman. 
 
 Olimpe. No wonder, I keep bad company. [To Camille.] 
 Will Prudence be here ? 
 
 Camille. Yes, she should be here by this time. [Calls at 
 window.] Prudence. 
 
 Olimpe. Oh, Prudence is your neighbor, is she ? 
 
 Camille. Yes, she lives just opposite. It is very conve- 
 nient. When I want her, I have only to open the window 
 and call. [Calls. ~\ Prudence ! 
 
 Gaston. Who is Madame Prudence ? 
 
 Olimpe. She is a milliner, and has but one customer, — 
 Camille. 
 
 Gaston. What, Camille, do you wear all her bonnets ? 
 
 Camille. Oh, no, — heaven forbid! It is bad enough to have 
 to pay for them. But she is a good, soul, with a heart as 
 light as her purse. [Calls.'] Prudence ! 
 
 Prudence. [Without.] Here lam. 
 
 Camille. Well, here we are waiting for you. Why do you 
 not come. 
 
 Prudence-. I cannot just now. 
 
 Camille. What detains you ? 
 
 Prudence. A young man whom I have not seen for a long 
 
CAMILLE. 11 
 
 time has just stepped in to see me, and I cannot leave him 
 alone. 
 
 Camille. Then bring him along. Quick ! Quick ! Ugh ! 
 how cold it is ! Mon. de Varville, do pray, put some wood 
 on that fire, I am frozen here. Make yourself useful, for 
 you are not agreeable. [ Varville fixes fire.] 
 
 [Enter Nannie, who announces Monsieur Armand Duval 
 and Madame Duverney.] 
 
 Camille . Bid them enter, [Exit Nanine. 
 
 Enter Armand and Prudence, 
 
 Prudence. My dear Camille, allow me to present to you 
 Monsieur Armand Duval. 
 
 Camille. Must I rise ? 
 
 Armand. No, Madam ; it is not necessary. [Goes and 
 speaks to others.'] 
 
 Camtlle. [To Prudence.] Who is your friend? 
 
 Prudence. The man of all Paris who loves you the most. 
 
 Camille. Indeed! Tell Nanine to place another knife 
 and fork upon the supper table ; for I dare say that love 
 will never take away his appetite. 
 
 Prudence. Camille, I am serious. That young man loves 
 you almost to madness. 
 
 Camille. Yes ! But he will not go mad. 
 
 [Olimpe presents Armand to Gaston.] 
 
 Gaston. Duval ! Oh, yes ; I heard that name before. 
 Are you any relation to Monsieur Duval, that gruff, crusty 
 old gentleman, who was sometime Receiver-General at Tours ? 
 
 Armand. Oh, yes ! He is my father. Do you know 
 him? 
 
 Gaston. I have had that pleasure. I met him at the house 
 of the Baroness de Nersay. Also your mother, Madam Du- 
 val, who was a very beautiful and charming lady. 
 
 Armand. Alas, sir ! she has been dead for three years. 
 
 Gaston. Pardon me, sir ! I was not aware of it, or I 
 should not have recalled her memory. 
 
 Armand. Oh, sir ! you can never offend by reminding me 
 
12 
 
 CAMILLE. 
 
 of my mother ; for next to possessing affections so beautiful 
 and pure as hers, is the remembrance of them when they are 
 beyond our reach. 
 
 G-aston. You are an only child. 
 
 Armand. Oh, no ! I have a dear sister. [They go up.] 
 Camille. [To Prudence.'] I begin to like your friend. 
 Prudence. I guessed it would be so ; and so I told him 
 before we came. 
 
 Camille. And did he really tell you he loves me ? 
 Prudence. To be sure he did, and more ; I knew it long 
 ago. But you laugh so at the idea of love, that I did not 
 dare to say so. 
 
 Olimpe. What are you two whispering about there ? 
 Camille. Listen and you shall know. Monsieur de Var- 
 ville, will you ever cease that noise ? 
 
 Varville. Noise ! Why you told me to play all the time. 
 Camille. That was when I was alone with you ; but I need 
 no pastime now. 
 
 Prudence. Well, as I was saying, for two years you have 
 been his only thought. You may remember when you were 
 ill a year ago, before you went to Bagneres, that during the 
 three months you were confined to bed, you were told a young 
 man called every day to learn how you were ; but never left 
 his name. 
 
 Camille. Oh, I remember. 
 Prudence. It was he. 
 Camille. Monsieur DuvaL 
 Armand. Madam ? 
 
 Camille. Bo you know what they are telling me here : — 
 that when I was ill a year ago, you called each day to learn 
 how I was. 
 
 Armand. It is true madam. 
 
 Camille. Ah, Monsieur Varville, do you hear that ? 
 Varville. Why I haven't known you a whole year. 
 Camille. And Monsieur Duval has known me just five 
 minutes. \_N~anine and servants bring in supper table.] 
 Prudence. That's right, Nanine, you're a sensible girl. 
 
CAMILLE. 
 
 13 
 
 I certainly should have died with hunger if that table had not 
 appeared. 
 
 Varville. Adieu, Camille, I am going. 
 
 Camille. I don't believe you. 
 
 Varville. You may, for I am off. 
 
 Camille. When shall I see you again ? 
 
 Varville. Whenever you please. 
 
 Camille. Well, that is the most agreeable thing you have 
 said to night. Adieu ! [Exit Varville.'] 
 
 Olimpe. Adieu, Monsieur de Varville ; don't forget your 
 promise. 
 
 Gaston. Here, save your politeness; you will want it pre- 
 sently. 
 
 Camille. Now, my friends, to supper. Come, be seated. 
 Armand you will sit next to me. [They sit at table] 
 
 Prudence. Well, Camille, I think you treat that poor 
 Count de Varville very badly. 
 
 Camille. Poor ! You would not think him poor if you 
 heard him counting over his revenue. 
 
 Olimpe. I wish he would count some of it over to me. 
 
 Gaston. Are you not satisfed, madam, with your present 
 choice ? 
 
 Olimpe. Well, I ought to be, after that beautiful present 
 you made me the other day. Camille, you connot guess what 
 he gave me on my birth-day. 
 
 Camille. No, what was it ? 
 
 Olimpe. A carriage. 
 
 Camille A carriage ! I am sure that was a very hand- 
 some present. 
 
 Olimpe. But I have no horses ; and he wont buy me any. 
 
 Camille. Never mind — they will follow. Keep the car- 
 riage. 
 
 Olimpe. Alas ! it is only a candy one. 
 
 Gaston. My dear girl, if you desire to prove the sincerity 
 of your affections, love me for myself alone. 
 
 Olimpe. There's a modest request. 
 
14 
 
 CAMILLE, 
 
 Prudence. What is that dish? 
 
 Gaston. Partridges. 
 
 Prudence. Give me some of them, 
 
 Gaston. A wing, you mean. 
 
 Prudence. Monsieur Gaston, you are a boy. 
 
 Gaston. You must forgive me, I was not aware that ladies ' 
 appetites grew with their age. 
 
 Prudence. Age ! And what age do you suppose I am ? 
 
 Gaston. I do not know. Indeed I never studied ancient 
 history. But' you do not look more than forty, upon my 
 honor. 
 
 Prudence. Forty ! Thirty-six, if you please. 
 
 Gaston. Forty and thirty-six. Seventy — well, it does 
 look more like that, I confess. 
 
 Prudence. Camille, will you speak to Monsieur Gaston ? 
 He is doing all he can to take away my appetite. And what 
 are you doing there ? You are not eating at all. Hand me 
 some oysters, dear, and fill up Monsieur Duval's glass. 
 
 Camille. Good! Let us fill to my health, Armand ! 
 
 All To the health of Camille ! 
 
 Camille. Gaston you have not helped Olimpe. 
 
 Gaston. Haven't I though ? 
 
 Prudence. Come sit by me. I'll help you. Gaston has no 
 idea of how to administer to a delicate appetite. 
 
 Gaston. Madam Prudence, have you ever had your throat 
 examined ! 
 
 Olimpe. Don't heed him, Madam Duverney. He is 
 thinking of Amanda's throat, and the time she caught cold 
 in the yellow carriage. 
 
 Camille. Oh, by the way, yes ! What was that about the 
 yellow carriage ? Do let me hear it. 
 
 Gaston. My dear, will you come sit by me ? I'll mix a 
 salad for you. 
 
 Prudence. No, thank you, she is better here. Will you 
 have another bird, my dear ? 
 
 Gaston. That old woman must have a cast-iron stomach. 
 
OAMILLE. 15 
 
 Prudence. What do you have supper for, if it is not to 
 eat? 
 
 Olimpe. Why, you see Prudence, sometimes persons 
 have suppers prepared for them that they do not eat ; and 
 sometimes persons go to great expense to have a supper 
 served up in elegant style, a little out of town, and invite a 
 beautiful girl to sup with them ; and when they call to ac- 
 company her, they arrive just in time to see her drive off to 
 the supper with another, and in the very yellow carriage they 
 had bought for her ! 
 
 Gaston. Mademoiselle Olimpe, that was a very stupid 
 story. 
 
 Olimpe. But the sequel is very interesting. Shall I tell 
 it? 
 
 All — (except Gaston.) Yes! yes! the sequel. 
 
 Camille. Let us drink to the hero of the yellow carriage. 
 
 All. To the hero of the yellow carriage ! 
 
 Gaston. I'll drink, if it's only for the sake of the wine. 
 Down goes the yellow carriage. 
 
 Camille. Now for a dance. Clear away the table. 
 
 Prudence. I have not finished yet. 
 
 Camille. A polka ! A polka. 
 
 f They dance. Camille grows sick.'] 
 
 Gaston. What's the matter, Camille ? 
 
 Camille. Nothing ! That cough again. That's all. 
 
 Armand. You are ill, madam ! 
 
 Prudence. Give her something to eat. 
 
 Camille. A glass of water, please. I will be better soon. 
 It is nothing. See, I am well already. Monsieur Duval, and 
 you, Gaston, step into the other room, and before you have 
 your segars lit, I will be with you. [Aside to the ladies.] 
 Go with them. I am not well. 
 
 Prudence. Yes, let us leave her. She is better alone when 
 these attacks arrive. [J_sz<ie.] It is always the way. Just 
 as we are enjoying ourselves, on comes that cough again, and 
 all our fun is over. 
 
 [Exeunt Gaston, Prudence and Olimpe. 
 
16 CAMILLE. 
 
 Armand. [Aside, ,] Poor girl ! 
 
 Camille. How pale I am ! Ah ! 
 
 Armand. Well, Mademoiselle, how do you feel now ? 
 
 Camille. Ah, Monsieur Armand, is it you ? Better, thank 
 you. I have grown used to these of late. 
 
 Armand. You are killing yourself. I would I had the 
 right to save you from yourself. 
 
 Camille. It is too late. Why, what's the matter with 
 you? 
 
 Armand. You have made me ill. 
 
 Camille. Don't be foolish. Pray go into the next room, 
 and enjoy yourself with the others. See, they do not heed 
 me. 
 
 Armand. Ah, Camille, let me be your nurse — your doc- 
 tor. I will guard you like a brother — shield you from this 
 feverish existence, which is bringing you to your grave — sur- 
 round you with a thousand little cares that will make you in 
 love with life — then when you are strong and well, and can 
 enjoy it, I will be as your guiding star, and lead your thoughts 
 to find content in a home more worthy of you. 
 
 Camille. Monsieur Duval, if you would not offend me, let 
 us change this subject. Do not deceive yourself — you cannot 
 deceive me. You are not speaking to the cherished daughter 
 of society ; but to a woman of the world — friendless, fearless — 
 loved by those whose vanity she gratifies — despised by those 
 who ought to pity her. 
 
 Armand. Camille, have you a heart ? 
 
 Camille. Why do you ask ? 
 
 Armand. Because, if you have, you could not make so 
 light a matter of my words. 
 
 Camille. Are you really serious ? 
 
 Armand. Very serious. 
 
 Camille. Prudence told me you were sentimental. 
 
 Armand. Prudence could not tell you how I love you. 
 
 Camille. And you still think you love me ? 
 
 Armand. Camille, I cannot jest. This is the most seri- 
 
CAMILLE, 17 
 
 ous moment of my life. My destiny is in your hands. You 
 are young, lovely, loveable. The world in which you live is 
 at your feet — -smiles when you smile — is gay when you are 
 gay. But does it weep with you, and in your sad and silent 
 hours, does it hover around you with its care, and cheer you 
 with its love ? No ! No ! Then leave this tainted sphere. 
 It is not worthy of you. Listen to the voice of one who truly 
 loves you. Give me leave to find your heart, and teach it how 
 to throb anew — to make it my shrine, my sanctuary, my home. 
 
 Camille. Are you sure you would take good care of it ? 
 
 Armand. Trust me. 
 
 Camille. For how long ? 
 
 Armand. Forever. 
 
 Camille. How long has this lasted ? 
 
 Armand. For two years. 
 
 Camille. How came it you never told me of this before ? 
 
 Armand. I never knew you until now. 
 
 Camille. You could very easily have made my acquain- 
 tance. When I was ill, and you came each day to inquire af- 
 ter me, why did you not ask to see me ? 
 
 Armand. Pardon me ! 
 
 Camille. Why, you loved me then ? 
 
 Armand. Yes, too well to take a liberty I would not al- 
 low another to take in the house of the woman I respected. 
 
 Camille. So you really think you love me ? 
 
 Armand. When you shall give me the right to say so, you 
 will one day learn how well. 
 
 Camille. It were better never told, 
 
 Armand. And why ? 
 
 Camille* Because it can result in but one of two things. 
 First, that I will not believe it ; or, believing it, cause you to 
 wish I never had. I am but a sorrowful companion, at the 
 best. Always sick, impatient, nervous, fretful — or, if gay, 
 a gaiety more terrible than tears — expensive, too — a revenue 
 of thirty thousand francs, and always in debt. This may do 
 for the dear old Duke, who loves me as his child, has plenty 
 
18 CAMILLE. 
 
 of money, and no one to spend it. It would not do for you. 
 Now we'll talk sense. Give me your hand. Let us join the 
 others, and I'll light your segar. 
 
 Armand. Excuse me, Camille. Enter if you will : but 
 allow me to remain. 
 
 Camille. What's the matter? 
 
 Armand. Pardon me. I am not well. 
 
 Camille. Shall I prescribe for you? 
 
 Armand. Speak. 
 
 Camille. Go home and go to bed. Dream all night of 
 some dear girl, more worthy of your love than I. If indeed 
 you love me, you have wronged yourself. You are too good 
 to be deceived. You love too well to be unloved. But love 
 wisely. Choose from a holier sphere than this the woman 
 you would love. Then seal that love upon the altar. Take 
 her to your bosom fresh with a parent's blessing ; or, if she 
 have none, let her merit that of heaven ! 
 
 Armand. Camille, have you ever loved ? 
 
 Camille. Never. 
 
 Armand. Thanks ! Thanks ! If you but knew how I 
 have sought to learn what you have told me in that little 
 word — how I have followed in your path — how I have cher- 
 ished for six months a little button which fell from your 
 glove 
 
 Camille. I would not believe it. I have heard these tales 
 before. 
 
 Armand. You are right. I know not what I say. I am 
 a fool! Yes, laugh ! I deserve it all. Good night. 
 
 Camille. Armand ! 
 
 Armand. Did you call ? 
 
 Camille. Let us not part in anger. 
 
 Armand. Anger ! Oh, Camille, if you could read my 
 heart ! 
 
 Camille. Then let us make it up. Come and see me often. 
 We will speak of this again. 
 
 Armand. Ah, still you laugh. 
 
 Camille. Speak, Armand ; I am not laughing now. 
 
CAMILLE. 19 
 
 Armand. Will you be loved ? 
 
 Camille. For how long ? 
 
 Armand. For eternity ! 
 
 Camille. Alas ! my life may yet be happy — it cannot be 
 long — and short as it may be, it may outlive your promise. 
 
 Armand. Now, who is melancholy ? 
 
 Camille. Not I. The weight that chained me to her 
 throne 's removed, and all around breathes ecstacy ! But it 
 grows late, and you must away. 
 
 Armand. When shall I see you again ? 
 
 Camille. [Giving him a camelia.] When this little flower 
 is faded, bring it back to me again. 
 
 Armand. Ah, Camille, you have made me blessed. 
 
 Camille. It is a strange flower, Armand — pale, scentless, 
 cold ; but sensitive as purity itself. Cherish it, and its 
 beauty will excel the loveliest flower that grows ; but wound 
 it with a single touch, you never can recal its bloom, or wipe 
 away the stain. Take it, and remember me. Now go. 
 
 Armand. Adieu ! [Exit.] 
 
 Camille. He loves me. There is a new found meaning 
 in those simple words that never fall upon my ears before. 
 
 [Comille goes to piano and plays. Singing and revelry 
 is heard in adjoining room. Prudence, Olimpe and 
 Gaston enter dressed fantastically in each other' 's hats 
 and bonnets.] 
 
 Camille. What on earth have you been doing ? 
 
 Prudence. We have been amusing ourselves in honor of 
 the new alliance. 
 
 Gaston. Yes, I am to be bride. 
 
 Prudence. No ! Bridesmaid, you mean. 
 
 Gaston. [Mimicking a lady]. If I can't be bride, I shan't 
 be anything else, I assure you. 
 
 Olimpe. Now let's rehearse the bridal dance. 
 
 Gaston. Oh, yes ! A dance ! A dance ! Camille, play 
 for us ! 
 
 [Camille plays on Piano. Fantastic dance.] 
 
 [end of act.] 
 
ACT SECOND. 
 
 Scene : — Same as in act first. 
 
 Nanine and Prudence discovered — Camille enters as 
 
 curtain rises. 
 
 Camille. Ah, Prudence, you are come. Have you seen 
 the Duke ? 
 
 Prudence. Yes, here is something he sent you. [Gives a 
 packet of hank notes.'] My dear Camille, can you lend me 
 three or four hundred francs ? I am in need of a little money 
 this morning. 
 
 Camille. Here they are. [Gives money?] Did you tell 
 the Duke of my intention to go to the country ? 
 
 Prudence. Yes. 
 
 Camilla What did he say ? 
 
 Prudence. That you are right — that nothing could be 
 better for your health. And you will go ? 
 
 Camille. I hope so. I was to see that house to-day 
 again. 
 
 Prudence. What is the rent of it ? 
 
 Camille. Two thousand francs. 
 
 Prudence. Camille, this looks very much like love. 
 
 Camille. I am afraid it is. It' certainly is something. 
 Listen how my heart beats. 
 
 Prudence. Oh, dear ! this is an awful state of affairs. I 
 wonder if its catching ? 
 
 Camille. It is near ten o'clock. He will soon be here. 
 [Boor bell rings.] Ah, 'tis he ! Run, Nanine, open the door. 
 
 [Exit Nanine.] 
 
 Prudence. You are mistaken. No one rang. 
 
 Camille. Even so. There is a speechless thrilling in my 
 breast that tells me he is near. 
 
 Prudence. I am off. 
 
CAillLLE. 
 
 21 
 
 Camille. Stay till lie comes. 
 
 Prudence. Oh, no ! I must go home and pray fur you. 
 You are in danger. 
 
 Camille. Perhaps I am. 
 
 [Armand Enters.~\ 
 
 Armand. Camille ! 
 
 Camille. Armand ! I knew your ring. 
 
 Prudence. Oh, you ungrateful man ! 
 
 Armand. Forgive me, Prudence. I saw but her ! Are 
 you well ? 
 
 Prudence. Yes, all are well now ; so I will leave you, my 
 children. An old woman is like a doctor, — never thought of 
 when all goes well ; but the first we send for when there's a 
 wound to heal. [Exit Prudence.~\ 
 
 Camille. Come sit by me. 
 
 Armand. Here I am. 
 
 Camille. Do you love me more and more ? 
 
 Armand. No ! 
 
 Camille. How ? 
 
 Armand. I love you so much, I have no room for more. 
 
 Camille. What have you been doing to-day ? 
 
 Armand. I was to see Prudence, Nichette, Gustave — 
 everywhere that I could hear your name. 
 
 Camille. You have been idle. 
 
 Armand. No, I wrote to my father, telling him he need 
 no longer await me at Tours. 
 
 Camille. You may offend him. That must not be. 
 
 Armand. No, he will not expect me. What have you 
 been doing all day ? 
 
 Camille. Thinking of you. 
 
 Armand. True ? 
 
 Camille. True! And manufacturing grand projects. 
 
 Armand. What were they ? 
 
 Camille. I must not tell. 
 
 Armand. I have no secrets from you. 
 
 Camille. Listen. I cannot tell you at present what my 
 
22 
 
 CAMILLE. 
 
 projects are ; but should they succeed, I can tell you their 
 result. 
 
 Armand. What will it be ? 
 
 Camille. To bring me nearer you. 
 
 Armand. Oh, tell me how. 
 
 Camille. By passing the summer months together in some 
 quiet spot in the country. In a few days from this I shall 
 know the result, and you shall know the cause. Till then 
 you must not ask me. 
 
 Armand. And is it you alone, Camille, who have formed 
 these projects? 
 
 Camille. What a strange question. 
 
 Armand. Answer me. 
 
 Camille. Well, 'tis I alone. 
 
 Armand. And you alone who will execute them ? 
 
 Camille. I, alone. 
 
 Armand. Camille, have you ever read Manon Lescaut ? 
 
 CamiUe. I have. 
 
 Armand. Do you remember the story of Manon ? 
 
 Camille. It has been some time since I read the book. 
 
 Armand. I will remind you. She loved a young man, 
 who loved her as his wife ; but who was poor — too poor to 
 meet the large expense her taste and style demanded. She, 
 too, formed a project, and named it to a wealthy friend, who 
 gladly aided it — gave her all she asked — and while she 
 thanked him for the wealth he had bestowed upon her, she 
 smiled upon another, upon whom she lavished it. Camille, 
 you are too truthful to be that woman ; and I am too honora 
 ble to be that man. 
 
 Camille. What does this mean ? 
 
 Armand. That if your schemes at all resemble hers, I 
 will not be a partner in them. 
 
 Camille. Good. Let us change the theme. It has been 
 a beautiful day ? 
 
 Armand. [Looking out of windoiv.~] Beautiful ! 
 
 Camille. The Champs Elysees crowded? 
 
 Armand. Crowded ! 
 
 Camille. Change of the moon to-night, I believe ? 
 
CAMILLE. 23 
 
 Armand. Devil take the moon. Camille, I am not think- 
 ing of the moon. 
 
 CamiUe. Neither am I. 
 
 Armand. "What would you have me do ? You know that 
 I am jealous of your very thoughts, and what you told me a 
 moment ago 
 
 Camille. Are we sroin^ to have a second edition of that 
 
 book ? Listen to me. 1 love you, I never told you so he- 
 fore. For that love I ask your confidence. You are not jea- 
 lous of that poor old man. the Duke. You know the sacred 
 sentiments which hind him to my interests. That I am not 
 where he would place me, was the fault of those who drove 
 me from it. It was no act of his. Could he see me where he 
 would have me, his aged heart would know another joy. Let 
 me have my way. It shall lead me to your love, he sure J Is 
 it all right? 
 
 Armand. But — hut — 
 
 Camille. Come — come! Savitis. 
 
 */ 
 
 Armand. No, not yet. 
 
 Camille. Then, good night. 
 
 Armand. Good night ! Wky you would not send me 
 away so soon ? 
 
 Camille. Xo — no; but — you may remain a little longer. 
 
 Armand. Perhaps you are expecting some one ? 
 
 Camille. Are we going to commence again ? 
 
 Armand. You will not deceive me now. 
 
 Camille. How lon^ have I known vou? 
 
 Armand. Four days. 
 
 Camille. If I did not love you, I would not know you 
 one. So if you love me, say good night, and don't complain. 
 
 Armand. Oh, forgive me. 
 
 Camille. If this continues, I shall spend my life in for- 
 giving you. 
 
 Armand. Xo — no ! It is my last offence. Good-night. 
 
 Camille. Come early to-morrow, and we will breakfast 
 together. 
 
 Armand. Once more, good-night ! [Exit.] 
 
24 • CAMILLE. 
 
 Camille. Life ! Life ! You are a puzzle ! Who would 
 have made me believe four days ago, that that man, a stranger 
 to me, would, to-day so occupy my heart and thought ? Can 
 this be love; or is it madness? Does he indeed love me? 
 Can he forget what I have been and what I am. Ah, that 
 past — this present — if I could tear it from my heart ! Ar- 
 mand, why — why have you come across my path ? I was 
 happy till you came ; and now — oh 1 I dare not think of 
 what I am ! Yet in this struggle between hope and fear, 
 there's something whispers me of happier hours. I love, and 
 I am loved! Ah, there is wealth enough of joy in those 
 dear words to cancel an eternity of care! 
 \Nanine enters, announces " Monsieur le Count de Varville, ' ' 
 and Exits. Enter Varville']. 
 
 Camille. Good evening, Count. 
 
 Varville. Good evening, Camille. You are looking charm- 
 ing ! Are you well ? 
 
 Camille. Very. 
 
 Varville. You got my note ? 
 
 Camille. I did. 
 
 Varville. Just half-past ten o'clock. [Looking at Mb 
 watch.] You see I am punctual. 
 
 Camille. You wrote me that you wished to speak with 
 me on business. 
 
 Varville. Yes. Have you been to supper ? 
 
 Camille. Why do you ask ? 
 
 Varville. Because, if you will come and sup with me, we 
 can talk this matter over in quiet. 
 
 Camille. Are you very hungry ? 
 
 Varville. Yes, I am. That dinner at the club has quite 
 given me an appetite. 
 
 Camille. What are they doing at the club to-night ? 
 
 Varville. Playing, when I left. 
 
 Camille. Who won? 
 
 Varville. Monsieur Gaston, whom I met here the other 
 night. Apropos, who was that odd-looking sort of person — 
 
CAMILLE. 25 
 
 Monsieur — Monsieur something, that Prudence introduced ? 
 
 Camille. That gentleman was Monsieur Armand Duval, 
 my friend. 
 
 Varville. Apropos, did any one leave here as I entered ? 
 
 Camille. Not that I know of. Who was it ? 
 
 Varville. That is precisely what I should like to know. 
 As I ascended from the carriage, some one watched me until 
 I reached the door, and when he saw my face, he hurried 
 away as if I had been a creditor. 
 
 Camille. Well, Count, let's to business. What have you 
 got to say to me ? 
 
 Varville. Camille, who are your creditors ? 
 
 Camille. I have not the remotest idea. 
 
 Varville. Why, you told me that you were twenty thou- 
 sand francs in debt. Is it paid ? 
 
 Camille. Not that I know of. 
 
 Varville. But you know the parties to whom you owe it ? 
 
 Camille. I have not that honor, personally. I know their 
 address. 
 
 Varville. Where is it ? 
 
 Camille. Somewhere there. \_Hands an account book.'] 
 
 Varville. Yes, here it is all summed up. Twenty — why 
 here are ten more. It is thirty thousand francs ! 
 
 Camille. Why so it is ! I had forgotten. Count, have I not 
 kept those accounts in very fine order ? 
 
 Varville. Yes, they appear to be in a remarkable state of 
 preservation. 
 
 Camille. They will look better when receipted. 
 
 Varville. And is it necessary that they should be paid? 
 
 Camille. Absolutely. 
 
 Varville. Camille, suppose you charge me with this little 
 affair ! I am very idle, and want something to do. 
 
 Camille. Oh, Monsieur de Varville, it may occupy your 
 time too much. But since you will have it so, the exercise 
 may do you good. 
 
 Varville. Will you have the receipt now ? 
 
 Camille. No — no ; you may bring it in a week or so. 
 
26 CAMILLE. 
 
 Varville. [Aside.] A week or so ! Varville, you have 
 been a fool ! 
 
 Enter Nanine. 
 
 Nanine. Madam, a man brought this letter, and said that 
 it must reach you immediately. 
 
 Camille. Who can write to me at this hour ? [Looks at 
 the letter.] Armand ! What can this mean ? [Heads.] " Ma- 
 clam, I cannot be trifled with even by the woman whom I 
 love. At the very moment that I quitted your house, the 
 Count de Varville entered it. I am neither a Count nor a 
 millionaire. Forgive me, if in my poverty I have been too 
 bold. Let us foro-et that we ever met, or that we ever thought 
 we loved. When you receive this letter, I shall have quitted 
 Paris. Armand." 
 
 Nanine. Is there any answer, madam ? 
 
 Camille. None ! It is well. [Exit Nanine.] Another 
 dream dispelled. I have deserved it. I should have known 
 better ! What had I to do with love ? Oh, I am sick. 
 
 Varville. What was in that letter, Camille ? 
 
 Camille. Good news for you, Count. You have gained 
 thirty thousand francs. 
 
 Varville. It is the first letter of the kind that ever came 
 my way ! But how ? 
 
 Camille. You need not attend to that little affair for me. 
 I like to be in debt. It occupies my mind. 
 
 Varville. Have your creditors died ? 
 
 Camille. Worse than that ! I was in love. 
 
 Varville. You ? 
 
 Camille. I ! 
 
 Varville. With whom ? 
 
 Camille. One who did not love me, as often happens ! A 
 man who is poor, as always happens ! [Gives him the letter.'] 
 Read! 
 
 Varville. [Aside. - ] Phew ! I understand now why those 
 debts no longer trouble you. [Aloud.] My dear Camille, 
 this is indeed too bad, and from & friend, too ! So Monsieur 
 Duval, it appears, is very jealous. 
 
CAMILLE. 
 
 27 
 
 Camille. You have invited me to supper ? 
 
 Varville. I have. We are waited for. 
 
 Camille. Come, I want air. 
 
 Varville. [Aside.] This begins to look serious. [Aloud.'] 
 Camille, you are agitated. What is the matter ? 
 
 Camille. Nothing. Nanine ! Nanine ! my shawl and bon- 
 net ! Quick ! 
 
 Enter Nanine. 
 
 Nanine. Which, Madam ? 
 
 Camille. Any one at all. A light shawl will answer. 
 
 [Exit Nanine. 
 
 Varville. You will be cold. 
 
 Camille. Cold ! I am on fire ! 
 
 [Enter Nanine, with shawl and bonnet.] ] 
 
 Nanine. Shall I sit up for you, Madam ? 
 
 Camille. No, retire. I will not return until late. Come, 
 Count, come ! [Exeunt Camille and Varville. 
 
 Nanine. There is something very strange going on here. 
 Camille is very much excited. It was that letter, I know, 
 that did it all. Ah, here it is ! [ Takes uv the letter from 
 table andreads.] So, so, — MonsieurDuval — that ishow you do. 
 Going to quit Paris ! That is a very good sign, I never knew 
 a lover of Camille who vowed he was going to leave Paris on 
 her account that did not keep me answering the bell for three 
 months after. [Enter Prudence^] Ah, good evening, Ma- 
 dam Duverney. 
 
 Prudence. Where is Camille ? 
 
 Nanine. She has just gone out to sup with the Count de 
 Varville. 
 
 Prudence. She received a letter a few minutes since ? 
 
 Nanine She did : it was from Monsieur Duval. 
 
 Prudence. What did he say ? 
 
 Nanine. Nothing. 
 
 Prudence. When will she return ? 
 
 Nanine. I do not know. She said I might retire — that 
 she would not return early. I thought you had retired long 
 ago. 
 
28 CAMILLE. 
 
 Prudence. So I had, and fast asleep, when I was awak- 
 ened by a pulling of the bell which is sounding in my ears 
 ever since. So Camille is gone out, is she ? I thought that 
 letter would make mischief. 
 
 Camille. [ Entering quickly. ~\ Give me my mantle, 
 ISTanine ; this shawl's too light. [Exit Nanine. To Pru- 
 dence.^ Oh, how you frightened me ! What's the matter ? 
 
 Prudence. That is just what I want to know. [Points 
 to window.~\ Armand is there. 
 
 Camille. Well, what is that to me. 
 
 Prudence. He wishes to see you. 
 Enter Nanine, with mantle, which she places on Camille s 
 shoulders. 
 
 Camille. What for ? I do not wish to see him. Good- 
 night. The Count is waiting for me. 
 
 Prudence. Stay, Camille ; you had better see him. He 
 is very unhappy ; and better that you should explain this 
 matter to him than that he should demand an explanation 
 from the Count. 
 
 Camille. He has changed his mind, then ! I thought he 
 had quitted Paris ? 
 
 Prudence. Camille, have you forgotten that he loves you ? 
 
 Camille. Give me my mantle, Nanine, I must go. 
 
 Nanine. You have it, Madam. 
 
 Camille. That man has almost killed me. 
 
 Prudence. Then perhaps you had better not see him again. 
 Let him go, and let matters rest where they are. 
 
 Camille. [ Weeping.] That is your advice ? 
 
 Prudence. It is. 
 
 Camille. What else did he say ? 
 
 Prudence. That he will tell you himself. I see how it is. 
 Love — this love — the more you fan it, the more it burns. 
 [Calls at window.'] Armand ! [To Camille.'] But the 
 Count? 
 
 Camille. He will wait. 
 
 Prudence. Had you not better send him away at once ? 
 
CAMILLE. 29 
 
 Camille. You are right. Nanine, go tell Mon. de Var- 
 ville that I am not well — that I cannot go out to night — that 
 he must excuse me. 
 
 JVanine. Yes, Madam. [Exit, 
 
 Camille. I feel better now. 
 
 Prudence. [At window. ~\ Armand, come ! He will not 
 require a second invitation, I dare say. 
 
 Camille. You will stay here until he comes. 
 
 Prudence. No, I thank you. I will go and finish my 
 dreams, and leave you to begin yours again. Oh, dear ! It 
 seems as if the world was on fire, and all the bells were ring- 
 ing in my head. [Exit. 
 
 Nanine. [Entering. ~\ The Count has gone, Madam. 
 
 Camille. What did he say ? 
 
 Nanine. Nothing ; but he appeared very much annoyed. 
 
 [Exit. 
 [Enter Armand.~\ 
 
 Armand. Ah, Camille can you forgive me ? 
 
 Camille. Do you deserve it ? Why did you write me that 
 cruel letter ? You have made me ill. 
 
 Armand. What would you have me do ? I saw the Count 
 de Yarville enter here the very moment you had hurried me 
 away. I knew not what I did. I could scarce believe my 
 eyes. I wrote that letter — sent it. Forgive me, then, and 
 remember, Camille, though I have known you only a few 
 days, I have loved you two years. 
 
 Camille. Armand, from the first hour I met you, I have 
 nourished the thought of passing the summer with you, far 
 from Paris — far from the world. I said to myself, at the end 
 of three months of his companionship and care, I will be re- 
 stored to health and peace of mind. I will try to win his 
 friendship — be worthy his esteem — and, on our return to 
 Paris, instead of the hollow hearts and serpent tongues that 
 crowd around me now, Armand shall be my only friend, pro- 
 tector, brother ! And so I dreamed, and dreamed, until that 
 letter woke me. We must part. My position forbids me 
 seeing you again, and every thing forbids me loving you. 
 
80 CAMILLE. 
 
 Armand. Camille, you never loved me, or the Count had 
 not been here to-night. 
 
 Camille. Another reason why you should not love me. 
 You have position, friends, honor — be wise. I have neither. 
 I am young, gay, reckless, desperate — my name the sport of 
 every tongue in Paris. If you will know me, take what is 
 good of me, and leave the rest. 
 
 Armand. It was not thus you talked an hour ago. 
 
 Camille. True ! I have reflected since. 
 
 Armand. Camille, I love you. The feeling that I enter- 
 tain for you has become a part of me. My destiny hung up- 
 on your love. Thinking I had won it, I soared upon my hopes 
 beyond my height, and it is in falling from them that I am 
 crushed. Since it is so, let us part. Farewell ! You do not 
 love me. 
 
 Camille. Oh, you know not what you say. Stay ! I would 
 speak to you ; but dare not. 
 
 Armand. Speak, Camille, I listen. 
 
 Camille. Armand, every heart has its silent hours, and so 
 has mine; and in those hours, I often sit and think there is a 
 happier life than the one I lead, if I could but find it. And 
 there are moments when visions of a future flit across my 
 brain. I think if I can lend a charm to such a life as this, 
 and win the admiration and respect of the worthless crowd 
 who follow me, what would it be in the sacred circle of a home, 
 among those who loved and cherished me ? Can such a fu- 
 ture be in store for me, I ask. And then the past spreads 
 o'er me, like a pall. A merry laugh bursts forth in mock- 
 ery, and I am gay again. 
 
 Armand. Go on. 
 
 Camille. Day follows day, — and so I live. I have admi- 
 rers — lovers, if you will — the first in their vanity, the last in 
 their esteem. Friends, too, like Prudence. And so the tide 
 of time glides on, one stream of vanity, shame, and lies. You 
 came, and with you many an untold hope. I heard your 
 voice — I saw your tears — and built my faith upon your love. 
 
CAMILLE. 31 
 
 Then I dreamed of innocence — of purity. Your letter came 
 next, and with it came reproach. Two years ago I last heard 
 reproach. A poor, friendless, sickly girl, disgusted with that 
 world where she had sold her smiles for gold, had dared to 
 enter the abode of peace — the charmed circle of society. 
 Whatever her history had been, Jong-suffering had purified 
 her thoughts — her heart was pure — she sinned no more. But 
 society was outraged. With iron hand it flung her from its 
 shore, and left her, beaconless, upon the sea where she is 
 wrecked ! 
 
 Armand. These words are not for me. 
 
 Camille. No ; but these words are for me. [Points, to 
 letter.'] They warn me of another blast. I know my safety, 
 and will not peril it. Why should I, and for what ? For 
 jeers, contempt, and scorn'.' No, no, no — I have tried that. 
 That is your way, this is mine. 
 
 Enter JVanine, quickly, with a letter. 
 
 Nanine. A letter, Madam. 
 
 Camille. Who sent it ? 
 
 Nanine. The Count de Varville. 
 
 Armand. [Suddenly.] The Count de Varville! Now^ 
 Camille, this is the touchstone of your worth ! My life — your 
 honor, hang upon your answer ! 
 
 [Camille tears letter, and throws if toward Nanine.'] 
 
 Camille. Give him that I 
 
 [Throws herself on Armand' '$ breast] 
 
 [end of act.] 
 
ACT THIRD. 
 
 Scene : — A room in a Country House. 
 Naxixe Discovered. 
 
 Prudence. [Entering^ Where is Camille ? 
 
 Nanine. She is in the garden, with Mademoiselle Nichette 
 and Monsieur Gustave. Monsieur Arniand has gone to Paris, 
 and they have come to spend the day with Madam. [Exit. 
 
 Prudence. I will join them. 
 
 Camille. [Entering^] Ah, Prudence, you are come. Is 
 all arranged? 
 
 Prudence. Yes ; or soon will be, I hope. 
 
 Camille. Where are the papers ? 
 
 Prudence. Here they are. The man will be here to-day 
 to see if they are right. So I will go to dinner ; for I am 
 dying of hunger. 
 
 Enter Nichette and Gustave. 
 
 Camille. Come, sit down. Tell me : how do you like the 
 way we live here ? 
 
 Nichette. Oh, I think you must be very happy ! 
 
 Camille. You are right — I am. 
 
 Nichette. And you are right, Camille, when you say that 
 happiness is in the heart. How often have I said to Gustave, 
 I wish Camille would meet with some one who would love and 
 cherish her — who would win her from the feverish life she 
 leads, and teach her contentment in one more tranquil and 
 enduring. 
 
 Camille. Well, you have your wish. I love — and I am 
 happy. 
 
 Nichette. Oh, it is so sweet to be happy ? And we are all 
 happy,—are we not, Gustave ? 
 
CAMILLE. 33 
 
 Gustave. I believe we are. If, before to-day, Nichette 
 and I nave bad a separate wish, it was, Camille, to see you 
 wbere you are. 
 
 Camille. Thanks, Gustave. 
 
 Nichette. After all, happiness does not cost much, if one 
 can only find the right material. If you could but see where 
 X live — two little chambers in the fifth story, in La Rue 
 Blanche — a window that overlooks half of Paris — a trellis, 
 where I have planted a geranium, the first flower Gustave ever 
 gave me — and how it grows ! — no wonder, for I sit and sew by 
 it, and watch it all day. Oh, you should see my little home. 
 It is so cozey — -just large enough to hold content. 
 
 Gustave. It must like going up-stairs better than I do. 
 
 Nichette. Camille, do you hear that saucy fellow ? You 
 cannot guess what he wants me to do — to quit embroidering, 
 and not work any more. He will buy me a carriage next. 
 
 Gustave. That will come. Then, Camille, you will drive 
 out with us, — will you not? 
 
 Camille. Yes, Gustave, that I will. 
 
 Nichette. Oh, we will have such a time ! You must know 
 that Gustave has a rich old uncle, who is going to make him 
 his heir. But I forgot to tell you — Gustave is a lawyer now, 
 if you please ! 
 
 Camille. Indeed, — you shall plead my first case. 
 
 Nichette. Oh, he has pleaded already ! 
 
 Camille. Did he gain ? 
 
 Gustave. No. My client was condemned to ten years' hard 
 labor. 
 
 Nichette. Yes ! I was there, — and I was so glad ! 
 
 Camille. Glad! Why so ? 
 
 Nichette. Because the man deserved it. I don't believe 
 in those great men who fold their arms and say : " Gentle- 
 men, I have had, in my time, the case of a man who had kill- 
 ed a father, a mother, and her children ! Well, sirs, I worked 
 at that case night and day, until I gained it. He was acquit- 
 ted. But I confess it cost me a great deal of labor — and in 
 3 
 
34 
 
 CAMILLE. 
 
 all modesty, I say, that nothing short of the most sublime tal- 
 ents could have restored that ornament to the society which 
 he had adorned." 
 
 Camille. And now that he is a lawyer, Nichette will soon 
 be a bride. Is it not so ? 
 
 NicJiette. If he behaves himself. 
 
 Gustave. You hear the conditions. Then, Camille, may 
 we not hope that you, too, may be a bride some day ? 
 
 Camille. The bride of whom ? 
 
 Gustave. Of Armand. 
 
 Camille. Armand ! That can never be ! Armand would 
 marry me to-morrow if I would have it so ; but I love him too- 
 well to merit his reproach. 
 
 Gustave. Camille, you are so generous. 
 
 Camille. Not generous, Gustave, but just. The woman 
 does not love the man she would degrade. There are impres- 
 sions made in life which time may erase from the memory, 
 but never from the heart. My past is there. A sea of tears 
 could not wash one pang away, which tells me I am unworthy 
 to be Armand Duval's wife. But let us talk of something 
 else. I have so much happiness, why ask for more ? To be 
 near the man I love — to hear his voice — to know his truth ! 
 — Oh my dream of life has grown so blissful, peaceful, calm, 
 I would not dare to wake it by wearying heaven with a wish 
 beyond the present. 
 
 NicJiette. How do you pass the time, Camille ? 
 
 Camille. I really cannot tell — it flies so fast. After taking 
 a long walk, with Armand, I read to him or he reads to me. 
 Then I feed my birds, and listen to them sing. I often sit by 
 him and sew, while he talks to me of the future, until I think I 
 I am in another world. And then, as you have just seen,. 
 in this simple dress, with my great straw hat, I skip along 
 the fields, or sail upon the water by his side, I feel I am a 
 child again I And when sad thoughts steal by me, as they often 
 do, I wrap myself up in Armand 's love, and all is bright again I 
 
 Gustave. I begin to think Nichette does not love me. 
 
CAMILLE. 35 
 
 Camille. Because — 
 
 Gustave. Because she does not talk of me as you do of 
 Armand. 
 
 Camille. She has no need. You are hers — the jewel of 
 her life — while mine is only lent. I may admire but dare 
 not hope to own it. But let that pass. Are not these sweet 
 flowers which Armand gave me this morning ? I used to 
 spend as much in boquets as would have kept a poor family 
 a whole year ; and now, these simple sprays culled by his 
 hand, seem to load the air with perfume. Oh, how happy I 
 am. But you do not know all. 
 
 Nichette. What can it be ? 
 
 Gustave. Who says Nichette is curious ? 
 
 Camille. You said awhile ago that I should see your home. 
 Perhaps I will see it soon. Unknown to Armand, I am going 
 to sell my house in Paris, pay all my debts — rent an apart- 
 ment near yours — furnish it precisely the same — and we 
 will live together forgetting and forgotten. In the summer 
 we will live in the country, hire a little cottage — do all our 
 own work — live alone — and who will be happier than we ? 
 
 Nichette. How strange that is. That is just what Gus- 
 tave and I were wishing to-day that you would do. 
 
 Nanine. [Entering.'] Madam, there is a gentleman in 
 the hall who wishes to see to you. 
 
 Camille. You see I did not jest. That is the man who 
 has charge of the sale. So walk into the garden, you and 
 Gustave. He will soon be gone, and I will join you. [Exit 
 Gustave and Nichette.'] Bid him enter. 
 
 [Exit JVanine. Enter Duval.] 
 
 Duval. Mademoiselle Camille Gauthier ? 
 
 Camille. It is I, Monsieur. To whom have I the honor of 
 speaking ? 
 
 Duval. To Monsieur Duval. 
 
 Camille. To Monsieur Duval ? 
 
 Duval. Yes, Mademoiselle, the father of Armand. 
 
 Camille. Monsieur Armand is not here, sir. 
 
36 CAMILLE. 
 
 Duval. I know it. But it is with you that I would speak, 
 and I wish you to listen. You are not only compromising 
 but ruining my son. 
 
 Camille. You are deceived, sir. I am here beyond the 
 reach of scandal ; and I accept nothing from your son. 
 
 Duval. Which means that he has fallen so low as to be a 
 sharer of the gain which you accept from others. 
 
 Camille. Pardon me, sir. I am a woman, and in my own 
 house, — two reasons that should plead in my behalf to your 
 more generous courtesy. . The tone in which you addressed 
 me is not what I have been accustomed to, and more than I 
 can listen to from a gentleman whom I have the honor to see 
 for the first time. I pray you will allow me to retire. 
 
 Duval. Stay, Madam, when one finds himself face to 
 face with you, it is hard to think those things are so. Oh, I 
 was told that you were a dangerous woman. 
 
 Camille. Yes, sir ! dangerous to myself. 
 
 Duval. It is not less true, however, that you are ruining 
 my son. 
 
 Camille. Sir, I repeat, with all the respect I have for Ar- 
 mand's father, that you are wrong. 
 
 Duval. Then what is the meaning of this letter to my 
 lawyer, which apprises me of Armand's intention to dispose 
 of his property, the gift of a dying mother? [Gfives her a 
 letter.'] 
 
 Camille. 1 assure you, sir, that if this is Armand's act, 
 he has done so without my knowledge ; for he knew well that 
 had he offered such a gift, I would refuse it. 
 
 Duval. Indeed, you have not always spoken thus ! 
 
 Camille. True, sir ; but I have not always loved. 
 
 Duval. And now — 
 
 Camille. I am now no longer what I was. 
 
 Duval. These are very fine words. 
 
 Camille. What can I say to convince you ? I swear by 
 the love I bear your son, the holiest thing that ever filled my 
 heart, that I was ignorant of the transaction. 
 
 Duval. Still you must live by some means ? 
 
CAMILLE. 
 
 Camille. You force [me, sir, to be explicit. So far from 
 resembling other associations of my life, this has made me 
 penniless. I pray you read that paper. [Handing a paper.'] 
 It contains a list of all that I possess on earth. "When 
 you were announced just now, I thought you were the person 
 to whom I had sold them. 
 
 Duval. A bill of sale of all your furniture, pictures, plate, 
 &c, with which to pay your creditors — the surplus to be re- 
 turned to you. Have I been deceived ? 
 
 Camille. You have, sir. I know that my life has been 
 clouded — my name as a forbidden word. I have not forgot- 
 ten that. Oh, no, no ! It is traced upon my heart in 
 colors that can never fade. The love I bear your son but 
 magnifies their form, which I would give the last drop of my 
 blood to cancel or efface. Oh, you do not know me, sir? 
 You can never know how purely I do love your son, and how 
 he loves me ! It is his love which has saved me from myself 
 and made me what I am. I have been so happy for three 
 months ! And you, sir, are his father. You are good, I am 
 sure. I know you would not harm me. Then let me entreat you 
 will not tell him ill of me, or he will believe you, for he loves 
 you so ; and I also love and honor you, because you are his 
 father ! 
 
 Duval. Pardon me for the manner in which I presented 
 myself to you. I was angry at my son for his ingratitude to 
 his dead mother, in disposing of her gift to him. I pray you, 
 pardon. 
 
 Camille. Oh, sir, it is you who have all to pardon. I can 
 only bless you for those kind words. I pray you take a chair. 
 
 Duval. It is in the name of these sentiments, which, you 
 say, are so sacred to you, that I am about to ask of you a 
 sacrifice greater than any you have yet performed. 
 
 Camille. Oh, heaven ! 
 
 Duval. Listen, my child, and patiently, to what I have to 
 say. 
 
 Camille. Oh, sir, I pray you let us speak no more. I 
 know you are going to ask me something terrible. I have been 
 
38 CAMILLE. 
 
 expecting this. I was too happy. Yet over my brightest 
 hour there has always hung a cloud. It was the shadow of 
 your frown. 
 
 Duval. Camille, I am not going to chide, but supplicate. 
 You love my son — so do I. We are both desirous of his hap- 
 piness — jealous of those who could contribute to it more than 
 we. I speak to you as a father, and ask of you the happi- 
 ness of both my children. 
 
 Camille. Of both your children ? 
 
 Duval. Yes, Camille, of both. I have a daughter, young, 
 beautiful, and pure as an angel. She loves as you do. That 
 love has been the dream of her life. But the family of the 
 man about to marry her, has learned the relation between you 
 and Armand, and declared the withdrawal of their consent 
 unless he gives you up. You see, then, how much depends 
 on you. Let me entreat you in the name of your love for her 
 brother, to save my daughter's peace. 
 
 Camille. You are very good, sir, to deign to speak such 
 words as these. I understand you, and you are right. I 
 will at once quit Paris, and remain away from Armand for 
 sometime. It will be a sacrifice, I confess ; but I will make 
 it for your sake. Besides his joy at my return will make 
 amends for my absence. You will allow him to write me after 
 your daughter is married ? 
 
 Duval. Thanks, my child ; but I fear you do not wholly 
 understand me. I would ask more. 
 Camille. What could I do more ? 
 Duval. A temporary absence wlil not suffice. 
 Camille. Ah, you would not have me quit Armand forever ? 
 Duval. You must. 
 
 Camille. Never ! To separate us now would be more than 
 cruel — it would be a crime. Oh, sir! you have never loved! 
 You know not what it is to be left without a home, a friend, 
 a father, or a family. When Armand forgave my faults he 
 swore to be all these. I have grafted life and hope on him 
 till they and he are one. Oh do not tear him from me the 
 little while I have to live ! I am not well, sir ! I have been 
 
CAMILLE. 39 
 
 ill for months. A sudden shock would kill me. Ask 
 any thing but this. Oh, do not drive me to despair ! See, I 
 am at your feet ! 
 
 Duval. Rise, Camille ! I know that I demand a great 
 sacrifice from your heart ; but one that, for your own good, 
 you are fatally forced to yield. Listen. You have known 
 Armand three months, and you love him. Are you sure 
 you have not deceived yourself, and that even now you 
 do not begin to tire of your new choice, and long for other 
 conquests ? 
 
 Camille. Oh, spare me, sir ! Unworthy as the offering of 
 my love may seem, Armand's heart was the first shrine in 
 which it ever sought a sanctuary, and there it shall remain 
 forever ! 
 
 Duval. You think so now, perhaps; but sooner or later 
 the truth must come. Youth is prodigal — old age exacting. 
 Do you listen? 
 
 Camille. Do I listen ? Oh, heaven ! 
 
 Duval. You are willing to sacrifice every thing for my 
 son ; but should he accept this, what sacrifice could he make 
 you in return ? Say that Armand Duval is an honest man, 
 and would marry you, — what kind of union would that be 
 which has neither purity nor religion to recommend it to the 
 grace of heaven, the smile of friends, or the esteem of the 
 world ? And what will be your fate to see the man who sa- 
 crificed position, honor, all for you, bowed down with shame of 
 her who ought to be his pride ? 
 
 Camille. Oh, my punishment is come ! 
 
 Duval. Avoid what yet may come. Say that you love, 
 both, as none have ever loved. The warmest sun will set at 
 eve. And when the evening of your life steals on, Armand 
 will seek elsewhere the charms he can no longer find in you ; 
 and with every trace of age upon your brow, a blush will rise on 
 his, accusing him of youth, and hopes, and honor, lost for you ! 
 
 Camille. My dream is past ! 
 
 Duval. Dream no more, Camille; but wake to duty to 
 yourself and to the man you love. 
 
40 
 
 CAMXLLE. 
 
 Camille. Why — why do I live ? 
 
 Duval. And should you die, would you have your husband 
 stand upon your grave, ashamed to breathe the name of her who 
 lies there ? No, Camille, you are too proud for that. I leave 
 to your heart, to your reason, to your affection for my son, 
 the sacrifice I might demand. You will be proud some day 
 of having saved Armand from a fate he would have regretted 
 all his life — which would have brought on him the idle jest 
 and scorn of every honorable man. Pardon me, Camille ; but 
 you know the world too well to doubt the truth of what I say. 
 It is a father who implores you to save his child. Come, 
 prove to me you love my son. Give me your hand. Courage, 
 Camille, courage. [She slowly gives her hand.~\ Bless you, 
 bless you ! You have done your duty. 
 
 Camille. Oh, I was fallen — fallen ! Why did I seek to 
 rise ? Was it not ever thus ? When I have dared to soar 
 beyond the meshes of corruption, vice and shame, some iron 
 hand has dashed me back and chained me to the shore of in- 
 famy ! Oh, fool, fool, fool ! What have you to do with 
 thoughts like these ? What man would call you wife ? What 
 child would call you mother ? What virtuous home would 
 set its door ajar to welcome in a pestilence ? But it is well 
 — well — it brings me nearer to the close. You speak, sir, of 
 your daughter. She is young, lovely, pure. I once was all 
 of these. She loves and she is loved — honored and esteemed. 
 These I may never be. Still I would have the little that was 
 good of me dwell in her chaste memory when I may be no 
 more. You desire, sir, that I separate from your son for his 
 good, his honor, and his fortune. What am I to do ? Speak 
 — I am ready ! 
 
 Duval. You must tell him that you do not love him, 
 
 Camille. He will not believe me. 
 
 Duval. You must leave Paris. 
 
 Camille. He will follow me. 
 
 Duval. What will you do ? 
 
 Camille. I must teach him to despise me. 
 
CAMILLE. 
 
 41 
 
 Duval. But, Canaille, I fear — 
 
 Camille. Ah, fear nothing ! He will hate me ! I will 
 teach him. I know how ; for I have taught myself. 
 
 Duval. Armand must not know of this. 
 
 Camille. Sir, you do not know me yet ; for I swear by 
 the love I bear your son, that he shall never know from my 
 lips what has transpired between us. 
 
 Duval. You are a noble girl ! Is there aught that I can 
 do for you ? 
 
 Camille. When the heart that now is breaking lies pulse- 
 less in the grave — when the world records my very virtues to 
 my blame — when Armand's voice shall rise with curses on my 
 memory— tell him — Oh ! tell him how I loved him ! And 
 now, I pray you will withdraw into that room. He 
 may return each, moment and discover our purpose. 
 [Exit Duval. She goes to table to write.~\ Oh, I can- 
 not ! Every word I trace seems to tear from my 
 heart a hope that never can take root again. What shall I 
 say? [Reads what she has written.'] " Armand, in a few hours 
 from this, the little flowers you gave me this morning shall be 
 withered on my breast, and in their place, Camelias, the badge 
 of that life in which alone I can find happiness." Oh! 
 heaven, forgive the injuries these words may bring to him, 
 and the injustice they do my heart ! 
 
 [Enter Armand.] 
 
 Armand. Ah, Camille, here I am ! What are you doing 
 there ? 
 
 Camille. Armand ! Nothing ? 
 
 Armand. You were writing as I entered. 
 
 Camille. No! That is— Yes ! 
 
 Armand. What- does this mean? You are pale! To 
 whom were you writing ? Camille, let me see that letter. 
 
 Camille. I cannot. 
 
 Armand. I thought we had done with mystery ? 
 
 Camille. And with suspicions. 
 
 Armand. Pardon me, Camille, — I was wrong. I entered 
 
42 CAMILLE. 
 
 excited, and saw in you my own embarrassment. My father 
 is arrived. 
 
 Camille. Have you seen him ? 
 
 Armani. No ; but he left at my house a letter, in which 
 he reproaches me very bitterly. He has learned that T am 
 here, and doubtless will pay me a visit this evening. Some 
 idle tongues have been busy in informing him of our retreat. 
 But let him come. I wish him to see you — to talk with you. 
 He will be sure to love you. Or should he remain stern 
 for awhile, and refuse his smiles, what of it ? He can with- 
 hold his patronage from me ; but he cannot separate me from 
 your love. I will work, toil, labor for you, and think it a 
 privilege and a joy, if I have but your smile to repay me at 
 its close. 
 
 Camille. How he loves me ! But you must be wise and 
 not anger your father unnecessarily ; for you know he has 
 much cause to blame. He is coming, you say. Then I will 
 retire awhile until h speak with you — then I will return, and 
 be with you again. I vail fall at his feet, and implore him 
 not to part us. 
 
 Armand. Camille, there is something passing in your mind 
 that you would hide from me. It is not my words that agi- 
 tate you so. You can scarcely stand. There is something 
 wrong here. It is this letter. [Snatches the letter from her."] 
 
 Camille. Armand — that letter must not be read. 
 
 Armand. What does it contain ? 
 
 Camille. A proof of my love for you. In the name of 
 that love, return it to me unread, and ask to know no more. 
 
 Armand. Take it, Camille. I know it all. Prudence told 
 me this morning, and it was that which took me to Paris. I 
 know the sacrifice you would make, and while you were consid- 
 ering my happiness, I was not unmindful of yours. I have ar- 
 ranged it all unknown to you. Ah, Camille, how can I ever 
 return such devotion, truth and love ? 
 
 Camille. Well, now that you are satisfied, and know all, 
 let us part — 
 
 Armand. Part? 
 
CAMILLE. 
 
 43 
 
 Camille. I mean, let me retire. Your father will be here, 
 you remember, and I would rather he would see you alone. 
 I will be in the garden with Niche tte and Gustave. You can 
 call me when you want me. Oh, how — how can I ever part 
 from you? You will calm your father, if he be irritated, and 
 win him to forgive you. Will you not ? Then we will he so 
 happy — happy as we have always been since first we met ! 
 And you are happy, — are you not? — And have nothing to 
 reproach me for, — have you ? Since first I met you I wel- 
 comed in my heart of hearts your love, believing it a sign 
 from heaven that the past had been forgiven. If I have ever 
 caused your heart a pang, you will forgive me, — will you not ? 
 And when you recall, one day, the little proofs of love I have 
 bestowed on you, you will not despise or curse my memory ! 
 Oh, do not — do not curse me, when you learn how I have 
 loved you ! 
 
 Armand. Camille, what does this mean ? 
 
 Camille. Love for you ! 
 
 Armand. But why these tears ? 
 
 Camille. Oh, let them fall ! I had forgotten. Do not 
 heed them. I am such a silly girl ! You know I often love 
 to weep. See, I am calm now. They are all gone. Come, 
 chase them away. [He kisses her brow.~] See, now, they are 
 all gone. No more tears but smiles. You, too, are smiling. 
 Ah! I will live on that smile until we meet again? See, I 
 too, can smile ! You can read until your father comes, and 
 think of me ; for I shall never cease to think of you. Adieu, 
 [Aside."] forever! \ExiL~] 
 
 Armand. How she loves me. She fears my father may 
 separate us. It is too late. The world would be a blank 
 without her. [Calls.] Nanine ! [Enter Nanine.] A gen- 
 tleman, my father, will arrive here presently. If he ask to 
 see Madam, say that I am here awaiting him. 
 Nanine. I will, sir. 
 
 Armand. Give me a light. [She gives a light and exits.'] 
 Let me see what we have here. [Takes letters f rem his pock- 
 
44 CAMILLE. 
 
 et.~\ I met Olimpe to-day. Always the same — busy with 
 balls and fetes and revelries of all kinds. Poor fool ! She 
 has but one thought herself. Her heart is empty, and she 
 tries to fill the void with noisy bustle and excitement. Here 
 is an invitation to her ball next week — as if Camille could ever 
 again lend her presence to such scenes. Seven o'clock ! My 
 father should be here. What book is this ? I cannot read. 
 It seems as if the time stood still when that girl is from my 
 side. I will call her in . [Rings bell. Nanine enters.'] That 
 gentleman will not be here to-night. Tell Madam to come in ! 
 It grows too cold to remain in the night air. 
 
 Nanine. Madam is not here, sir. 
 
 Armand. How ? Where is she, then ? 
 
 Nanine. I saw her go down the road. She told me to say 
 to you, sir, that she would return presently. 
 
 Armand. Very well ! [Exit Nanine.'] Where can she 
 be gone ? I think I see her form in the garden. [Calls.] 
 Camille ! Camille! No, there is no one there. [Calls again.] 
 Nanine ! Nanine ! [Rings bell impatiently.] Nanine, I say ! 
 No answer! What can this mean? This silence makes me 
 shudder ! There is a desolation in that quiet that forebodes no 
 good. Why did I suffer Camille to leave me ? There was 
 something she would hide from me. She appeared confused 
 when I entered, — and then she wept ! I will go — 
 
 [As he hastens towards the door a Messenger enters^] 
 
 Messenger. Your pardon, sir. You are Monsieur Ar- 
 mand Duval ? 
 
 Armand. I am. 
 
 Messenger. Here is a letter for you, sir ? 
 
 Armand. Who gave it to you? 
 
 Messenger. A lady. The garden gate was open. There 
 was no one about. I saw a light here, and I thought I might 
 enter. 
 
 Armand. You were right. Leave me. [Exit Messenger J\ 
 It is her hand writing. Why have I not the power to open it ? 
 I tremble like a child. [Duval enters unperceived and gazes 
 
CAMILLE. 45 
 
 intently upon Armand, who opens letter and reads aloud.'] 
 "An hour after you will have received this letter, Armand, I 
 shall be with the Count de Yarville." [He staggers back, sees 
 his father, and falls on his breast.] Father ! my heart is 
 shattered ! ! 
 
 [end of act.] 
 
 ACT FOURTH. 
 
 Scene. — A room in the house of Olimpe. 
 Parties dancing as curtain rises. Others at tables playing 
 
 cards. 
 
 Prudence, Olimpe, Gaston and Gustave Discovered. 
 At the close of the dance Armand enters. 
 
 Prudence. Why, here is Armand ! We were just speak- 
 ing of you a moment since. 
 
 Armand. And what were you saying ? 
 
 Prudence. I was saying that you were at Tours, and 
 that you would not be here to-night. 
 
 Armand. Well, you see you were mistaken, for I am here. 
 
 Prudence. When did you arrive ? 
 
 Armand. An hour ago. 
 
 Prudence. Have you seen Camille ? 
 
 Armand. I have not. 
 
 Prudence. She will be here to-night. 
 
 Armand. Ah, indeed ! Then perhaps I may see her. 
 
 Prudence. Perhaps you may see her ! How strangely you 
 talk? 
 
 Armand. How would you have me talk ? 
 
46 CAMILLE. 
 
 Prudence. You are cured, then ? 
 
 Armand. Oh, perfectly ! Else why should I be here ? 
 
 Prudence. So you have ceased to think of her ? 
 
 Armand. No ! I cannot say that ; for it would be untrue. 
 But I confess the souvenir is not a very nattering one to 
 her, nor pleasant one to me. 
 
 Prudence. Oh ! I really think she loved you then, and 
 even loves you still — that is a little ; but it was quite time 
 she did leave- you. Even the old Duke refused to contribute 
 a sous unless the relation between you were sundered. She 
 was forsaking her friends — wasting her means — and every- 
 thing she possessed was being sold to pay her debts. 
 
 Armand. It is different now ? 
 
 Prudence. Yes, very different ! 
 
 Armand. All her debts are paid ? 
 
 Prudence. Every one ! 
 
 Armand. By the Count de Varville ? 
 
 Prudence. Yes ! 
 
 Armand. So much the better ! 
 
 Prudence. And so I tell her. That is just what I think 
 — and I am glad you have come to your senses, and think so 
 too. Now everything goes well. Horses, carriage, jewels, 
 are all returned ; and the luxury in which she lives would 
 make you wonder how she could stay so long in that cage in 
 which she lived with you in the country. 
 
 Armand. She is in Paris, then ? 
 
 Prudence. Yes ! She will be here soon. I have never 
 seen her as she is now. She is scarcely an hour at home — 
 operas, balls, suppers — and as for sleep, that scarcely visits 
 her any more. After she left you, she was three days con- 
 fined to bed ; and the moment she got well enough to be out 
 ao-ain, her revelry began ; and so she has kept it up at the 
 expense of her health, and I may say, her life. For if she 
 continues thus, it cannot last long. Even now she looks 
 more like a statue than a living thing. 
 
 Armand. [Seeing Gustave.~] Madam Duverney, here is 
 
CAMILLE. 
 
 47 
 
 a friend to whom I would speak. Will you have the good- 
 ness to excuse me ? 
 
 Prudence. Oh, certainly ; for I must sit down, or I shall 
 faint with hunger. I wish they would hurry up the supper. 
 
 [Goes up.] 
 
 Armancl. [Taking Gustave 7 s hand.'] So you received my 
 letter? 
 
 Gustave. I did — and am here. 
 
 Armand. You thought Camille loved me — did you not ? 
 
 Gustave. I did — and do still think so. 
 
 Armand. Read. [Gives aletter.] 
 
 Gustave. Did Camille write that ? 
 
 Armand. She did. 
 
 Gustave. When ? 
 
 Armand. One month ago. 
 
 Gustave. And what was your reply ? 
 
 Armand. What could it be? The blow was so sudden 
 that I thought I should go mad. She will be here to-night 
 with Count de Varville. I have come here to meet him. 
 
 Gustave. Armand, for heaven's sake, be calm ! Reflect 
 where you are. If, indeed, Camille be false, she is unworthy 
 of your love — and ask yourself if injury from such as are 
 assembled here to-night be worthy the resentment of a gen- 
 tleman. 
 
 Armand. Gustave, you are an honest man. I may re- 
 quire to-night the service of a friend. May I count on 
 yours ? 
 
 Gustave. You may, sir ; although I wish it were to serve 
 you in a worthier cause. 
 
 Armand. For your sake. To me it is more than worthy 
 — it is sacred. [Points to letter.] These words were penned 
 by her ; but never emanated from her heart. They are the 
 echo of the sweet words that scorpion Count de Varville 
 has been hissing in her ear. It is with Mm that I would 
 speak. By my hopes in her which he has blasted — by the 
 infamy he has labeled on her name — I have sworn to be 
 avenged ! 
 
48 CAMILLE. 
 
 Prompter. [Without'] Mademoiselle Camille Gauthier 
 and Count de Varville. 
 
 Armand. She is here. » 
 
 Enter Camille and Varville. 
 
 Olimpe. How late you are. 
 
 Varville. We have only now returned from the opera. 
 
 Prudence. [To Camille.'] How lovely you look, my child 
 ■ — are you well? 
 
 Camille. Oh, very well ! 
 
 Prudence. Armand is here. 
 
 Camille. Armand! [Turns and sees him. They how 
 coldly. He goes to card table.'] Oh ! I was wrong to come 
 to this ball to-night ! 
 
 Prudence. Well, you would have to meet some day ; and 
 it may as well be soon as late. 
 
 Camille. Oh ! how pale he is ! 
 
 Varville. Camille, Monsieur Duval is here. 
 
 Camille. I know it. 
 
 Varville. Are you sure you did not know he would be here 
 before you came ? 
 
 Camille. Certain ! 
 
 Varville. Then promise me you will not speak to him. 
 
 Camille. I cannot promise that. [Goes to sofa.'] 
 
 Gustave. Good evening, Camille ! 
 
 Camille. Gustave ! Oh, how glad I am to see you ! And 
 Mchette — how is she ? 
 
 Gustave. Very well ! 
 
 Camille. But why are you here ? This is not your custom. 
 
 Gustave. Nor was it yours of late, Camille. What is the 
 matter ? 
 
 Camille. Oh, Gustave, I am so unhappy ! Leave me. 
 
 Gustave. Why have you come here ? 
 
 Camille. He would have it so. But it is well ; for each 
 night passed thus shortens the number of my days. 
 
 Gustave. Camille, leave this place. 
 
 Camille. Wherefore ? 
 
■CAMILLE, 49 
 
 ■Gustave. Because Armand- 
 
 CamiUe. I know he despises me. 
 
 Gustave. No ! He loves you ! He Is not well. You see 
 now pale he is. He is much excited. I know not what may 
 yet transpire between him and Count de Varville. 
 
 Camille. A duel ! You are right, G-ustave. I will leave 
 instantly. 
 
 Varville. Where are you going, Camille ? 
 
 Camille. Count, I am not well. I pray you lead me hence. 
 
 Varville. I understand, Camille. You would retire be- 
 cause Monsieur Duval is here. While I appreciate your con- 
 sideration, I cannot consent to be driven from the place . in 
 which he chooses to intrude his presence. Know that I nei- 
 ther respect nor fear him. For that reason, you are here, and 
 here you shall remain ! [She sinks bach on the sofa.'] 
 
 Olimpe. What was the opera to-night ? 
 
 Varville, La Favorite I 
 
 Armand. The story of a woman who deceived her lover. 
 
 Gaston. A very common case. 
 
 Armand. Oh ! but she loved him ; or she said so — much 
 the same thing ! 
 
 Gaston. Quite the same. You can never tell when they 
 do, or when they don't. Their words are all alike. Yet we, 
 poor devils, trust them to the last ; for, in spite of all experi- 
 ence, man is but man. 
 
 Armand. And woman is but woman ! 
 
 Olimpe, Why, my dear Armand, what a frightful game 
 you are playing ? 
 
 Armand. Yes ! I would test the proverb : — "Happy at 
 cards, unhappy in love !" 
 
 Gaston. Then I must be fearfully lucky at cards ; for a 
 more unlucky devil at the game of hearts 
 
 Armand. [Interrupting him.] Hearts ? Diamonds ! 
 Play diamonds, if you will win women ! My friends, I hope 
 to make a fortune to-night. And when I shall have made it, 
 I will go and live in the country. 
 4 
 
50 CAMILLE-. 
 
 Olimpe. Alone ? 
 
 Armand. Oh, no ! With one who accompanied me there 
 before, and who left me because I was poor I But I have 
 found the way to bring her back again. It is this ! [Throws 
 gold coin up in the air J] Gold I Gold ! At its magic sound 
 the truant bird will perch upon my hand 1 
 
 Gustave. I pray you, sir, forbear ! See, your words have 
 made her ill. 
 
 Armand. Then why is her friend silent ? That was his 
 cue! But he shall speak ! [Turns to company.] It is a very 
 good story, by the way. I must relate it. It is quite ro- 
 mantic ; for there is a nobleman in it — a great Count — very 
 rich in pocket ; but history does not record the extent of his 
 honor! 
 
 Varville. [Advancing.'] Sir I 
 
 Camille. Varville, if you provoke Monsieur Duval, never 
 speak to me again. You know me ! 
 
 Armand. [To Varville.'] Did you speak to me, sir? 
 
 Varville. Yes, sir ! I was about to say that the happy 
 vein which your fortune has struck to-night tempts me to ven- 
 ture mine ! Besides, having learned from you how I may 
 catch the bird, perhaps you will instruct me how to keep it 
 I, too, would test the proverb. I propose to take a lesson. 
 
 Armand. Which I will endeavor to teach you. 
 
 Varville. I hold a hundred louis, sir. 
 
 Armand. Be it so. What side, sir ? 
 
 Varville. The one you reject. 
 
 Armand. A hundred louis to the left ! 
 
 Varville. A hundred louis to the right ! 
 
 Armand. [To Gaston.] Hold the cards. 
 
 Gaston. To the right, four — to the left, nine. Armand 
 has gained. 
 
 Varville. Two hundred louis, then I 
 
 Armand. As you please. Two hundred louis ! But have 
 a care *, if the proverb says : " Happy at play, unhappy in 
 love, " it also says : " Unhappy in love, happy at play ! " 
 
CAMILLE. 51 
 
 Varville. I have no fear, sir ! 
 
 Gaston. Again : — six — eight — Armand has gained. 
 
 Olimpe. Good ! So, Count, you must pay for the cham- 
 pagne. Let us to supper. It is time we were at table. 
 
 Armand. Shall we continue the game ? 
 
 Varville. No — not for the present. 
 
 Armand. I owe you a revenge ; and I promise to pay it 
 at whatever game it may please you to adopt. Till then, I 
 will remain your debtor. 
 
 Varville. It shall no longer burthen you. I accept your 
 will to be released from the obligation, and shall await your 
 payment at the earliest moment. 
 
 Olimpe. [Taking Armand's arm.] You have been ill- 
 humored all the night. 
 
 Armand. It is over now ; for I have won the game. 
 [Exeunt Armand, Olimpe, Gustave, Gaston, and company.] 
 
 Varville. [To Camille.] Come with me. 
 
 Camille. I will join you presently. I would speak with 
 Prudence. 
 
 Varville. If in ten minutes you are not with us there, 
 [Pointing to supper room.] I will return. You understand ! 
 
 Camille. Leave me. [Exit Varville. To Prudence.] 
 Go find Armand, and entreat him to come to me. I must 
 speak to him. 
 
 Prudence. If he refuse 
 
 Camille. He will not. He will seize the opportunity to 
 tell me how he hates me. [Exit Prudence.] What's to be 
 done ? I must continue to deceive him. I made a sacred 
 promise to his father. It must not be broken. Oh, heaven ! 
 give me strength to keep it. But this duel ! How to pre- 
 vent it ! Peril honor, life, for me ! Oh ! No, no, no ! 
 Rather let him hate — despise me ! Oh ! he is here ! 
 [Enter Armand.] 
 
 Armand. Madam, did you send for me? 
 
 Camille. I did, Armand ! I would speak with you. 
 
 Armand. Speak ! I listen. 
 
52 
 
 CAMILLE. 
 
 Camille. I have a few words to say to you — not of the 
 past 
 
 Armand. Oh, no ! Let that be buried in the shame that 
 shrouds it. 
 
 Camille. Oh ! do not crush me with reproach. See how I 
 am bowed before you, pale trembling, supplicating. Listen 
 to me without hate, and hear me without anger. Say that 
 you will forget the past, and — give me your hand. 
 
 Armand. [Rejecting her hand.] Pardon me, Madam. If 
 your business with me is at an end, I will retire. 
 
 Camille. Stay — I will not detain you long. Armand, you 
 must leave Paris ! 
 
 Armand. Leave Paris ! And why, Madam ? 
 
 Camille. Because the Count de Yarville seeks to quarrel 
 with you, and I wish you to avoid him. I alone am to blame, 
 and I alone should suffer. 
 
 Armand. And it is thus you counsel me to play the cow- 
 ard's part, and fly — fly from Count de Varville ! What other 
 counsel could come from such a source ? 
 
 Camille. Armand, by the memory of the woman whom you 
 once loved — in the name of the pangs it cost her to destroy 
 your faith — and in the name of her who smiled from heaven 
 upon the act that saved her son from shame — even in her 
 name — your mother's name — Armand Duval, I charge you 
 leave me ! Fly — fly — anywhere from here — from me — or 
 you will make me human ! 
 
 Armand. I understand, Madam. You tremble for your 
 .lover — your wealthy Count — who holds your fortune in his 
 hands. You shudder at the thought of the event which would 
 rob you of his gold ; or, perhaps, his title, which, no doubt, 
 ere long you hope to wear. 
 
 Camille. I tremble for your life ! 
 
 Armand. You tremble for my life ! Oh, you jest ! What 
 is my life or death to you ? Had you such a fear when you 
 wrote that letter? [Takes out letter and reads.'] " Armand, 
 forget me. The Count has offered me his protection. I ac- 
 
CAMILLE. 
 
 53 
 
 cept it; for I know he loves me." Love you ! Oh, had he 
 loved you, you would not have been here to-night. These 
 were your words. That they did not kill me was no fault of 
 yours — and that I am not dead, is because I cannot die until 
 I am avenged ; because I will not die until I see the words 
 you have graven on my brain imprinted in the blood of him 
 who wronged me ! And should your life-strings crack to part 
 with him, he shall not live ; for I have sworn it ! 
 
 Camille. Armand, you wrong him ! De Varville is inno- 
 cent of all that has occurred ! 
 
 Armand. He loves you, madam ! That is his crime — the 
 sin that he must answer for ! 
 
 Camille. Oh, could you but know his thoughts, they 
 would tell you that I hate him ! 
 
 Armand. Why. are you his ? Why here — the plaything 
 of his vanity, the trophy of his gold ? 
 
 Camille. Oh, heaven ! Armand ! No — no ! this must 
 not be. You may retire ! I have no more to say. Do not 
 ask me, for I cannot tell ! 
 
 Armand. Then I will tell you ! Because you are heart- 
 less, truthless, and make a sale of that which you call love to 
 him who bids the highest ! Because when you found a man 
 who truly loved you, who devoted every thought and act to 
 bless and guard you, you fled from him at the very moment 
 you were mocking him with a sacrifice you had not the 
 courage to make. Horses, house and jewels must be parted 
 with, and all for love ! Oh, no ! that could not be ! They 
 must remain unsold, and so they did ! They were returned, 
 and with them, what ? The bitter pangs of anguish and re- 
 morse which fill your breast, even while it heaves beneath a 
 weight of gems ! — the fixed despair which sits upon that brow 
 on which those diamonds look down in mockery ! And this 
 is what the man you love has done for you ! These are his 
 triumphs — the wages of your shame ! 
 
 Camille. Armand, you have pierced my heart—you have 
 bowed me in the dust ! Is it fit that you should die for such 
 
54 
 
 CAMILLE. 
 
 a wretch as you have drawn ? Is it fit that you should taint 
 your name in such a cause as hers ? Remember those who 
 love you, Armand ! — your sister, father, friends, Camille ! 
 For her sake do not peril life and honor ? Do not meet the 
 Count again ! Quit Paris ! Forget your wrongs for my 
 sake ! See, at your feet I ask it in my name ! 
 
 Armand. On condition that you fly from Paris with me ! 
 
 Camille. Oh, you are mad ! 
 
 Armand. I am indeed ! I stand upon the brink of an 
 abyss, whence I must soar or fall ? You can save me. A 
 moment since I thought I hated you. I tried to smother in 
 my breast the truth, that it was love — love for you! All 
 shall be forgotten — forgiven ! We will fly from Paris and 
 the past ! We will go to the end of the earth — away from 
 man — where not an eye shall feast a glance upon your form, 
 nor sound disturb your ear less gentle than the echoes which 
 repeat our tales of love ! 
 
 Camille. This cannot be ! 
 
 Armand. Again ! 
 
 Camille. I would give a whole eternity of life to purchase 
 one short hour of bliss like that you've pictured now ? But 
 it must not be ! There is a gulf between us which I dare not 
 cross ! I have sworn to forget you — to avoid you — to tear 
 you from my thoughts, though it should uproot my reason ! 
 
 Armand. You have sworn to whom ? 
 
 Camille. To one who had the right to ask me ? 
 
 Armand. To the Count de Varville, who loves you ! Now 
 say that you love him, and I will part with you forever ! 
 
 Camille. [Faltering.] Yes, I love the Count de Varville ! 
 
 Armand. [Rushes to supper-room door, and violently 
 dashes it open.] Enter all ! 
 
 [All the characters in the act rush in.~\ 
 
 Camille. What would you do ? 
 
 Armand. You will see! [To guests.'] You see that 
 woman ? 
 
 Olimpe. Camille ? 
 
€AM1LLE. 
 
 55 
 
 Armand. Yes! Camille Gauthier ! Do you know what 
 she has done ? 
 
 All No! 
 
 Armand. But you shall ! She onee sold her horses, car- 
 riage, diamonds — all to live with me, so much she loved me ! 
 This was generous— was it not ? But what did I do ? You 
 shall hear ! I accepted this sacrifice at her hands without 
 repaying her I But it is not too late ! I have repented — and 
 now that I am rich, I am come to pay it back ! You all bear 
 witness that I have paid that woman, and that I owe her 
 nothing ! 
 
 [He throws a shower of notes and gold upon Camille, who 
 has thrown herself at his feet Be Varville advances suddenly 
 >and strikes him.'] 
 
 Varville. 'Tis false ! You owe me revenge ! 
 
 [end of act.] 
 
 A€T FIFTH. 
 
 Scene : — A poorly furnished chamber. 
 Camille discovered asleep on a couch, and Gaston on a chair. 
 
 Gaston [ Waking. ~] I verily believe I have had a nap. I 
 wonder if she wanted anything. No, she sleeps. What time 
 is it? [Looks at clockJ] Eight o'clock. I wish this room 
 would stand still a moment. There's something the matter 
 with my head. Ugh ! ugh! ugh! It is very cold. Stay, she 
 must be cold too. I thought there was a fire in this room 
 when Hay down. Oh! here it is. [Fixes fire. ~\ 
 
 Camille. Nanine, are you there ? 
 
 Gaston. Yes ! here I am. 
 
 Camille. Who is that ? 
 
 Gaston. Gaston. It is only Gaston. 
 
 Camille. You frighten me. How came you here ? 
 
 Gaston. [Giving a cup oftea.~] Drink, first, and then you 
 shall know all about it. Is it sweet enough ? 
 
56 
 
 CAMTLLE. 
 
 Camille. Yes, Gaston, just as I like it. 
 
 Gaston. I thought so. I begin to think that nature in- 
 tended me for a nurse. 
 
 Camille. What have you done with Nanine ? 
 
 Gaston. Sent her to bed. When I came here two hours 
 ago, I found a man at the door giving her a little of his mind 
 upon the matter of some accounts that were standing against 
 her on his bread bill. I did not exactly like the manner in 
 which he expressed himself, and so I told him. Whereupon he 
 chose to direct his conversation to me. Handing him the 
 amount of his claim. I was just in the act of handing him out 
 at the window, when it suddenly occurred to me that the 
 noise might wake you ; so I ended the affair by giving him a 
 gentle impetus, which sent him down stairs upon an improved 
 plan of speed. 
 
 Camille. But Nanine — ■ 
 
 Gaston. Well, the poor girl looked worn-out with fatigue. 
 She could scarcely keep her eyes open. I told her to go to 
 bed. I entered here. You were fast asleep. I placed my- 
 self on that sofa near the fire, listened to the ticking of the 
 clock until I fancied I was back waltzing in the ball-room I had 
 just left ; and when I awoke just now, such a turning round as 
 this little room kept up ! Then I must trim the fire, and 
 make a noise, and wake you. That was too bad. But I always 
 was an awkward fellow. 
 
 Camille. Oh, you are so good to come and stay with me. 
 But you must be fatigued. 
 
 Gaston. Fatigued ! Ha ! ha! Well, I think when I give 
 all my nights to balls and masques, it would be hard if I could 
 not spare an hour of the morning to watch a poor sick girl ; 
 eh ! Camille ? But how are you to-day ? You have not told 
 me yet. 
 
 Camille. I feel much better. When Nanine awakes I 
 think I shall get up. 
 
 Gaston. Good ! [Enter Nanine.'] And here she is. So I 
 will just get my coat that I left in the entry, and be with you, 
 in a moment. There, Nanine, get her up. 
 
CAMILLE. 57 
 
 [Exit Gaston. Nanine helps Camille.] 
 
 Camille. Poor girl ! You must be very tired. 
 
 Nanine. No, Madam ; I could never tire in jour service, 
 [Camille kisses her.'] Oh thank you, Madam. 
 
 Camille. Nanine, you have been a faithful friend. 
 
 Nanine. Oh, Madam, I never can forget that I was once 
 an orphan, without a friend or a home, and that I found both 
 in your care. 
 
 Gaston. [Entering.] Here we are. Why I declare, my 
 little patient looks well to-day — all the result of my nursing. 
 But here, you want a pillow, don't you ? [Places a' pillow for 
 her head.] Now we are all right. [Exit Nanine. 
 
 Camille. How can I ever repay such kindness ? 
 
 Gaston. By forgetting that you owe it. Let us talk of 
 something else. It. is a beautiful day. You have slept well 
 all night. In an hour or two the sun will be high. I will 
 come for you in a carriage, wrap you up in shawls — we will 
 take a long drive— I shall get you a little bird — you shall 
 eat it on your return — then you shall scold me for making 
 you so tired — you will lay your head down softly on your 
 pillow and sleep till morning. Will that do ? 
 
 Camille. Do you think I will be strong enough? 
 
 Gaston. To be sure you will. Besides am I not your 
 nurse ? You must obey your nurse, you kno^y. And now I 
 will go and see my mother. It has been fifteen days since she 
 laid eyes on me. She will give me a reception ! Ah, I am 
 a bad boy, Camille, and dont deserve to have so good a 
 mother. 
 
 Camille. If she but knew your heart. 
 
 Gaston. Yes ! I think myself that little machine called 
 heart, would not work so badly if it were properly managed. 
 Good-bye ! Oh, Camille, do you want your key ? That is, 
 would you require it ? The key of that little drawer, I 
 mean. 
 
 Camille. No, there is nothing in it. 
 
 Gaston. That was just what I thought ; and so I locked 
 
58 
 
 CAMILLE. 
 
 it, lest it might get out. You will find the key in that little 
 box on top there, should you want it before I return. Good- 
 bye ! 
 
 Camille. Stay ! What have you done ? You have filled 
 my little purse. Is it not so ? 
 
 G-aston. Never mind ; we will talk of that again. Ca- 
 mille, why was it empty ? Why did I find you here this 
 morning in suffering and in want ? 
 
 Camille. What could I do ? 
 
 Gaston. You could have sent to me. 
 
 Camille. You, on whom I never bestowed the favor of a 
 smile, scarcely a kind word. 
 
 Gaston. And what of that ? I am sure I deserved worse 
 than that ; for I know I was a great fool. Olimpe could tell 
 you that. She knows it. But never mind. You must let 
 me be your brother, and I will come here every day and 
 nurse you until you get well. Do you know, Camille, I have 
 grown tired of the first edition of my life. I think I will 
 issue a second, revised and corrected, with notes by the au- 
 thor, and see how it will look in new type. What do you 
 think of it ? 
 
 Camille. I think well of it, Gaston ; and so will your mo- 
 ther. Ask her counsel — tell her your wish — and she will 
 help you to it. Make her love the altar of your truth, and 
 it will rise before you as a pillar of fire to guide you in ad- 
 versity. 
 
 Gaston. I will go to her now, and tell her what you say. 
 You will be ready in an hour. 
 
 Camille. Yes, good-bye. Remember all that I have said. 
 
 Gastoyi. It shall lie upon my heart like a prayer. 
 
 {Exit. 
 
 Camille. I remember the time I used to laugh at him. 
 Where is the crowd who smiled upon me then? And he is 
 here. 
 
 [Enter JYanine.'] 
 
 Nanine. Madam, here are some presents, I am sure. 
 
CAMILLE. 
 
 59 
 
 Camille. Presents ? Oh, I remember, it is new-years 
 day. The last brought many changes. This day twelve- 
 month ! Ah, Nanine, those days are gone. 
 
 Nanine. Would you not like to see what these contain 
 madam ? 
 
 Camille. Yes, let me see. A ring, with Gaston's card. 
 Bless him ! Oh, he is so good to think of me. A bracelet 
 from the dear old Duke. He does not know that I am ill. 
 Ah, if he knew how changed I am, he would forgive me. 
 Bonbons from Nichette and Gustave. The world has a better 
 memory than I gave it credit for. What is this ? A letter 
 from Nichette. [Reads.'] " My dear Camille : — I have called 
 twenty times, but I have never been permitted to see you. 
 I hope you are very well. I wish you a happy new-year ; 
 for it is the happiest of my life. It is my wedding-day. Gus- 
 tave and I desire you will be present at the ceremony. It is 
 all we want to make our joy complete. Do pray come. The 
 ceremony will take place at ten o'clock, at the church St. 
 Madeleine. Believe me, your very happy and devoted friend, 
 Nichette." It is her wedding-day. This day brings happi- 
 ness to all but me. Here, Nanine, let me have a pen and 
 paper. [ Writes.'] There now, send that letter to the church 
 St. Madeleine, and tell the bearer not to hand it to Nichette 
 until after the ceremony of her marriage. You understand ? 
 
 Nanine. Yes, madam. 
 
 Camille. Some one rang. Open the door. 
 
 [Nanine exits, and immediately re-enters.] 
 
 Nanine. It is Madam Duverney. She says she must see 
 you. 
 
 Camille. Then let her enter. 
 
 Prudence. [Entering.] Well, my dear Camille, how are 
 you this morning ? 
 
 Camille. Better, I thank you. 
 
 Prudence. My dear Camille, will you have the goodness 
 to send Nanine out of the room a moment ? I would speak 
 to you alone. 
 
60 CAMILLE, 
 
 Camille. Nanine, you can take that letter to the Made- 
 leine yourself, if you wish. You have need of a little air. 
 
 Nanine. But, madam, I do not like to leave you alone. 
 
 Camille. Prudence will remain with me till you return. 
 
 Nanine. Yes, madam. [Exit. 
 
 Prudence. [Aside.~\ That girl watches me when I enter 
 this room as if I were a thief. "Well, my dear Camille, I 
 have a favor to ask of you. 
 
 Camille. What is it ? 
 
 Prudence. Have you any money about you, dear ? 
 
 Camille. Money ! Where could I get it? The last money 
 that I saw was in your hands. Nanine obtained it on the 
 last jewel I possessed. She gave it all to you. I have not 
 seen you since. 
 
 Prudence. I know, clear ; but I have had such trouble. I 
 thought Olimpe could oblige me ; but she is as badly off as I 
 am. You know she ran off with that man, because she thought 
 he was rich. Well, it turns out that he is as poor as a church 
 mouse. So here she is, back in Paris, without a friend or a 
 sous. She sent me to Graston this morning, begging him to 
 forgive her, and to take her back. But, oh, dear! if you 
 had seen him when I gave him her letter ! 
 
 Camille. Have you seen him this morning ? 
 
 Prudence. Not five minutes since. I saw him at the ball 
 last night. He said he was going to breakfast with his mother. 
 Sol went there and found him ? 
 
 Camille. What did he say ? 
 
 Prudence. Oh, dear, don't ask me ! He even showed the 
 letter to his mother, and then threw it in the fire. And then 
 she kissed him. I really don't know what to say to Olimpe; 
 for as sure as I am sitting here he seemed to cry for very joy 
 that he was rid of her, or something else, I cannot say. 
 
 Camille. Oh, he is with his mother ! I am happy. 
 
 Prudence. Yes, I don't know what Olimpe will do ; for 
 though she did not love him, he was very convenient. Poor 
 girl ! this will not be a very happy day for her. We can 
 
CAMILLE. 61 
 
 spend it together ; for I assure you I have only got five francs 
 in the world. 
 
 Camille. Three hours ago I had not one. How much clo 
 you want? 
 
 Prudence. Unfortunately I invited some friends to a sup- 
 per to-night. Besides some other expenses that always come 
 with new-years day, you know. Yes, I think two hundred 
 francs would cover it all. You couldn't lend me that little 
 sum until the end of the month, could you, dear? 
 
 Camille. The end of the month ! I shall not need it 
 then. Count that. [Takes purse ivhich Gaston placed in 
 Casket, and gives it to her.] 
 
 Prudence. Oh, dear ! what a pity you are not well, Ca- 
 mille. We could all come and dine with you to-day ; then 
 you would join our supper in the evening, and we could have 
 such a delightful time ! 
 
 Camille. How much is there ? 
 
 Prudence. [Counting.'] Five hundred francs I should say . 
 
 Camille. Take of it what you require. 
 
 Prudence. Have you enough without this, dear? [Puts 
 purse in her pocket.] Perhaps I am robbing you ? 
 
 Camille. Never mind me, I have all that I shall want. 
 
 Prudence. Oh, thank you ! You have rendered me a 
 great service. Now I'll leave you. I will call to-morrow 
 and see how you are. Oh, you are looking better to-day, 
 indeed you are. Now that the fine weather is come, the 
 country air would do you good. 
 
 Camille. See if Nanine be there. 
 
 Prudence. I will, dear ! Good-bye, and thank you, 
 again. Perhaps I will call in this evening. You will not 
 feel lonely until Nanine returns, — will you, dear ? 
 
 Camille. Oh no, — you may go. 
 
 Prudence. That's a dear ; for I have some purchases to 
 make. Then I must go to bed ; for I can scarcely keep my 
 eyes open. [Exit, 
 
 Camille. And that was one of my friends ! Oh, what is 
 death compared to life like that ? [Takes out a letter and 
 
62 CAMILLE. 
 
 reads^\ "Madam: I have learned of the duel which has 
 " taken place between Arniand and the Count de Varvillc — 
 ik not from my son: for he has quitted France without even 
 " saving adieu to me : but from the Count de Yarville. who. 
 " thanks to heaven, is out of danger, and has told me all. 
 " You have kept your oath, and proved how well you love. 
 
 • I have this day written to Armand. avowing all : that it 
 was I who forced you to destroy his peace. He is far 
 away : but he will soon return. Be of good cheer. 
 
 • It is Armand' s father speaks to you. Believe me your 
 friend : George Duval. November loth.''* Six weeks 
 
 have passed since I received this letter, and though I 
 know it word for word, the hour scarcely passes that I do 
 not read it over in hopes to glean from it new life and 
 courage. If I could but hear from him! If I could but live 
 till Spring ! I will ! I must. yes. I must see him before 
 I die ! [IjooJcs in the glas8.~\ Oh ! how changed I am ! 
 However the doctor says that he will cure me ! Yes ! Yes ! 
 I must have patience I Spring will soon be here, and I 
 do so love the Spring ! Xo frown upon Jier brow forbids 
 the humblest flower to hope. She smiles on all alike, — the 
 camelia and the cowslip, the daisy and the rose ! May I not 
 hope that she will smile on me ? I Tvish Nanine were come. 
 It is the first day of the year. — the day that brings new life 
 to every heart. Oh. if Armand were only here. I am sure 
 I would be saved. Yes '. Yes ! he will soon be here, — and 
 so I must be well! [Opens window and wt.~\ Oh. 
 
 how bright and beautiful every thing appears ! And there's 
 a darling little child ! See how it skips along with an 
 armful of toys ! And now it laughs and looks up here as 
 though it wished to give me one. Oh, how I would like to 
 
 kiss it ! 
 
 Nanine. [Entering hurrieWy.] Oh, Madam, are you up? 
 
 C [ mitte. Yes. Nanine ! did you give the letter I 
 Nanine. Yes. Madam ! And then I ran back all the way : 
 f or on j — l m t are you sure you are well enough to hear — I 
 
 mean to sit up ': 
 
CAMILLE. "O 
 
 Camille. Oh, you see how well I am. Prudence left me 
 long ago, and I walked over here myself. Am I not grown 
 
 strong ? 
 
 Nanine. But you must promise me to keep perfectly 
 
 calm. 
 
 Camille. What's the matter ? Something has happened. 
 Nanine. Yes, Madam ! And I ran all the way to tell 
 you. But don't be frightened ; for a sudden joy awaits you ! 
 Camille. A joy, say you? Aye! speak to me of joy ! 
 You have seen Armand! He is come! Armand, come — 
 come! Oh, where are you? [Enter Armand.'] Armand, 
 you are come ; but it is too late ! 
 
 Armand. Oh, Camille ! You must not speak of death, 
 but life ! Live, oh ! live for me ! 
 
 Camille. Armand, it is wise — it is well — it is just ! I have 
 been guilty. Living, the memory of that guilt would haunt 
 me like a spectre! It would flit between me and your smile! 
 It would stand upon the platform of the past, growing mon- 
 strous, hideous with my years, darkening with its fearful 
 shadow my passage to the close ! Death's kindly veil will 
 hide it from my sight — the world will bury its resentment in 
 my grave, and remembering my sufferings may forget my 
 faults ! 
 
 Armand. Camille, you were my world ! With you I had 
 all things — without you nothing ! 
 
 Camille. Closer, closer, Armand, and listen while I speak ! 
 Armand, keep this. [Giving likeness.] I had it taken for 
 you long ago. You will gaze upon it often, I am sure, and 
 think of me. And if some day, a lovely, pure, chaste girl, 
 should seek your love, I ask you in my name, to listen to her 
 kindly and let her lay her heart upon the shrine which once was 
 mine. And if she ask you who this was, — tell her. Say it 
 was a young friend who loved you well, and who from her 
 peaceful home beyond the sky keeps vigil with the stars, 
 shedding smiles upon you both ! If this silent image cost 
 her heart one pang, bury it in my grave, without remorse, 
 without a tear ! 
 
64 
 
 CAMILLE. 
 
 Armand. Oh ! Camille ! Camille ! Hope smiles no more 
 for me ! 
 
 Camille. Armand, the day I met jour father, I wore upon 
 my breast these little flowers, the same you gave me in the 
 morning. When I left you that evening and came to Paris, I 
 took the flowers and kissed them ; but they were withered, 
 bloomless, faded — and with them every little hope that blos- 
 somed on my heart ! I have kept them ever since. \_Takes 
 flowers from casket. ~\ See how pale and blighted they have 
 grown. They are called " Heart's-ease " — a pretty name! 
 Armand, keep them. They will remind you how I loved you — 
 and, when I am dead, plant others like them on the grave 
 where I shall sleep in peace. 
 
 [Miter Nanine, Nichette, Gustave, and Gaston.] 
 
 Armand. Gustave, this is a bitter hour ! 
 
 Nichette. Oh, Camille ! how you frightened me ! You 
 wrote me you were dying ! 
 
 Camille. And so I am, Nichette ! But I can smile ; for I 
 am happy ! You, too, are happy. You are a bride. You 
 will think of me sometimes, — will you not ? And Gustave, 
 too, — you will speak of me together ! Armand, come ! Your 
 hand ! You must not leave me ! Armand here, and all my 
 friends ! Oh, this is happiness ! And Gaston, too ! I am 
 so glad you are come ! Armand is here, and I am so happy ! 
 Oh, how strange ! 
 
 Armand. What is it, Camille ? 
 
 Camille. All the pain is gone ! Is this life ? Now every- 
 thing appears to change. Oh, how beautiful ! Do not wake 
 me — I am so sleepy ! [Dies, 
 
 Armand. Camille ! Camille ! Camille ! Dead ! Dead ! 
 
 Nichette. Sleep in peace, Camille. Thou hast loved much, 
 — much shall be forgiven thee. 
 
 [end.] 
 
In the Cemetery Montmartre, in Paris, rests the body 
 of her upon whose melancholy history this play is founded. 
 About the grave, many flowers, planted by the hand of some 
 kind friend, continue to bloom in beauty. An humble tomb- 
 stone bears the following inscription : 
 
 HERE REPOSES 
 
 ALPHONSINE PLESSUS, 
 
 Born, Jan. 15, 1824. j'j 
 
 Died, Feb. 3, 1847. 
 
 
 LBJe : 26 
 
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 Treatment Date: Feb. 2008 
 
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