Camille | Page 3

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CAMILLE (LA DAME AUX CAMILIAS)
by ALEXANDRE DUMAS fils
Chapter I
In my opinion, it is impossible to create characters until one has spent a

long time in studying men, as it is impossible to speak a language until
it has been seriously acquired. Not being old enough to invent, I
content myself with narrating, and I beg the reader to assure himself of
the truth of a story in which all the characters, with the exception of the
heroine, are still alive. Eye-witnesses of the greater part of the facts
which I have collected are to be found in Paris, and I might call upon
them to confirm me if my testimony is not enough. And, thanks to a
particular circumstance, I alone can write these things, for I alone am
able to give the final details, without which it would have been
impossible to make the story at once interesting and complete.
This is how these details came to my knowledge. On the 12th of March,
1847, I saw in the Rue Lafitte a great yellow placard announcing a sale
of furniture and curiosities. The sale was to take place on account of the
death of the owner. The owner's name was not mentioned, but the sale
was to be held at 9, Rue d'Antin, on the 16th, from 12 to 5. The placard
further announced that the rooms and furniture could be seen on the
13th and 14th.
I have always been very fond of curiosities, and I made up my mind not
to miss the occasion, if not of buying some, at all events of seeing them.
Next day I called at 9, Rue d'Antin.
It was early in the day, and yet there were already a number of visitors,
both men and women, and the women, though they were dressed in
cashmere and velvet, and had their carriages waiting for them at the
door, gazed with astonishment and admiration at the luxury which they
saw before them.
I was not long in discovering the reason of this astonishment and
admiration, for, having begun to examine things a little carefully, I
discovered without difficulty that I was in the house of a kept woman.
Now, if there is one thing which women in society would like to see
(and there were society women there), it is the home of those women
whose carriages splash their own carriages day by day, who, like them,
side by side with them, have their boxes at the Opera and at the Italiens,
and who parade in Paris the opulent insolence of their beauty, their
diamonds, and their scandal.

This one was dead, so the most virtuous of women could enter even her
bedroom. Death had purified the air of this abode of splendid foulness,
and if more excuse were needed, they had the excuse that they had
merely come to a sale, they knew not whose. They had read the
placards, they wished to see what the placards had announced, and to
make their choice beforehand. What could be more natural? Yet, all the
same, in the midst of all these beautiful things, they could not help
looking about for some traces of this courtesan's life, of which they had
heard, no doubt, strange enough stories.
Unfortunately the mystery had vanished with the goddess, and, for all
their endeavours, they discovered only what was on sale since the
owner's decease, and nothing of what had been on sale during her
lifetime. For the rest, there were plenty of things worth buying. The
furniture was superb; there were rosewood and buhl cabinets and tables,
Sevres and Chinese vases, Saxe statuettes, satin, velvet, lace; there was
nothing lacking.
I sauntered through the rooms, following