The Lady of the Camellias by Alexandre Dumas (fils)

de . . . .”
    â€œAh! I remember!” Marguerite said with a smile. “It’s not you who were ridiculous; it is I who was teasing you, as I am again now, a bit, but less, all the same. Have you forgiven me, sir?”
    She extended her hand to me; I kissed it.
    â€œIt’s true,” she continued. “Imagine, I have the bad habit of wanting to embarrass people the first time I meet them. It’s very silly. My doctor says it is because I am high-strung, and always sick—believe my doctor.”
    â€œBut you seem to be quite well.”
    â€œOh! I’ve been very sick.”
    â€œI know.”
    â€œWho told you?”
    â€œEveryone knows; I came here often to get news of you, and I learned of your recovery with pleasure.”
    â€œNobody ever gave me your card.”
    â€œI never left it.”
    â€œAre you the young man who came every day to ask about me during my illness, and who never wanted to give his name?”
    â€œIt is I.”
    â€œWell, you are more than indulgent; you are generous. You would not have done that, count,” she added, turning toward M. de N . . . , and after having cast over me one of those looks by which women complete their assessment of a man.
    â€œI’ve only known you for two months,” replied the count.
    â€œAnd this gentleman only knew me for five minutes. You always respond with inanities.”
    Women are merciless to people they don’t like.
    The count reddened and bit his lip.
    I felt sorry for him, because he seemed to be in love just as I was, and Marguerite’s blunt frankness must have made him quite unhappy, especially in front of two strangers.
    â€œYou were playing music when we walked in,” I said, to change the subject. “Won’t you do me the pleasure of treating me as an old friend, and keep on playing?”
    â€œOh!” she said, as she threw herself on the couch and gestured for us to sit there too. “Gaston knows what kind of music I play. It’s all right when I’m alone with the count, but I would not want to force you to endure such torture.”
    â€œYou reserve that preference for me?” replied M. de N . . . with a smile that he tried to make knowing and ironic.
    â€œYou are wrong to reproach me for it; it’s the only preference I show you.”
    It was obvious that this poor boy would not be allowed to speak a word. He gave the young woman a truly imploring look.
    â€œSo, Prudence,” she continued, “did you do what I asked you?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œThat’s good; you can tell me about it later. We have things to discuss—don’t leave before I’ve spoken with you.”
    â€œDoubtless we are in the way,” I said. “And now that we have—or rather that I have—obtained a second introduction to cancel the memory of the first, Gaston and I will go.”
    â€œNot at all; it is not for your benefit that I said that. On the contrary, I would like you to stay.”
    The count pulled out an amazingly elegant watch, and checked the time. “It’s time for me to go to the club,” he said.
    Marguerite made no response.
    The count left the fireside and approached her. “Good-bye, madam.”
    Marguerite rose. “Good-bye, my dear count; you’re leaving already?
    â€œYes, I was afraid I was boring you.”
    â€œYou didn’t bore me more today than you did any other day. When will we see you?”
    â€œWhen you permit.”
    â€œAdieu, then!”
    It was cruel, you will admit.
    Luckily the count had a fine upbringing and an excellent nature. He contented himself with kissing the hand that Marguerite extended nonchalantly to him, and left after bowing to us.
    At the moment he crossed the threshold of the door, he looked at Prudence.
    She shrugged her shoulders with an air that signified, “What do you want? I’ve done everything I