virginal, almost childlike expression, which characterized it, is
a problem which we can but state, without attempting to solve it.

Marguerite had a marvellous portrait of herself, by Vidal, the
only man whose pencil could do her justice. I had this portrait
by me for a few days after her death, and the likeness was so
astonishing that it has helped to refresh my memory in regard to
some points which I might not otherwise have remembered.

Some among the details of this chapter did not reach me until
later, but I write them here so as not to be obliged to return to
them when the story itself has begun.

Marguerite was always present at every first night, and passed
every evening either at the theatre or the ball. Whenever there
was a new piece she was certain to be seen, and she invariably
had three things with her on the ledge of her ground-floor box:
her opera-glass, a bag of sweets, and a bouquet of camellias.

For twenty-five days of the month the camellias were white, and
for five they were red; no one ever knew the reason of this
change of colour, which I mention though I can not explain it; it
was noticed both by her friends and by the habitue's of the
theatres to which she most often went. She was never seen with
any flowers but camellias. At the florist's, Madame Barjon's, she
had come to be called "the Lady of the Camellias," and the name
stuck to her.

Like all those who move in a certain set in Paris, I knew that
Marguerite had lived with some of the most fashionable young men