the name, and you find all your friends talking to you about
something which they have never mentioned to you before. You
discover that this person was almost touching you and has passed
close to you many times in your life without your noticing it;
you find coincidences in the events which are told you, a real
affinity with certain events of your own existence. I was not
absolutely at that point in regard to Marguerite, for I had seen
and met her, I knew her by sight and by reputation; nevertheless,
since the moment of the sale, her name came to my ears so
frequently, and, owing to the circumstance that I have mentioned
in the last chapter, that name was associated with so profound a
sorrow, that my curiosity increased in proportion with my
astonishment. The consequence was that whenever I met friends to
whom I had never breathed the name of Marguerite, I always began
by saying:

"Did you ever know a certain Marguerite Gautier?"

"The Lady of the Camellias?"

"Exactly."

"Oh, very well!"

The word was sometimes accompanied by a smile which could leave
no doubt as to its meaning.

"Well, what sort of a girl was she?"

"A good sort of girl."