As for me, though my initials did not occur on any of
Marguerite's belongings, that instinctive indulgence, that
natural pity that I have already confessed, set me thinking over
her death, more perhaps than it was worth thinking over. I
remembered having often met Marguerite in the Bois, where she
went regularly every day in a little blue coupe drawn by two
magnificent bays, and I had noticed in her a distinction quite
apart from other women of her kind, a distinction which was
enhanced by a really exceptional beauty.

These unfortunate creatures whenever they go out are always
accompanied by somebody or other. As no man cares to make himself
conspicuous by being seen in their company, and as they are
afraid of solitude, they take with them either those who are not
well enough off to have a carriage, or one or another of those
elegant, ancient ladies, whose elegance is a little inexplicable,
and to whom one can always go for information in regard to the
women whom they accompany.

In Marguerite's case it was quite different. She was always alone
when she drove in the Champs-Elysees, lying back in her carriage
as much as possible, dressed in furs in winter, and in summer
wearing very simple dresses; and though she often passed people
whom she knew, her smile, when she chose to smile, was seen only
by them, and a duchess might have smiled in just such a manner.
She did not drive to and fro like the others, from the Rond-Point
to the end of the Champs-Elysees. She drove straight to the Bois.
There she left her carriage, walked for an hour, returned to her
carriage, and drove rapidly home.