ILLNESSES like the one to which Armand had succumbed have at least this much to be said for them：they either kill you at once or let themselves be conquered very quickly.
A fortnight after the events which I have just recounted，Armand was convalescing very satisfactorily，and we were bound by a firm friendship.I had scarcely left his sick room throughout the whole time of his illness.
Spring had dispensed its flowers，leaves，birds，and harmonies in abundance，and my friend's window cheerfully overlooked his garden which wafted its healthy draughts up to him.
The doctor had allowed him to get up，and we often sat talking by the open window at that hour of the day when the sun is at its warmest，between noon and two o'clock.
I studiously avoided speaking to him of Marguerite，for I was still afraid that the name would reawaken some sad memory which slumbered beneath the sick man's apparent calm.But Armand，on the contrary，seemed to take pleasure in speaking of her-not as he had done previously，with tears in his eyes，but with a gentle smile which allayed my fears for his state of mind.
I had noticed that，since his last visit to the cemetery and the spectacle which had been responsible for causing his serious breakdown，the measure of his mental anguish seemed to have been taken by his physical illness，and Marguerite's death had ceased to present itself through the eyes of the past.A kind of solace had come with the certainty he had acquired and，to drive off the somber image which often thrust itself into his mind，he plunged into the happier memories of his affair with Marguerite and appeared willing to recall no others.
His body was too exhausted by his attack of fever，and even by its treatment，to allow his mind to acknowledge any violent emotions，and despite himself the universal joy of spring by which Armand was surrounded directed his thoughts to happier images.
All this time，he had stubbornly refused to inform his family of the peril he was in，and when the danger was past，his father still knew nothing of his illness.
One evening，we had remained longer by the window than usual.The weather had been superb and the sun was setting in a brilliant twilight of blue and gold.Although we were in Paris，the greenery around us seemed to cut us off from the world，and only the rare sound of a passing carriage from time to time disturbed our conversation.
'It was about this time of year，and during the evening of a day like today，that I first met Marguerite，'said Armand，heeding his own thoughts rather than what I was saying.
I made no reply.
Then he turned to me and said：
'But I must tell you the story；you shall turn it into a book which no one will believe，though it may be interesting to write.'
'You shall tell it to me some other time，my friend，'I told him，'you are still not well enough.'
'The evening is warm，I have eaten my breast of chicken，'he said with a smile；'I am not the least feverish，we have nothing else to do，I shall tell you everything.'
'Since you are so set on it，I'll listen.'
'It's a very simple tale，'he then added，'and I shall tell it in the order in which it happened.If at some stage you do make something of it，you are perfectly free to tell it another way.'
Here is what he told me，and I have scarcely changed a word of his moving story.
Yes（Armand went on，letting his head fall against the back of his armchair），yes，it was on an evening like this！I had spent the day in the country with one of my friends，Gaston R.We had returned to Paris in the evening and，for want of anything better to do，had gone to the Theatre des Varietes.
During one of the intervals，we left our seats and，in the corridor，we saw a tall woman whom my friend greeted with a bow.
'Who was that you just bowed to？'I asked him.
'Marguerite Gautier，'he replied.
'It strikes me she is very much changed，for I didn't recognize her，'I said with a tremor which you will understand in a moment.
'She's been ill，The poor girl's not long for this world.'
I recall these words as though they had been said to me yesterday.
Now，my friend，I must tell you that for two years past，whenever I met her，the sight of that girl had always made a strange impression on me.
Without knowing why，I paled and my heart beat violently.I have a friend who dabbles in the occult，and he would call what I felt an affinity of fluids；I myself believe quite simply that I was destined to fall in love with Marguerite，and that this was a presentiment.
The fact remains that she made a strong impression on me.Several of my friends had seen how I reacted，and they had hooted with laughter when they realized from what quarter that impression came.
The first time I had seen her was in the Place de la Bourse，outside Susse's.An open barouche was standing there，and a woman in white had stepped out of it.A murmur of admiration had greeted her as she entered the shop.For my part，I stood rooted to the spot from the time she went in until the moment she came out.Through the windows，I watched her in the shop as she chose what she had come to buy.I could have gone in，but I did not dare.I had no idea what sort of woman she was and was afraid that she would guess my reason for entering the shop and be offended.However I did not believe that I was destined ever to see her again.
She was elegantly dressed；she wore a muslin dress with full panels，a square Indian shawl embroidered at the corners with gold thread and silk flowers，a Leghorn straw hat and a single bracelet，one of those thick gold chains which were then just beginning to be fashionable.
She got into her barouche and drove off.
One of the shop-assistants remained in the doorway with his eyes following the carriage of his elegant customer.I went up to him and asked him to tell me the woman's name.
'That's Mademoiselle Marguerite Gautier，'he replied.
I did not dare ask him for her address and I walked away.
