Authoress's Note: A "Camille" fic from Armand's POV many years after Marguerite dies. I love this story with a passion.
Why is it that those of us whose lovers die young of a tragic disease always live so long? It isn't fair. I didn't want to go on living without Marguerite. Life had lost its gleam after she died. There was nothing left for me.
I became reclusive. Rarely was I seen out of my house. There was nothing that seemed to be more fun than just being miserable, thinking about her.
Only the good die young.
How true.
She had not been good in profession, but my Marguerite was the best woman alive. She had given herself completely to me, sacrificed her love for me for what she had believed was best. She gave away her love for me. She had not one ounce of hate or malice in her body. She was sweet, loving, courageous, kind...and now she was in the grave. My heart had gone with her.
For years, I lived on. Years and years longer than I wanted to. I wanted to die too. I waited for death and it did not come. Now I am old. I am nearly ninety, although time has passed without my knowing. And now I know death must come soon. I wait anxiously. It cannot come too quickly for me. I don't want to live anymore.
My breath comes slower these days and it is hard to leave my bed. I have surrounded myself with her things; the book Manon Lescaut, a few pieces of her clothing that I managed to save, and three dried roses. The petals are crumbling and they cannot be touched or they will fall apart.
To me, those roses are like Marguerite. So fresh, so beautiful. But then, as soon as they are left alone, they wither and die.
It is getting cold. I pull the gray blankets around me more tightly and concentrate on breathing. Although I am making a vain effort to live, I know that my spirit died years and years ago. My vision becomes foggier. I am dying. Maybe I am already dead. I can almost see my breath as I struggle to keep it flowing from my lungs. There is a strange odor in the air, an odor I do not understand and do not like. It is getting darker and colder. Huddled in my bed, I try to breath. It becomes increasingly harder and harder. I am not going to survive this night.
I am dying. Dying. Dying. Death is now a warm hand on my cold frail body. It pulls me in. I can feel my spirit leaving that old body of sorrow and being happy again. I have just witnessed myself dying. It is an unreal experience. I am dead.
There are clouds in my vision. And she stands before me, looking radiant as she did when we were alone in the country together. Her smile is wide when her black eyes focus on me. She shouts, "Armand!" and runs towards me, feet light like an angel's. Her arms are around my neck and she is kissing me. We are together again and I am happy, so happy. I am a young man again and Marguerite is restored to health. We are together and intoxicated by the other's presence.
In my hands, I hold the three roses.
They are alive.
Why is it that those of us whose lovers die young of a tragic disease always live so long? It isn't fair. I didn't want to go on living without Marguerite. Life had lost its gleam after she died. There was nothing left for me.
I became reclusive. Rarely was I seen out of my house. There was nothing that seemed to be more fun than just being miserable, thinking about her.
Only the good die young.
How true.
She had not been good in profession, but my Marguerite was the best woman alive. She had given herself completely to me, sacrificed her love for me for what she had believed was best. She gave away her love for me. She had not one ounce of hate or malice in her body. She was sweet, loving, courageous, kind...and now she was in the grave. My heart had gone with her.
For years, I lived on. Years and years longer than I wanted to. I wanted to die too. I waited for death and it did not come. Now I am old. I am nearly ninety, although time has passed without my knowing. And now I know death must come soon. I wait anxiously. It cannot come too quickly for me. I don't want to live anymore.
My breath comes slower these days and it is hard to leave my bed. I have surrounded myself with her things; the book Manon Lescaut, a few pieces of her clothing that I managed to save, and three dried roses. The petals are crumbling and they cannot be touched or they will fall apart.
To me, those roses are like Marguerite. So fresh, so beautiful. But then, as soon as they are left alone, they wither and die.
It is getting cold. I pull the gray blankets around me more tightly and concentrate on breathing. Although I am making a vain effort to live, I know that my spirit died years and years ago. My vision becomes foggier. I am dying. Maybe I am already dead. I can almost see my breath as I struggle to keep it flowing from my lungs. There is a strange odor in the air, an odor I do not understand and do not like. It is getting darker and colder. Huddled in my bed, I try to breath. It becomes increasingly harder and harder. I am not going to survive this night.
I am dying. Dying. Dying. Death is now a warm hand on my cold frail body. It pulls me in. I can feel my spirit leaving that old body of sorrow and being happy again. I have just witnessed myself dying. It is an unreal experience. I am dead.
There are clouds in my vision. And she stands before me, looking radiant as she did when we were alone in the country together. Her smile is wide when her black eyes focus on me. She shouts, "Armand!" and runs towards me, feet light like an angel's. Her arms are around my neck and she is kissing me. We are together again and I am happy, so happy. I am a young man again and Marguerite is restored to health. We are together and intoxicated by the other's presence.
In my hands, I hold the three roses.
They are alive.