The sale was to take place on the 16th. A day's interval had been left
between the visiting days and the sale, in order to give time for taking
down the hangings, curtains, etc. I had just returned from abroad. It
was natural that I had not heard of Marguerite's death among the pieces
of news which one's friends always tell on returning after an absence.
Marguerite was a pretty woman; but though the life of such women makes
sensation enough, their death makes very little. They are suns which set
as they rose, unobserved. Their death, when they die young, is heard
of by all their lovers at the same moment, for in Paris almost all
the lovers of a well-known woman are friends. A few recollections are
exchanged, and everybody's life goes on as if the incident had never
occurred, without so much as a tear.

Nowadays, at twenty-five, tears have become so rare a thing that they
are not to be squandered indiscriminately. It is the most that can be
expected if the parents who pay for being wept over are wept over in
return for the price they pay.

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.