THE sale was due to be held on the 16th.
An interval of one day had been left between the viewing and the sale in order to give the upholsterers enough time to take down the hangings，curtains and so forth.
I was at that time recently returned from my travels.It was quite natural that no one had told me about Marguerite's death，for it was hardly one of those momentous news-items which friends always rush to tell anybody who has just got back to the capital city of News.Marguerite had been pretty，but the greater the commotion that attends the sensational lives of these women，the smaller the stir once they are dead.They are like those dull suns which set as they have risen：they are unremarkable.News of their death，when they die young，reaches all their lovers at the same instant，for in Paris the lovers of any celebrated courtesan see each other every day.A few reminiscences are exchanged about her，and the lives of all and sundry continue as before without so much as a tear.
For a young man of twenty-five nowadays，tears have become so rare a thing that they are not to be wasted on the first girl who comes along.The most that may be expected is that the parents and relatives who pay for the privilege of being wept for are indeed mourned to the extent of their investment.
For my own part，though my monogram figured on none of Marguerite's dressing-cases，the instinctive forbearance and natural pity to which I have just admitted led me to dwell on her death for much longer than it perhaps warranted.
I recalled having come across Marguerite very frequently on the Champs-Elysees，where she appeared assiduously each day in a small blue brougham drawn by two magnificent bays，and I remembered having also remarked in her at that time an air of distinction rare in women of her kind and which was further enhanced by her truly exceptional beauty.
When these unfortunate creatures appear in public，they are invariably escorted by some companion or other.
Since no man would ever consent to flaunt by day the predilection he has for them by night，and because they abhor solitude，they are usually attended either by less fortunate associates who have no carriages of their own，or else by elderly ladies of refinement who are not the least refined and to whom an interested party may apply without fear，should any information be required concerning the woman they are escorting.
It was not so with Marguerite.She always appeared alone on the Champs-Elysees，riding in her own carriage where she sat as unobtrusively as possible，enveloped on winter days in a large Indian shawl and，in summer，wearing the ******st dresses.And though there were many she knew along her favourite route，when she chanced to smile at them，her smile was visible to them alone.A Duchess could have smiled no differently.
She did not ride from the Rond-Point down to the entrance，to the Champs-Elysees as do-and did-all her sort.Her two horses whisked her off smartly to the Bois de Boulogne.There she alighted，walked for an hour，rejoined her brougham and returned home at a fast trot.
These circumstances，which I had occasionally observed for myself，now came back to me and I sorrowed for this girl's death much as one might regret the total destruction of a beautiful work of art.
For it was impossible to behold beauty more captivating than Marguerite's.
Tall and slender almost to a fault，she possessed in the highest degree the art of concealing this oversight of nature simply by the way she arranged the clothes she wore.Her Indian shawl，with its point reaching down to the ground，gave free movement on either side to the flounced panels of her silk dress，while the thick muff，which hid her hands and which she kept pressed to her bosom，was encompassed by folds so skillfully managed that even the most demanding eye would have found nothing wanting in the lines of her figure.
Her face，a marvel，was the object of her most fastidious attentions.It was quite small and，as Musset might have said，her mother had surely made it so to ensure it was fashioned with care.
Upon an oval of indescribable loveliness，place two dark eyes beneath brows so cleanly arched that they might have been painted on；veil those eyes with lashes so long that，when lowered，they cast shadows over the pink flush of the cheeks；sketch a delicate，straight，spirited nose and nostrils slightly flared in a passionate aspiration towards sensuality；draw a regular mouth with lips parting gracefully over teeth as white as milk；tint the skin with the bloom of peaches which no hand has touched-and you will have a comprehensive picture of her entrancing face.
Her jet-black hair，naturally or artfully waved，was parted over her forehead in two thick coils which vanished behind her head，just exposing the lobes of her ears from which hung two diamonds each worth four or five thousand francs.
Exactly how the torrid life she led could possibly have left on Marguerite's face the virginal，even childlike expression which made it distinctive，is something which we are forced to record as a fact which we cannot comprehend.
Marguerite possessed a marvelous portrait of herself by Vidal，the only man whose pencil strokes could capture her to the life.After her death，this portrait came into my keeping for a few days and the likeness was so striking that it has helped me to furnish details for which memory alone might not have sufficed.
Some of the particulars contained in the present chapter did not become known to me until some time later，but I set them down here so as not to have to return to them once the narrative account of this woman's life has begun.
