ARMAND，wearied by the telling of his long tale which had been frequently interrupted by his tears，placed both hands on his forehead and closed his eyes-either to think or to try to sleep-after giving me the pages written in Marguerite's hand.
Moments later，a slight quickening in his breathing told me that Armand had been overcome by sleep，but sleep of that shallow kind which the least sound will scatter.
This is what I read.I transcribe it without adding or deleting a single syllable：
'Today is the 15th December.I have been ill for three or four days.This morning，I took to my bed；the weather is dull and I feel low.There is no one with me here.I think of you，Armand.And you，where are you now as I write these lines？Far from Paris，far away，I've heard，and perhaps you have already forgotten Marguerite.But be happy，for I owe you the only moments of joy I have known in my life.'
I could not resist the temptation of wanting to explain why I behaved as I did，and I wrote you a letter.But，coming from a loose woman like me，any such letter may be regarded as a tissue of lies unless it is sanctified by the authority of death，in which case it becomes a confession rather than a letter.
Today I am ill.I may die of my illness，for I always had a feeling that I would die young.My mother died of consumption，and the way I have lived up to now can only have aggravated a complaint which was the only legacy she left me.But I do not want do die without your knowing how you stand with me-if，that is，when you get back，you still feel anything for the sorry creature you loved before you went away.
Here is what was in that letter which I shall be happy to write out again，for in so doing I shall convince myself anew that I am vindicated.
You remember，Armand，how startled we were at Bougival by the news of your father's arrival；you recall the blind terror his coming prompted in me，and the scene that took place between the two of you which you described to me that evening.
The next day，while you were in Paris waiting for your father who never came back，a man came to the house and handed me a letter from Monsieur Duval.
The letter，which I enclose with this，begged me，in the gravest terms，to find an excuse for getting you out of the way the following day，and to agree to a visit from your father.He had something to say to me，and was most particular that I should say nothing to you about the step he had taken.
You recall how insistent I was，when you got back，that you should return to Paris again the next day.
You had been gone an hour when your father arrived to see me.I will spare you an account of what I felt when I saw the stern expression on his face.Your father believed implicitly in the conventional truths according to which every courtesan is a heartless，mindless creature，a kind of gold-grabbing machine always ready，like any other machine，to mangle the hand that feeds it and crush，pitilessly，blindly，the very person who gives it life and movement.
Your father had written me a very proper letter to persuade me to see him；when he came，his manner was somewhat at variance with the way he had written.There were enough slights，insults and even open threats in his opening words for me to give him to understand that he was in my house，and that the only account of my life I owed him was dictated by the genuine affection I felt for his son.
Monsieur Duval moderated his tone a little，yet even so he began saying that he could no longer permit his son to go on ruining himself for me.He said I was beautiful，there was no denying it，but however beautiful I was，I ought not to use my beauty to destroy the future of a young man by expecting him to foot the bill for my extravagance.
Now there was only one way of answering that，was there not？and that was to prove that all the time I had been your mistress，no sacrifice had been too great for me to make so that I could remain faithful to you without asking for more money than you could afford to let me have.I showed the pawn-tickets，the receipts given me by people to whom I had sold items I could not pawn；I told your father that I had decided to get rid of my furniture to pay my debts，and that I was determined to live with you without being a drain on your purse.I told him how happy we were.I told him how you had shown me a more tranquil，happier kind of life and，in the end，he conceded that he was in the wrong，and he gave me his hand，asking my pardon for the manner in which he had behaved at first.
Then he said：
'In that case，madame，it shall not be with remonstrations and threats，but with humble entreaties that I must try to persuade you to make a sacrifice greater than any you have so far made for my son.'
I trembled at these preliminaries.
Your father drew closer to me，took both my hands in his and，in a kindly voice，went on：