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with delight whenever anything reached a price beyond their expectations。
Honest creatures； who had speculated upon this woman's prostitution； who
had gained their hundred per cent out of her； who had plagued with their
writs the last moments of her life； and who came now after her death to
gather in at once the fruits of their dishonourable calculations and the
interest on their shameful credit； How wise were the ancients in having
only one God for traders and robbers！
Dresses； cashmeres； jewels； were sold with incredible rapidity。 There
was nothing that I cared for； and I still waited。 All at once I heard： 〃A
volume； beautifully bound； gilt…edged； entitled Manon Lescaut。 There is
something written on the first page。 Ten francs。〃
〃Twelve；〃 said a voice after a longish silence。
〃Fifteen；〃 I said。
Why？ I did not know。 Doubtless for the something written。
〃Fifteen；〃 repeated the auctioneer。
〃Thirty；〃 said the first bidder in a tone which seemed to defy further
competition。
It had now become a struggle。 〃Thirty…five；〃 I cried in the same tone。
〃Forty。〃
〃Fifty。〃
〃Sixty。〃
〃A hundred。〃
If I had wished to make a sensation I should certainly have succeeded；
for a profound silence had ensued； and people gazed at me as if to see
what sort of a person it was； who seemed to be so determined to possess
the volume。
The accent which I had given to my last word seemed to convince my
adversary； he preferred to abandon a conflict which could only have
resulted in making me pay ten times its price for the volume； and； bowing；
he said very gracefully； though indeed a little late：
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〃I give way； sir。〃
Nothing more being offered； the book was assigned to me。
As I was afraid of some new fit of obstinacy； which my amour propre
might have sustained somewhat better than my purse； I wrote down my
name； had the book put on one side； and went out。 I must have given
considerable food for reflection to the witnesses of this scene； who would
nodoubt ask themselves what my purpose could have been in paying a
hundred francs for a book which I could have had anywhere for ten； or； at
the outside； fifteen。 An hour after； I sent for my purchase。 On the first
page was written in ink； in an elegant hand； an inscription on the part of
the giver。 It consisted of these words：
Manon to Marguerite。
Humility。
It was signed Armand Duval。
What was the meaning of the word Humility？ Was Manon to recognise
in Marguerite； in the opinion of M。 Armand Duval； her superior in vice or
in affection？ The second interpretation seemed the more probable； for the
first would have been an impertinent piece of plain speaking which
Marguerite； whatever her opinion of herself； would never have accepted。
I went out again； and thought no more of the book until at night； when
I was going to bed。
Manon Lescaut is a touching story。 I know every detail of it； and yet
whenever I come across the volume the same sympathy always draws me
to it； I open it； and for the hundredth time I live over again with the
heroine of the Abbe Prevost。 Now this heroine is so true to life that I feel
as if I had known her； and thus the sort of comparison between her and
Marguerite gave me an unusual inclination to read it； and my indulgence
passed into pity； almost into a kind of love for the poor girl to whom I
owed the volume。 Manon died in the desert； it is true； but in the arms of
the man who loved her with the whole energy of his soul； who； when she
was dead； dug a grave for her； and watered it with his tears； and buried his
heart in it； while Marguerite； a sinner like Manon； and perhaps converted
like her； had died in a sumptuous bed （it seemed； after what I had seen； the
bed of her past）； but in that desert of the heart； a more barren； a vaster； a
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more pitiless desert than that in which Manon had found her last resting…
place。
Marguerite； in fact； as I had found from some friends who knew of the
last circumstances of her life； had not a single real friend by her bedside
during the two months of her long and painful agony。
Then from Manon and Marguerite my mind wandered to those whom I
knew； and whom I saw singing along the way which led to just such
another death。 Poor souls！ if it is not right to love them； is it not well to
pity them？ You pity the blind man who has never seen the daylight； the
deaf who has never heard the harmonies of nature； the dumb who has
never found a voice for his soul； and； under a false cloak of shame； you
will not pity this blindness of heart； this deafness of soul； this dumbness of
conscience； which sets the poor afflicted creature beside herself and makes
her； in spite of herself； incapable of seeing what is good； of bearing the
Lord； and of speaking the pure language of love and faith。
Hugo has written Marion Delorme； Musset has written Bernerette；
Alexandre Dumas has written Fernande； the thinkers and poets of all time
have brought to the courtesan the offering of their pity； and at times a great
man has rehabilitated them with his love and even with his name。 If I
insist on this point； it is because many among those who have begun to
read me will be ready to throw down a book in which they will fear to find
an apology for vice and prostitution； and the author's age will do
something； no doubt； to increase this fear。 Let me undeceive those who
think thus； and let them go on reading； if nothing but such a fear hinders
them。
I am quite simply convinced of a certain principle； which is： For the
woman whose education has not taught her what is right； God almost
always opens two ways which lead thither the ways of sorrow and of love。
They are hard； those who walk in them walk with bleeding feet and torn
hands； but they also leave the trappings of vice upon the thorns of the
wayside； and reach the journey's end in a nakedness which is not shameful
in the sight of the Lord。
Those who meet these bold travellers ought to succour them； and to
tell all that they have met them； for in so doing they