Rich men fêted her and named her with honor over their wine, but she knew how little their friendship was worth; and so, amidst all her admirers and female companions, she was as lonely as a land bird on a rock at sea, and she as often sighed as would the wind about that same barren rock.
Well, on this night her house was full of company, waiting her return from the opera.
She soon came amongst them, radiant, splendidly dressed, and apparently as joyous as any there. But now and then she coughed, for near her always sat an unseen skeleton, holding an hour glass.
This evening, a gentleman named Armand was introduced to her, who, it was declared, had loved her for a long time, but who was too timid to tell her so.
Some one proposing to dance, Marguerite started up and began waltzing, but soon her cough came upon her, and she was obliged to sit down half-fainting.
The youth Armand ran to her, almost stranger as he was. “You suffer, lady!”
“Oh! no, no! take no heed of me; leave me for a little, and I shall soon be myself again.”
They left the room, laughing and chattering (so used were they to her attacks); but the youth called Armand came gently back, as this poor lady looked at herself in a glass, with affright.
“Ah! ’tis you, Monsieur Armand! Thank you, I am better; besides, I have grown accustomed to these attacks.”