A CONSIDERABLE time elapsed without my hearing a word about Armand，but on the other hand the subject of Marguerite had come up a great deal.
I do not know if you have noticed，but it only takes the name of someone who should in all likelihood have remained unknown or at least of no particular interest to you，to be pronounced once in your hearing，for all sorts of details to collect round that name，and for you then to have all your friends speak about a subject of which they had never spoken to you before.Next thing，you discover that the person in question was there，just out of range，all the while.You realize that your paths have crossed many times without your noticing，and you find in the events which others recount some tangible link or affinity with certain events in your own past.I had not quite reached that point with Marguerite，since I had seen her，met her，knew her by her face and habits.Yet ever since the auction，her name had cropped up so frequently in my hearing and，in the circumstances which I have related in the previous chapter，her name had become associated with sorrow so profound，that my surprise had gone on growing and my curiosity had increased.
The result was that now I never approached any friends，with whom I had never spoken of Marguerite，without saying：
'Did you know someone called Marguerite Gautier？'
'The Lady of the Camellias？'
'That's her.'
'Rather！'
These'Rather！'sometimes came with smiles which left no possible doubt as to their meaning.
'Well，what kind of girl was she？'I would go on.
'A very decent sort.'
'Is that all？'
'Heavens！I should hope so.A few more brains and perhaps a bit more heart than the rest of them.'
'But you know nothing particular about her？'
'She ruined Baron de G.'
'Anyone else？'
'She was the mistress of the old Duke de.'
'Was she really his mistress？'
'That's what they say：at any rate，he gave her a great deal of money.'
Always the same general details.
But I would have been interested to learn a little about the affair between Marguerite and Armand.
One day，I chanced upon one of those men who live habitually on intimate terms with the most notorious courtesans.I questioned him.
'Did you know Marguerite Gautier？'
The answer was that same'Rather！'
'What sort of girl was she？'
'A fine-looking，good-hearted type.Her death was a great sadness to me.'
'She had a lover called Armand Duval，didn't she？'
'Tall chap with fair hair？'
'That's him.'
'Yes，she did.'
'And what was this Armand like？'
'A young fellow who threw away the little he had on her，I believe，and was forced to give her up.They say it affected his reason.'
'What about her？'
'She loved him very much too，they also say，but as girls of her sort love.You should never ask more of them than they can give.'
'What became of Armand？'
'Couldn't say.We didn't know him all that well.He stayed five or six months with Marguerite，in the country.When she came back to town，he went off somewhere.'
'And you haven't seen him since？'
'Never.'
I had not seen Armand again either.I had begun to wonder if，the day he called on me，the recent news of Marguerite's death had not exaggerated the love he had once felt for her and therefore his grief，and I told myself that perhaps，in forgetting the dead girl，he had also forgotten his promise to return to see me.
Such a hypotheses would have been plausible enough with anybody else，but in Armand's despair there had been a note of real sincerity and，moving from one extreme to the other，I imagined that his grief could well have turned into sickness and that，if I had not heard from him，then it was because he was ill，dead even.
Despite myself，I still felt an interest in this young man.It may be that my interest was not without an element of selfishness；perhaps I had glimpsed a touching love story behind his grief，perhaps，in short，my desire to be acquainted with it loomed large in the concern I felt about Armand's silence.
Since Monsieur Duval did not return to see me，I resolved to go to him.A pretext was not difficult to find.Unfortunately，I did not know his address，and of all those I had questioned，no one had been able to tell me what it was.
I went to the rue d'Antin.Perhaps Marguerite's porter knew where Armand lived.There had been a change of porter.He did not know any more than I did.I then asked in which cemetery Mademoiselle Gautier had been buried.It was Montmartre cemetery.
April had come round again，the weather was fine，the graves would no longer have the mournful，desolate look which winter gives them；in a word，it was already warm enough for the living to remember the dead and visit them.I went to the cemetery，telling myself：'One quick look at Marguerite's grave，and I shall know whether Armand is still grieving and perhaps discover what has become of him.'
I entered the keeper's lodge and asked him if，on the 22nd of the month of February，a woman named Marguerite Gautier had not been buried in Montmartre cemetery.
The man looked through a fat ledger in which the names of all those who come to their final place of rest are entered and given a number，and he answered that on 22 February，at noon，a woman of that name had indeed been interred.
I asked if he could get someone to take me to the grave for，without a guide，there is no way of finding one's way around this city of the dead which has its streets like the cities of the living.The keeper called a gardener，to whom he gave the necessary details but who cut him short，saying：'I know，I know……Oh！that grave is easy enough to pick out，'he went on，turning to me.
'Why？'I said.
'Because it's got different flowers from all the others.'
'Are you the person who looks after it？'
'Yes，sir，and I could only wish all relatives took as good care of the departed as the young man who asked me to look after that one.'
Several turnings later，the gardener stopped and said：
'Here we are.'
And indeed，before my eyes，were flowers arranged in a square which no one would ever have taken for a grave if a white marble stone with a name on it had not proclaimed it to be so.