I wanted to use the last of my own money to stop her things being taken back，but the bailiff told me there was no point，for he had other orders to serve on her.Since she is going to die，it is better to let everything go than to try and save it for her family，given that she does not want to see any of them and，in any case，they never cared for her.You can have no idea of the gilded poverty in which the poor girl lies dying.Yesterday，we had no money at all.Plate，jewels，Indian shawls-everything has been pawned and the rest has been sold or seized.Marguerite is still aware of what is happening around her，and she suffers in body，mind and heart.Great tears run down her cheeks which are now so thin and pale that，if you saw her now，you would not recognize the face of the woman you once loved so much.She made me promise to write to you when she was no longer able to do so herself，and she is watching as I write this.She turns her eyes in my direction，but she cannot see me，for her sight is already dimmed by approaching death.And yet she smiles，and all her thoughts，all her soul，are for you，I am sure.
Each time the door opens，her eyes light up，for each time she believes that you will walk in.Then，when she sees that it is not you，her face reverts to its expression of suffering，breaks into a cold sweat and her cheeks turn crimson.
19 February，midnight
Oh，poor Monsieur Armand！What a sad day today has been！This morning，Marguerite could not get her breath.The doctor bled her，and her voice came back a little.The doctor advised her to see a priest.She said she would，and he himself went off to find one at the Church of Saint Roch.
Meanwhile，Marguerite called me close to her bedside，asked me to open her wardrobe，pointed out a lace cap and a long shift，also richly decked with lace，and then said in a weakened voice：
'I shall die after I have made my confession.When it's over，you are to dress me in these things.It is the whim of a dying woman.'
Then，weeping，she kissed me and added：
'I can speak，but I can't get my breath when I do.I can't breathe！Give me air！'
I burst into tears and opened the window.A few moments later，the priest walked in.
I went to greet him.
When he realized in whose apartment he was，he seemed afraid of the reception he might get.
'Come in，father，there's nothing to fear，'I said.
He stayed no time in the room where Marguerite lay so ill，and when he emerged，he said：
'She has lived a sinful life，but she will die a Christian death.'
A few moments later，he returned with an altar-boy carrying a crucifix，and a sacristan who walked before them ringing a bell to announce that the Lord was coming to the house of the dying woman.
All three entered the bedroom which，in times gone by，had echoed with so many extravagant voices，and was now nothing less than a holy tabernacle.
I fell to my knees.I cannot say how long the effect of these proceedings on me will last，but I do not believe that any human thing will ever produce such an effect on me again until I myself reach the same pass.
The priest took the holy oils，anointed the dying woman's feet，hands and brow，read a short prayer，and Marguerite was ready for heaven，where she is surely bound if God has looked down on the tribulations of her life and the saintly character of her death.
Since that moment，she has not spoken or stirred.There were a score of times when I would have thought she was dead，had I not heard her laboured breathing.
20 February，5 o'clock in the afternoon
It is all over.
Marguerite began her mortal agony last night，around two o'clock.No martyr ever suffered such torment，to judge by the screams she uttered.Two or three times，she sat bolt upright in her bed，as though she would snatch at the life which was winging its way back to God.
And two or three times she said your name.Then everything went quiet，and she slumped back on the bed exhausted.Silent tears welled up in her eyes，and she died.
I went close to her，called her name and，when she did not answer，I closed her eyes and kissed her on the forehead.
Poor，dear Marguerite！How I wished I had been a holy woman so that my kiss might commend your soul to God！
Then I dressed her as she had asked.I went to fetch a priest at Saint-Roch.I lit two candies for her，and stayed in the church for an hour to pray.
I gave money of hers to some poor people there.
I am not well versed in religion，but I believe that the good Lord will acknowledge that my tears were genuine，my prayers fervent and my charity sincere，and He will have pity on one who died young and beautiful，yet had only me to close her eyes and lay her in her grave.
22 February
The funeral was today.Many of Marguerite's women friends came to the church.A few wept honest tears.When the cortege set off for Montmartre，only two men followed the hearse：Count de G，who had returned specially from London，and the Duke，who walked with the aid of two of his footmen.
I am writing to tell you of these happenings from Marguerite's apartment，with tears in my eyes，by the light of the lamp which burns mournfully and with my dinner untouched，as you might imagine，though Nanine had it sent up for me，for I have not eaten in more than twenty-four hours.
Life moves on and will not allow me to keep these distressing pictures clear in my mind for long，for my life is no more mine than Marguerite's was hers.Which is why I am writing down all these things here in the place where they happened，for I fear that if any length of time were to elapse between what has occurred and your return，I should not be able to give you an account of it in all its sorry detail.'
