Naturally, she kept her room. That day the
sculptor, a young American, who said that a thing was 'bully' when he
meant it was good, arrived, and took a mask of Camilla's head. By the
way, this was a most tedious and annoying process. The two straws
through which the poor girl had to breathe while her face was covered
with that white stuff--! Oh, well, I needn't go into that.
The next day typhoid fever was definitely announced. Hotels generally
prefer these things to be kept secret, but we published it
everywhere--it was part of our plan. In a few hours the entire Rue St.
Augustin was aware that the English bride recently arrived from London
was down with typhoid fever.
The disease ran its course. Sometimes Camilla was better, sometimes
worse. Then all of a sudden a haemorrhage supervened, and the young wife
died, and the young husband was stricken with trouble and grief. The
whole street mourned. The death even got into the Paris dailies, and the
correspondence column of the Paris edition of the _New York Herald_ was
filled with outcries against the impurities of Parisian water.
It was colossal. I laughed, Polycarp.
My mind unhinged by sorrow, I insisted on taking the corpse to London
for burial. I had a peculiar affection for the Brompton Cemetery, though
neither her ancestors nor mine had been buried there.
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