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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required (In Paris in 1904, Lily - deserted wife of composer Claude Debussy - recounts her suicide attempt among the statues.) What do you do? I couldn't bring myself to write a "you're untrue" type letter. It wouldn't do. They're coming back from Jersey now, he and his fat old woman. What did I do? How did I let him down? I would take him back in a heartbeat, despite this indiscreet and ugly business, the talk of the town. What did I lack? Next Wednesday marks five. If I'm still alive, I'll pass it alone. He's got his old crone. How did it come to this? How did I miss? He begged me to be his wife. If not, he'd take his life. What does anything mean? I didn't have a plan. Just insupportable pain. I wandered about in the rain, nursing the revolver in my purse. I passed the Madeleine and Strasbourg, in black, and knew I wasn't going back. Between the Obelisk and Brest I held the damn thing to my chest. The rest's a blur. I woke up here in the Hotel Dieu. They said it's lodged, the lump of lead, behind my heart. It has to stay there. Far too near a vertebra to operate. At any rate, I'll wear his souvenir until I'm dead.
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