LETTER VII.
My husband is an angel. Do you know what he is doing? He has had me cared for during the past year without my knowing it. He wishes to restore the light to me, and the doctor is—himself!—he who for my sake has adopted a profession from which his sensibility recoils.
"Angel of my life," he said to me yesterday, "do you know what I hope?"
"Is it possible?"
"Yes; those lotions which I made you use under the pretext that they would beautify the skin, were really preparations for an operation of a very different importance."
"What operation?"
"For the cure of cataract."
"Will not your hand tremble?"
"No; my hand will be sure, for my heart will be devoted."
"Oh!" said I, embracing him, "you are not a man, you are a ministering angel."
"Ah!" he said, "kiss me once more, dearest. Let me enjoy these last few moments of illusion."
"What do you mean, dear?"
"That soon, with the help of God, you will regain your sight."
"And then——?"
"Then you will see me as I am—small, insignificant, and ugly."
At these words it seemed to me as if a flash shot through my darkness: it was my imagination which was kindling like a torch.
"Edmond, dearest," I said rising, "if you do not trust my love, if you think that, whatever your face may be, I am not your willing slave, leave me in my nothingness, in my eternal night."
He answered nothing, but pressed my hand.
The operation, my mother told me, might be attempted in a month.
I called to mind the details which I had asked about my husband. Mamma had told me that he was marked by small-pox; papa maintains that his hair is very thin: Nicette, our servant, will have it that he is old.
To be marked by the small-pox is to be the victim of an accident. To be bald is a sign of intellectual power: so said Lavater. But to be old—that is a pity. And then, if, unfortunately, in the course of nature, he were to die before me, I should have less time to love him.
In fact, Anaïs, if you remember the stories in the fairy book which we read together, you with eyes and voice, I in heart and spirit, you will admit that I am rather in the interesting situation of "The Beauty and the Beast," without having the resource of the transformation miracle. Meanwhile, pray for me; for, with God's help, who knows whether I shall not soon be able to read your precious letters!