"He is deaf," she said.
He was a fine old fellow of eighty, amazingly strong, upright, and handsome. They had for servants, a labourer and a farm-girl. My friend, a little surprised to meet these singular persons in the midst of a desert, enquired about them. They had been there for a long time; they were much respected, and passed for being comfortably off, that is, for peasants.
He came back several times to visit them, and little by little became the confidant of the wife. He brought her papers and books, being surprised to find that she had some ideas, or rather remains of ideas, which scarcely seemed those of her class. She was, however, neither well read, intelligent nor witty, but there seemed to be, in the depths of her memory, traces of forgotten thoughts, a slumbering recollection of a bye-gone education. One day, she asked him his name:
"I am the Count de X...," he said. Moved by the obscure vanity which is lodged deep in all souls, she replied:
"I too am noble."
Then she went on, speaking for certainly the first time in her life, of this piece of ancient history, unknown to anyone.
"I am the daughter of a colonel. My husband was a non-commissioned officer in my father's regiment. I fell in love with him, and we ran away together.
"And you came here?"
"Yes, we hid ourselves."
"And you have never seen your family since?"