"What are we to do?" repeated Barth, slowly, as after an embarrassing silence, the three had walked some distance together down the street. "I will tell you what we must do. Treat the whole thing as a farce, and maintain, in the face of all opposition, that Therese von Paradies is still blind."
"But, my honored friend, unhappily for us all, you have made this impracticable by your awkward enthusiasm."
"I spoke ironically, and the ass mistook sarcasm for conviction."
"Yes, and so did everybody else." sighed Hell. "You will find it difficult to convince the world that you were not in earnest."
"Perhaps today and tomorrow I may fail to convince the world, but the day after it will begin to reason and to doubt. If we do not oppose this quack with a strong phalanx of learned men, we shall be sneered at for our previous incredulity. Now I adhere to my text. Therese von Paradies is blind, and no one shall prove to me that she can see. Come to my study, and let us talk this provoking matter over."
Meanwhile, Therese was receiving the congratulations of her friends. She gazed at their unknown faces with a melancholy smile, and frowned when it was said to her, "This is the friend whom you love so much"—"This is the relative whose society has always been so agreeable to you."
Then she closed her eyes, and said they were weary. "Let me hear your voices, and so accustom myself to your strange countenances," said she. "Speak, dear friends; I would rather know you with the heart than with these deceiving eyes."
Suddenly, as one of her female companions came up to greet her, Therese burst into a merry laugh. "What absurd thing is that growing out of your head?" asked she.
"Why, that is the coiffure, which you like the best," replied her mother. "It is a coiffure a la Matignon."
Therese raised her hands to her own head. "True, the very same towering absurdity. I never will wear it again, mother."