Oh, dear Anaïs, what news I have to tell you! What sad and unexpected things befall us in this life! As I tell you what has happened to me, the tears are falling from my darkened eyes.
Several days after my conversation with the stranger whom I call my mirror, I was walking in the garden, leaning on my mother's arm, when she was suddenly and loudly called for. It seemed to me that the maid, in haste to find my mother, betrayed some agitation in her voice.
"What is the matter, mother?" I asked her, troubled without knowing why.
"Nothing, love; some visitor, no doubt. In our position we owe something to society."
"In that case," I said, embracing her, "I will not keep you any longer. Go and do the honours of the drawing-room."
She pressed two icy lips upon my forehead. Then I heard her footsteps on the gravel path receding in the distance.
She had hardly left me when I thought I heard the voices of two neighbours—two workmen—who were chatting together, thinking they were alone. You know, Anaïs, when God deprives us of one of our faculties, he seems, in order to console us, to make the others keener: the blind man has his hearing sharper than his whose gaze can traverse space. I did not lose a word of their remarks, although they spoke in a low tone. And this is what they said:
"Poor things! how sad! The brokers in again!"