strive with all my power to make you happy."
At these words I thought of my poor parents, whom my marriage would relieve of an enormous burden.
"If I consent to marry you," I answered, "your self-love, as a man, would suffer. I could not see you."
"Alas!" he cried, "I owe you a confession."
"Go on," I said.
"I am a graceless child of nature. I have neither charm of countenance, nor dignity of carriage. To crown my misfortune, a scourge, nowadays made powerless by the art of vaccination, has mercilessly scarred my features. In marrying a blind girl, therefore, I show that I am selfish and without humility."
I held out my hand to him.
"I don't know whether you are too hard on yourself, but I believe you to be good and true. Take me, then, such as I am. Nothing, at any rate, will turn my thoughts from yours. Your love will be an oasis in the desert of my night."
Am I doing right, or wrong? I know not, dear Anaïs, but I am going to my parents' rescue. Perhaps, in my groping, I have found the right way.
LETTER V.
I thank you for your kind friendliness, for the compliments and congratulations with which your letter is filled.
Yes, I have been married for two months, and I am the happiest of women. I have nothing to desire; idolised by my husband, and adored by my parents, who have not left me, I do not regret my infirmity, since Edmond sees for both of us.
The day I was married, my mirror—as I call him—reflected complacently my bridal pomp. Thanks to it, I knew that my veil was nicely made, and that my wreath of orange-blossoms was not all on one side. What could a Venetian mirror have done more?"
In the evening we walk out together in the gardens, and he makes me admire the flowers by their perfume, the birds by their song, the fruit by its taste and its soft touch. Sometimes we go to the theatre, and there, too, he reproduces, by his wit, all that my closed eyes cannot see. Oh! what does his ugliness matter to me? I no longer know what is beautiful, or what is ugly, but I do know what is kind and loving.
Farewell, then, dear Anais, rejoice in my happiness.
LETTER VI.
I am a mother, Anaïs, the mother of a little girl, and I can't see her! They say she looks sweet enough to eat. They make out that she is a living miniature of me, and I can't admire her! Oh, how mighty is a mother's love! I have borne without a murmur not to look upon the blue of heaven, the glamour of the flowers, the features of my husband, of my parents, of those who love me; but it seems that I cannot bear with resignation not to see my child! Oh, if the black band which covers my sight would fall for a minute, a second only; if I could look at her as one looks at the vanishing lightning, I should be happy—I should be proud for the remainder of my life!
Edmond this time cannot be my mirror. It is in vain that he tells me that my cherub has fair curly hair, great wayward eyes, and a vermilion smile. What good is that to me? I cannot see my little darling when she stretches out her arms to me!
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
