But the limit was reached when a student from the Beaux Arts asked me if I could not return him sixty-six francs which he had lent me two years before through the medium of my pretty secretary. Next there came a gentleman from London, one whom I held in too great esteem to go into details, who asked me for ten pounds sterling which he had loaned me, again through the medium of my clever and well-dressed secretary. But in speaking of my troubles I am liable to forget my lunch with the Clareties. As we were about to sit down Mme. Claretie brought in an elderly woman of very pleasant appearance. I have rarely seen motions easier, more simple or more harmonious. Leaning against each other they made a delightful picture. Mme. Claretie presented me to her mother. I asked how she was. “Oh, I am very well,” she replied, “my eyes are my only trouble. I cannot read without glasses, and the glasses annoy me a great deal.” She had always been very fond of reading, and could not bring herself to the idea of reading no more. I sympathised with her and told her so. Then suddenly it occurred to me to ask her how old she was. “Ninety-five years,” she replied. And she was complaining of not being able to read any longer without glasses! We spoke of her grandchildren and her great grandchildren. I asked her if the happiness of being surrounded by so many affectionate people did not bring large compensation for the infirmities of age. She replied: “I love my children and my grandchildren, and I live in them. But that does not restore to me my eyesight. It is terrible not to be able to see.” And she was right. Love gave her strength to bear her misfortune, but she feared that the prison of darkness would claim her as its prey. Before going to the dining-room she had taken her daughter’s arm. She had no assistance on the other hand in eating. Her good humour was unvarying. She took some knitting from a work-basket, and said in a firm voice: “I must work. I can no longer see well enough to be sure that my knitting is well done, but I have to keep busy, nevertheless.” Mme. Claretie asked me if I was acquainted with Alexandre Dumas. I told her how I had chanced to meet him. Then M. Claretie asked me numerous questions, which I tried to evade in order not to seem to talk about myself all the time. Imagine my astonishment when next morning I read in the _Temps_ an article, a column and a half long, devoted entirely to our visit at M. Claretie’s and signed by the gentleman himself.