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!" "And the girl has not the least suspicion. She never guesses that they take advantage of her loss of sight to make her happy." "What do you mean?" "There isn't any doubt about it. All that her hand touches is of mahogany or velvet; only the velvet has grown shabby and the mahogany has lost its lustre. At table she enjoys the most delicious dishes without dreaming, in her innocence, that the domestic misery is kept concealed from her, and that alongside of that very table her father and mother seldom have anything except dry bread." Oh, Anaïs, you can understand my agony! They have practised on me for my happiness; they have made me live in luxury amidst my darkness--and me alone. Oh! marvellous devotion. All the wealth which a most grateful heart can offer cannot pay this everlasting debt. LETTER IV. I have not told anyone that I have guessed this sad yet charming secret. My mother would be overwhelmed to learn that all her trouble to conceal her poverty from me has been useless. I still affect a firm belief in the flourishing condition of our house. But I am determined to save it. M. de Sauves, as my lover is called, came to see me--and may Heaven forgive me!--I set myself to play the coquette with him. So I said: "Have you still the same esteem for me?" "Yes," said he. "I love you because you are beautiful with the noblest beauty, which is pure and modest." "And my figure?" "As exquisite and graceful as a vine." "Ah! and my forehead?" "Large, and smooth as the ivory which it outshines." "Really?" And I began to laugh. "What makes you so merry?" "An idea--that you are my mirror. I see myself reflected in your words." "Dearest, I would that it might be so always." "Would you agree, then----?" "To be your faithful mirror, to reflect your qualities, your virtues. Consent to be my wife. I have some fortune; you shall want for nothing, and I will 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.