Three Women in a Mirror Read Free Page A

was being watched; it rubbed its proboscis with its forelegs. Anne was dazzled; it seemed to her that the insect had caught all the light in the sky with its gilded scales, the light concentrating on him, imprisoning him. The butterfly was resplendent, and everything around it turned to gray.
    â€œHe’s lovely,” said Godeliève with a shiver.
    â€œIsn’t he?” murmured Anne, delighted to share her emotion with her aunt.
    â€œWonderful,” confirmed Godeliève.
    â€œYes, I could stay like this for hours, just watching him.”
    Godeliève shrugged.
    â€œAnne, that is what you shall do from now on. You will have the right to do so—the duty, even.”
    Anne swung round to face her aunt, surprised. Godeliève persisted: “You will belong to him, but he will also belong to you.”
    Anne smiled. What? She would belong to a butterfly . . . that would belong to her? What sort of extraordinary trick was her aunt suggesting? This was definitely the best news of the day. Her aunt was speaking like the good fairy from a children’s tale. Filled with anticipation, her whole being illuminated.
    Godeliève, in a flush of tenderness, placed her palms on her niece’s cheeks.
    â€œAh, you do love him!” she exclaimed.
    Turning back to the window, she pointed down into the distance.
    â€œYou must admit that hat suits him.”
    Confused, Anne turned to where Godeliève had pointed and realized she was staring at Philippe down in the street; he wore a felt cap with a feather. She shuddered.
    I’m not normal
, she thought. And she was getting worse! Through a window that made it possible to see two things, Philippe and a butterfly, the fiancée’s gaze lingered on the butterfly, and her aunt’s on the fiancé.
    A sudden scream rang out in the room. “What is that? What is that spot?”
    Sitting on the stool, Ida was pointing at the mirror, pale with anger.
    Afraid she might go into a fit of rage, grandmother Franciska withdrew the rear mirror.
    â€œIt’s nothing. You’re imagining things. There’s nothing there.”
    â€œThen do not remove the mirror.”
    Trembling, the old woman held up the mirror again.
    Ida stared at the violet splash on her neck, familiar to everyone except Ida herself.
    â€œOh! It’s repulsive! Horrible!”
    Ida leapt up from her seat, foaming and furious.
    Startled, Grandmother Franciska dropped what she was holding.
    It went crashing to the floor.
    Glass shattered.
    A concerned silence greeted the sound.
    The mirror was broken. While the silver frame remained intact, within it there were only jagged shards, reflecting scattered corners of the room willy-nilly, as if in fright.
    Franciska moaned.
    Godeliève hurried over.
    â€œDear Lord, what will the countess say?”
    The women gathered around the pieces of mirror as if watching over a corpse. Ida bit her lips, hesitant, uncertain which catastrophe she must bewail, the birthmark on her neck or the shattered mirror.
    In hushed tones they debated what to do, their voices hollow, their breathing labored, convinced the aristocrat could already hear them.
    â€œWe must find someone to repair it.”
    â€œBut where? Here in Saint-André no one—”
    â€œI have an idea. In Bruges, there is a painter—”
    â€œDon’t be stupid: first of all I must tell the truth.”
    â€œWhether you tell the truth or hide it, you must still buy a new mirror.”
    â€œMy God, how?”
    â€œI will pay,” asserted Franciska, “this is my home and I’m the one who dropped it.”
    â€œBecause Ida pushed you—”
    â€œI will pay,” repeated the old woman.
    â€œNo, I will,” said Ida.
    â€œAnd with what money?” grumbled Godeliève.
    When they had listed all the possible solutions, the stout village church bell began to toll, reminding them that Anne must soon be married.
    Godeliève