With Mademoiselle Adélaïde pushing the chair, we set off to inspect the ground floor of the building, room after room, each one decorated in its own style, each as richly ornamented as its predecessor. As we proceeded, Mademoiselle Édmonde described what it was we were seeing, the rooms on the levels above us and what they contained, as well as the other properties she owned, and a brief description of them. By the time the tour was over we had made a full circle—the residence was built around a courtyard in its center—without having seen the same room twice. I had been given the description of a fortune that included several more buildings like this one, in Paris and in the provinces. Mademoiselle Édmonde’s mother had died in childbirth; her father had inherited a banking fortune and added to it railway interests. He had died only the previous year. There were no other heirs. The fortune was large enough that three men dedicated their lives to overseeing it, leaving Mademoiselle Édmonde free to live as she pleased.

“Madame Jeanne,” she said, “you are no doubt curious as to why we invited you to visit, and why I am telling you about my affairs in such detail. Mademoiselle Adélaïde and I were greatly touched by the story you told us last time we met. In fact, it is fair to say we have spoken of little else since. We would like to make a proposal to you, but in order to do so there is something you ought to see first.”

She put her hands to her veil and lifted it. When the countenance behind was at last revealed, I was frightened by what I saw. Her face was grotesquely disfigured. No sooner had I seen it than she once again lowered the veil. “You can see,” she continued, “why I keep it concealed. It is the result of an accident involving a candle in my bedroom when I was a child. There have been many times when I wish I had been altogether consumed by that fire, but had that happened I would never have had the joy of meeting Adélaïde.” The two women turned to each other and clasped hands. “This is not a decision that we have undertaken lightly. The past week has been spent, for the most part, in earnest discussion. But by now we are of a common mind, and both of us speak to you today as one. It has always been a dream, nay, an obsession of mine to imagine what it would be like to be in another body, above all in another face. This explains my devotion to painting and literature. Character is destiny, according to Shakespeare. And yet our bodies, above all our faces, are so bound up with how others perceive us, one might say that, especially for a woman, they are just as powerful an influence over our destinies. Our faces influence the perceptions others hold of us, and those perceptions influence, in turn, our character. Wealth shapes our lives too, as does social position. But while character is malleable, and one’s wealth and social position can change for good or ill, one’s body is a fait accompli. One must accept its limitations, one must age with it, one cannot exchange it for another. Not, at least, under normal circumstances.