Three Women in a Mirror by Éric-Emmanuel Schmitt, Alison Anderson

reached my ears, my gaze had been lingering too insistently on a dagger hanging on the wall . . .
    And then fortunately I had an appointment at Müller & Son for the following day to look at a sulfide paperweight: this most definitely prevented any fatal gestures.
    My museum is my salvation. I travel in my carriage for miles, relentlessly, even on foot, from shop to shop, from stubborn dealer to wily crook. If people ask me about my paperweights, I’m unstoppable, no one can silence me; and it is difficult for me to go back to ordinary subjects. Often, on my pillow at night, my last thought is for a millefiori I saw that afternoon in a window display, and the next morning I wake up with its image still in my mind. Nothing else fills me with such impatience; I go numb in the legs, and my heart pounds as I enter the antique shop. While my passion is not a clandestine one, I do not let others see how carried away I can get, how strongly it affects me; and while I indulge it in broad daylight, my obsession is invested with all the delights of an adulterous affair.
    In fact, I prefer the millefiori to the sulfides. What is the difference, you may ask. Sulfides are made of cameos beneath glass, whereas the millefiori are brightly colored displays of flowers beneath crystal, solitary blooms or bouquets, or clusters in a vernal carpet.
    Rest assured, my Gretchen, I will spare you the details. To tell everything is merely boring. Therefore I will not inflict a lecture about the objects of my worship on you, as I know from experience how boring collectors can be.
    Oh, my Gretchen, you are indeed unfortunate to have such a pitiful cousin, a cousin who, moreover, has decided to burden you with her confessions.
    Â 
    Hanna
    Â 
    P.S. Gretchen! Forget what you just read!
    Because I delayed in sending this letter, it is no longer relevant.
    Today Dr. Teitelman has confirmed what the recently acquired roundness of my belly seemed to imply, along with the interruption of my period: I am pregnant!
    This wonderful news cancels out all my earlier jeremiads. Franz wept with joy when I informed him, a short while ago; he has just left my arms to go and inform his mother.
    As for me, I am now the happiest woman on earth.

9
    In the mirror ringed by white bulbs, where she was carefully watching the makeup artists at work, she was beginning at last to see a face. Now that a serum had tightened her pores, Anny no longer felt evanescent; now that a moisturizing cream was giving color to her skin, she felt protected; the slightest touch of blush had strengthened her; every line of pencil made her denser; every stroke of the brush made her more solid.
    Anny only recovered her serenity once she was painted; makeup brought her the ease and consistency she was missing. When she had sat down at the mirror with her naked face at the beginning of the session, she had felt as if she had no face, there was nothing there but a rough draft with no clear-cut features, a face devoid of emotion, like smooth sand on the beach after the wave has receded. Fortunately, the army of makeup artists had launched an assault on this void and fabricated a precise, expressive face for Anny, one that could tell a story or leave its mark on a roll of film.
    â€œWhat lovely flowers! I’ve never seen so many.”
    The head makeup artist was pointing admiringly at the bouquets that had piled up in the trailer.
    â€œIt certainly looks as if your friends adore you! They’re celebrating your recovery.”
    Anny smiled briefly. How could the woman be so naïve. For all these flowers, there was not a single one from a friend. They were all from professionals—producers, distributors, agents, directors. Besides, did she even have any friends?
    There was a knock at the door.
    The costume designer came in, escorted by three assistants.
    They could hear the sounds from the set outside: drivers playing cards, an assistant insulting his flunkey, the electrician