“Everybody knows. He is a revolutionary feminist, a great writer, if
you like, and--how shall I say it--the--the familiar guest of Madame de
S--‘s mystic revolutionary salon.”
Miss Haldin passed her hand over her forehead.
“You know, he was with me for more than an hour before you came in. I
was so glad mother was lying down. She has many nights without sleep,
and then sometimes in the middle of the day she gets a rest of several
hours. It is sheer exhaustion--but still, I am thankful.... If it
were not for these intervals....”
She looked at me and, with that extraordinary penetration which used to
disconcert me, shook her head.
“No. She would not go mad.”
“My dear young lady,” I cried, by way of protest, the more shocked
because in my heart I was far from thinking Mrs. Haldin quite sane.
“You don’t know what a fine, lucid intellect mother had,” continued
Nathalie Haldin, with her calm, clear-eyed simplicity, which seemed to
me always to have a quality of heroism.
“I am sure....” I murmured.
“I darkened mother’s room and came out here. I’ve wanted for so long to
think quietly.”
She paused, then, without giving any sign of distress, added, “It’s so
difficult,” and looked at me with a strange fixity, as if watching for a
sign of dissent or surprise.