Rosine was always loving, but she had ceased to understand him. A
woman's mind makes but few demands, if her heart is satisfied; so it
was enough for her that her father was no longer one of the haters,
that he remained compassionate and kind. She did not want him to
translate his sentiments into theories, nor above all, to proclaim
them. She had much affectionate common-sense, and as long as matters
of feeling were safe, she did not care for the rest, not understanding
the inflexible exigence of logic which pushes a man to the utmost
consequences of his faith.
She had ceased to understand, and her hour had passed--the time when,
without knowing it, she had accepted and fulfilled a maternal mission
towards her father. When he was weak, broken, and uncertain, she had
sheltered him under her wing, rescued his conscience, and given back
to him the torch which he had let fall from his hand. Now her part was
accomplished, she was once more the loving "little daughter" somewhat
in the shade, who looks on at the great events of life with eyes
that are almost indifferent, and in the depths of her soul treasured
devoutly the afterglow of the wonderful hour through which she had
lived--all uncomprehending.
It was about this time that a young man home on leave came to see
Clerambault.
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