“And good, too,” she continued, pretending not to hear my question. “Good, too. A big kind heart—and such a brain. Ah, she would be a great woman if she had her rights. She would make a noble wife, monsieur, a noble wife; but—she will never marry—that is until she has them.”
“You are very fond of her?”
“Everybody is. She is more than a daughter to me. Without her I should be—do you know the fate of destitute old women in Russia? God help them, for the Government don’t. Helga does God’s part for me.”
“And you think she will never marry, madame?”
She glanced up with another of her slow, shrewd smiles.
“Get her her rights, and then——” She paused. “She is affianced, but I know what I think.” She shook her head gravely. “But no one can do it. So they come and go—and always go at last, not to return.”
I could not encourage her to talk about Helga’s matters, and I smoked in silence, thinking over what had dropped from her; and when Helga returned, Madame Korvata went into the house.
“She has the sweetest nature,” said Helga; “but I suppose she has been warning you. She always does.”
“Warning me?”
“She has one regret—that I do not marry. She thinks that marriage is the only proper climax for a woman’s life, and that whenever any one comes here, they come with that idea; and she always warns them that I shall never marry.”