The mother cannot sleep and she thinks of Laure Le Poittevin, Guy’s mother. How terrible for her to outlive her two sons, both of whom died very young of secretive sex leading to syphilis, which spread through their bodies and cracked into insanity. How lonely it would be, the mother thinks, looking at her children, to live in this dark world without them.
She watches as the new light in the morning wakes them up. She is so weary. Her sons belong in their own beds. She doesn’t belong in France, perhaps she never did; she was always simply her flawed and neurotic self, even in French. Of all the places in the world, she belongs in Florida. How dispiriting, to learn this of herself.
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