“No more cellars for me,” Stuart said. “I didn’t think much of the Pêché Mignori or whatever Boldoni’s place is called, either. The port’s probably the place to stay.” He suspected Robbie’s lie but understood the embarrassment that had prompted it. The young were always anxious to shield their elders from the sordid facts of life.

  “I think all these places are stupid,” Robbie said loftily. He was shielding his parents, not from anything they might know already but from noticing that his curiosity had been aroused. They were so nice, so proper, so decent. At sixteen, Robbie was aware of an emptiness in the life at home. He supposed that his parents had never known this other thing, this excitement, this—whatever it was that was beginning to stir in him. He had been stimulated by all that he had seen this evening and he had thought how interesting it might be to come into town alone, but for his mother’s sake he resolved never to propose it.

  “I bet you won’t think that when you know some girls,” Stuart said. “You’ll be wanting to come every night to dance.”

  “Fat chance.” Robbie took Helene’s arm and in another moment they were back on the brightly lighted port.

  “Well, now what?” Stuart asked. There was a party in progress on one of the bigger yachts. It looked very gay with the lights strung out above the deck. “Just a few of the people who’ve bought our land,” Stuart said sardonically.

  They were soon ready to go home. The first evening in town had offered no great surprises and Stuart couldn’t imagine repeating it often. He hadn’t gone through these harassing years for the pleasure of having dinner with Mrs. Rawls.

  On the way home Robbie went out of his way to say again how pointless he found such diversions and Helene seconded him. After what she had seen, she was prepared to do anything in her power to keep him away from the place, but she knew she needn’t worry. His tastes were essentially artistic and intellectual.

  Robbie sat in the back of the big car with his hand in his pocket, his fingers straying along his cramped erection. He longed to get to bed and do something about it. He was tormented by all sorts of unfamiliar urges; he supposed it had something to do with the amount of wine he had drunk. Everything he had seen tonight had carried with it the implication of dizzying freedom. Freedom to do what? Sexually, his only points of reference remained Michel and the dirty little girl; he hadn’t learned as much at school as he had expected to learn. There was a lot of bawdy talk about girls but when the boys were allowed out on Saturday night, Robbie never accompanied the ones who pretended to be in pursuit of carnal adventure. His classmates were rather in awe of him; a rumor had somehow got about that he had an older woman as a mistress. He and Jean-Marie, his one close friend, sometimes exchanged a kiss, chaste and poetic meetings of lips that had nothing to do with the nastiness Robbie associated with making love. If a random hope strayed through his mind that something more might come of their kisses, he had always suppressed it. He withdrew his hand from his pocket as the delicious tingling threatened to get out of control.

  In the moonlight he and his parents picked their way down through the ravaged land. At the house, Robbie kissed his mother goodnight and shook hands with his father in the French way he had learned at school and continued on down to the cove where he was temporarily occupying the beach shelter. His renewed erection clamored for release. He dropped his clothes and it swung up and seemed to become the embodiment of his whole being. He pulled a deck chair out under the sky and lay with his legs spread and gave his body up to the caress of the moon and the night.

  He thought of Michel. He had seen him recently. He had turned into a tough-looking but handsome boy. Several times after the episode with the little girl, they had made each other hard and given each other pleasure. Robbie had started to have meager emissions. Michel had explained that that was what made babies but Robbie had pretended extensive knowledge of the subject so he hadn’t found out how at the time.

  Their play had ended with the move to the house but Robbie wished now that it hadn’t. There wouldn’t have been anything grotesque about it like the people tonight, only a simple manifestation of enduring comradeship. He wondered if Michel ever had similar thoughts about him. He wondered if Jean-Marie would like to lie in his arms and get hard with him. There were so many things he didn’t know how to find out about people.

  He tried not to let sex become a preoccupation—it was unworthy of his mother’s concept of him—but it would be much easier if he had a friend with whom he could relieve the uncontrollable urges. He had never had any desire to have anything to do with girls. He had easily adopted his mother’s attitude that it would be debasing. When he imposed a beautiful girl on his fantasies, for even his mother conceded that there would be one in his future, they were always static and uneventful. The girl was usually vaguely reminiscent of his mother and he couldn’t think of anything he wanted to do with her. She had a tendency to merge into a plump little girl with her legs pressed together, which made his erection wilt. To revive it he sometimes saw a handsome young man running up out of the sea, naked like his father, but with his sex standing up rigidly in front of him. His face was provided by young film actors Robbie kept on file in his memory, frequently Rudolph Valentino, whose old movies he had seen before sound came to St. Tropez. They ran to meet each other. They touched. This was usually enough to accomplish his purpose.

  Tonight, he had no need of fantasies. He lay back and caressed himself all over and writhed in his own embrace. He longed for somebody beside him to share his caresses. Nothing more. The evening had left him highly charged. The slightest move promised to bring relief. He sprang up and moved down toward the water, and stood with his hips thrust forward and his hands on his buttocks, offering himself to unknown desire. Would anybody ever worship him as he longed to wor—His thoughts were cut off abruptly as his body was shaken by spasms and his ejaculation leaped into the sea.

  The summer was devoted to building. None of them had time for the life of the port. Except for a visit from Mrs. Rawls, they were left undisturbed. From time to time, Stuart caught sight of Odette, smartly dressed, getting in or out of an expensive car. She could afford it. It was wonderful what fifty francs a week could be turned into. Stuart asked Robbie several times if he’d like another night on the town but Robbie dismissed the suggestion with one of his odd eccentric gestures. He was occasionally tempted to sneak off on his own but the thought of getting caught deterred him.

  He took an active part in the construction projects, supervising the workmen, deciding on details of design, spending hours sketching the men as they worked. Stuart occupied himself with the more practical problems of water, heating, and electricity. He often wandered off down the rocky path around the ridge in back of the old house to his abandoned vineyard. There, although they no longer belonged to him, he would spend an hour weeding and lovingly handling the maturing grapes. He toyed with the idea of arranging with the new owner to have one final vintage, until he arrived one day in August and found tractors running through the vines. He watched for a moment and then turned back toward his own property. In the distance, down on the long beach, he saw men working on the foundations of the new hotel. He stood for a moment with the sense of being witness to an outrage, and then continued on his way home.

  The sight of the tractors was a greater wrench than he realized and from that moment he began to think of getting away for a while. The arrivals and departures of the yachts in the port fixed them in his mind as the ideal means of transport. He began talking of a Mediterranean cruise. The rich went in for yachting. The Coslings should have a taste of it. The building would be finished by winter. Landscaping and planting would be done in February and March. They could leave it then. Helene was willing, as soon as she was sure Robbie liked the idea. Talk of Greece made his eyes light up with real excitement.

  When they drove him back to Cannes early in October, in a new Citroën, they chartered a sixty-foot yawl with a crew of three for two months beginning the first of May.

  By then, the house was well advanced. In the area around the site of the old house stood garages, servants’ quarters, guest rooms and baths, all planned to look like separate but connected buildings with irregular frontages and varied roof lines so that one arrived before what appeared to be two sides of a village square. In the middle of it was an arch giving into the glade of olive trees and the airy colonnaded pavilion of the new main house. It was set on the rocks that dropped down to the cove, where a substantial beach house had replaced the palm-frond shelter. The whole was a maze of unexpected passages and breathtaking vistas. It would be easy to get lost in it. The living rooms the dining room, the master bedroom, gave onto terraces and an expanse of sea. The enormous kitchen was equipped to entertain multitudes.

  Behind, dominating the whole, partway up the hillside, the house Stuart referred to as Robbie’s Folly was nearing completion, consisting of studio—living room, bedroom, bath-room, and tiny kitchen. Stuart hoped that Robbie would be encouraged to bring friends to his own house where he could be completely independent. The better part of the legacy that had made it possible for them to come here originally had been swallowed up by the vast spectacular playground. Money well spent, if they learned how to use the place.

  Stuart figured that a staff of four, plus a gardener, would be sufficient to run the place. He turned naturally to Boldoni to talk over the question of personnel and was delighted when Boldoni proposed himself as cook.

  “Yes, it would give me something to do,” he said. “My wife and I sit here all day long. She’s a good worker. If you plan to entertain a lot, it would be like the old days running the inn.” The proposal suited Stuart perfectly and in November the Boldonis took up residence in the servants’ wing. A friend of theirs, a bachelor waiter named Felix whose hobby was gardening, would join them in late winter. Madame Boldoni undertook to find two reliable women to help her in time for the following season.

  Time began to pass very quickly. Felix arrived and he and Stuart plunged into plans for extensive planting. He turned out to be a perfect prototype of a Parisian garçon but he talked knowledgeably about flowers and trees and vines.

  For a tense week or two, it looked as if their cruise was going to have to be canceled on account of war. Hitler decided he wanted Austria. Would nobody in Europe object? Even Stuart, who had never taken the prophets of doom very seriously, suspected that the German maniac had gone too far. He hadn’t. He was allowed to have Austria once he’d promised not to take anything else.

  The danger of cancellation having past, the first of May seemed to rush at them. Felix was after him to decide about the cypresses that were to flank the steps down to the sea; electricians, plumbers, and carpenters had to be dealt with; colors had to be agreed upon with the painters. Stuart and Helene scoured the countryside for old furniture. He loved every minute of it.

  Meanwhile, they had to purchase clothes and provisions for the trip and here they had no experience to guide them. They didn’t even have a very clear idea of where they were going. They spent the last day of April rushing hither and yon, trying to pack, giving last-minute instructions, quite unable to believe that their boat, Northern Star, would actually be in the port the next day to carry them away. They went to bed very late and awoke at dawn to a beautiful spring morning.

  When they reached the port, Northern Star was there, tied up beside the British admiral’s yacht. It was, in fact, the British admiral who greeted Stuart as he crossed the gang-plank to the stern of Northern Star, Felix at his heels with baggage.

  “I say, isn’t that Harry Middleton’s boat,” a deep rich baritone boomed at him from alongside. Stuart looked over and saw half of the British admiral emerging from the main hatch. He was a handsome man with a great mane of snowy hair, a jutting nose and a fine full mouth. He was wearing a pale-pink shirt of some soft stuff and a mauve scarf looped through a ring at his throat.

  “I think that’s the name,” Stuart said as the admiral came up out of the hatch. “I’ve just chartered her.”

  “Fine boat. Come aboard. Cumberleigh’s the name. Have a drink. You’re Cosling, aren’t you? Should’ve met before this. Used to know your uncle. Daresay I must’ve met your father, too, in the old days, though I can’t say I remember him.” They addressed each other from their respective decks.

  “I’ve heard of you, too,” Stuart said. “You’ve been here for some time, haven’t you?”

  “Three years, in and out. Suits us here. Come aboard.” The admiral held out his hand and Stuart threw a leg over the rail. Standing beside him, Stuart saw from the skin around his eyes and chin that the admiral must be very old but his erect bearing and the jauntiness of his movements belied his years.

  “What’ll it be?” the admiral asked, going to a rack of bottles in the wheelhouse. “A spot of brandy? A bit of brandy never did anybody any harm.” It was just past nine in the morning so Stuart found the suggestion a trifle alarming, but since this was a special day he accepted. The admiral asked after his wife and Stuart explained that Helene had stopped in the town to do some shopping but would be along shortly.

  “Grand,” the admiral exclaimed. “We’ll have a bit of a party, what? Beautiful woman, your wife. At least, at a distance. Never been close enough to make sure. Always wanted to meet her. There you are. Make yourself comfortable.” The admiral poured himself a drink and drank off most of it in one swallow.

  “You’re here with your family or friends?” Stuart asked conversationally.

  “Oh, family for the most part. Mrs. Cumberleigh’s aboard. The fourth Mrs. Cumberleigh, that is. Charming girl. You’ll like her.”

  “I’ve noticed a lot of young people on your boat.”

  “I like young people. My children, for the most part. I’ve had seventeen, all told. Not bad, eh? Don’t see much of them anymore. Like to keep the young ones around as long as they’ll stay.” He poured himself another drink. As he did so a dark plump woman with a large nose climbed through the hatch. He waved a hand vaguely in the air. “Oh, this is the Countess Danski or some such damn-fool name. Can’t speak a word of English. Says she’s in love with me. Silly woman. Won’t go away.” Stuart struggled to his feet and shook hands with the countess, who drifted on past him and down the gangplank. The brandy was taking effect, making everything seem improbable. He was suddenly seized with uncontrollable laughter.

  “Eh? That’s it. Enjoy yourself while you’re young,” the admiral roared heartily in approval. “Here. Let me tidy up your drink a bit.”

  “You know I shouldn’t really stay. I’m supposed to be going to Greece today. I should be getting things shipshape or something.”

  “Greece, eh? Charming little country. Know a lot of people in Greece. Must let me give you some names. Not much you can do till your men come back. I saw them go ashore about half an hour ago. I say, isn’t that your wife coming? And there’s my daughter Anne just behind her. Daughter by my third wife, I think. Married to Binkie Squires now. My third wife, I mean. Know him? Silly ass. Serves her right.” The admiral went back to the gangplank and made a theatrically welcoming gesture to Helene. “Come aboard, dear lady,” he boomed. “I have your husband here.”

  Helene was followed by the daughter Anne and the deck seemed suddenly crowded with people. A slender, sensible-looking young woman climbed out of the hatch and was introduced as Mrs. Cumberleigh. A tall young man appeared from somewhere up forward and was introduced simply as Edward and for a moment there was a good deal of milling about as the company seated itself.

  The admiral dominated the proceedings with jovial authority. He paid Helene extravagant compliments, greeted his wife as if her appearance were a delightful surprise, was gallantly ceremonious with Anne, a pale frail girl with lank pale hair. He managed at the same time to communicate to Stuart and Edward, who turned out to be his son, a feeling of hearty male camaraderie. It was, nevertheless, a curiously impersonal performance. He was like a great, aging actor, given to forgetfulness, whose supporting company is dependent on him for its livelihood and will, therefore, do anything in its power to cover up any slight lapses.

  This created an electric atmosphere. Its effect on Helene surprised her. For the first time in years she felt as if she might have been missing something; people still had the power to attract and stir her. She thought of Robbie and was sorry he was waiting for them in Cannes so that they couldn’t delay their departure. She found the old man fascinating, his wife charming, and the young people most sympathetic, and she wanted to make a good impression on them.

  When the crew of Northern Star was seen coming back on board, Helene remained behind while Stuart climbed over the rail to make whatever arrangements were necessary to leave. He introduced himself. The captain was a competent-looking Italian of about his own age called Angelino. The dark husky youngster at his side was called Rico. The third member of the crew was a crumpled little old man called Beppo, who was the cook and deckhand. They were dressed alike in dark-blue trousers and jersies with NORTHERN STAR in white lettering across their chests.

  Stuart tried to think of intelligent questions to ask the captain who, by addressing him as “patron,” placed him in a position of authority. Everything seemed to be in order. Angelino advised putting on supplies at Cannes, which made sense since Robbie was waiting for them there. He called across to Helene that it was time to leave. The admiral insisted that he come back for a final drink and when Stuart saw that Helene seemed happy to linger, he did so. Finally the admiral escorted Helene down one gangplank and up the other while the rest of the group lined up along the rail.

  “Sound craft,” the admiral asserted, gazing up into the rigging in a nautical fashion. There was much handshaking all around, the engine started, the admiral climbed back onto his own boat, the anchor chain rattled, and Rico leaped about taking in lines. The Coslings stood in the stern and waved as Northern Star slid gracefully out of the port. This was the clean break Stuart had been waiting for. When they returned, all ties with the land would have been severed and they would pick up a new life in a new environment.