Robbie sat doubled over with his head in his hands. “Why do you say it like that?” he asked in a tearful voice. “Why do you always—everything I’ve ever felt—you always want to destroy everything.”

  “I don’t understand you, Robbie. Maybe I never will.” He looked at the boy’s bowed head for a moment and then peered into the night. “I don’t know whether I can reach you. But think, youngster, think. How can I know what to expect of you? Is anything important to you? Do you have any standards?”

  “You’ve never made me feel that yours could apply to me.” His words were blurred as if his lips were sticking together. He had lost Maurice in the blasts of the gun. Secrecy was no longer possible. He was at his father’s mercy again. “You don’t approve of anything I think is good.”

  “I could try,” Stuart said. “Perhaps I was wrong from the start but you were very young. I thought I could save you from what still seems to me a terrible misfortune. Maybe it was too late. Instead of trying to get you over it, perhaps I should’ve tried to help you face it and make it part of a decent life. I don’t understand it. Maybe it’d help to talk about somebody who wasn’t unlike you in some ways, age and background and so forth. Do you know that Edward Cumberleigh is dead?”

  Robbie lifted his head. “I heard something. Is it true?”

  “Yes, he was killed while he was training for the RAF. I had a chance to talk with Anne about him not long ago. He was apparently very fond of you. In love with you, Anne said. The point is, he didn’t believe that his—whatever you want to call it—his special tastes should be made an excuse for shirking his responsibility. He was killed doing his part. I find you engaging in obscene acts with a man I despise, a man—I don’t think it’s too fanciful to put it like this—a man who killed Edward. Can’t you understand why your behavior shocks me?”

  He saw the focus of Robbie’s eyes shift so that he seemed to be looking through him and beyond him and then he dropped his head again into his hands. Stuart straightened and went on. “Talking to Anne about Edward helped me to understand that whatever you are, you can make something good of it. It will never be easy for you. You can do it only with self-discipline and dedication to principles, to decency, to love. You can’t do it by defiling yourself. You must accept the world’s standards in all the ways they can be of value to you. I think I would give my life to make you believe this.” He stopped, feeling a great ache in his soul. My son, he thought, and his heart seemed to stop beating as he saw the boy shake his head.

  “What can I do?” Robbie whispered. “What can I do?”

  Hope started up in Stuart. He leaned forward and put his arm around the boy’s bare shoulder. “I’ve presented you with a big decision. These are times for decisions. Something is being decided in the world. I don’t think it will be decided by war but we can all decide for ourselves and we can make our decisions count by everything we do and say. It’s not too late for you, Robbie. I’m sure of that. I want you to have a happy life, believe me. I don’t know whether you have had up till now.” He gave Robbie a little hug and stood up. “I have a few things to do. I haven’t much time. I’ll be right back.”

  Stuart walked slowly back to the big house. He went into the bedroom and brought his bag out to the terrace and closed the great sliding doors behind him. If Robbie wanted to stay here tonight, he could do so. Agnes would come out tomorrow and put things away and lock up for good.

  He paused on the terrace and surveyed once more the meaningless beauty he had made and went on to the car and left his bag in it. He collected some odd lengths of rope from the garage and started back up to Robbie’s house.

  Hearing his father coming, Robbie straightened and braced himself to face him. Shock had passed. He could think sanely now. He didn’t regret Carl’s death. It was a deliverance; he was free at last from his romantic and impressionable boyhood. He knew that he was better than his father thought and was embarrassed at showing it for fear that it would lead to more falsity. He wasn’t a hero any more than he was a giddy sex-mad faggot. He knew that his father must have felt his brief erection. In the frenzy of the moment he hadn’t cared. If understanding were possible between them, it would be easy to explain that feeling his father’s protective arms around him had given him for a moment the sense of being held once more by Maurice. He wished he knew how to give him a glimpse of who he really was.

  “Feeling better, fellow?” Stuart said quietly, coming close to him and putting his foot on the wall.

  Robbie nodded. “I want to warn you,” he said, scarcely daring to speak for fear of losing what this moment could mean to him. “The people we saw today, Carl and I, we’re supposed to see again tomorrow. If we don’t turn up they’ll know something’s wrong. They know where Carl has been. You haven’t much time.”

  Stuart took a deep breath and passed his hand over his eyes. So he had been granted at least this much; his son would not betray him. It was the beginning. It was perhaps everything. “Thank you,” he said. “Are you in any danger?”

  “About this? I don’t think so. I just came to be with Carl. I have no connection with anything else.”

  “I see. Do you have any idea what you’re going to do now?”

  “You know, about—” Robbie began hesitantly. His heart had started to pound. “Mother has never taken it like you. She knows but I don’t think she lets herself imagine exactly what it means, so for her it hasn’t been a problem.”

  “That’s what I’ve gathered,” Stuart said quietly.

  “You see, it’s not just something you decide not to do, like smoking or drinking.”

  “I understand,” Stuart said. He supposed he couldn’t expect him to take a vow of chastity, although others had, or buried it so deeply that it amounted to the same thing.

  “I think Maurice is in England. That’s where you’re going, isn’t it?”

  “I’m going to try.”

  “After tonight I’m not sure I have the right to go to him. I hoped he wouldn’t find out about my being here with Carl, but now it can’t be a secret. Maybe he’ll forgive me. Can you understand that I want to be with a man I love?”

  “I understand you very little, Robbie, but I’m deeply moved by the way you say it.”

  “Then—then even if I don’t find Maurice, I want to go with you.”

  The breath caught in Stuart’s chest and he almost cried out with it. The earth seemed to reel and he steadied himself against the wall. His throat was tight and he was grateful for the dark that hid his tears. “Good,” he said. “Do you want to see your mother?”

  For an instant Robbie was tempted to say no for fear of breaking the fragile bond that had been born between them, but he couldn’t lie about something so precious. “Yes, I may not see her again for a long time.”

  “Yes,” Stuart said, glad of his answer. “We’ll stop by on our way tomorrow. Now I wish you’d go to the house and wait for me. I have one more thing I have to do.”

  “Is there anything I can—?” Robbie faltered.

  “No, you’ve been through enough for tonight. Go to the house and see if there’s anything there you want. Some of your things may’ve been moved. I’m leaving almost all my clothes here.” He waited while Robbie started down toward the main house and then he hitched the rope up onto his shoulder and went on up to Robbie’s house.

  He went in, squinting slightly as if that would prevent him from seeing clearly. The formless shape under the blanket made his stomach turn over. His first glance told him that there was a great deal of blood. Agnes would have to make of it what she would. He brought a handful of dishtowels from the kitchenette and threw them down onto the worst of it and pulled the body out of the way. Then he stumbled to the door and leaned against it, waiting for his stomach to settle.

  When he had himself under control, he went back and gathered the dishtowels up into a ball and pushed them under a fold of the blanket. He knew the next step was going to be the most difficult thing he had ever had to do in his life but there was no avoiding it. Tugging at the blanket, trying not to see what it contained, he rolled the body and tied it into an untidy bundle.

  Heaving and sweating, he dragged it out of the house. Again he was forced to wait while his stomach turned over and finally was quiet.

  He stumbled with his load around the back of the house to the end of it. Even in the dark, he knew every inch of the way. He hadn’t much farther to go. At the edge of the property, the land fell away in a short steep drop to a sort of hollow that was almost a cave. He dragged the bundle to the edge of the small cliff and with what strength was left him gave it a push. He heard it land with a thud. It was the best he could do. The body would be discovered. Perhaps soon, perhaps not for some time. In any case, he would be gone.

  He mopped his face on the tail of his shirt as he made his way back to Robbie’s house. He felt suddenly numb with exhaustion. He stopped long enough to go through the rooms and gather up Carl’s papers and personal effects. He took Robbie’s suitcase and snapped off the light and left. Robbie was waiting for him on the terrace when he returned to the big house.

  “Come along,” he said, avoiding the boy’s eyes. Robbie started toward him and Stuart glanced over his shoulder for a final glimpse of the place where he had spent the most important years of his life. For an instant, as his eyes moved over the statue and the row of columns, ruin seemed to hang over it all. He gazed at a vision of the future—all of it gone, all swept away, nothing left standing but one pink column against the blue and eternally tranquil sea.

  He turned back to Robbie and put his hand on his shoulder and said, “Come on. We’re going to sleep at Boldoni’s. We want to get away first thing in the morning.”

  They drove, speaking little, along the sea toward Toulon in the bright early morning. Stuart concentrated on precautions to be taken for the immediate future. It was most important that they should be at the frontier by evening.

  “I hope we won’t be getting your mother out of bed,” he said, glancing at his watch as they drove through a still-shuttered seaside resort.

  “She’s usually up pretty early,” Robbie said. He sat stiffly, looking straight ahead of him, suffering from delayed shock. He had awakened in the middle of the night drenched with sweat, the ghastly moment fixed in clear detail in his mind. It had kept repeating itself all through the rest of his fitful sleep—the shot, blood spurting as Carl’s head seemed to explode, the crash of his body.

  He scarcely knew the man at his side but was awed by him. He hadn’t believed that there was steel and passion concealed in his father’s faltering body. He made even the best in himself—his work—seem trivial. Did he have the strength to follow where his father led him?

  Perhaps his mother wouldn’t let him go. Perhaps losing him would be more than she could bear. He would make a show of holding out against her and let his father give in to her pleading.

  “What are you going to say—I mean, are you going to tell her about Carl?” he ventured after they had driven another fifteen minutes in silence.

  “Good God,” Stuart exclaimed. He swerved the car over to the side of the road and stopped with a squeal of tires. “Wait here a minute. Something I forgot. I’ll be right back.” Robbie watched him with astonishment as he left the car and crossed the road.

  He had forgotten to destroy Carl’s papers. He had gone through them last night at Boldoni’s before going to bed and found nothing of interest but there was a risk of leaving telltale traces if he destroyed the things in Boldoni’s stove. He had kept them all together in his pocket, planning to get rid of them as soon as he was on the road.

  A grove of pines descended from the highway to rocks and the sea. Stuart hurried down through it until he was out of sight of the road and then squatted and began to empty his pockets, his hand trembling slightly at the sight of the incriminating documents. There were road controls all over the place. If he were stopped for any reason, what conclusions might be drawn if an extra set of identity papers were discovered on him?

  He set a match to the papers and crouched over them with a stick, prodding them as they caught fire one after the other, watching as the flame leaped up, flickered, and went out. He ground the ashes into the earth with his foot.

  “About Carl,” he said when they were once more on their way. “Will it be a blow for your mother? I mean, would it be kinder to tell her or should we let her find out later? Will she be worried if she doesn’t hear from him soon?”

  “I shouldn’t think so,” Robbie said, hesitating as he grasped the implications of his father’s words. Was this what death was like, this indifference, this nothingness? Yesterday he had seemed so irresistible. Being freed of him by death forced him to face the weakness that had made it impossible to escape him while he was alive. Maybe his father would give him strength. Maybe he would finally be worthy of Maurice. He went on, “I told you, there wasn’t much—well, you know, I don’t think it will be a great loss for her. She—well, she changed in prison. She rather expected to see him before we went back to Paris but if he doesn’t turn up I don’t think she’ll wonder about it. I can say his plans changed.”

  “I see. In that case, perhaps it’d be better not to go into it. You could write her later.” Silence fell between them again as Stuart went over Robbie’s words in his mind. “Letters of passion” a year ago and resignation now. Poor Helene. The lawyer had suggested that the prison regime had been hard on her. Now Robbie spoke of a “change.” That she should have aged was understandable but had she been completely broken? The thought of seeing her again began to grate on his nerves. He felt he ought to prepare himself for a shock but he couldn’t imagine her beauty being anything but dignified by age.

  They reached a crossroad and, following Robbie’s directions, turned off the Toulon highway onto a country lane. In a few minutes they were rolling through flat vineyards pierced by an occasional cypress. In the distance they caught glimpses of the sea.

  “Here we are,” Robbie said, and Stuart turned the car into a dirt drive that ran through vines. Ahead of them a clump of trees partially concealed a house. Stuart’s heart began to beat faster. He stopped the car under the trees and they got out and walked around the corner to the front of the house.

  They found themselves before a white façade bathed in morning light. The house had the severe lines of a Provençal farmhouse but there were touches that gave it a prosperous look, a carved-stone cornice above the central door, a balustrade running around a paved terrace, freshly painted blue-black shutters at the windows. A huge tree cast its shadow across part of the terrace where a table was set for one with a china bowl and a checked napkin.

  Stuart’s first thought was that it looked restful and sane; there was none of the stage-decor look about it that their place had always had, even at the beginning when its very primitiveness had been a bit too idyllic. The door opened as they approached and a small gray-haired woman emerged, carrying a tray with a silver pot that flashed in the sun. She glanced at them as she set the tray on the table.

  “Bonjour, monsieur,” she called. “Your mother will be down in a moment.”

  “It’s Angèle. She’s been with us for some time,” Robbie explained. And then, “Bonjour, Angèle. You better bring some more cups.” They had reached the two wide steps that led up to the terrace when Helene’s voice came to them from within.

  “Is that you, darling?” Her voice was warm and welcoming. “Heavens, you are an early bird.” Shutters were thrown open with a clatter and Helene appeared at a window in the upper floor. “I didn’t expect you so—” Her eyes met Stuart’s and his heart seemed to stop. “Why, Stuart, what a nice surprise. I’ll be right down.” She left the window and Stuart was able to breathe again.

  He had caught a glimpse of two wings of gray hair brushed back softly over her ears, of the great eyes in a face that had strangely altered. How? He hadn’t had time to take it in. He waited tensely on the edge of the terrace, his eyes on the door.

  He was vaguely conscious of Robbie stirring about beside the table. Then the door opened and Helene swept out, crossing the terrace first to Robbie, whom she gathered into her arms in a quick embrace with a murmured, “Darling,” and then advancing to Stuart with lifted hands which she placed on his shoulders as she kissed him lightly on both cheeks. Somehow she had managed it, somehow she had swept away the years of estrangement, somehow she had made it seem natural for him to be here.

  “How nice of you to come,” she said. “I was going to write you.”

  Stuart could see her now. She was thin. That was all. Why all the talk of “aging” and “change”? She was superb. Her ample body had been fined down, her face was pure beauty of line and coloring. Her gray hair was enormously becoming. And, oh, the unquestioning acceptance of her greeting, the blessed satisfaction of feeling no barrier between them. She turned back to Robbie, putting her hand on Stuart’s arm, and started toward the table. She faltered suddenly as if she had tripped and lifted her hand to her eyes, steadying herself against Stuart.

  “Oh, dear, here we are all together again.” She uttered a tight strangled laugh that threatened to break into tears. She raised her head and shook it and took a deep breath and moved with strong easy strides to the door. She was wearing a long dressing gown of dark red silk that clung to her startlingly spare frame.

  “Angèle,” she called from the door. “Bring lots of bread and butter and another pot of milk and—and preserves.” She turned back to them, looking from Robbie to Stuart, and lifted her arms as if to embrace them. “Come. We’ll have an enormous breakfast. I’m still not quite used to having all I want to eat.” They gathered around the table where Robbie had placed two more chairs. As they seated themselves, Helene made a quick, discreet appraisal of Stuart. He was looking much better than he had last winter. There was no longer the wounded look in his eyes. He moved as if he had a firm grip on himself. She could meet him now without resisting him, without fighting him. She remembered and understood her reaction to him when he had come to the prison offering help, without experiencing any of the same emotions now. She had met her supreme test with only her own resources. She had proved herself and was whole. There was nothing in him or in herself that she feared.