It couldn’t be. It mustn’t be. Not his mother. The plump little girl grew monstrous in his mind and he buried his head in his pillow to shut the image out. His heart pounded and his body was rigid with horror. He would kill his father. He would run away with his mother. She would protect him from everything nasty and hateful that threatened to overpower him. A great sob burst from his chest and his tears flowed with pity for himself in the face of the terrible unknown.

  The wind blew. On the second day a branch crashed into the roof and from then on there was the clatter of tiles being hurled to the ground. The wind dropped suddenly on the fourth night and by next morning rain was falling steadily. The Coslings watched with dismay as a stain spread across the fresh white ceiling. At least their fires were working again.

  They went to Boldoni’s for several meals while the wind was blowing and it surprised Stuart how much he begrudged even such a small expenditure. It took him several days to tidy up the place, including the installation of caps for the chimneys. They cost money, as did new tiles for the roof and materials for consolidating the outhouse. They were all a bit nervy and Stuart and Helene paid little attention to Robbie’s odd sullen hostility.

  Christmas was spartan. Wind followed rain in dreary succession. With the coming of the new year, the money situation looked increasingly alarming. After a hard day’s work, his will weakened by exhaustion, Stuart couldn’t help wondering if he’d be able to hold out against continued adversity.

  The news in the paper about the deepening depression was some consolation. These were tough times for everybody; Hoover’s attempts to create prosperity by proclamation had failed. When he steadfastly reminded himself of the value in the life he was making, his independence of others, the satisfaction of making things grow, of turning the land to productivity, the healthy contact with nature he was providing Robbie, the close intertwining of his and Helene’s lives away from city distractions and city nerves, he could almost convince himself that anything that made so much sense was bound to work out.

  A note arrived from Sir Bennett, who was in Monte Carlo, proposing a trip to see them. Helene refused to let him come and Stuart to his surprise found that he agreed with her. After his proud self-confidence of the late summer, he didn’t want Uncle Ben to see them now. The house looked battered and shabby, with its stained ceiling and smoke-streaked fireplace, and he knew that they did, too. He wrote saying that Helene and Robbie were both under the weather and suggested that they put it off till a little later.

  It was like inviting the judgment of God. The letter was barely dispatched before Robbie took sick. Within twenty-four hours they realized that it was a serious illness and they bundled him into the Rolls and rushed him to Cannes. It was scarlet fever.

  The hospital, which looked like a rather grand villa, the faint slap and swish of rubber-soled nurses moving through linoleum halls, the medicinal smells, the depressing paraphernalia, the whispered conferences with self-important doctors, the terrible words mastoiditis and meningitis and others Stuart didn’t know, above all Robbie, turning and twisting in his bed, crying out incoherently—it all became a dull repetitious nightmare.

  Through it all, Helene thought, when she could think at all: I’ve been selfish. I haven’t given him all my attention. I’ve thought too much of Stuart and myself. Oh, God, let him live. Let him live and I’ll never think of anybody else again. He’ll be all my life. I don’t ask for anything else. Let him live.

  And Stuart: It’s going to be all right. It’s got to be all right. He’s tough, he’ll be all right. We’ll be closer than ever. These things are hell while they’re going on but there’s good in it, there’s something to be learned. A deeper awareness of themselves as a family. Goddammit, Robbie, my boy, you’ve got to get well.

  When the crisis had passed, Stuart was faced with the ruin of all his plans. “I better go back tomorrow,” he told Helene as they were having lunch in a modest restaurant next to the hospital the day after they had been assured there was no further cause for alarm. “It’s just an extra expense my being here.”

  “I suppose so,” Helene said listlessly. For the first time in their life together, she believed that she didn’t care what he did. A mood of self-sacrifice was strong within her. If she allowed herself a second to think of Stuart, Robbie might still be snatched from her. Let him do what he pleased. She would be free to devote herself to Robbie during the long convalescence.

  “Don’t worry about anything. You have enough money for the moment. I’ll arrange to get more for the doctors and the hospital.” How? He hadn’t the slightest idea. Uncle Ben had come over from Monte Carlo and had given him a check “to help out.” It barely made a dent on the medical expenses. While he could accept a present from him, his relations with Uncle Ben had never been such that he could ask him for more help. The old man would definitely not consider it good form. Of course, he could draw on his capital but even considering it felt like failure. He had accepted a challenge. He had been able to afford the place only because it had been an incredible bargain. If he went on putting money into it, it would no longer be a bargain but a folly. As of now, he needed half its purchase price just to keep afloat, without anything left over for developing the land further. He appeared to be headed for the moment when his income would go below survival level and there would be no alternative but to go back to New York and get a job. While they still could, wouldn’t it be more sensible to revert to their original plan of renting or buying a small house and living reasonably comfortably without struggling with the elements? It was too soon to discuss it with Helene.

  Reluctantly he drove back to St. Tropez the next day. He would have preferred to stay. He would have liked to make sure that Helene had a good rest and he wanted, too, during the difficult period of convalescence, to counterbalance her growing tendency to pamper the boy. Money finally settles everything, he thought bitterly. The admission went against the grain but the fact remained that he was no longer his own master.

  There had been more wind while he was gone. He found several fallen branches around the house. His vegetable plot showed no signs of producing anything. Antonin had taken care of the animals but three pigeons had met mysterious deaths. Stuart made the rounds of the place in growing gloom and drove back into town to seek comfort with Odette. The thought of selling the place had moved into the front of his mind and he couldn’t face it alone.

  Odette received him, as always, as if she had been expecting him although he hadn’t seen her for several weeks. His response was reserved. His mind was full of Robbie and Helene, and Odette’s happy reception made him conscious by contrast of Helene’s willingness to have him go. Money settles everything, he repeated to himself gloomily. Money had determined Odette’s future, too. Irrationally he resented her for it. A fire burned brightly in her fireplace. She looked as if she had found a good life for herself.

  “So you’re in great difficulties?” she asked after he had told her of the events of the last weeks. The bare bulb hanging over the table highlighted the roguishness of her features so that for a moment he thought she was laughing at him. He took a long drink of the wine she had put before him.

  “I’m thinking of getting rid of the place,” he said, trying it out for sound. Get rid of a dream, get rid of all the hopes and ambitions that its purchase had brought with it.

  Odette lifted a hand and thoughtfully stroked her throat. It was a gesture full of poise and his resentment was superseded by astonished awareness of the change that had taken place in her since summer. She had become a woman. The breathless giggling girl had vanished. This discovery distracted his attention from his troubles.

  “That would be dreadful,” she said.

  “It’s something I’ve got to consider. If all this had happened a little later it would have been different. The place would be paying its way.”

  “How so?” she asked with a little frown. People who owned property managed to survive every crisis; when he was wearing his clothes, he possessed the godlike quality that placed him beyond the concerns of ordinary mortals.

  “It’s a matter of time. I was wrong to move when we did. I should have waited till spring. With a few months of good weather I could cut our living expenses to nothing.”

  “Then you must hold on,” she said.

  “It’s not so easy with a wife and child. I can’t subject them to real privation, especially now.”

  “Don’t say more. It’s bad to talk about serious matters on an empty stomach. Mme. Muguette has given me some soup. It’s good. I have bread and cheese. We’ll have our first meal together.” She left him with a full glass in front of him and moved deftly around the room, placing a pot that was on the hearth in among the embers, bringing out bowls and spoons and the bread and cheese from behind the curtain, making cheerful comments on her limited domestic facilities. “This isn’t much as a first meal. If you’re going to be alone for the next few weeks, I can do better. Let me think. I could do eggs on the fire. And roast potatoes. I could even grill a fish. I must get a few more things, and open a restaurant. The soup will be hot in a moment. I must get candles, if not champagne, so you can seduce me. Will you let me cook for you often even if it’s not very elegant?”

  “It sounds wonderful,” he said, trying to respond to her generous concern for him.

  She pulled the pot out of the fire and brought it to the table and filled the bowls. She was coming to a decision. She had gone over the possibilities and knew what she could do. It was something that her nature rebelled against but she could do it for him. It was why you did things that counted. He had taught her that. She sat with him and they took a few spoonfuls of the substantial soup.

  “Mmm. It is good,” he said.

  “Yes. Now we can talk seriously.” She looked at him, her mind made up. “I can get you money. I can start by paying back all you’ve given me.”

  He wasn’t surprised by the offer. It came naturally from this new assured Odette. “It’s very good of you, but there’s never been any question of paying back. Besides, it would only help out for a few weeks.”

  “I can get enough,” she repeated firmly. Having said it, she was triumphant at finding their roles so unexpectedly reversed. It filled her with hope that this was the opportunity she had dreamed of. Perhaps he would be all hers. Being able to help him made anything seem possible.

  “How?” he demanded.

  “That’s of no importance,” she said quickly. “In another month or so the weather will be good. If what you say is true, it’s only a matter of a few months. I can manage it.”

  “It’s good of you but there’s no point talking about it. I won’t consider it.” He couldn’t tell her how much he needed. Fifteen hundred dollars would seem a fortune to her. He hated to nip her generous impulse in the bud by mentioning the figure.

  She lifted a hand palm out, emphatically. “You can’t stop me,” she said. “It would be wicked for you to refuse to take the money if I go to the trouble to get it. You’ve said yourself that people aren’t realistic about money.”

  He hesitated a moment, looking into her eyes. He was not only touched by her but impressed. Looking back at the summer evening when he had first met her, remembering the hesitation with which he had proposed the weekly allowance, he realized that accepting money from her wouldn’t represent failure. This wasn’t the rich man’s standard expedient of falling back on capital but an opportunity to benefit gratefully from an evolution of circumstances that he had had a part in creating. “Before I tell you how much, how do you intend to get it?” he asked again.

  “I’ve never asked where you get your money.”

  Fair enough, he thought, suppressing a smile. She would never have thought of such a reply six months ago. He held out his hand and she looked at it for a moment before she very deliberately put hers on top of it. It was like sealing an agreement; they had become partners as she had always wanted them to be.

  “It’s really not the same. I’m talking about quite a lot of money,” he pointed out. False pride wasn’t involved but he had to be sure it would involve no sacrifice on her part. He named an approximate equivalent in francs. Her eyes widened, but only briefly. She seemed undaunted. “You see? There shouldn’t be any secrets about this,” he added.

  Her satisfaction at entrenching herself in his life enabled her to lie convincingly. “I’ve told you. I know people here now. Mme. Muguette has told me she’d lend me money if I need it. She’s rich.” He gripped her hand and looked into her eyes.

  “There’s no point my trying to tell you what I’m thinking,” he said. “You must know. You’re wonderful.”

  She pulled her hand away, forcing back sudden tears. “Don’t let the soup get cold,” she exclaimed, making an effort to keep her voice steady. A few spoonfuls restored her equilibrium. She improvised to divert any questions Stuart might have and almost began to believe herself. Mme. Muguette had come to regard her as a daughter. She wanted Odette to take care of her in her old age and would do anything to keep her here. As a final persuasive touch, she admitted that the old lady would have to be paid back but there would be no hurry about it.

  Could he repay the money within a reasonable length of time? It was the only question that made Stuart hesitate but, as Odette pointed out, he could always sell the place later if worse came to worst. He had no intention of selling now or ever. He would make it pay. This reprieve was all he needed.

  He was seized by a voracious appetite. He polished off the soup and the bread and the cheese, a robust Cantal, and drained the wine. They were soon in bed playing their favorite games. He slept more soundly than he had since Robbie had taken sick but was away at daybreak so as not to be observed by the neighborhood.

  He had been reprieved and he didn’t take it lightly; the crises of the past weeks added a down-to-earth note to his thoughts of the future. If he wasn’t going to be knocked off his feet every time life dealt him a blow he must learn in the next few months what the local farmers had absorbed in a lifetime, work methodically and without sparing himself until he was sure the land could support him. No more romantic notions of a carefree Robinson Crusoe existence.

  He was stimulated by the prospect. He felt as if he had already learned a lot. The struggle awaiting him was a clean one, between himself and the land and nature, not with people. That was what mattered. He had stumbled on one of the few corners left in the world where people could afford to be kind, where human warmth overbalanced human calculation, where competition was limited to a game or a girl, since there was nothing else to compete for.

  He was glad that Robbie’s convalescence would keep his family in Cannes for the next few weeks. By the time they came back the weather would have moderated and he would have things under control.

  He spent many evenings with Odette. She produced the money within four days so that as a topic of discussion it quickly faded into the background. She was impressed by the magnitude of the sum she briefly had in her possession and she was affronted when he seemed to take it so for granted. Of course, he couldn’t know what such an amount might mean in terms of humiliation.

  She was very happy practically living with him but she soon sensed that nothing had really changed. Though always playful and loving, he still eluded her in his dedication to his land and preoccupation with thoughts of his family. She couldn’t even count on his coming in the evening. Several times he didn’t, always with a reasonable excuse the next day.

  Her conviction that the money would guarantee a growth in their intimacy was so strong that she tried to ignore her disappointment. Still, in the back of her mind lingered a suspicion that she hadn’t taken full advantage of the opportunity chance had provided. Perhaps if he had signed something …

  As the almonds were bursting into bloom, casting a pale pink haze over the land, Helene brought Robbie home and Odette’s evenings with Stuart ended. When she found herself once more eating lonely suppers in her bare room, his failure to make the most of his brief freedom became intolerable in retrospect. Did he think she’d picked the money up in the streets? No matter how much she loved him, she wasn’t going to be made a fool of. There was always the chance that he might have trouble paying the money back when the time came …

  Changes in the Coslings’ life were imposed by Robbie’s convalescence. There was no question for the time being of his doing any of the chores he had done earlier. Since he couldn’t be left alone, it meant that Helene, too, ceased to help Stuart in important ways. They became the companions of his leisure. As the brief spring passed and summer moved in and Robbie was bronzed by the sun and regained his strength, this way of life somehow became firmly established.

  Robbie was aware that he was being treated as if he had been changed in some way by his illness. He didn’t think he had been particularly—in fact, he would have forgotten about it once he was up and about again except for his new status. He liked being pampered and petted by his mother. He liked having his whims indulged. He liked having his tenth birthday turned into a much greater occasion than his previous birthdays had ever been, like a delayed Christmas. Even his father took some time off to celebrate it; usually, he could think of nothing but the new vines he had planted or how well the tomatoes were doing. Robbie couldn’t see anything special about things growing; the countryside was full of vineyards and the market full of tomatoes. Looking back, he realized that he hadn’t really liked the things his father expected him to enjoy—fishing from the cold uncomfortable little boat, the long tiring tramps looking for a bird to shoot, struggling with the clumsy bucket in the well while his father tried to teach him the proper technique for bringing up water. He was acquiring skill with watercolors and loved to paint. His mother made schoolwork interesting, except for mathematics, which she had no more feel for than he did. They made a joke of it as they struggled dutifully through long division. They tended the animals who had finally settled down to do what they were supposed to do, multiply and provide eggs. They planted flowers around the house according to Robbie’s design and were soon enjoying their fragrant blossoms. They played together on the beach.