And her grandmother said, "I put one or two things aside but most of
them I gave away. Come on, lamb, get on your things and we'll go for a
little walk in the park."
Paul reached out his hand and touched Flip's foot through the covers.
"Don't you want to talk about her? I think I'd like to talk about my
mother if I remembered her."
"Yes. I want to talk about her," Flip said. "I was just trying to think
what to tell you about her."
"What did she look like?"
"She was very beautiful. I don't mean beautiful like Eunice but really
beautiful. You know. From the inside as well as the outside. And she
was--well, I knew nothing could go wrong as long as she was there.
I mean no matter what happened as long as she was there it would
be all right. Once when we were spending the summer in Goshen the
nearest house to us burned down in the middle of the night and it was
terrible. But before any of the children had time to be frightened or
anything mother had them in our kitchen all in their nightclothes and
was feeding them cocoa and sandwiches and making them all laugh and
they stayed with us the rest of the summer while the house was being
rebuilt. I was only five then but I remember the way they all stopped
being frightened the night of the fire just because mother was there
and they knew she'd make everything all right. And always every night
she told me a story before I went to sleep. And in the morning she'd
come in to wake me and her hair would be all around her like a cape.
Father painted her and painted her. She was about the only grown person
he ever painted. He's never painted Eunice. Only sketches. I'll show
you a picture of her tomorrow. Mother, I mean. And she used to laugh
all the time and everything was fun. Even the times I was sick and had
to be in bed. She made that fun, too. And I had a governess but when I
remember it seems to me mother was with me most of the time and we used
to go to plays together and to La Bohéme and Traviata at the opera."
Paul didn't say anything and Flip looked over in the moonlight and
there he was, sound asleep, his mouth a tiny bit open. She crawled out
from under the covers and shook him gently. "Paul. Paul. You'd better
wake up and go to bed."
He rolled over sleepily and slid off the bed and stood there swaying
for a moment as though he were still asleep. "Good night Flip. Thank
you," he said softly, and crossed the hall to his room.
Flip clambered back under the covers and put her head down and hardly
had time to draw the covers about her and rub her feet against the
slippery warmth of the hot water bottle before she, too, was asleep.
6
A few days after the holidays began Flip and Paul were skiing alone.
Madame Perceval had gone to spend the day with some friends in Ouchy,
and Monsieur Laurens was deep in his book. Flip and Paul, their skis
over their shoulders, had climbed a good distance up the mountain and
were preparing to ski down when a voice behind them called, "Paul."
They turned around and Flip saw the dark man with the too-brilliant
black eyes.
"Paul," he said again.
Paul stared at him blankly.
"Don't you know me?" he asked.
"No," Paul said.
"Alain, are you sure you don't know me?"
"What do you mean?" Paul said. "My name is Paul Laurens. What do you
mean?"
"Your name is Alain." The man took a step towards them and Paul pushed
Flip back a little. "Your name is Alain Berda. Are you sure you don't
know me?"
"Why should I know you?" Paul demanded.
"Because I am your father, Alain," the man said.
For a minute Flip thought Paul was going to fall. All the color drained
from his face and if he had not been holding on to Flip's arm he could
not have remained standing.
"No," he said. "No. You are not my father." And his voice came out
as hoarse and strange as Flip's had on the morning she woke up with
laryngitis.
"I know it's a surprise to you," the man said. "You are happy where
you are and you don't want to remember the past. But surely you must
remember your own father, Alain."
"You are not my father," Paul repeated firmly.
Now the man came a step closer and Flip felt as though she were going
to be sick from distaste and loathing of him. She put her arm firmly
about Paul. "If Paul says you aren't his father that's that. Good-bye."
The man smiled, and when he smiled his face seemed even more
frightening than when he was serious. "Perhaps you're thinking that I'm
a shabby sort of person to be your father, Alain; but if I'm shabby
it's because of the months and years I've spent searching for you."
"How did you find me?" Paul asked, and his voice was faint.
"I heard that a child answering to my lost son's description might be
in a boarding school in Switzerland. You can imagine the months I've
spent searching all the Swiss schools. I have spent hours watching the
boys in the school up the mountain. I even looked at the girls' school
down the mountain, hoping perhaps to come across someone who might have
known you. That is when I first saw this young lady here." He nodded at
Flip.
"Why did you tell me you were going to tend the furnace?" Flip asked.
"I couldn't very well tell you I was looking for a lost boy, could I?
Then I saw Paul, as he is now called, and I knew that my search had
come to an end. I've been watching you from a distance to make sure,
but now there's no doubt in my mind that you're my son Alain." He
opened his arms as though he expected Paul to run into them, but Paul
clutched Flip even tighter.
"You are not my father," he said again, and Flip could feel him
trembling all over. She herself was shaking and she felt very cold as
she stood there in the snow with her arms about Paul.
"Go away!" Paul cried. "You're playing a horrible trick on me."
"I don't want to hurry you, Alain," the man said. "I know this must be
a great shock to you. But remember that you have found not a stranger
but a father who will love and protect you. Why don't you take me home
to Monsieur Laurens and we'll talk it over with him?"
"No," Paul said. "You mustn't see my father."
"But why not, Alain?"
"My father is working. You mustn't disturb him."
"But about something so important, Alain?"
"No," Paul reiterated. "You mustn't see my father."
"Alain," the man said. "Suppose I could prove to you that I was your
father?"
"How could you prove it? You're not my father. Stop calling me Alain."
"Alain," the man's voice was pleading. "Suppose I showed you a picture
I have of you and me when you were little?"