Nothing about his future is persuasive, least of all his own place in it.

Once more the question comes rising up:

Is this man ready to be king of France?

And not for the last time do I answer:

No.

"Hector?"

"Yes."

"I was just wondering-when all this is over-do you think I could

stay with you?"

"You can stay as long as you like. And even if you have to go away,

we can still be friends."

He gives this some thought.

"I'll need a physician, won't I?"

"Why, yes."

"Well, that's splendid. You can be my doctor, and that way, you can

still put me to bed every night. Unless I get married, of course. D'you

think anyone would care to marry me, Hector?"

"Oh, yes."

A few more seconds of thought.

"Then you can put us both to bed," he says. "Won't that be a lark? I

hope she doesn't snore. . . ."

I t's a nothe r twen ty minutes before he's asleep, and by that time, I'm so completely awake that my own bed holds no charm for me. I wander downstairs with an idea of dipping into the cognac-only to be stopped by the sight of Mother, hunched over the dining room table.

Here is one function of my wanderings with Charles: They've broken down my sense of time. At any given moment, I have no idea what day it is. It takes the image of Mother in her muslin-sheathed sleeves, polishing the life out of her silver, to remind me. . . .

It's Friday.

Except that this has never happened on any previous Friday. My mother has never before called after me.

"Hector! "

"Yes, Mother?"

"Is everything all right?" she asks.

Is everything . . . is everything . . .

I take two long steps back until I'm standing in the doorway.

"Everything's fine," I say.

She nods. Picks up a dessertspoon and bears down on it.

"Would you-perhaps you'd care to sit down?"

I draw out a chair. A good minute passes before she speaks again.

"Hector . . ." She addresses herself directly to the spoon. "I hope you don't mind my asking you something. If you'd rather not answer, I'll understand."