"I am not yet in the mood," Antoine said. He was not enjoying the evening and made a face when he sipped at his whiskey.

A waitress came over to the table and Rita ordered a Coke and her brother ordered a beer. Eliot was a husky boy and his face bore an unmistakable resemblance to that of his sister, with large, clear eyes and a straight nose with flaring nostrils and a wide, determined mouth. His hair, like hers, was close cropped, and he looked, Michael thought, like the youthful pictures of Muhammad Ali, when Muhammad Ali was known as Cassius Clay. He was wearing a leather jacket and it bulged with muscle at his shoulders. Under it he was wearing a sweater with a varsity letter from the town high school on it. Michael guessed that he had won it in football.

"Have you talked to Swanson yet about coaching you?" Michael asked Rita.

"We have a date for tomorrow morning," Rita said.

Michael turned to Eliot. "Your sister's quite a skier," he said. "But she says you're better than she is."

"I'm older, that's all," Eliot said.

"Why don't you sign up for the races, too?"

Eliot shook his head. "My legs're too precious," he said. "I've got a track scholarship to Dartmouth starting in September. You race, you're bound to get hurt. Anyway, like my father says, the hills won't be ready for black racers for fifty years and I like to stick to things where the brothers are welcome." He spoke directly, without embarrassment. "If you want to know the truth, Mr. Storrs, I advised Rita against going in for it."

"Oh, Eliot. . ." Rita said, "I thought we had it all out."

"I've seen too many old racers around this town," Eliot went on, ignoring his sister, "men and women, still looking for ways to show that they still have it, still looking for the old speed kick. Like that fella over there." He pointed to the bar, where Williams, the sole proprietor of the Green Hollow Hang-Gliding School, was drinking a beer. "He had half a good season on the junior circuit in the downhill and he cracked up his back, he was damn near paralyzed, so now he preaches hang-gliding. I heard you've done some of that yourself, Mr. Storrs, and I can see there must be some real kicks in floating down over a town, and Williams asked me if I wanted to give it a try, but I told him it's not for me. Being a black in America is enough of a kick for me, thank you."

"Eliot," Rita said, "I thought we were coming here to have a good time."

"I'm having a fine time," Eliot said, calmly, finishing his beer and waving to the waitress for another.

"If I drink any more of this stuff, I'll be sick as a dog," Antoine said, pushing his glass away. He stood up and went over to the piano and played a few chords. "What do you know," he said, "it's actually in tune." Then he began to play, softly at first, then more loudly as the hubbub in the room began to dwindle and people stopped talking to listen to him.

He played "Stormy Weather" because he knew that Michael liked the song and Michael called the waitress and said, "Give the pianist a lemonade," to show his appreciation.

Rita began to rock slowly in her chair in rhythm with the music and picked up the song, crooning softly. She had a clear, true voice and Michael and Susan listened with pleasure. "Rita," Michael said, "get up and sing along with him."

"Do you think I really . . . ?" Rita said doubtfully. "Won't your friend object?"

"He'll love it. Go ahead, go ahead."

"Well, if you think it's all right . . M She stood up and went over to the piano and began to sing. Antoine looked up at her dubiously for a moment, then nodded affirmatively and shifted the key to accommodate her contralto. After a few slightly hesitant bars, Rita gained confidence and sang out boldly, with Antoine, in a kind of French Virginian accent, joining her in the last chorus. When they finished, there was loud applause all over the room and Antoine rose from the piano and gravely shook Rita's hand. She came back to the table with him, her hands shaking, but a big schoolgirlish smile lighting up her face.

"My dear young lady," Antoine said, "you're a real singer, do you know that? We'll have to work together. We'll astonish the natives with our combined brilliance."

"Don't make fun of me, please."

"I'm dead serious," Antoine said. "You've got a delicious voice. Should we try another one? What would you like to sing?"

Rita looked questioningly over at Eliot. He had not applauded and he was frowning. It was plain that he didn't approve of his little sister making a show of herself in bars. "Maybe some other night, Antoine," Rita said. "When we'd have time to practice a little."

Jimmy Davis came over, beaming. "Say," he said, "that was something. You do that a couple of more nights and I'm going to have a big poster printed up to put outside saying, Live Entertainment, the Best in Town. The Chimney Corner, The Hot Piano Bar."

"Ella Fitzgerald isn't having any sleepless nights yet, worrying about me," Rita said, giggling. She ducked her head, sipping at her Coke.

Michael nudged Antoine with his knee under the table. "Now," he whispered.

"Maybe I'll just play one more . . ." Antoine said uncomfortably.

"Now," Michael whispered.

"Excuse me for a minute, folks," Antoine said. He walked toward the staircase, slowly, then climbed up, stopping at every other step.

Michael watched as Antoine disappeared into the men's room. It was almost five minutes before Antoine reappeared at the top of the stairs and Michael was almost ready to go up and rout him out. He saw Antoine take a long, deep breath, then start down. Antoine gripped the banister, then twisted and let himself go. He made a surprising amount of noise as he tumbled all the way down and a sudden hush came over the room.

Antoine came to a halt on the last step, crumpled and screaming, with what Michael thought was admirable artistry. "My leg," Antoine screamed. "I've broken my leg."

Michael jumped up, along with Susan, and knelt beside the writhing Antoine. "Great," he whispered, as he put his hand on Antoine's calf, pretending to search for the break. "Congratulations. That was what I call a real authentic fall, kid."

"Authentic!" Antoine said, writhing. "It's broken, you bastard." Michael ran his hand down Antoine's leg. Just above the ankle, he could feel the break.

"Holy man," Michael said, "you did! Idiot! Rita," he said to the girl, who had run over to the staircase behind him. "Call an ambulance. Antoine, now just lie still and . . ."

But Antoine didn't hear him. He had fainted dead away.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

Antoine was in bed, half-lying, half-sitting, his leg in a cast, propped up on pillows, when Michael went into his room to see how he was doing. After the doctor had put the cast on his leg, he had refused to stay overnight in the hospital. "People die in hospitals," he said and Michael and Eliot, who had driven with Susan in her car to the hospital, had had to carry him to the car and up the stairs of the hotel at three o'clock in the morning, with Antoine being Gallically brave and not making a sound, although the unavoidable jostling must have been excruciating, even with the injection the doctor had given him.

Now he was being fed his breakfast spoonful by spoonful by Susan, who was sitting on the bed, looking dewy and fresh, despite not having slept more than four hours that night. Antoine did not look fresh. His face was greenish and his eyes were dull and glazed over, but he greeted Michael with a cheery wave. "This is the closest I've ever managed to get Susan into bed. Maybe in the long run it was worth it."

"Well," Michael said, "finally you look like a skier."

"Anyway," Antoine said, "I've got to give you credit. The idea worked. Now Mr. Cully will never find out what kind of skier I am. If any other problems develop, it's good to know I have you to depend on."

"Ready and willing," Michael said. "Count on me at all times."

"I did one intelligent thing, though," Antoine said. "Yesterday when I went into the ski school and talked to the charming girl there I took out accident insurance for the whole season. I'm not French for nothing. I may not be able to walk, but I am a man of means now. Susan, in your long and varied experience, have you ever made love to a man in a cast?"

"Eat your eggs," Susan said.

"I see you're dressed for skiing, Mike," Antoine said. "Don't you think that's a bit callous, with me lying here just barely snatched from the jaws of death?"

"I'll give it a minute of silence when I get to the top of the hill," Michael said.

Antoine sighed. "It was such a nice evening, too, until you drove me up those beastly stairs. That little girl singing like an angel and all. And the piano in tune."

Although the door to the room was open, Eva Heggener rapped politely before she came in. She was carrying a vase with a small bouquet of jonquils in it from the hotel hothouse. "Ah, my poor dear guest," Eva said to Antoine. "Not here even for twenty-four hours and already hors de combat. You may be interested to know, though, that you have eclipsed all previous records for speed in leg breaking in this hotel. I hope these little flowers will help cheer you on your bed of pain."

"It is very good of you, madam," Antoine said.

"If there's anything you want to make you more comfortable, please don't hesitate to let me know."

"I am being very well taken care of by my dear friends," Antoine said.

"I can see that," said Eva, looking without affection at Susan. "We have a wheelchair in the basement in case you wish to move around. I'll get two of the boys to carry you down. They have a lot of practice at that sort of thing."

"Maybe tomorrow," Antoine said. "I'm not particularly anxious to move around today."

"I understand. Michael," she said, "may I have a word with you?" Michael nodded. "Antoine, the doctor told me you had a nice, clean break."

"Thank the doctor for me for the good news," Antoine said. "I would be ashamed if he found my break unsanitary."

Susan was putting another spoonful of egg to Antoine's lips as Michael followed Eva out of the room and along the corridor.

"Andreas is waiting for you downstairs to take him skiing," Eva said, stopping when they were out of earshot from Antoine's room. "In spite of everything I had to say on the subject." She spoke bitterly, "I don't suppose I can change your mind, either."

"I'm afraid not," Michael said.

"There will be more than one sickroom in this hotel tonight," Eva said. "I won't be skiing this afternoon. I'm going to start moving in the things from here to the house. Your place is ready, too. Perhaps you'd like to move today, too."

"I think while my friend is immobilized, I'd better stick around, in case he needs me."

"He has that girl."

"She came up here for a holiday."

"And what did you come up here for?"

"For you, my dear," Michael said, annoyed by the antagonism in Eva's voice. "And for the general tranquillity of the neighborhood." "Don't make me wish that I had never set eyes on you," she said in a low, tense voice, then turned and went up the steps toward the floor above, her heels beating an angry tattoo on the staircase.

Heggener was standing in the sunshine in front of the hotel, holding his skis and poles. He was dressed in smartly cut navy blue ski pants and a gray loden jacket and a blue balaclava wool cap, which was folded up now but could be pulled down to cover the throat and the lower part of the face if it got cold.

"Ah, Michael," he said. "It's such a lovely morning I wanted to get all the sun I could. I'm terribly sorry about your poor friend. He won't get in much skiing this winter, I'm afraid."

"No, he won't," Michael said, picking up his skis and poles, which were leaning against the wall. "Maybe it's for the best."

They drove to the bottom of the lift in the Porsche. "Eva wanted me to buy one of these," Heggener said, "but I told her I'm too old for anything as gaudy as this. It always saddens me to see elderly gentlemen, their white hair blowing, trying to look as though they were dashing young blades. One must learn, no matter how painful it is, that there is an age for everything, especially the trappings of youth."

"I'll turn it in for a black Volkswagen four-door sedan when I reach forty," Michael said.

Heggener laughed. "I don't think you have anything to worry about-yet."

Once on top, Michael slowly and carefully led Heggener down the easiest of the runs. Heggener skied easily and stylishly, fully controlled. He breathed normally when Michael stopped to let him rest and there was no sign of effort on his face. It was hard to believe that this elegantly dressed and graceful man had been declared doomed by the doctors and had not been on skis for two years.

"Michael," Heggener said, "I would like you to do me a favor. Dave Cully tells me you used to be the best trick skier in town. Somersaults, hot-dogging, things like that. They add a welcome note of gaiety that was lacking when I learned the sport. Would you mind putting on a little private performance for me?"

There was nobody else on the slope for the moment and nobody, Michael thought, could accuse him of showboating for an audience this particular morning. He was feeling fit and hard from the skiing he had done and the snow was perfect and harmless. He gave his poles to Heggener and started down the hill, skating backwards, tumbling and jumping up, and raced toward a bench that was set on the pedestrian path below and somersaulted over it, his arms out and his back arched, as though he were doing a swan dive and whirled over and came down solidly in a flurry of snow and stopped, smiling with pleasure. Heggener skied down to him.

"My Lord," Heggener said, "what a performance! You could have broken your neck. I see now that one has to be very careful before asking you to do anything . . . ah . . . strenuous. But I must say, it added just the right note of derring-do to the morning and I thank you for it."

They made only one more descent. Michael didn't want to bring Heggener back to his wife exhausted. Heggener agreed immediately when Michael said he thought the two runs were enough for the first time out. But he seemed pleased with himself and there was good color in his cheeks, and when they were standing at the bottom of the slope, he looked up wistfully at some young people dashing down the steep incline of the Black Knight, and said, "When I first came here I did all the runs-including that one. In fact, it was my favorite slope."

"Maybe later in the season," Michael said diplomatically.

"How do you feel?" Michael asked as they were driving back to the hotel.

"Tingling," Heggener said gaily.

Michael felt a sudden surge of admiration and something more than admiration for the courageous and complex man sitting erect, his fears secret, beside him.

*ooooo Jimmy Davis was in Antoine's room when Michael went up to see how he had weathered the morning. Davis was apologizing to Antoine. "I've been telling my wife," he was saying, "that we ought to put a bigger light on that damn staircase. She said it would spoil the atmosphere. As though anything could spoil the atmosphere of that beat-up old saloon."

"Do not trouble yourself, Mr. Davis," Antoine said magnanimously. "I never look where I am going and I am unusually prone to accidents." He touched the long scar on his cheek. "As you can see."

"You're a gentleman, Antoine," said Davis. "Almost anybody else took a fall like that he'd slap a suit on me for a hundred thousand bucks, minimum."

"Do not tempt me, Mr. Davis," Antoine said. "Mike, how did it go this morning, you and Mr. Heggener?"

"It was beautiful."

"How I regret not being able to join you," Antoine said.

"We missed you," Michael said gravely.

"Listen," Davis said to Antoine, "maybe I can do something for you. For both of us. After you . . . uh . . . left last night a lot of people came up to me and my wife and said how much they liked the way you played and sang. I wonder if maybe you'd consider doing it as a job-say six nights a week, ten o'clock till about one in the morning . . ."

"I might consider it," Antoine said, as though he were reflecting. He looked significantly at Michael. "Perhaps my acrobatics were a blessing in disguise."

"The money wouldn't be much," Davis said hastily, "but you'd get your grub free in the saloon. It might give you an ulcer but it'd be on the house. And there's a little annex out in back we use for a storeroom that we could fix up for you to live in. All for-" He seemed to be making some rapid mental calculations. "Let's say, seventy-five bucks. I bet you pay a hell of a lot more for this palace here."

"I do indeed," Antoine said. He did not refer to the fact that it was Michael who was footing the bill at the hotel.

"You can play with one leg, can't you?" Davis asked.

"Superbly," Antoine said.

"Should we call it a deal?" Davis said.

"Michael?" Antoine looked inquiringly at Michael.

"There are pros and cons," Michael said, teasing Antoine. "But if Jimmy doesn't ask you to lower your standards . . ."

"As long as he doesn't drive my clientele down the street to the Monadnock," Davis said, "he can play anything he pleases. And if you can get the kid-Rita-to sing a few songs on the weekends there'd be some loose change in it for her, too."

"Well," Antoine said, as though he were reluctant to decide, "if the sight of the pianist making his way across the floor on crutches won't distress your clients . . ."

"They're used to crutches," Davis said. "If they didn't see them they'd think Green Hollow was going down in class. When do you think you can start?"

"Tomorrow night all right with you, Mr. Davis?"