Rosshalde Read Free Page B

a sadly incomprehensible and undeserved misfortune.
    â€œWe can eat right away,” she said in her even voice. “Pierre, go and wash your hands.”
    â€œI have news,” said the painter, handing her his friend’s letter. “Otto is coming soon, for a long stay I hope. You don’t mind?”
    â€œHerr Burkhardt can have the two downstairs rooms, then no one will disturb him and he will be able to go in and out as he pleases.”
    â€œYes, that will be fine.”
    Hesitantly, she said: “I thought he wasn’t coming until much later.”
    â€œHe set out sooner than he had expected. I knew nothing myself until today. Well, so much the better.”
    â€œNow he will be here at the same time as Albert.”
    At the mention of his son’s name, Veraguth’s face lost its faint glow of pleasure and his voice grew cold.
    â€œAlbert?” he exclaimed irritably. “He was supposed to go to the Tyrol with his friend.”
    â€œI didn’t want to tell you any sooner than necessary. His friend was invited to visit relatives and gave up the walking trip. Albert will be coming as soon as his vacation starts.”
    â€œAnd stay here the whole time?”
    â€œI believe so. I could travel with him for a few weeks, but that would be inconvenient for you.”
    â€œWhy? Pierre would come to live with me in the studio.”
    â€œPlease don’t begin that again. You know I can’t leave Pierre here alone.”
    The painter grew angry. “Alone!” he cried bitterly. “He’s not alone when he’s with me.”
    â€œI can’t leave him here and I don’t wish to. There’s no point in arguing about it any more.”
    â€œI see. You don’t wish to.”
    He fell silent, for Pierre had come back, and they sat down to table. The boy sat between his estranged parents, both of whom served him and entertained him as he was used to having them do. His father tried to prolong the meal as much as possible, because after lunch the boy stayed with his mother and it was doubtful whether he would come to the studio again that day.

Chapter Two
    R OBERT WAS IN THE SMALL WASHROOM next to the studio, busy washing a palette and a bundle of brushes. Little Pierre appeared in the open doorway. He stopped still and watched.
    â€œThat’s messy work,” he said after a while. “Painting is all very well, but I’d never want to be a painter.”
    â€œMaybe you ought to think it over,” said Robert. “With such a famous painter for a father.”
    â€œNo,” said the boy decisively, “it’s not for me. Always filthy and always such a strong smell of paint. I like to smell just a bit of it, on a new picture, for instance, when it’s hanging in a room and there’s only a tiny smell of paint; but in the studio it’s too much, I couldn’t stand it, it would give me a headache.”
    The servant looked at the child searchingly. He ought really to have given this spoiled child a good lecture long ago, there was much to find fault with. But when Pierre was there in front of him and he looked into his face, it was impossible. His face was so fresh and pretty and grave; everything about him seemed to be just right, and just this streak of the blasé, this arrogance or precocity, was strangely becoming to him.
    â€œWhat would you actually like to be, my boy?” Robert asked with some severity.
    Pierre looked down and reflected. “Oh, I really don’t want to be anything special, you know. I only wish I were through with school. In the summer I’d just like to wear all white clothes, white shoes too, and never have the tiniest spot on them.”
    â€œI see, I see,” said Robert reproachfully. “That’s what you say now. But when you were out with us the other day, all of a sudden your white clothes were full of cherry stains and grass stains, and you’d lost your hat