I thought of Jean Pascal Bourdon as some powerful god who arranged people’s lives—cynically, yet benignly…amorally in a way. And yet what would Annabelinda have done without him?

I thought often of the child in the care of Marguerite Plantain. He would never know his mother and what trouble had been caused by his coming into the world. He would be well cared for, educated when the time came. Checks would arrive regularly for the Plantains and they would have no idea from whom they came. By one powerful stroke, Jean Pascal had changed their lives even more than Annabelinda’s, because I was sure that, in time, Annabelinda would convince herself that this episode in her life had never happened, while the Plantains would have Edouard, the constant reminder.

Caroline said I had changed since the holidays.

“You look so serious. Do you know, sometimes when I speak to you, you don’t answer. Was it such a wonderful holiday?”

“Wonderful,” I told her.

Annabelinda was received at school with a sort of awe. They were all convinced that she had been, as one of them remarked, “snatched from the jaws of death.” And any to whom that had happened must be of very special interest.

Annabelinda exploited the situation, as I expected. She was quite a figure at school now. She had her own room, and although Madame Rochère was a little cool toward her—and, I believe, watchful—Annabelinda shrugged that aside. She was enjoying school. “The wages of sin,” I told myself, feeling it was the sort of comment Jean Pascal might have made.

Oddly, Annabelinda seemed to have forgotten the episode more easily than I. But I supposed she wanted to, and Annabelinda always did what she wanted. I could not forget, and there was the baby to remind me.

I became fascinated by the child and could not resist taking walks past the cottage. Whereas before I had been fond of the company of my fellow pupils, I now wanted to escape from them and make my way to the cottage…alone. On warm days, the perambulator would almost always be in the Plantain garden.

Marguerite was recovering from her tragedy, and I think this was largely due to little Edouard. She doted on the child. She told me, “Jacques is beginning to love him. It was hard for him at first. It was his own he wanted. But Edouard has such winning ways. Just look at the little angel.”

Sometimes I would hold Edouard on my lap. I would look for a likeness to his parents. There was none. He was just like any other baby.

Sometimes I would go into the Plantain garden and sit by him. I would watch him and think of Annabelinda and Carl together…clandestinely meeting in that cottage of his which would be rather like the Plantains’…creeping out of school at night. How daring she was! This would be the first of many adventures in her life, I imagined. This was just a beginning. And what a beginning—bringing another life into the world. I supposed she had not given this possibility a thought when she was with Carl. And Carl himself? The man of mystery. He would not even know he had a son. Would he care? What sort of man was he? I had only seen him twice. Yet he was the father of this child. He was the reason why all this had happened, the reason why Jean Pascal Bourdon had had to be called in to come with his cynical knowledge of the world and its foibles, to manipulate everyone so that this child’s birth would not spoil Annabelinda’s prospects of making a brilliant marriage.

It was no wonder that I felt older, a little blasé. I had been shown such a new light on worldly affairs. I had grown only one year in time but many in experience.

School life continued as usual. I was in a higher class, and even more time was given to social pursuits. There were more dancing lessons, more piano lessons, singing lessons and deportment.

I was realizing that fourteen was quite a mature age—a time when I would have to think of the future.

Annabelinda, with her sixteen years and aura of mystery, was far above me. We did not see a great deal of each other during school hours, and when I had a little time to myself I liked to wander off to the Plantain cottage.

Annabelinda was unaware of the cottage; she certainly knew nothing of the baby who lay in his perambulator in the garden on warm days. I thought it all very strange and mysterious, but it did give a certain flavor to life.

Christmas came. Aunt Celeste collected us as usual and we stayed a night in Valenciennes and then went home. Everything was according to plan, and in due course we were back again for the January term. We would not go home again until the summer, for the journey was too long to be undertaken at midterm, so we went down to spend the brief holiday at Château Bourdon.

“It won’t be long,” my mother wrote, “until you are coming home again. How time flies!”

I knew that she was not very happy about my going to school in Belgium, although Aunt Celeste assured her that the education I was getting was excellent and the fact that I should have several languages when it was completed would be a real asset.

My mother understood this, but said she wished it were nearer.

At midterm, when we went to the château, Annabelinda was her merry self. I marveled that she could be so. Did she never wonder what had happened to her child? It occurred to me that, in his infinite wisdom, Jean Pascal might have told her that her baby had died at his birth. In any case, I could not ask her.

At the château we rode a good deal; we inspected the vineyards; we dined with distinguished guests whom Jean Pascal and the Princesse gathered about them; and I often sat by the lake and thought of all that had happened over the last year.

Jean Pascal did not mention it. This was part of his policy. One forgot unpleasant things, and in time it seemed as though they had never happened.

I was glad to get back to school.

During conversazione a still frequent topic was the Balkan War, which had ended in the previous August.

As well-educated young ladies, we were expected to be able to discuss world affairs, especially those that were happening fairly close to us. This was the reason for so much emphasis being laid on the conversazione.

Most of the other girls found the subject of the Balkans exceptionally boring. We learned that the first war was between the Balkan States—which had included Serbia, Bulgaria, Greece and Montenegro—on one side, and the Ottoman Empire on the other.

In May of last year, the Balkan States had been victorious and a treaty was signed in London, the result of which was that the Ottoman Empire lost most of its territory in Europe.

“Thank goodness that’s over,” Caroline had said. “Now we can forget the wretched lot of them.”

“My dear Caroline,” said Miss Carruthers, “you are extremely thoughtless. These matters can be of the greatest importance to us. I know the Balkans seem remote to you, but we are part of Europe and anything that happens there could have its effect on us. Wars are good for no one, and when one’s neighbors indulge in them, events must be closely watched. One never knows when one’s country might be brought in.”

However, it had been pleasant to be able to forget the war and discuss the capital cities of Europe such as Paris, Brussels and Rome, all of which we read about and talked of with a certain amount of aplomb—the Bois de Boulogne, Les Invalides, the Colosseum of Rome, the art galleries of Florence—just as though we knew them well. This made us feel very sophisticated, knowledgeable and much-traveled—in our minds at least.

But that summer there had been moans of dismay when war broke out again. Serbia, Greece, Turkey and Rumania were quarreling with Bulgaria over the division of the spoils gained from the last war. We were delighted when Bulgaria was quickly defeated and peace returned.

Now, a year later, Madame Rochère still seemed rather grave—and so did some of the other teachers. The atmosphere had become a little uneasy. All the same it was a delightful summer; the weather was perfect and the days sped by. Soon the term would be at an end and we should be on our way home once more for the summer holidays. Aunt Celeste would come for us on the first day of August. School broke up on the last day of July.