And Both Were Young

by Madeleine L'engle

  Madame Perceval smiled. “Pick up your stitch,” she said. “We can wait.”

  Mlle Duvoisine picked up her stitch, rolled up the knitting, put it into a drawer, and said, “There. Now what can I do for you, Madame Perceval?”

  Madame Perceval pushed Flip forward. “This child sounds like a frog with a cold and I thought you’d better have a look at her.”

  “Open your mouth,” Mlle Duvoisine said to Flip. She peered down her throat, said “hmm,” and pulled her thermometer out of her pocket, popping it into Flip’s mouth.

  Madame Perceval sat on the desk, opened the drawer, and pulled out the sweater. “A work of art,” she sighed. “My knitting always looks as though a cat had nested in it.”

  “My skiing looks as though I had my skis on backwards,” Mlle Duvoisine said. “Radio says snow tonight. What do you think?”

  “Smells like it, and it’s about time we had some. Fräulein Hauser’s been opening the window in the faculty room every ten minutes to sniff the air, and freezing the rest of us to death.”

  Mlle Duvoisine drew the thermometer out of Flip’s mouth and looked at it. “Well, it’s barely ninety-nine, but with that throat and voice I think you’d better come to the infirmary overnight, Philippa. You won’t be missing any classes. If your temperature’s normal tomorrow, I’ll let you up.”

  “Oh, please!” Flip begged, dismay flooding her face. “Please don’t make me go to bed, please! I feel wonderful, just wonderful, really!” Her voice cracked and almost disappeared.

  “I knew the infirmary was referred to as the Dungeon,” Mlle Duvoisine said, “but I didn’t think it was considered as terrible as all that. Go get your night things and your toothbrush, Philippa.”

  “But I’m not sick,” Flip protested hoarsely.

  Mlle Duvoisine looked at Madame Perceval and raised her eyebrows. “I don’t want any more nonsense,” she said briskly. “Go get your things and be back here in ten minutes.”

  Flip opened her mouth to speak again, but Madame Perceval said quietly, “Philippa,” and she turned and ran miserably down the corridor.

  “Really!” she heard Mlle Duvoisine exclaim. “Now what’s the matter with the child?”

  Oh, dear, Flip thought. Now Madame will think I’m sulking again and Paul will think I’ve broken my word.

  And she gathered up her pajamas and toothbrush and trailed miserably back to the infirmary.

  When she was in bed with the hot water bottle Mlle Duvoisine had brought her as a peace offering, she could think of nothing but way after impossible way to let Paul know why she couldn’t come to the château that afternoon.

  “You look as though you had something on your mind, Philippa,” Mlle Duvoisine said when she brought in the lunch tray.

  “I have,” Flip answered in the strange raucous voice that issued in so unwelcome a manner from her throat. “Please, couldn’t I get up, Mademoiselle Duvoisine? I’m not sick, truly, and I do so hate being in bed.”

  “What is this nonsense?” Mlle Duvoisine asked sharply. “You can hear what you sound like yourself. I know you aren’t ill, but I have you in bed so that you won’t be, and so that you won’t give your germs to anyone else. If you dislike me so intensely that you can’t bear to be around me, just get well as quickly as you can.”

  “Oh, no. Mademoiselle Duvoisine, it isn’t that!” Flip protested. “It isn’t anything to do with you. I just promised someone I’d do something this afternoon, and I don’t know what they’ll think if I don’t keep my word.”

  “I can give anyone a message for you, explaining that you’re in the infirmary,” Mlle Duvoisine said, and her voice was kind.

  “I’m afraid you couldn’t, to this person,” Flip answered mournfully. “Thank you ever so much anyhow, Mademoiselle Duvoisine, and I’m sorry to be such a bother.”

  “All right, Philippa.” Mlle Duvoisine put the lunch tray down and left.

  When she brought in Flip’s tea she said, “Since you’re the only victim in my dungeon at present, Philippa, I think I’ll run down to the faculty room for an hour. If you want me for anything, all you need do is press that button. It’s connected with the faculty room as well as my desk, and Miss Tulip or I will come right away.”

  “Thank you very much,” Flip said. “I’m sure I won’t need anything.”

  “I’ve filled your hot water bottle for you,” Mademoiselle said kindly and stopped at the window, screwing in the top. “It’s just beginning to snow. Now Fräulein Hauser and Madame Perceval and all the skiers will be happy. Sure you don’t mind my leaving you?”

  “Oh, no, Mademoiselle!”

  This was the opportunity Flip had not dared hope for. When Mlle Duvoisine had left she sprang out of bed and got her clothes out of the closet. She dressed without giving herself time to think. If Mlle Duvoisine were going to be gone an hour, she would just have time, if she ran, to get to the château, tell Paul what had happened, and get back to the infirmary. That is, as long as she wasn’t caught. But she knew that she must not let herself even think about being caught. Desperately she shoved her pillows under the covers so that they looked like someone asleep, peered out the door, saw that the way down the corridor was clear, and pelted for the back stairs. The girls were strictly forbidden to use the back stairs, which afforded a means of entrance and exit that could not be detected by the teacher on duty at the desk in the lounge, but Flip was too desperate to care. When she got out the small back door she looked around wildly and ran for the woods like one pursued. Thank heaven everyone was at tea. When she got in sight of the château she was winded, her knee ached, and her hair was flecked with the first falling flakes of snow. She did not see Paul and her heart sank.

  “Paul!” Flip cried, her throat dry, her voice coming out in an ineffectual squeak. “Paul!”

  There was no answer. She tried to call again, but this time her voice seemed to have left her completely and only her lips shaped the syllable of Paul’s name. Then she heard the familiar baying bark, and Ariel came bounding out of the château to meet her, jumping up at her and knocking her down in his pleasure. She scrambled to her feet, hugging him on the way up, and then she saw Paul come running around a corner of the château.

  “What happened to you, Flip!” he cried. “I thought you weren’t coming.”

  “So did I,” Flip croaked, “and I can’t stay.”

  “What’s the matter with your voice?”

  “I have a cold, they’ve got me in the infirmary, I managed to escape, but I’ve got to rush back or I’ll be caught, I’ll come next Saturday unless something awful happens to keep me away.” The words came out in one hoarse gasp.

  “Flip, you idiot!” Paul cried. “What do you mean by coming here.”

  “But I said I’d come!” Flip panted. “I’ve got to get back.”

  “Not until you rest and get your breath back,” Paul commanded. “You’ll make yourself really ill.”

  “But, Paul,” Flip wailed, “I’ve got to get back. If Mademoiselle Duvoisine finds out I’ve gone, I’ll be expelled!” Tears rushed to her eyes.

  Paul took her hand and shook his head. “Flip, Flip,” he said. “Don’t you realize what a little idiot you were to make this dangerous trip just to tell me you couldn’t come? You should know that I understand you well enough to know that if you didn’t come you’d have a reason. You should never have gotten out of bed and come all this way through the snow. But”—suddenly his eyes were warm with affection—“it was just like you to do it. Now, go back and take care of yourself.”

  “I will—good-bye.” And she turned back down the mountain.

  Flip ran. Going down the mountain was quicker, though not much easier, than coming up had been. Several times she slipped on the wet pine needles and almost fell. The snow was coming more thickly now, and a cloud had folded itself about the school, so that its outlines were lost in gray fuzziness. As she slipped in the small side door she heard someone coming down the back stairs. It was Fräule
in Hauser, on her way to the ski room to wax her skis. Flip pressed into the shadows until Fräulein Hauser passed on down the damp corridor and then Flip suddenly wilted against the wall. But every moment that she was away from the infirmary was dangerous; there was no time for her to lean there limply and catch her breath, so she gave herself a shake and hurried up the stairs. She opened the door at the third floor and peered out. The corridor was empty. She held her breath, ran for the infirmary, and opened the door a crack. Mlle Duvoisine’s desk was unoccupied. She made a mad dash for her room, threw off her clothes, dumped them onto the floor of the closet, and scrambled into bed, pushing the pillows out of her way.

  She was safe.

  She lay in bed, her heart knocking against her chest. Through the window she could see the snow coming down in great soft white petals. The snow clouds in which the school lay obscured everything. She could not see the Dents du Midi or the lake or even the big elm trees that girdled the school. Everything was a soft grey filled with the gently dropping snow.

  She was still a little shaky when Mlle Duvoisine came in. “All right, Philippa?”

  “Yes, thank you, Mademoiselle Duvoisine.” She hoped the hoarseness would account for the breathlessness of her voice.

  Mlle Duvoisine took her pulse. “Good heavens, child, your pulse is racing,” she exclaimed, and took Flip’s temperature. But the thermometer registered only ninety-nine. Mlle Duvoisine put her hand on Flip’s forehead and Flip was terrified that the nurse would feel her wet hair, but all she said was, “Have you been asleep? Have you too many covers? You seem to be perspiring.”

  “I’m very comfortable,” Flip told her. “The hot water bottle’s lovely. I hope you had a pleasant tea, Mademoiselle.”

  “Yes. Thanks. Everybody’s very pleased about the snow, though Madame Perceval says it’s going to stop soon and there won’t be enough for skiing.”

  “In Connecticut where I was born,” Flip said, trying to sound casual so that Mlle Duvoisine would think she had just been lying in the bed all afternoon, “people talk about the first snowfly. I think that’s beautiful, don’t you? Snowfly.”

  “Yes, beautiful,” Mlle Duvoisine said. “Think you can eat your supper?”

  “Oh, yes,” Flip cried hoarsely. “I’m famished.” And she was.

  Mlle Dragonet made it a practice to visit the girls in the infirmary, and she came to see Flip that evening, sitting in her erect, stiff manner in the chair Mlle Duvoisine had drawn up for her. It was the first time Flip had spoken to the principal since the first day of school, and she was very nervous. Mlle Dragonet held herself aloof from the girls, delegating many duties that would ordinarily have been hers to Madame Perceval, and the bravest of them regarded her with timidity. She conducted a class in seventeenth-century French literature for the seniors; she held morning exercises in the Assembly Hall; and once a week she presided over a faculty table in the dining room. The little visits to the infirmary were more dreaded than anticipated by the girls, and Flip had forgotten all about the prospect in the other excitements of the day until Mlle Duvoisine announced Mlle Dragonet’s arrival.

  “I’m sorry to hear you aren’t well, Philippa,” the principal said formally.

  “Oh, I’m fine, really, thank you, Mademoiselle Dragonet,” Flip croaked.

  “Mademoiselle Duvoisine tells me you haven’t much fever.”

  “Oh, no, Mademoiselle Dragonet.” Flip looked at the principal and realized with a start that she bore a faint family resemblance to her niece. The thin, aristocratic nose was very like Madame Perceval’s, and there was a similarity in the shape of the mouth, though Madame Perceval’s had a sweetness that Mlle Dragonet’s lacked. But there was the same flash of humor in the eyes, which were the same gold-flecked grey.

  As though reading her thoughts, Mlle Dragonet said, “Madame Perceval tells me your work in her art classes is very promising.”

  “Oh,” Flip breathed.

  “Your scholastic record is in general quite satisfactory.”

  “Oh,” Flip said again.

  “I hope you are enjoying school?”

  Flip knew that Mlle Dragonet wanted her to say yes, so she answered, “Oh, yes, thank you.”

  “Are you enjoying the other girls?”

  “Oh, yes, thank you.”

  “Sometimes the Americans find our European girls are younger for their years, less sophisticated.”

  “Oh,” Flip said. “I hadn’t noticed.”

  “You have friends you enjoy?”

  Flip hesitated; then she thought of Paul and answered, “Oh, yes, thank you.”

  Mlle Dragonet rose, and Flip, with sudden insight, realized that the principal, though so calm and fluent when speaking to a group of girls, was almost as shy as she herself was when confronted with an individual, and these infirmary visits cost her a real effort.

  Mlle Dragonet ran her fingers in a tired fashion over her grey hair. “It has been a long day,” she said to Flip, “and now the snow has started and the girls will be happy and we will have numerous strained muscles from overenthusiastic skiers. But as long as the girls are happy, perhaps that is all right. If anything should ever trouble you, remember you have only to come to me.”

  “Thank you very much, Mademoiselle Dragonet,” Flip said. “I’ll remember.”

  Getting to the château was difficult the next Saturday, although Madame Perceval had been right and the snow had stopped and temporarily dashed the skiers’ hopes. But enough snow remained on the ground so that Flip put on her spiked boots to help her climb the mountain. Up above her the mountain had a striped, zebralike look, long streaks of snow alternating with rock or the darker lines of the evergreens. The air was cold and clear and sent the color flying to her cheeks.

  Paul greeted her with a relieved shout, crying, “Are you all better, Flip?”

  “Oh, yes, I feel fine now.”

  “I was worried about you. I was afraid you might have caught more cold from coming last Sunday. You shouldn’t have, you know.”

  “I had to,” Flip said. “I promised.”

  “I knew something you couldn’t help had kept you. Of course I was a little afraid you’d been caught and they were keeping you from coming. Did you have any trouble getting here today? What will you do when there’s a real snow, Flip? You’ll never be able to make it.”

  “I’ll make it,” Flip assured him. “Where’s Ariel?”

  “He’s home with my father. Flip, I—I’ve done something that may make you angry.”

  “What?”

  “Well, I got to thinking. It’s so terribly cold in the château; I’m sure that’s why you caught cold, and I didn’t think we should go back there in the damp today, so I told my father about you. He won’t give us away, Flip, I made him promise.”

  “Are you sure?” Flip asked anxiously.

  “Quite sure. My father would never break his word. Anyhow, he’s a philosopher and things like girls’ schools and rules and regulations and things don’t seem as important to him as they do to other people. He told me to bring you home with me and he said he’d fix some real hot chocolate for us. So come along.”

  Flip followed Paul over the snow, past the château, and down an overgrown driveway. Grass and weeds and bits of stubble poked up through the snow and it did not look like much of a snowfall here, though the drifts had seemed formidable enough on her way up the mountain from school.

  A tall, stooped man, whom Flip recognized as the man she had seen Paul with in the chalet on the Col de Jaman, met them at the door to the lodge. Ariel came bounding out to welcome them noisily.

  “My father,” Paul announced formally. “Monsieur Georges Laurens. Papa, my friend, Miss Philippa Hunter.”

  Georges Laurens bowed. “I am happy indeed to meet you, Miss Hunter. Come in by the fire and get warm.” He led them into a room, comfortable from the blazing fire in the stone fireplace, and gently pushed Flip into an easy chair. She looked about her. Two beautiful brocades were hung
on the walls and there were what seemed like hundreds of books in improvised bookshelves made of packing cases. Two or three lamps were already lit against the early darkness which had settled around the mountainside by this time of the afternoon, and Flip saw a copper saucepan filled with hot chocolate sitting on the hearth.

  “Flip’s afraid you’ll let the cat out of the bag, Papa,” Paul said.

  Georges Laurens took a long spoon, stirred the chocolate, and poured it out. He handed a cup to Flip and pushed Ariel away from the saucepan. “Watch out, you’ll burn your nose again.” Then he turned to Flip. “Why should I let the cat out of the bag? You aren’t doing anyone any harm and you’re giving a great deal of pleasure to my lonely Paul. In fact, I like so much the idea of Paul’s having your companionship that my only concern is how to help you continue your visits. As soon as we have a heavy snow you won’t be able to climb up the mountains through the woods to us, and in any event someone would be sure to find you out sooner or later and you would be forbidden to come, if nothing else. These are facts we have to face, isn’t that so?”

  “Yes, that’s so,” Flip said.

  “She has to come,” Paul said very firmly.

  Georges Laurens took off his heavy steel-rimmed spectacles and wiped them on his handkerchief. Then he took the tongs and placed another log on the fire. “My suggestion is this: Why don’t I go to the headmistress of this school and get permission for Miss Flip to come to tea with us every Saturday or Sunday afternoon. That would be allowed, wouldn’t it?”

  “I don’t know,” Flip said. “Esmée Bodet’s parents are spending a month in Montreux and she has dinner with them every Sunday. But Paul’s a boy and we’re not allowed to have dates until we’re seniors.”

  “I think if I were very charming”—Georges Laurens refilled her cup with hot chocolate from the copper saucepan—“I could manage your headmistress. What is her name?”