I remembered all too well the bus station in Perpignan, where I had stood with my father the year before, waiting for a dusty bus to the villages. The bus pulled up again now, and Barley and I boarded it. Our ride to Les Bains, along broad rural roads, was also familiar to me. The towns we passed were girded with square, shorn plane trees. Trees, houses, fields, and old cars all seemed made of the same dust, a caf¨¦-au-lait cloud that covered everything.

The hotel in Les Bains was much as I remembered it, too, with its four stories of stucco, its iron window grills and boxes of rosy flowers. I found myself longing for my father, breathless with the thought that we'd see him soon, perhaps in a few minutes. For once I led Barley, pushing the heavy door open and putting my bag down in front of the marble-topped desk inside. But then that desk seemed so extremely high and dignified that I felt shy again and had to force myself to tell the sleek old man behind it that I thought my father might be staying here. I didn't remember the old man from our visit here, but he was patient, and after a minute he said there was indeed a foreign monsieur by that name staying there, butla cl¨¦ - his key - was not in, and therefore he himself must be out. He showed us the empty hook. My heart leaped, and leaped again a moment later when a man I did remember opened the door behind the counter. It was the ma?tre d' from the little restaurant, poised and graceful and in a hurry. The old man arrested him with a question and he turned to me ¨¦tonn¨¦, as he said at once that the young lady was here, and how she had grown, how grown-up and lovely. And her - friend?

"Cousin,"Barley said. But monsieur had not mentioned that his daughter and nephew would be joining him, what a nice surprise. We must all dine there that evening. I asked where my father was, if anybody knew, but no one did. He had left early, the older man contributed, perhaps to take a morning walk. The ma?tre d' said they were still full, but if we needed other rooms he could see to that. Why didn't we go up to my father's room and leave our bags, at least? My father had taken a suite with a nice view and a little parlor to sit in. He - the ma?tre d' - would give us l'autre cl¨¦ and make us some coffee. My father would be back soon, probably. We agreed gratefully to all these suggestions. The creaking elevator took us up so slowly that I wondered if the ma?tre d' was pulling the chain himself down in the cellar. My father's room, when we got the door open, was spacious and pleasant, and I would have enjoyed every nook of it if I hadn't felt, uncomfortably, that I was invading his sanctuary for the third time in a week. Worse was the sudden sight of my father's suitcase, his familiar clothes around the room, his battered leather shaving kit and good shoes. I'd seen these objects only a few days ago, in his room at Master James's house in Oxford, and their familiarity hit me hard.

But even this was eclipsed by another shock. My father was by nature an orderly man; any room or office he inhabited, however briefly, was a model of neatness and discretion. Unlike many of the bachelors, widowers, divorc¨¦s whom I later met, my father never sank into that state that makes solo men drop the contents of their pockets in piles on tables and bureaus, or store their clothes in piles over the backs of chairs. Never before had I seen my father's possessions in rank disorder. His suitcase sat half unpacked by the bed. He had apparently rummaged through it and pulled out one or two items, leaving a trail of socks and undershirts on the floor. His light canvas coat sprawled across the bed. In fact, he had changed clothes, also in a great hurry, and deposited his suit in a heap by the suitcase. It occurred to me that perhaps this was not my father's doing, that his room had been searched while he was not in it. But that pile of his suit, shed like a snake's skin onto the floor, made me think otherwise. His walking shoes were not in their usual place in the suitcase and the cedar shoe trees he kept in them had been flung aside. He had clearly been in the greatest hurry of his life.