ot want to go into Pierre's room at all.

Auguste and Elysee climbed the stairway from the great hall of the
chateau to Pierre's second-story bedroom, Nicole following. At the door
Auguste hesitated, and Elysee stepped forward and firmly knocked. A
woman's voice called them in.

As Grandpapa pushed the door open, Auguste closed his eyes. He dreaded
what he was about to see. His heart fluttered anxiously. Would there be
anything, he wondered, he could do for his father?

Now the door was fully open, and he saw the long, thin figure stretched
out under a sheet on a canopied bed. Marchette was sitting with a basin
of water on her knees. She had been wiping Pierre's face with a damp
cloth.

A flash of bright red caught Auguste's eye. On the floor by the bed was
a second basin, partly covered by a towel which, Auguste suspected,
Marchette must have hastily thrown over it. But part of the towel had
fallen into the basin, and blood was soaking into the white linen.

A knot of grief filled Auguste's throat, blocking it so he could not
speak. He rushed to the bed.

Pierre lay on his back, his head propped up by pillows, his long nose
pointing straight at Auguste, his eyes turned toward him. His bony hands
looked very large, because his arms were so thin. Pierre's gray hair,
what was left of it, spread out on the pillow.

Pierre lifted his head a little.

"Son. Oh, I am glad to see you."

He raised his hands, and Auguste, biting his lip, leaned over the bed
and put his hands under his father's shoulders. He held Pierre close and
felt Pierre's hands come to rest on his back, light as autumn leaves.
They held each other that way for a moment.

His father felt so light, as if he was starving to death. Auguste
released him and sat on the edge of the bed. He said the first thing
that came into his mind.

"Did you eat today, Father?"

Pierre's voice was like the wind in dead branches. "Marchette keeps me
alive with clear soups. They are all that I can keep down."

A half-empty bowl of broth, Auguste now saw, stood on a table beside the
bed. Next to the soup lay a Bible bound in black leather, and Pierre's
silver spectacle case with its velvet ribbon.

What would Sun Woman and Owl Carver do for a man this sick? What would
they feed him?

"Maybe I can help you, Father," he said.

"I don't think anyone can help me, son," Pierre said. "It's all right.
Just having you here makes me feel better."

Auguste had learned en