satisfied with the effect he had made. “I know there’s an excellent buffet supper waiting for you. If anyone has anything to say, speak up now. Otherwise I’ll close the meeting.”
He spread his arms, sure that no one would venture to raise any other subject, and he was about to conclude proceedings when something extraordinary happened.
The Skeleton, mortified by the lack of any special commendation for herself, rose from her chair, pale as a corpse and skinnier than ever.
“Mr. Van Vlyck,” she began in nervous but clipped tones, “if I may ask, have you been told that one of our students has run away?”
Van Vlyck, who had already been rising to his feet, slowly sat down again.
“Has . . . run away, Miss Fitzfischer? Really? Kindly explain.”
“Yes, sir,” replied the Skeleton, overwhelmed to be mentioned by name. “I told the headmistress a week ago. The runaway is a girl in the fourth year.”
Van Vlyck turned slowly to the Tank, who changed color three times within a few seconds: her face went first white, then red, and ended up with a tinge of green.
“Yes, it’s true, Mr. Van Vlyck. But we instantly brought the rule for such cases into force. Another student is at present in the detention cell, and —”
“A week ago?” asked the incredulous Van Vlyck, articulating every syllable. “The girl ran away a week ago?”
“Yes, Mr. Van Vlyck,” babbled the Tank, suddenly sounding as nervous as a small child. “But I thought — I thought there wasn’t any point in —”
“In telling me?” Van Vlyck finished the sentence, with terrifying calm. “You thought, Headmistress, the re ‘wasn’t any point’ in telling me, is that correct?”
“Yes,” admitted the Tank as she bent her head, unable to utter another word.
“Miss Fitzfischer,” said Van Vlyck, turning back to the Skeleton, who was still on her feet, “what isthe name of the young person who has run away, if you please?”
“Her name is Bach, sir. Milena Bach.”
“Milena Bach,” Van Vlyck slowly repeated, and it seemed to Helen that he had turned deathly pale.
She shivered. Even hearing her friend’s name spoken by this ogre made her feel as if he almost had Milena in his dirty hands already.
“And what’s she like?” he went on. “I mean, describe her physical appearance.”
“She’s quite tall, a very pretty girl . . .”
“Her hair, please. What color is her hair?”
“Light — light brown,” stammered the Tank, in a faint voice, although he had not been asking her.
“Light brown?” asked Van Vlyck, surprised.
“Oh no, she’s blond, sir,” the Skeleton corrected the headmistress. “Very blond.”
The Tank found the strength to raise her head and look at the woman who had watched over the gate of her school for twenty-five years, and the glance the two of them exchanged was pure poison. There was silence while Van Vlyck passed his hands over his face at some length, as if to wipe mud off it.
“This girl,” he went on at last in a very low voice. “Miss Fitzfischer, does this girl have any . . . any special talent or quality?”
“Yes,” replied the Skeleton, relishing what she was about to say in advance.
“And . . . and what is this special quality, please?”
“She has a very fine singing voice, sir.”
There was a long and oppressive silence.
“One final question, Miss Fitzfischer,” said Van Vlyck at last, “and then I shall be able to offer you the thanks and congratulations that are your due. Did this girl run away on her own?”
The headmaster of the boys’ school, sitting on Van Vlyck’s left, had already been wringing his hands for some time. The prospect of having to confess to the same dereliction of duty as the Tank turned his stomach.
“It so happens . . . Mr. Van Vlyck . . . it so happens that, unfortunately, our own institution has also had a similar —”
“What’s the boy’s name?” Van Vlyck interrupted him forcefully.
“His name is Bartolomeo
He spread his arms, sure that no one would venture to raise any other subject, and he was about to conclude proceedings when something extraordinary happened.
The Skeleton, mortified by the lack of any special commendation for herself, rose from her chair, pale as a corpse and skinnier than ever.
“Mr. Van Vlyck,” she began in nervous but clipped tones, “if I may ask, have you been told that one of our students has run away?”
Van Vlyck, who had already been rising to his feet, slowly sat down again.
“Has . . . run away, Miss Fitzfischer? Really? Kindly explain.”
“Yes, sir,” replied the Skeleton, overwhelmed to be mentioned by name. “I told the headmistress a week ago. The runaway is a girl in the fourth year.”
Van Vlyck turned slowly to the Tank, who changed color three times within a few seconds: her face went first white, then red, and ended up with a tinge of green.
“Yes, it’s true, Mr. Van Vlyck. But we instantly brought the rule for such cases into force. Another student is at present in the detention cell, and —”
“A week ago?” asked the incredulous Van Vlyck, articulating every syllable. “The girl ran away a week ago?”
“Yes, Mr. Van Vlyck,” babbled the Tank, suddenly sounding as nervous as a small child. “But I thought — I thought there wasn’t any point in —”
“In telling me?” Van Vlyck finished the sentence, with terrifying calm. “You thought, Headmistress, the re ‘wasn’t any point’ in telling me, is that correct?”
“Yes,” admitted the Tank as she bent her head, unable to utter another word.
“Miss Fitzfischer,” said Van Vlyck, turning back to the Skeleton, who was still on her feet, “what isthe name of the young person who has run away, if you please?”
“Her name is Bach, sir. Milena Bach.”
“Milena Bach,” Van Vlyck slowly repeated, and it seemed to Helen that he had turned deathly pale.
She shivered. Even hearing her friend’s name spoken by this ogre made her feel as if he almost had Milena in his dirty hands already.
“And what’s she like?” he went on. “I mean, describe her physical appearance.”
“She’s quite tall, a very pretty girl . . .”
“Her hair, please. What color is her hair?”
“Light — light brown,” stammered the Tank, in a faint voice, although he had not been asking her.
“Light brown?” asked Van Vlyck, surprised.
“Oh no, she’s blond, sir,” the Skeleton corrected the headmistress. “Very blond.”
The Tank found the strength to raise her head and look at the woman who had watched over the gate of her school for twenty-five years, and the glance the two of them exchanged was pure poison. There was silence while Van Vlyck passed his hands over his face at some length, as if to wipe mud off it.
“This girl,” he went on at last in a very low voice. “Miss Fitzfischer, does this girl have any . . . any special talent or quality?”
“Yes,” replied the Skeleton, relishing what she was about to say in advance.
“And . . . and what is this special quality, please?”
“She has a very fine singing voice, sir.”
There was a long and oppressive silence.
“One final question, Miss Fitzfischer,” said Van Vlyck at last, “and then I shall be able to offer you the thanks and congratulations that are your due. Did this girl run away on her own?”
The headmaster of the boys’ school, sitting on Van Vlyck’s left, had already been wringing his hands for some time. The prospect of having to confess to the same dereliction of duty as the Tank turned his stomach.
“It so happens . . . Mr. Van Vlyck . . . it so happens that, unfortunately, our own institution has also had a similar —”
“What’s the boy’s name?” Van Vlyck interrupted him forcefully.
“His name is Bartolomeo
Similar Books
