"I have no idea! That doesn't happen in France."

"But it isn't exactly like it used to be any more, is it? When you were received twice by friends of the family and the next minute you were married, as your Balzac describes?"

"Not exactly, but it's not all that different, at least in the provinces…"

"My mother told me not to marry Edith. But I was in love. Ach, Liebe… You must be able to grow up together, grow old together… But when you're separated, when there's war, when there's suffering, and you find yourself tied to a child who is still eighteen, while you"-he raised his arms, let them drop again-"sometimes feel twelve and sometimes a hundred…"

"Surely you're exaggerating…"

"But I'm not. A soldier remains a child in certain ways and in other ways he's so old… He has no age. He is as old as the most ancient events on earth: Cain murdering Abel, cannibal rituals, the Stone Age… Let's not talk about it any more. Here I am, locked up in this tomb-like place… no… A tomb in a country cemetery, rich with flowers, birds and lovely shade, but a tomb nevertheless… How can you bear to live here all year long?"

"Before the war, we used to go out sometimes…"

"But I bet you never travelled, did you? You've never been to Italy or central Europe… only rarely to Paris… Think of everything we're missing… museums, theatres, concerts… Oh! It's really the concerts I miss most. And all I have here is a miserable instrument I dare not play because I'm afraid of offending your justifiable feelings as French people," he said resentfully.

"But you can play as much as you like, Monsieur. Look, you're feeling sad and I'm not very happy either. Sit down at the piano and play something. We'll forget about the bad weather, separations, all our problems…"

"Really, you'd really like that? But I have work to do," he said, looking at his maps. "Oh, well… You bring some embroidery or a book and sit next to me. You must listen to me play. I only play well if I have an audience. I'm truly… how do you say it in French? A 'show-off,' that's it!"

"Yes. A show-off. I compliment you on your knowledge of French."

He sat down at the piano. The stove purred softly, its heat filling the room with the sweet smell of smoke and roasted chestnuts. Great drops of rain streamed down the windows, like tears; the house was empty and silent; the cook was at Vespers.

She watched his slim white hands run across the keyboard. The wedding ring with the dark-red stone he wore made it difficult for him to play; he took it off and absent-mindedly handed it to Lucile. She held it for a moment; it was still warm from his hand. She turned it so it caught the pale-grey light filtering through the window. She could make out two Gothic letters and a date. She thought it was a love token. But no… the date was 1775 or 1795, she couldn't tell which. It was obviously a family heirloom. Gently she put it down on the table. He must play the piano like this every evening, she thought, with his wife at his side… What was her name? Edith? How well he played! She recognised certain pieces.

"Isn't that Bach? Mozart?" she asked shyly.

"Do you know music?"

"No, no! I don't know anything really. I used to play a little before I got married, but I've forgotten everything. I do love music. You're very talented, Monsieur."

He looked at her and said seriously, "Yes, I think I am talented," with a sadness that surprised her.

Then he played a series of light-hearted, humorous arpeggios.

"Listen to this now," he said.

He started playing and speaking softly: "This is the sound of peace, this is the laughter of young women, the joyful sound of spring, the first swallows coming back from the south… This is a German village, in March, when the snow first starts to melt. Here's the sound of the stream the snow makes as it flows through the ancient streets. And now there is no more peace… Drums, trucks, soldiers marching… can you hear them? Can you? Their slow, faint, relentless footsteps… An entire population on the move… The soldiers are lost among them… Now there should be a choir, a kind of religious chant, unfinished. Now, listen! It's the battle…" The music was solemn, intense, terrifying.

"Oh! It's beautiful," Lucile said softly. "It's so beautiful!"

"The soldier is dying, and at that very moment he hears the choir again, but now it's a divine chorus of soldiers… Like this, listen… it has to be both sweet and deafening at once. Can you hear the heavenly trumpets? Can you hear the brass instruments resonating, bringing down the walls? But now everything is fading away, softening, it stops, disappears… The soldier is dead."

"Did you compose that piece? Did you write it yourself?"

"Yes. I intended to be a musician. But that's all over now."

"But why? The war…"

"Music is a demanding mistress. You can't abandon her for four years. When you return to her, you find she's gone." He saw Lucile staring at him. "What are you thinking?" he asked.

"I'm thinking that people shouldn't be sacrificed like this. I mean none of us. Everything has been taken away. Love, family… It's just too much!"

"Ah! Madame, this is the principal problem of our times: what is more important, the individual or society? War is the collaborative act par excellence, is it not? We Germans believe in the communal spirit-the spirit one finds among bees, the spirit of the hive. It comes before everything: nectar, fragrance, love… But these are very serious thoughts. Listen! I'll play you a Scarlatti sonata. Do you know this one?"

"No, I don't think so, no…"

The individual or society? she thought. Well, Good Lord! Nothing new there, they hardly invented that idea. Our two million dead in the last war were also sacrificed to the "spirit of the hive." They died… and twenty-five years later… What trickery! What vanity! There are laws that regulate the fate of beehives and of people, that's all there is to it. The spirit of the people is undoubtedly also ruled by laws that elude us, or by whims we know nothing about. How sad the world is, so beautiful yet so absurd… But what is certain is that in five, ten or twenty years, this problem unique to our time, according to him, will no longer exist, it will be replaced by others… Yet this music, the sound of this rain on the windows, the great mournful creaking of the cedar tree in the garden outside, this moment, so tender, so strange in the middle of war, this will never change, not this. This is for ever…

He suddenly stopped playing and looked at her. "Are you crying?"

She quickly wiped the tears from her eyes.

"Please forgive me," he said. "Music brings out the emotions. Perhaps my music reminded you of someone… someone you miss?"

In spite of herself she murmured, "No. No one… That's just it… no one…"

They fell silent. He closed the piano.

"After the war, Madame, I'll come back. Please say you'll let me come back. All the conflict between France and Germany will be finished… forgotten… for at least fifteen years. One evening I'll ring the doorbell. You'll open it and you won't recognise me in my civilian clothes. Then I'll say: but it's me… the German officer… do you remember? There's peace now, freedom, happiness. I'm taking you away from here. Come, let's go away together. I'll show you many different countries. I'll be a famous composer, of course, and you'll be as beautiful as you are at this very moment…"

"And your wife, and my husband, what will we do about them?" she said, forcing herself to laugh.

He whistled softly.

"Who knows where they'll be? Or us? But, Madame, I'm very serious. I'll be back."

"Play something else," Lucile said after a brief silence.

"No, enough. Too much music ist gefährlich… dangerous. Now, you must play the society lady. Invite me to have some tea."