"They came this morning; we had lunch together ... I’ve been writing a letter ... as I came here Aunt Therèse stopped me on the stair, saying Lena is ... is with the Maquis." "She confided that to me ... others know." "It seems that Therèse’s worried." "I guess she is." Nurses passed through the garden, a few of them saying "hello." Someone’s footprint was filling with rain water and Jean stared at it vacantly, then buried her mouth in his hair, fingers on his face, wondering, vaguely, stupidly, what was going to happen to everyone: the nurses seemed an extension of that everyone. "I knew you’d like Ermenonville," he said. "Do you still like it, Orv?" "I guess I always will." "Without war..." "You know, it was hard for Mom and me to move to the States--but a job is a job ... and Cornell pays well enough..." "I’m grateful to your uncle ... he manipulated strings to get me here..." "Your French has improved." "I hope so." "It’s your accent..." She laughed. "Let’s go for a walk," he suggested. "Let’s ... I brought my coat, just in case." "Oh, it’ll probably rain." They passed the hospital, passed a grove of pines, the path strewn with muddy needles: he stopped by a new sundial surrounded by dried flowers: hand in hand they read the Falsum Stare non Potest and laughed because they couldn’t translate. The château’s four stubby spires and slate roof were wet, forlorn, seemed misplaced history: the châteaux and the war were millennia apart; so were the swans unreal as they fed close to the shore of the Petit Lac. Face uplifted to his, she said: "I come here sometimes ... to rest ... to think of you." "Lonely, that’s it." "There’s something here..." "Before the war ... but now." "Just getting away..." "I used to fish with Marcel ... we had a boat, made it ourselves, kept it hidden. We’d sneak off and paddle the Nonette. Such fun!" He ticked off the years since Marcel’s death. His past became too remote, too clumsy. It had to be bypassed--through Jeannette. "Have you ever gone out to the island where Rousseau was buried?" "No ... how could I?" "A rowboat, a punt ... you know my dad’s buried near here in Ermenonville." "I didn’t know that." "He was injured in a three-man tank ... in 1918. The tank was blown up but he had to wait years to die. And so I got born." "Orville!" "That’s how it was, Jean. As for the tanks ... father and son ... you’ll see." "Don’t say that ... that’s plain dumb!" They were walking along the shore of the Petit Lac, swans paddling close to the shore, the greenery of the shoreline greener than the water. "You and I ... what a joke ... we’ve got the war around us, the entire world at war!" He was unaware of his change of mood--his fumbling. "It takes two to face the world," she said. "There’s a way for us ... I believe that!"