Orville tasted his own slavery as he talked. "Men still want to get rid of Rousseau ... too dangerous ... when you read his _Confessions_ you see how he feels ... Me ... I like his _Reveries_ ... maybe because he finished them in Ermenonville..." Lapsing into silence they listened to the house and rain sounds. Having read Rousseau’s first chapters recently, she thumbed through thoughts as they listened together. Firelight washed the ceiling, polished the side of the grand piano. Someone was going up the staircase--thoughtful steps. Servant voices sounded, then faded. A log sent up brilliant sparks and then flared into saw teeth of orange and red. The cat rubbed against Orville’s leg. "I started out living pretty sanely ... at Cornell ... then I fell into the war trap..." "It will end, Orville dear. We’ll be free soon." "I wish I thought that." "We must think that." "Can luck begin once more? And why should you and I be lucky? Tell me that. Don’t tell me that somebody always is ... a lot of somebodies are not ... I won’t buy that guff." Deep in his thinking he was convinced that he would not survive: the conviction slapped him across the face: there it was, in the wood and sparks and smoke. Getting up abruptly, he lit a cigarette, offering Jean one. Now he knew why the Chopin bust expressed mystery: its mystery was death, death for those who have any kindness in them. Poor Chopin, so long an exile, always dying, starved for love, always composing ... Part of an étude rattled through Orville as he walked the floor: his mother was sitting at the piano there, playing. He squinted at the marble and the hooded eyes squinted back at him and he walked the length of the room. Jean sat with her chin on her hand, wanting to enjoy a movie in Senlis--something sophisticated or humorous. She missed Chuck: he would be glad to take her: they had been ardent movie buffs. She felt that he would not have killed himself if she had been around to care for him, read to him, help him go for walks. She felt she should have remained in the States ... then, again, she saw the injured in Europe. Of course Orville and I could attend a movie in Senlis, away from death. Tomorrow? Tomorrow they will carry Lena out of this house. As Claude drove Jean to the hospital, he told her what Lena had meant to him, saying it well, saying tomorrow will be a rough day. In the morning he and Orville carried Lena down the staircase to a pickup truck: the undertaker, a sickly man of fifty, with a grey beard, braided straw hat, and shabby clothes, was apologetic: "... Pardon, Monsieur, the hearse wouldn’t start ... I think, a little later, for the funeral, I can get it started, yes ... I had to borrow this truck. So little gas ... I wasn’t sure I could come..."