As if in answer, one last monstrous gust of wind blew so that the fire behind me was snuffed and I nearly let the windows go, but then it left as suddenly, leaving the air strangely still. Frightened, I shut the windows and fastened them. I made to close the shutters as the sun went behind the mountains, the sky darkening all at once like a lamp blown out, and as I did, the fire in the grate returned to light the room so that the view outside was obscured by my reflection, looking much as I had that day at the train station in Compiègne.
I have told you that I kept the general’s coat from that fateful journey because it suited me, and it did; and I have said I kept it because it was warm, and it was. But there was another reason, of course, one I was only faintly aware of myself until I saw myself reflected here—I’d kept it because it reminded me of him. This was the coat I’d worn that evening when my escape brought me to him, the night I’d decided the only path back to him led away from him first. It seemed lucky to keep it, as if wearing it had a magic that could help me find my way to him again—as if it could keep us both safe until he could take it from my shoulders again. That night, when he’d leapt out of the woods and landed in front of me, he could have landed anywhere, anywhere at all, but instead, he was there, as was I, and I could not have made my way there dressed any other way. When I wore this coat, I felt confident the spell survived, confident of moving to his side like some slow arrow shot through the dark by Cupid himself, that tiny marksman. I would find him, I would; I just needed to be patient and wait.
I touched the window’s glass with my hand.
I could still feel those threads I was sure connected us, heavy in the growing night, hidden there. I could still feel their pull.
The nocturne I thought of as his began then, the music threading its way up from below in the salon. I recognized this with a shock and went out into the hall and halfway down the stairs before I saw, through the curving archway, Pauline, still at the piano, her slender neck pale in the dark.
Pauline who, as I could see, loved this nocturne, too—she played it with an absorption that my own listening sought to match even as I stood by the door full of fear.
What sign was this, amid my other signs and portents—was this a cruelty, as it seemed to me at first—mocking me and my fears—or a doom, my strange god’s way of saying there could be no bargain, or the opposite—a parley, even a mercy? A promise? I stayed in the doorway and listened, for there was nowhere to be until she was finished; and slowly, note by note, the tumult ended, the spell broke, and all thoughts of meanings, signs, and omens left until there remained only her and the goodness of her, a charm against these fears, and the nocturne.
And him. He was there, just for a moment, an apparition in the air before me as surely as if he’d stepped from a carriage in the drive. The sound of the remaining grape leaves rattling above us in the wind. His face silver in the moonlight, his finger as he touched my lips. And then gone.
How will I survive this? I asked myself. To come all this way had taken so much from me.
The pleasure of eavesdropping on a musician, Pauline said then, is in how there’s a performance possible sometimes when you believe no one is listening, one that should be offered to the world and yet may never be because it vanishes once the musician is aware of a listener.
She said this without raising her head. She had known I was there.
The sense of bravery and purpose I felt that night returned to me, and I met her gaze confidently as she closed the piano and stood to face me, smiling.
And yet this is what we must summon to ourselves as we play or sing. We must bring that out. Hello, my new friend, she said. Is everything well?
I nodded. Never better, I said. What is that you were playing just now? I asked.
A lovely form of music called a nocturne, she said. Named for the night. It seemed appropriate to play it just now as the night begins to fall. What did you think of it?
I thought so. It’s . . . I think it’s one of the finest pieces of music I’ve ever heard, I said.
You know it! I think so, too. It was written by a very good friend of mine, a composer by the name of Chopin. He was not at his best in concerts; it drove his fans to despair. You had to catch him unawares, she said, and waved her hand at me. A surprise audience but hidden, and so I have many fond memories of sitting outside a music room as he played alone. I think this is the best way one can listen to Chopin, as you did just now. We have guests arriving in an hour, will you be ready?
Yes, I said.
I noticed he brought you here without a maid but with all those trunks! My own is quite busy, I’m afraid, but I will find someone to assist you.