Then again, maybe he was wise, in his own way. He kept his old body snug under a red eiderdown and his old soul warm at the thought of all the land he owned, while his wife enjoyed her youth.

I ALWAYS HAVE LUNCH With the Erards on New Year's Day. The tradition is that you stay a long time. You arrive around noon, spend all afternoon with them, dine off the leftovers from lunch, then go home late in the evening. Francois had to visit one of his properties. Winter is harsh; the roads are covered in snow. He left around five o'clock. At eight o'clock we were still waiting for him to have supper, but he was nowhere in sight.

"He must have been delayed," I said. "He'll spend the night at the farm."

"No, he knows I'm waiting for him," Helene replied. "Not once in all the time we've been married has he stayed away overnight without telling me. Let's eat; he'll be home soon."

The three boys were at the Moulin-Neuf where their sister had invited them to spend the night. It had been a long time since Helene and I had been alone together like this. We talked about the weather, the harvest, the only real topics of conversation in these parts; we had a relaxing meal. This region has something restrained yet wild about it, something affluent and yet distrustful that is reminiscent of another time, long past.

The dining-room table seemed too big for just the two of us. Everything sparkled; everything gave off the feeling of respectability and calm: the oak furniture, the gleaming parquet floors, the plates decorated with flowers, the enormous sideboard with its curved silhouette, the kind that, nowadays, you can only find around here, the clock, the bronze ornaments on the hearth, the lamp hanging down from the ceiling and the little hatch cut into the oak wall that opens into the kitchen so the dishes can be passed through. What a magnificent household my cousin Helene runs. How expert she is at jam-making, preserves, pastry. How well she tends her hens and her garden. I asked if she had managed to save the twelve little rabbits whose mother had died and whom she'd nursed with a baby's bottle.

"They're doing wonderfully," she replied.

But I could sense she was preoccupied. She kept glancing at the clock and straining to hear the sound of the car.

"You're worried about Francois, aren't you? I can tell. What could possibly have happened to him?"

"Nothing. But, you see, Francois and I are rarely ever apart; we're so close that I suffer when he isn't here beside me, I worry. I know it's silly . .."

"You were apart during the war .. ."

"Oh," she said and shuddered at the memory. "Those five years were so hard, so terrible . . . I sometimes think they overshadow all the rest."

We both fell silent; the little hatch creaked open and the maid passed us a fruit tart, made from the last apples of winter. The clock struck nine.

"Monsieur has never been this late," said the maid from inside the kitchen.

It was snowing.