IT WASN’T EASY FOR FERRAR, TAKING THE LITTLE train up to Louveciennes. He didn’t look forward to what he had to do there, and the spring day was a hard lesson in what would be lost. The region of the Seine, west of Paris, was the ancient preserve of the aristocracy—Saint-Germain-en-Laye, Versailles—and who could blame them, there was no lovelier countryside. And the season made it worse—long allées of plane trees shaded the winding roads, so that the carriages of the nobility did not overheat in the summer sun. Ferrar had brought along the morning newspaper but he never opened it, his eyes following the vista unfolding slowly out the train window.At the house, the usual excitement; everybody had something they just had to tell him and the patient Ferrar listened with unfeigned interest and, when appropriate, sympathy. Ferrar had a big, warm heart, people were drawn to him, the family no less so. When the welcome calmed down, he took Abuela outside, where they could speak privately; much of the effort to make the news less painful and lead the family to accept the inevitable would fall on her.A gnarled old tree stood at the border of the property and, long ago, someone had built a circular wooden bench around it.
