Nowhere on the sign for St.-Jude-en-Laye did it suggest that the village might be called St.-Jude-Vieille-Maison, but it did have a church. By that point, I wasn’t surprised to see houses spread out from the church in a veritable star formation, so that you could consider pretty nearly the whole village “right next to the church.” We knocked on doors until a thin, nervous, auburn-haired woman we recognized answered one of them. The pale organist let us in, her manner so high-strung I felt I was pushing myself too close to a wild bird.

She showed us to a small salon, a dim room in tones of aged green that seemed to have been decorated in the fifties and never changed, just worn out. Minuscule flowers dotted green across the beige wallpaper, against which were hung framed prints of black-and-white drawings of herbs. I probably would have paid good money for some of those prints in another setting, but here in the dim light, they just looked tired. It smelled musty, but that was no comment on her housekeeping; all of these old village houses seemed to smell musty. She did not invite us to sit in the uncomfortable-looking green armchairs, one of which was stacked with music partitions. She hovered near the black upright piano as if she desperately hoped it would protect her from us.

“Thank you so much for having us over,” I said in my most reassuring manner. “We just wanted to talk a little bit about the music.”

“Yes, yes, I’ll be happy to play anything you want.” She didn’t look happy. She looked as though she had just managed to get the blood washed off her hands before we walked in and was hoping we wouldn’t wander into the kitchen and see the body.

“I really love Handel’s ‘Largo’ from Xerxes,” I began, this being a beautiful, classic wedding piece. I didn’t want to ask her to prepare anything complicated or exotic only two weeks before the wedding.

She hesitated and shuffled music quickly, her hands trembling a tiny bit. “Well, I would . . . that is a beautiful piece, of course, but it just doesn’t sound right on an organ.”

My sister, a pianist who played organ in churches when she needed extra money, had recommended the Handel piece. The last thing I wanted, though, was an organist uncomfortable with the material. I changed to more religious music, figuring that would be safer. “The Bach-Gounod Ave Maria is beautiful.”

She shuffled more music, the trembling in her hands growing marked. I glanced at Sébastien, but with his typical social poise, he acted as though he had noticed nothing wrong at all. “I don’t believe I have the sheet music for that.”