Outside the church a succession of prayers and readings could be heard, the word of God echoing around the old stones. But once Mass had finished the only sound was that of a piano being played at the other end of the village. Music flowed from the house of Dr Manouvrier. Since Joséphine had learnt that her husband was lost, she had had no further interest in God; she refused the facile hope offered by censers, and during the service she played particularly loudly. Her harmonies filled the emptiness of the large rooms, and spilled outside. The melody wove in and out of the damp vegetation like a needle sewing. Joséphine’s piano was the only music to be heard for miles around. Other than the sickly organ accompanying the prayers and the liturgy, there was never music here, except when someone began to sing as they worked, back in the days when people still felt like singing. The villagers said that Joséphine played on Sunday morning on purpose. Because, like their parents and grandparents before them, they always believed the worst of those who had different ideas from them. Perhaps she played then because that was when she felt most alone. She took advantage of the fact that everyone else was curled up in the arms of Christ, hoping for a miracle from him, or his pardon; perhaps she was being considerate.