"Which one of us is actually French?" Nico retorted.
Neither Jacques-Gilles nor Gerard recognized the photo of Ted Treharne. Claude placed a mille-feuille on his plate, poured a large amount of Cognac into his coffee. "Is he an artist? Might he now have visible scars on his face?" he asked.
"These things are likely," Nico responded.
"About 20 years ago," Claude began, "my wife and I drove up to Rheims to visit our daughter. My wife and daughter went to the market. It was noisy in the city, and since the War, persistent noise has" Claude paused, continued. "I went for a walk south of the city, in a place where a trail passes through an area of brooks and small ponds. It was a warm day. From a side trail, on which I had been before, I walked into the woods. There -- sitting beside an isolated stream-fed pond -- was an artist. It was not a good place to set up an easel; instead he was sitting beside the pond, drawing on paper that was tacked on a board. Even with just pencils, on the paper, the woods and the pond had seemingly come alive.
"With the drawing between us, I sat down beside him. For a while, we looked at the pond and woods together, silently, as if the peaceful scene was a respite from unimaginable memories. Perhaps it was the fillete of champagne, which he shared with me, decanted into plastic glasses he carried in his backpack, that -- while driving home with a case of champagne in the car -- I wondered if the woods and the pond and the artist had actually happened. I can't be sure, but I think this photo," Claude pointed to the photograph of Ted Treharne, "is him."