Before the majestic Hôtel de Ville—its six slender open towers riding high like a stranded ship in a waste of ruins—sole relic of the old glories of Louvain’s Grand’ Place, Pierre stopped the car and looked back at me inquiringly.
“I shall spend the night at Mont César, Pierre.”
“Good, monsieur.”
“Go to the Kommandantur and ask the commandant for a garage for the Relief Commission’s car.”
“Good.”
“I shall walk to the monastery,” I added in response to his unspoken question. “You may go now.”
“Pardon, but is monsieur to assist at the ceremony in memory of the saviour of Mont César?”
“What saviour, Pierre?”
“Monsieur has not heard—the German officer who saved the monastery: the Prussian who would not burn the monastery, although he was so ordered. Monsieur has not heard?”