 To those who appreciate music, but do not create it, the whole process of musical composition is a major mystery and usually the artist himself cannot explain it. But there is on record the story of one man, the great Frenchman Charles Camille Sassas, who knew that death itself had produced his requiem. In 1871, Sassas was known merely as a brilliant young virtuoso. He held the post of organist at the Madeleine in Paris. On a certain day in January of that year, when the Franco-Prussian war was drawing to a close, he applied for a brief leave of absence, so that he might meet his old friend Henri Renaud in a town somewhere near the front lines. Renaud had written in that he would be spending his day's furlough there, but when Sassas arrived, the commanding officer to whom he applied for information told him, I am sorry, Monsieur. The company to which your friend is attached has not yet returned from the front. If you will do me the honor of having dinner with me or whatever, Renaud's loss will be my gain. So the composer, deeply disappointed though he was, sat down at the table in the commanding officer's quarters and the two men dined together. The dandelion wine was powerful if not tasty and before long Sassas had forgotten his disappointment and was enjoying himself thoroughly. Yes, Camille Saint-Saëlle was an excellent spirit and then suddenly he stopped laughing. The smile was gone from his face and then of the wilted brown throat his brow. How strange! How very strange! Monsieur, what is it? Are you in? I heard music, music in my mind of course. While I was laughing, it came very suddenly. Chords that I've never heard before. Usually I must labor to find a scene. This one came almost as if as if it was someone else who created it. A theme for a symphony perhaps? No. Not a symphony. It is too sad for that. They are the most mournful chords I have ever heard. They speak only of death. If I use them at all, it must be for a requiem. Saint-Saëlle returned to Paris that same evening without having seen Henri Renault. It was on the following afternoon that the commanding officer in the little town sat down reluctantly to pen a letter to his recent vinaigrette. I must listen to pass on to you this sad news. Yesterday, even as we sat together at dinner, your dear friend Henri Renault was killed by an enemy bullet. Yes, Renault's death had occurred at precisely the same moment that Saint-Saëlle heard the tragic chords. And the Greek composer himself was profoundly impressed by the fact. It is a matter of fact that his immortal requiem came into being at the very instant that his dearest friend met his death on the battlefield. And this is a fact incredible but true.