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Only once, on the Saturday morning, when he was trying to divert Anna's mind from her fixed idea of going out, he had asked her if she would like to see Christophe. She had looked at him with such an expression of fear and loathing that he could not but remark it: and he never pronounced Christophe's name again. Christophe had shut himself up in his room.
Olivier was not alone: Antoinette was with him: her love, her modesty had become a part of him: the thought that his sister had loved Christophe made him as bashful in Christophe's presence as though he had been Antoinette. And yet how he longed to talk to him of her! But he could not. Her secret was a seal upon his lips. He tried to meet Christophe again.
This news, which reached him at Etampes, redoubled his anxiety; for he fully understood he, who alone knew of Christophe's interview with the prince under the bridge near his own house that his son's fate was closely bound up with that of the leader of the Reformed party.
He was open-minded enough to grasp Christophe's ideas, but they escaped him at once. He forgot everything before he reached the bottom of the stairs. But all the same, he had a feeling of well-being, which endured when the memory of the words that had produced it had long been wiped out. He had a real veneration for Christophe.
It was difficult for her, for she had grown used to living apart from her family; she looked upon her sons and her husband as too clever to talk to her, and she had never dared to join in their conversation. Christophe's tender care was a new thing to her and infinitely sweet, though it made her afraid.
He took a ticket for a station on the way, saying that he would do the rest of the journey on foot. The time for leaving came. They embraced on the footboard of the carriage. Schulz slipped the poem he had written during the night into Christophe's hand. He stayed on the platform below the compartment.
In the deep golden shadows certain faces stood out, and their strange charm and silent ecstasy drew Christophe's eyes and heart: he loved them: he listened through them: he became them, body and soul.
When Kohn had finished, Hecht, who up to then had seemed to be unaware of Christophe's existence, turned towards him disdainfully, and, without looking at him, said: "Krafft ... Christophe Krafft.... Never heard the name." To Christophe it was as though he had been struck, full in the chest. The blood rushed to his cheeks. He replied angrily: "You'll hear it later on."
She had a mocking expression as she saw his downcast face. "Myrrha!" he asked, choking, "tell me what you think...." She shrugged her shoulders, smiled, and went on working. He caught her hands and took away the hat at which she was sewing. "Leave off, leave off, and tell me...." She looked squarely at him and waited. She saw that Christophe's lips were trembling.
The sky, dark everywhere, was even darker there. It was like a dark chasm. Christophe's heart ached, but he said again: "I must go." He climbed into the train and leaning out of the window went on looking at the menacing horizon: "O, Paris!" he thought, "Paris! Come to my aid! Save me! Save my thoughts!" The thick fog grew denser still.
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