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She was frightened and enraged at a man whom she paid daring to show her no respect. Her mother bounced in on them like a Fury, and covered her daughter with kisses and Christophe with abuse. The butcher also appeared, and declared that he would not suffer any infernal Prussian to take upon himself to touch his daughter.
A little servant-girl was taking down the shutters of a shop and singing an old German folk-song. Christophe almost choked with emotion. O Fatherland! Beloved!... He was fain to kiss the earth as he heard the humble song that set his heart aching in his breast; he felt how unhappy he had been away from his country, and how much he loved it.... He walked on, holding his breath.
Just as the court was settling down in the cathedral, a carriage, bearing the arms of Comminges, quitted the line of the court carriages and proceeded slowly to the end of the Rue Saint Christophe, now entirely deserted.
Better to take her life before if so it must be or after victory. But not when she had degraded herself and not enjoyed the price of it.... She said no more. Christophe was pacing up and down the room in anger: he was in a mood to slay these men who had made this woman suffer and besmirched her.
The women, always more sensible to external influences, more easily adaptable to the conditions of life and to change with them Jewish women throughout Europe assume the physical and moral customs, often exaggerating them, of the country in which they live, without losing the shadow and the strange fluid, solid, and haunting quality of their race. This idea came to Christophe.
When Christophe wished to exceed the limits and to ask questions which the worthy man was pleased not to answer, he stepped back with a patronizing smile, and a few Latin quotations, and a fatherly objurgation to pray, pray that God would enlighten him. Christophe issued from the interview humiliated and wounded by his love of polite superiority.
"But that's not virtue!" cried Christophe. "That's rhetoric!" "In France," said Sylvain Kohn. "Virtue in the theater is always rhetorical." "A pretorium virtue," said Christophe, "and the prize goes to the best talker. I hate lawyers. Have you no poets in France?" Sylvain Kohn took him to the poetic drama. There were poets in France. There were even great poets. But the theater was not for them.
He lost his temper at the very outset, and did his friend much harm by pleading his cause: he recognized what he had done very quickly, and was in despair at his own clumsiness. Olivier did not stand idly by. He went and fought for Christophe.
Within himself he heard a little stream of music well forth and he saw the little crescent moon glide into the evening sky. He was called to himself by the sound of footsteps entering the house. He went up to his room, locked the door, and let the fountain of music gush forth. Braun summoned him to dinner, knocked at the door, and tried to open it: Christophe made no reply.
Humanity would be too poor and too gray in color if it were to be uniformly clad in the moral seriousness, and the heroic restraint with which Christophe was armed. Humanity needed joy, carelessness, irreverent audacity in face of its idols, all its idols, even the most holy. Long live "the Gallic salt which revives the world"! Skepticism and faith are no less necessary.
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