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To Christophe, knowing nothing of the depths of the life of France, this great artist, adhering to his faith in the midst of a country of atheists, was a phenomenon, almost a miracle.
When he asked him, to satisfy his conscience, to write him a short advertisement of it, Christophe replied that "he did not want any advertisement; if his music was good it would speak for itself." The publisher religiously respected his wishes; he put the edition away in his warehouse. It was well kept; for in six months not a copy was sold.
Mechanically Georges went into the next room the bedroom as though he were still looking for something. It was in this room that Christophe had shut himself up with the letter. It was still there on the bed, which bore the imprint of a body. On the floor lay a book that had slipped down. It had been left open with a page crumpled.
"Then," asked Christophe, "you consented?" "Ah!" she said, "I would have gone through fire to get out of it. He threatened to have me arrested as a thief. I had no choice. That was how I was initiated into art and life." "The blackguard!" said Christophe. "Yes, I hated him. But I have met so many men since that he does not seem to me to be one of the worst. He did at least keep his word.
We've to go through it all over again!" Christophe took her hands in his, kissed her, scolded her, spoke to her tenderly and roughly: "You were going to die, to die, alone, without me!" "Oh! You!" she said bitterly. Her tone was as much as to say: "You want to live." He spoke harshly to her and tried to break down her will. "You are mad!" he said. "You might have blown the house to pieces!"
She carried her head very erect, tittered at every word she said and even when she said nothing, and walked like a man, swinging her sunburned arms. She went on laying out hey linen while she looked at Christophe with a provoking smile waiting for him to speak. Christophe stared at her too; but he had no desire to talk to her.
"That is all very well," said Christophe, "as long as the nation is healthy and in the flower of its manhood. But there will come a day when its energy declines: and then there is a danger of its being submerged by the influx of foreigners. Between ourselves, does it not seem as though that day had arrived?" "People have been saying that for ages.
Unfortunately, they often succeeded: their music was meaningless at least, to Christophe. It is only fair to say that he had not the key to it. In order to understand the music of a foreign nation a man must take the trouble to learn the language, and not make up his mind beforehand that he knows it. Christophe, like every good German, thought he knew it. That was excusable.
Such was the man to whom Christophe came for assistance, With what joy and hope he arrived, one cold, wet morning, in the town wherein then lived the man who symbolized for him the spirit of independence in his art!
She bent over the box. He could see her neck and a little of her cheek. And as he looked he saw that she was blushing. And he blushed too. The child went on talking. No one answered her. Sabine did not move. Christophe could not see what she was doing, he was sure she was doing nothing: she was not even looking at the box in her hands. The silence went on and on.
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