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At the hour mentioned by Georges she appeared, and asked him to forgive her because it had been impossible for her to come in the morning: she embroidered her excuses with a circumstantial story. Christophe was amused by her innocent roguery, and said: "It is a pity. You would have seen Georges: he came and lunched with me; but he would not stay this afternoon."
Olivier knew it by the number of letters that came for Christophe, and even for himself, in his reflected glory: offers from librettists, proposals from concert-agents, declarations of friendship from men who had formerly been his enemies, invitations from women.
These two great and superior women had, at this crisis, no greater art of behavior than the vulgarest of their sex. Perhaps it is always thus when circumstances arise which overwhelm the human being. There is, inevitably, a moment when genius itself feels its littleness in presence of great catastrophes. As for Christophe, he was like a man in the act of rolling down a precipice.
It was only among the small tradespeople, and the shop people, that Christophe was popular: but not for long: he was just as annoyed by their approval as by the condemnation of the rest: and being unable to do anything against that condemnation, he took steps not to keep their approval: there was no difficulty about that. He was furious with the general indiscretion.
You men have but one, a more vigorous soul, which is often brutal and even monstrous. I admire you. But do not be too selfish. You are very selfish without knowing it. You hurt us often, without knowing it." "What are we to do? It is not our fault." "No, it is not your fault, my dear Christophe. It is not your fault, nor is it ours. The truth is, you know, that life is not a simple thing.
That's nothing to do with you: your business is only to give them life, love of life, and courage to defend it. The rest ... whether they live or die ... is the common lot. Is it better to give up living than to take the risks of life?" The sturdy confidence which emanated from Christophe affected Andre, but did not change his mind. He said: "Yes, perhaps, that is true...."
They did not care to risk a rebuff: they knew Christophe, they knew his efficiency, and they knew also that he was not long-suffering. Certain of them had discreetly expressed their regret that so gifted a composer should dabble in a profession not his own. But when they saw Christophe rudely break the tacit convention which bound them, they saw in him an enemy of public order.
But no: men of talent must be wrangling among themselves: each man does his best to make himself intolerable to his colleagues: and yet, as Christophe said, the world was large enough for all of them to be able to work in peace: and each of them in his own talent had quite enough to struggle against.
They were silent. "If only it were always as it is now!" sighed Christophe. She raised her laughing eyes to his, and then dropped them. He saw that she was working. "What are you doing?" he asked. "Look!" she said, lifting a basin that she was holding in heir lap. "I am shelling peas." She sighed. "But that is not unpleasant," he raid, laughing.
"I will do it," said Christophe, "even if I have to sell myself." He accepted without discussion the conditions which Hecht submitted to him a fortnight later.
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