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Even those who did not understand their meaning were thrilled and moved: and tears came to Colette's eyes.... When Christophe had finished he turned away abruptly: he saw how everybody was moved, and shrugged his shoulders, and laughed. He had reached the point at which sorrow also becomes a force a dominant force.
He was sincerely desirous of helping Christophe: but he would not have stirred a finger to do so: he was waiting for Christophe to come and ask it of him.
The waiters presently poured into the room again, and stood in two rows from the door, where Henri appeared, not laughing like the rest, but perfectly grave, as he stood, white apron on, and napkin over his arm, his stout and tall figure erect, to receive the commands of his masters. "Was your father a cook or a gourmand, Henri? Or are you all good cooks at Saint Christophe?" asked a deputy.
As for Anna, how could she, unless she were forced, accept the idea of a death which must lead to eternal death? But ruthless necessity was at their heels, and the circle was slowly narrowing about them. That morning, for the first time since the betrayal, Christophe was left alone with Braun. Until then he had succeeded in avoiding him. He found it intolerable to be with him.
The man had not stirred: he was still staring fixedly at something in front of him. But his companion looked at Christophe, who beckoned to him. He came up. "Who is he?" asked Christophe. "A patient in the asylum," said the man, pointing to the house. "I think I know him," said Christophe. "Possibly," replied the man. "He was a well-known writer in Germany." Christophe mentioned a name. Yes.
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.
Might one not say that they are enfeebled with passion! You are soon done for, my friends.... No, it is not of your order that I speak. Mine has no kinship with yours. Mine is the order in harmony of the free passions and the free will.... Christophe was studying how in his art to maintain the just balance between the forces of life.
This chateau, or rather country squire's residence, had belonged to the Odouart de Buxieres for more than two centuries. Before the Revolution, Christophe de Buxieres, grandfather of the last proprietor, had owned a large portion of Vivey, besides several forges in operation on the Aube and Aubette rivers.
Christophe felt the worth of such pure tenderness. He had so much need of consolation! He kissed her: "How kind you are," he said. "You loved her too?" She broke away from him, she threw him a passionate look, did not reply, and began to weep again. That look was a revelation to him. It meant: "It was not she whom I loved...."
She is a very talented artiste. I have the greatest admiration for her. Every man of taste in Paris shares my opinion." And he turned his back on Christophe, who saw him offer his arm to the actress and go out with her. He was dumfounded, and Sylvain Kohn, who had watched the scene delightedly, took his arm and laughed, and said as they went down the stairs of the theater:
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