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Updated: July 8, 2025
It was only for a second, for then Madame Roussin touched Christophe on the arm with her fan and said: "I see that you have introduced yourselves and don't need me to do so. The boy came on purpose to meet you this evening." Then, rather awkwardly, they parted. Christophe asked Madame Roussin: "Who is he?" "What?" said she. "You don't know him? He is a young poet and writes very prettily.
I laughed it off: Lucien did the same: and the boy was utterly confused and relapsed into silence: and in the end he apologized." "Poor boy!" said Christophe. He was touched by it. "Where did he go?" he asked, without listening to Madame Roussin, who had already begun to talk about something else. He went to look for him. But his unknown friend had disappeared.
He was prowling round and round and up and down the room, though less than four strides took him across it. He stopped in front of the piano, opened it, turned over the pages of some music, touched the keys, and said: "Play me something." Olivier started. "I!" he said. "What an idea!" "Madame Roussin told me you were a good musician. Come: play me something." "With you listening?
The beaming smile on Roussin's face froze suddenly. He said, with some asperity: "You surprise me, my dear fellow." "She is useless, absolutely useless," Christophe went on. "She has no voice, no taste, no knowledge of her work, no talent. You're lucky not to have heard her!..." Roussin grew more and more acid. He cut Christophe short, and said cuttingly: "I know Mlle. de Sainte-Ygraine.
It seemed unlikely that the story could be very interesting to anybody, since the heroes of it were very little known: but a Parisian takes an interest in everything that does not concern him. So much so, that one day Christophe heard the story from the lips of Madame Roussin.
He stopped short, in the middle of a bar: he got up and turned away from the piano. There was an awkward silence. Madame Roussin came up to Christophe in her surprise and smiled forcedly; and, very cautiously, for she was not sure whether the piece was finished or not, she asked him: "Won't you go on, Monsieur Krafft?" "I've finished," he replied curtly.
There I had met all the chief members of the diplomatic corps, which consisted during my stay of two French ambassadors, succeeding each other, both of them instability personified one was Admiral Roussin, a distinguished sailor, the other M. de Pontois, a professional diplomat both of them very kind, but neither, as a result of their instability, having any real influence.
It chanced on that very evening that Sir Nigel Loring, having supped before sunset, as was his custom, and having himself seen that Pommers and Cadsand, his two war-horses, with the thirteen hacks, the five jennets, my lady's three palfreys, and the great dapple-gray roussin, had all their needs supplied, had taken his dogs for an evening breather.
You think of nothing but your dirty little intrigues. Bless you, I'm not angry with you: you are like that: very well then, be so and wallow in your mire. But we must part company: we weren't made to live together. Good-night." He left him, and when he reached home, wrote to Roussin, saying that he withdrew the piece, and did not disguise his reasons for doing so.
Christophe wondered why the peaceful middle-class, the Catholics, the officials who were harassed in every conceivable way, did not throw them all out by the window. He dared not tell Roussin what he thought: but, as he was incapable of concealing anything, Roussin had no difficulty in guessing it. He laughed and said: "No doubt that is what you or I would do.
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