When they reached the house they found Kunz, who, having learned that Schulz had gone to look for Christophe, was waiting quietly. They were given café au lait. But Christophe said that he had breakfasted at an inn. The old man was upset; it was a real grief to him that Christophe’s first meal in the place should not have been in his house; such small things were of vast importance to his fond heart. Christophe, who understood him, was amused by it secretly, and loved him the more for it. And to console him he assured him that he had appetite enough for two breakfasts; and he proved his assertion.
All his troubles had gone from his mind; he felt that he was among true friends and he began to recover. He told them about his journey and his rebuffs in a humorous way; he looked like a schoolboy on holiday. Schulz beamed and devoured him with his eyes and laughed heartily.
It was not long before conversation turned upon the secret bond that united the three of them: Christophe’s music. Schulz was longing to hear Christophe play some of his compositions; but he dared not ask him to do so. Christophe was striding about the room and talking. Schulz watched him whenever he went near the open piano; and he prayed inwardly that he might stop at it. The same thought was in Kunz. Their hearts beat when they saw him sit down mechanically on the piano stool, without stopping talking, and then without looking at the instrument run his fingers over the keys at random. As Schulz expected hardly had Christophe struck a few arpeggios than the sound took possession of him; he went on striking chords and still talking; then there came whole phrases; and then he stopped talking and began to play. The old men exchanged a meaning glance, sly and happy.
“Do you know that?” asked Christophe, playing one of his lieder.
“Do I know it?” said Schulz delightedly. Christophe said without stopping, half turning his head:
“Euh! It is not very good. Your piano!” The old man was very contrite. He begged pardon:
“It is old,” he said humbly. “It is like myself.” Christophe turned round and looked at the old man, who seemed to be asking pardon for his age, took both his hands, and laughed. He looked into his honest eyes:
“Oh!” he said, “you are younger than I.” Schulz laughed aloud and spoke of his old body and his infirmities.
“Ta, ta, ta!” said Christophe, “I don’t mean that; I know what I am saying. It is true, isn’t it, Kunz?”
(They had already suppressed the “Herr.”)
Kunz agreed emphatically.
Schulz tried to find the same indulgence for his piano. “It has still some beautiful notes,” he said timidly.
And he touched them—four or five notes that were fairly true, half an octave in the middle register of the instrument, Christophe understood that it was an old friend and he said kindly—thinking of Schulz’s eyes:
“Yes. It still has beautiful eyes.”
Schulz’s face lit up. He launched out on an involved eulogy of his old piano, but he dropped immediately, for Christophe had begun to play again. Lieder followed lieder; Christophe sang them softly. With tears in his eyes Schulz followed his every movement. With his hands folded on his stomach Kunz closed his eyes the better to enjoy it. From time to time Christophe turned beaming towards the two old men who were absolutely delighted, and he said with a naive enthusiasm at which they never thought of laughing:
“Hein! It is beautiful I … And this! What do you say about this? … And this again! … This is the most beautiful of all. … Now I will play you something which will make your hair curl. …”
As he was finishing a dreamy fragment the cuckoo clock began to call. Christophe started and shouted angrily. Kunz was suddenly awakened and rolled his eyes fearfully. Even Schulz did not understand at first. Then when he saw Christophe shaking his fist at the calling bird and shouting to someone in the name of Heaven to take the idiot and throw it away, the ventriloquist specter, he too discovered for the first time in his life that the noise was intolerable; and he took a chair and tried to mount it to take down the spoilsport. But he nearly fell and Kunz would not let him try again; he called Salome. She came without hurrying herself, as usual, and was staggered to find the clock thrust into her hands, which Christophe in his impatience had taken down himself.
“What am I to do with it?” she asked.
“Whatever you like. Take it away! Don’t let us see it again!” said Schulz, no less impatient than Christophe.
(He wondered how he could have borne such a horror for so long.)
Salome thought that they were surely all cracked.
The music went on. Hours passed. Salome came and announced that dinner was served. Schulz bade her be silent. She came again ten minutes later, then once again, ten minutes after that; this time she was beside herself and boiling with rage while she tried to look unperturbed; she stood firmly in the middle of the room and in spite of Schulz’s desperate gestures she asked in a brazen voice:
“Do the gentlemen prefer to eat their dinner cold or burned? It does not matter to me. I only await your orders.”
Schulz was confused by her scolding and tried to retort; but Christophe burst out laughing. Kunz followed his example and at length Schulz laughed too. Salome, satisfied with the effect she had
