Some time passed before he saw her again. He was obsessed by thoughts of Olivier’s troubles and his health. At last one day he came upon the address she had given him and he made up his mind to call on her.
As he went up the steps he heard the sound of workmen hammering. The anteroom was in disorder and littered with boxes and trunks. The footman replied that the Countess was not at home. But as Christophe was disappointedly going away after leaving his card, the servant ran after him and asked him to come in and begged his pardon. Christophe was shown into a little room in which the carpets had been rolled up and taken away. Grazia came towards him with her bright smile and her hand held out impulsively and gladly. All his foolish rancor vanished. He took her hand with the same happy impulsiveness and kissed it.
“Ah!” she said, “I am glad you came! I was so afraid I should have to go away without seeing you again!”
“Go away? You are going away!”
Once more darkness descended upon him.
“You see. …” she said, pointing to the litter in the room. “We are leaving Paris at the end of the week.”
“For long?”
She shrugged:
“Who knows?”
He tried to speak. But his throat was dry.
“Where are you going?”
“To the United States. My husband has been appointed first secretary to the Embassy.”
“And so, and so. …” he said … (his lips trembled) … “it is all over?”
“My dear friend!” she said, touched by his tone. … “No: it is not all over.”
“I have found you again only to lose you?”
There were tears in her eyes.
“My dear friend,” she said again.
He held his hand over his eyes and turned away to hide his emotion.
“Do not be so sad,” she said, laying her hand on his.
Once more, just then, he thought of the little girl in Germany. They were silent.
“Why did you come so late?” she asked at last, “I tried to find you. You never replied.”
“I did not know. I did not know,” he said. … “Tell me, was it you who came to my aid so many times without my guessing who it was? … Do I owe it to you that I was able to go back to Germany? Were you my good angel, watching over me?”
She said:
“I was glad to be able to do something for you. I owe you so much!”
“What do you owe?” he asked. “I have done nothing for you.”
“You do not know,” she said, “what you have been to me.”
She spoke of the days when she was a little girl and met him at the house of her uncle, Stevens, and he had given her through his music the revelation of all that is beautiful in the world. And little by little, with growing animation she told him with brief allusions, that were both veiled and transparent, of her childish feeling for him, and the way in which she had shared Christophe’s troubles, and the concert at which he had been hissed, and she had wept, and the letter she had written and he had never answered: for he had not received it. And as Christophe listened to her, in all good faith, he projected his actual emotion and the tenderness he felt for the tender face so near his own into the past.
They talked innocently, fondly, and joyously. And, as he talked, Christophe took Grazia’s hand. And suddenly they both stopped: for Grazia saw that Christophe loved her. And Christophe saw it too. …
For some time Grazia had loved Christophe without Christophe knowing or caring. Now Christophe loved Grazia: and Grazia had nothing for him but calm friendship: she loved another man. As so often happens, one of the two clocks of their lives was a little faster than the other, and it was enough to have changed the course of both their lives. …
Grazia withdrew her hand, and Christophe did not stay her. And they sat there for a moment, mum, without a word.
And Grazia said:
“Goodbye.”
Christophe said plaintively once more:
“And it is all over?”
“No doubt it is better that it should be so.”
“We shall not meet again before you go.”
“No,” she said.
“When shall we meet again?”
She made a sad little gesture of doubt.
“Then,” said Christophe, “what’s the good, what’s the good of our having met again?”
Her eyes reproached him, and he said quickly:
“No. Forgive me. I am unjust.”
“I shall always think of you,” said she.
“Alas!” he replied, “I cannot even think of you. I know nothing of your life.”
Very quietly she described her ordinary life in a few words and told him how her days were spent. She spoke of herself and of her husband with her lovely affectionate smile.
“Ah!” he said jealously. “You love him?”
“Yes,” she said.
He got up.
“Goodbye.”
She got up too. Then only he saw that she was with child. And in his heart there was an inexpressible feeling of disgust, and tenderness, and jealousy, and passionate pity. She walked with him to the door of the little room. There he turned, bent over her hands, and kissed them fervently. She stood there with her eyes half closed and did not stir. At last he drew himself up, turned, and hurried away without looking at her.
… E chi allora m’avesse domandalo di cosa alcuna, la mia risponsione sarebbe stata solamente amore, con viso vestito d’umiltà. …
All Saints’ Day. Outside, a gray light and a cold wind. Christophe was with Cécile, who was sitting near the cradle, and Madame Arnaud was bending over it. She had dropped in. Christophe was dreaming. He was feeling
