Next day Jean-Christophe had forgotten the affair. He came home tired, but in a fairly good temper. He was struck by the sly looks of his brothers. They pretended to be absorbed in their books, but they followed him with their eyes, and watched all his movements, and bent over their books again when he looked at them. He had no doubt that they had played some trick upon him, but he was used to that, and did not worry about it, but determined, when he had found it out, to give them a good thrashing, as he always did on such occasions. He scorned to look into the matter, and he began to talk to his father, who was sitting by the fire, and questioned him as to the doings of the day with an affectation of interest which suited him but ill; and while he talked he saw that Melchior was exchanging stealthy nods and winks with the two children. Something caught at his heart. He ran into his room. The place where the piano had stood was empty! He gave a cry of anguish. In the next room he heard the stifled laughter of his brothers. The blood rushed to his face. He rushed in to them, and cried:
“My piano!”
Melchior raised his head with an air of calm bewilderment which made the children roar with laughter. He could not contain himself when he saw Jean-Christophe’s piteous look, and he turned aside to guffaw. Jean-Christophe no longer knew what he was doing. He hurled himself like a mad thing on his father. Melchior, lolling in his chair, had no time to protect himself. The boy seized him by the throat and cried:
“Thief! Thief!”
It was only for a moment. Melchior shook himself, and sent Jean-Christophe rolling down on to the tile floor, though in his fury he was clinging to him like grim death. The boy’s head crashed against the tiles. Jean-Christophe got upon his knees. He was livid, and he went on saying in a choking voice:
“Thief, thief! … You are robbing us—mother and me. … Thief! … You are selling my grandfather!”
Melchior rose to his feet, and held his fist above Jean-Christophe’s head. The boy stared at him with hate in his eyes. He was trembling with rage. Melchior began to tremble, too.
He sat down, and hid his face in his hands. The two children had run away screaming. Silence followed the uproar. Melchior groaned and mumbled. Jean-Christophe, against the wall, never ceased glaring at him with clenched teeth, and he trembled in every limb. Melchior began to blame himself.
“I am a thief! I rob my family! My children despise me! It were better if I were dead!”
When he had finished whining, Jean-Christophe did not budge, but asked him harshly:
“Where is the piano?”
“At Wormser’s,” said Melchior, not daring to look at him.
Jean-Christophe took a step forward, and said:
“The money!”
Melchior, crushed, took the money from his pocket and gave it to his son. Jean-Christophe turned towards the door. Melchior called him:
“Jean-Christophe!”
Jean-Christophe stopped. Melchior went on in a quavering voice:
“Dear Jean-Christophe … do not despise me!”
Jean-Christophe flung his arms round his neck and sobbed:
“No, father—dear father! I do not despise you! I am so unhappy!”
They wept loudly. Melchior lamented:
“It is not my fault. I am not bad. That’s true, Jean-Christophe? I am not bad?”
He promised that he would drink no more. Jean-Christophe wagged his head doubtfully, and Melchior admitted that he could not resist it when he had money in his hands. Jean-Christophe thought for a moment and said:
“You see, father, we must …”
He stopped.
“What then?”
“I am ashamed …”
“Of whom?” asked Melchior naively.
“Of you.”
Melchior made a face and said:
“That’s nothing.”
Jean-Christophe explained that they would have to put all the family money, even Melchior’s contribution, into the hands of someone else, who would dole it out to Melchior day by day, or week by week, as he needed it. Melchior, who was in humble mood—he was not altogether starving—agreed to the proposition, and declared that he would then and there write a letter to the Grand Duke to ask that the pension which came to him should be regularly paid over in his name to Jean-Christophe. Jean-Christophe refused, blushing for his father’s humiliation. But Melchior, thirsting for self-sacrifice, insisted on writing. He was much moved by his own magnanimity. Jean-Christophe refused to take the letter, and when Louisa came in and was acquainted with the turn of events, she declared that she would rather beg in the streets than expose her husband to such an insult. She added that she had every confidence in him, and that she was sure he would make amends out of love for the children and herself. In the end there was a scene of tender reconciliation and Melchior’s letter was left on the table, and then fell under the cupboard, where it remained concealed.
But a few days later, when she was cleaning up, Louisa found it there, and as she was very unhappy about Melchior’s fresh outbreaks—he had forgotten all about it—instead of tearing it up, she kept it. She kept it for several months, always rejecting the idea of making use of it, in spite of
