Such an epic of warlike pride and action was far removed from the ideas of a European soul like Christophe’s. And yet, in gleams, in the vision of the French soul—the graceful virgin, who bears the Aegis, Athena, with blue eyes shining through the darkness, the goddess of work, the incomparable artist, sovereign reason, whose glittering lance hurls down the tumultuously shouting barbarians—Christophe perceived an expression, a smile that he knew and had loved. But just as he was on the point of fixing it the vision died away. And while he was exasperated by this vain pursuit, lo! as he turned a page, he came on a story which Olivier had told him a few days before his death. …
He was struck dumb. He ran to the publishers, and asked for the poet’s address. It was refused, as is the custom. He lost his temper. In vain. Finally he remembered that he could find what he wanted in a yearbook. He did find it, and went at once to the author’s house. When he wanted anything he found it impossible to wait.
It was in the Batignolles district on the top floor. There were several doors opening on to a common landing. Christophe knocked at the door which had been pointed out to him. The next door opened. A young woman, not at all pretty, very dark, with low-growing hair and a sallow complexion—a shriveled face with very sharp eyes—asked what he wanted. She looked suspicious. Christophe told her why he had come, and, in answer to her next question, gave his name. She came out of her room and opened the other door with a key which she had in her pocket. But she did not let Christophe enter immediately. She told him to wait in the corridor, and went in alone, shutting the door in his face. At last Christophe reached the well-guarded sanctum. He crossed a half-empty room which served as a dining-room and contained only a few shabby pieces of furniture, while near the curtainless window several birds were twittering in an aviary. In the next room, on a threadbare divan, lay a man. He sat up to welcome Christophe. At once Christophe recognized the emaciated face, lit up by the soul, the lovely velvety black eyes burning with a feverish flame, the long, intelligent hands, the misshapen body, the shrill, husky voice. … Emmanuel! The little cripple boy who had been the innocent cause. … And Emmanuel, suddenly rising to his feet, had also recognized Christophe.
They stood for a moment without speaking. Both of them saw Olivier. … They could not bring themselves to shake hands. Emmanuel had stepped backward. After ten long years, an unconfessed rancor, the old jealousy that he had had of Christophe, leaped forth from the obscure depths of instinct. He stood still, defiant and hostile.—But when he saw Christophe’s emotion, when on his lips he read the name that was in their thoughts: “Olivier”—it was stronger than he: he flung himself into the arms held out towards him.
Emmanuel asked:
“I knew you were in Paris. But how did you find me?”
Christophe said: “I read your last book: through it I heard his voice.”
“Yes,” said Emmanuel. “You recognized it? I owe everything that I am now to him.”
(He avoided pronouncing the name.)
After a moment he went on gloomily:
“He loved you more than me.”
Christophe smiled:
“If a man loves truly there is neither more nor less: he gives himself to all those whom he loves.”
Emmanuel looked at Christophe: the tragic seriousness of his stubborn eyes was suddenly lit up with a profound sweetness. He took Christophe’s hand and made him sit on the divan by his side.
Each told the story of his life. From fourteen to twenty-five Emmanuel had practised many trades: printer, upholsterer, pedlar, bookseller’s assistant, lawyer’s clerk, secretary to a politician, journalist. … In all of them he had found the means of learning feverishly, here and there finding the support of good people who were struck by the little man’s energy, more often falling into the hands of people who exploited his poverty and his gifts, turning his worst experiences to profit, and succeeding in fighting his way through without too much bitterness, leaving behind him only the remains of his feeble health. His singular aptitude for the dead languages (not so rare as one is inclined to believe in a race imbued with humanistic traditions) gained him the interest and support of an old Hellenizing priest. These studies, which he had no time to push very far, served him as mental discipline and a school of style. This man, who had risen from the dregs of the people, whose whole education had been won by his own efforts, haphazard, so that there were great gaps in it, had acquired a gift of verbal expression, a mastery of thought over form, such as ten years of a university education cannot give to the young bourgeois. He attributed it all to Olivier. And yet others had helped him more effectively. But from Olivier came the spark which in the night of this man’s soul had lighted the eternal flame. The rest had but poured oil into the lamp.
He said:
“I only began to understand him from the moment when he passed away. But everything he ever said had become a part of me. His light never left me.”
He spoke of his work and the task which he declared had been left to him by Olivier;
