These plays and battles of the mind occupied him all winter. And the winter passed quickly, although, in the evening, as he ended his day’s work and looked behind him at the tale of days, he could not have told whether it had been long or short, or whether he was still young or very old.
Then a new ray of human sunshine pierced the veil of his dreams, and once more brought in the springtime. Christophe received a letter from Grazia, telling him that she was coming to Paris with her two children. For a long time she had planned to do so. Her cousin Colette had often invited her. Her dread of the effort necessary to interrupt her habits and to tear herself away from her careless tranquillity and the home she loved in order to plunge into the Parisian whirligig that she knew so well, had made her postpone the journey from year to year. This spring she was filled with melancholy, perhaps with a secret disappointment—(how many unspoken romances there are in the heart of a woman, unknown to others, often unconfessed to herself!)—and she longed to go right away from Rome. A threatened epidemic gave her an excuse for hurrying on her children’s departure. She followed her letter to Christophe in a very few days.
Christophe hastened to her as soon as he heard she was at Colette’s. He found her still absorbed and distant. He was hurt, but did not show it. By now he was almost rid of his egoism, and that gave him the insight of affection. He saw that she had some grief which she wished to conceal, and he suppressed his longing to know its nature. Only he strove to keep her amused by giving her a gay account of his misadventures and sharing with her his work and his plans, and he wrapped her round with his affection. Her mournful heart rested in the heart of her friend, and he spoke to her always of things other than that which was in both their minds. And gradually he saw the shadow of melancholy fade from her eyes, and their expression became nearly, and ever more nearly, intimate. So much so, that one day, as he was talking to her, he stopped suddenly, and in silence looked at her.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Today,” he said, “you have come back to me.”
She smiled, and in a low voice she replied:
“Yes.”
It was not easy for them to talk quietly together. They were very rarely alone. Colette gave them the pleasure of her presence more often than they wished. In spite of her eccentricities she was extremely kind and sincerely attached to Grazia and Christophe; but she never dreamed that she could be a nuisance to them. She had, of course, noticed—(for her eyes saw everything)—what she was pleased to call Christophe’s flirtation with Grazia; flirtation was her element, and she was delighted, and asked nothing better than to encourage it. But that was precisely what she was not required to do; she was only desired not to meddle with things that did not concern her. It was enough for her to appear or to make an (indiscreet) discreet allusion to their friendship to one of them, to make Christophe and Grazia freeze and turn the conversation. Colette cast about among all the possible reasons, except one, and that the true one, for their reserve. Fortunately for them, she could never stay long. She was always coming and going, coming in, going out, superintending everything in her house, doing a dozen things at a time. In the intervals between her appearances Christophe and Grazia, left alone with the children, would resume the thread of their innocent conversation. They never spoke of the feelings that bound them together. Unrestrainedly they confided to each other their little daily happenings. Grazia, with feminine interest, inquired into Christophe’s domestic affairs. They were in a very bad way: he was always having ruptures with his housekeepers; he was continually being cheated and robbed by his servants. She laughed heartily but very kindly, and with motherly compassion for the great child’s small practical sense. One day, when Colette left them after a longer visitation than usual, Grazia sighed:
“Poor Colette! I love her dearly. … But how she bores me!”
“I love her too,” said Christophe, “if you mean by that that she bores us.”
Grazia laughed:
“Listen. Will you let me … (it is quite impossible for us to talk in peace here) … will you let me come to your house one day?”
He could hardly speak.
“To my house! You will come?”
“If you don’t mind?”
“Mind! Mercy, no!”
“Well, then, will you let me come on Tuesday?”
“Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, any day you like.”
“Tuesday, at four. It is agreed?”
“How good of you! How good of you!”
“Wait. There is a condition.”
“A condition? Why? Anything you like. You know that I will do it, condition or no condition.”
“I would rather make a condition.”
“I promise.”
“You don’t know what it is.”
“I don’t care. I promise. Anything you like.”
“But listen. You are so obstinate.”
“Tell me!”
“The condition is that between now and then you make no change in your rooms—none, you understand; everything must be left exactly as it is.”
Christophe’s face fell. He looked abject.
“Ah! That’s not playing the game.”
“You see, that’s what comes of giving your word too hastily! But you promised.”
“But why do you want—?”
“But I want to see you in your rooms as you are, every day, when you are not expecting me.”
“Surely you will let me—”
“Nothing at all. I shall allow nothing.”
“At least—”
“No, no, no! I won’t listen to you, or else I won’t come, if you prefer it—”
“You know I would agree to anything if you will only come.”
“Then you promise.”
“Yes.”
“On your word of honor?”
“Yes, you tyrant.”
“A good
