They left him. Georges went straight to Colette’s, and found her in tears. As soon as she saw him she came swiftly to him and asked:
“How did our poor friend take the blow? It is terrible.”
Georges did not understand. And Colette told him that she had just sent Christophe the news of Grazia’s death.
She was gone, without having had time to say farewell to anybody. For several months past the roots of her life had been almost torn out of the earth: a puff of wind was enough to lay it low. On the evening before the relapse of influenza which carried her off she received a long, kind letter from Christophe. It had filled her with tenderness, and she longed to bid him come to her: she felt that everything else, everything that kept them apart, was absurd and culpable. She was very weary, and put off writing to him until the next day. On the day after she had to stay in bed. She began a letter which she did not finish: she had an attack of giddiness, and her head swam: besides, she was reluctant to speak of her illness, and was afraid of troubling Christophe. He was busy at the time with rehearsals of a choral symphony set to a poem of Emmanuel’s: the subject had roused them both to enthusiasm, for it was something symbolical of their own destiny: The Promised Land. Christophe had often mentioned it to Grazia. The first performance was to take place the following week. … She must not upset him. In her letter Grazia just spoke of a slight cold. Then that seemed too much to her. She tore up the letter, and had no strength left to begin another. She told herself that she would write in the evening. When the evening came it was too late—too late to bid him come, too late even to write. … How swiftly everything passes! A few hours are enough to destroy the labor of ages. … Grazia hardly had time to give her daughter a ring she wore and beg her to send it to her friend. Till then she had not been very intimate with Aurora. Now that her life was ebbing away, she gazed passionately at the face of the girl: she clung to the hand that would pass on the pressure of her own, and, joyfully, she thought:
“Not all of me will pass away.”
“Quid? hic, inquam, quis est qui complet aures meas tantus et tam dulcis sonus? …”
—(The Dream of Scipio.)
When he left Colette, on an impulse of sympathy Georges went back to Christophe’s. For a long time, through Colette’s indiscretions, he had known the place that Grazia filled in his old friend’s heart: he had even—(for youth is not respectful)—made fun of it. But now generously and keenly he felt the sorrow that Christophe must be feeling at such a loss; and he felt that he must go to him, embrace him, pity him. Knowing the violence of his passions—the tranquillity that Christophe had shown made him anxious. He rang the bell. No answer. He rang once more and knocked, giving the signal agreed between Christophe and himself. He heard the moving of a chair and a slow, heavy tread. Christophe opened the door. His face was so calm that Georges stopped still, just as he was about to fling himself into his arms: he knew not what to say. Christophe asked him gently:
“You, my boy. Have you forgotten something?”
Georges muttered uneasily:
“Yes.”
“Come in.”
Christophe went and sat in the chair he had left on Georges’s arrival, near the window, with his head thrown back, looking at the roofs opposite and the reddening evening sky. He paid no attention to Georges. The young man pretended to look about on the table, while he stole glances at Christophe. His face was set: the beams of the setting sun lit up his cheekbones and his forehead. Mechanically Georges went into the next room—the bedroom—as though he were still looking for something. It was in this room that Christophe had shut himself up with the letter. It was still there on the bed, which bore the imprint of a body. On the floor lay a book that had slipped down. It had been left open with a page crumpled. Georges picked it up, and read the story of the meeting of the Magdalene and the Gardener in the Gospel.
He came back into the living-room, and moved a few things here and there to gain countenance, and once more he looked at Christophe, who had not budged. He longed to tell him how he pitied him. But Christophe was so radiant with light that Georges felt that it was out of place to speak. It was rather himself who stood in need of consolation. He said timidly:
“I am going.”
Without turning his head, Christophe said:
“Goodbye, my boy.”
Georges went away and closed the door without a sound.
For a long time Christophe sat there. Night came. He was not suffering: he was not thinking: he saw no definite image. He was like a tired man listening to some vague music without making any attempt to understand it. The night was far gone when he got up, cramped and stiff. He flung himself on his bed and slept heavily. The symphony went on buzzing all around him. …
And now he saw her, the well-beloved. … She held out her hands to him, and said, smiling:
“Now you have passed through the zone of fire.”
Then his heart melted. An indescribable peace filled the starry spaces, where the
