A woman did come, and he did not recognize her. She was like all the rest, plump, full-faced, with a heavy chin, and an indifferent, hard expression. She was dressed in black. She sat down in her place, and did not stir. There was nothing in the woman to remind Christophe of the woman he was expecting. Only once or twice she made a certain queer little gesture as though to smooth out the folds of her skirt about her knees. In old days, she had made such a gesture. … As she went out she passed slowly by him, with her head erect and her hands holding her prayerbook, folded in front of her. For a moment her somber, tired eyes met Christophe’s. And they looked at each other. And they did not recognize each other. She passed on, straight and stiff, and never turned her head. It was only after a moment that suddenly, in a flash of memory, beneath the frozen smile, he recognized the lips he had kissed by a certain fold in them. … He gasped for breath and his knees trembled. He thought:
“Lord, is that the body in which she dwelt whom I loved? Where is she? Where is she? And where am I, myself? Where is the man who loved her? What is there left of us and the cruel love that consumed us?—Ashes. Where is the fire?”
And his God answered and said:
“In Me.”
Then he raised his eyes and saw her for the last time in the crowd passing through the door into the sunlight.
It was shortly after his return to Paris that he made peace with big old enemy, Lévy-Coeur, who had been attacking him for a long time with equal malicious talent and bad faith. Then, having attained the highest success, glutted with honors, satiated, appeased, he had been clever enough secretly to recognize Christophe’s superiority, and had made advances to him. Christophe pretended to notice neither attacks nor advances. Lévy-Coeur wearied of it. They lived in the same neighborhood and used often to meet. As they passed each other Christophe would look through Lévy-Coeur, who was exasperated by this calm way of ignoring his existence.
He had a daughter between eighteen and twenty, a pretty, elegant girl, with a profile like a lamb, a cloud of curly fair hair, soft coquettish eyes, and a Luini smile. They used to go for walks together, and Christophe often met them in the Luxembourg Gardens; they seemed very intimate, and the girl would walk arm-in-arm with her father. Absentminded though he was, Christophe never failed to notice a pretty face, and he had a weakness for the girl. He would think of Lévy-Coeur:
“Lucky beast!”
But then he would add proudly:
“But I too have a daughter.”
And he used to compare the two. In the comparison his bias was all in favor of Aurora, but it led him to create in his mind a sort of imaginary friendship between the two girls, though they did not know each other, and even, without his knowing it, to a certain feeling for Lévy-Coeur.
When he returned from Germany he heard that “the lamb” was dead. In his fatherly selfishness his first thought was:
“Suppose it had been mine!”
And he was filled with an immense pity for Lévy-Coeur. His first impulse was to write to him: he began two letters, but was not satisfied, was ashamed of them, and did not send either. But a few days later when he met Lévy-Coeur with a weary, miserable face, it was too much for him: he went straight up to the poor wretch and held out both hands to him. Lévy-Coeur, with a little hesitation, took them in his. Christophe said:
“You have lost her! …”
The emotion in his voice touched Lévy-Coeur. It was so unexpected! He felt inexpressibly grateful. … They talked for a little sadly and confusedly. When they parted nothing was left of all that had divided them. They had fought: it was inevitable, no doubt: each man must fulfil the law of his nature! But when men see the end of the tragicomedy coming, they put off the passions that masked them, and meet face to face—two men, of whom neither is of much greater worth than the other, who, when they have played their parts to the best of their ability, have the right in the end to shake hands.
The marriage of Georges and Aurora had been fixed for the early spring. Christophe’s health was declining rapidly. He had seen his children watching him anxiously. Once he heard them whispering to each other. Georges was saying:
“How ill he looks! He looks as though he might fall ill at any moment.”
And Aurora replied:
“If only he does not delay our marriage!”
He did not forget it. Poor children! They might be sure that he would not disturb their happiness!
But he was inconsiderate enough on the eve of the marriage—(he had been absurdly excited as the day drew near: as excited as though it were he who was going to be married)—he was stupid enough to be attacked by his old trouble, a recurrence of pneumonia, which had first attacked him in the days of the Marketplace. He was furious with himself, and dubbed himself fool and idiot. He swore that he would not give in until the marriage had taken place. He thought of Grazia as she lay dying, never telling him of her illness because of his approaching concert, for fear lest he should be distracted from his work and pleasure. Now he loved the idea of doing for her daughter—for her—what she had done for him. He concealed his condition, but he found it hard to keep himself going. However, the happiness of his children made him so happy that he managed to support the long ordeal of the religious ceremony without disaster. But he had hardly reached Colette’s house than his strength gave out: he had just time enough to shut himself up in
