“You do me wrong, my dear heart,” groaned Otto. “You draw tears from me. I do not deserve this. But you can do as you will. You have such rights over me that, if you were to break my soul, there would always be a spark left to live and love you always!”
“Heavenly powers!” cried Jean-Christophe. “I have made my friend weep! … Heap insults on me, beat me, trample me underfoot! I am a wretch! I do not deserve your love!”
They had special ways of writing the address on their letters, of placing the stamp—upside down, askew, at bottom in a corner of the envelope—to distinguish their letters from those which they wrote to persons who did not matter. These childish secrets had the charm of the sweet mysteries of love.
One day, as he was returning from a lesson, Jean-Christophe saw Otto in the street with a boy of his own age. They were laughing and talking familiarly. Jean-Christophe went pale, and followed them with his eyes until they had disappeared round the corner of the street. They had not seen him. He went home. It was as though a cloud had passed over the sun; all was dark.
When they met on the following Sunday, Jean-Christophe said nothing at first; but after they had been walking for half an hour he said in a choking voice:
“I saw you on Wednesday in the Königgasse.”
“Ah!” said Otto.
And he blushed.
Jean-Christophe went on:
“You were not alone.”
“No,” said Otto; “I was with someone.”
Jean-Christophe swallowed down his spittle and asked in a voice which he strove to make careless:
“Who was it?”
“My cousin Franz.”
“Ah!” said Jean-Christophe; and after a moment: “You have never said anything about him to me.”
“He lives at Rheinbach.”
“Do you see him often?”
“He comes here sometimes.”
“And you, do you go and stay with him?”
“Sometimes.”
“Ah!” said Jean-Christophe again.
Otto, who was not sorry to turn the conversation, pointed out a bird who was pecking at a tree. They talked of other things. Ten minutes later Jean-Christophe broke out again:
“Are you friends with him?”
“With whom?” asked Otto.
(He knew perfectly who was meant.)
“With your cousin.”
“Yes. Why?”
“Oh, nothing!”
Otto did not like his cousin much, for he used to bother him with bad jokes; but a strange malign instinct made him add a few moments later:
“He is very nice.”
“Who?” asked Jean-Christophe.
(He knew quite well who was meant.)
“Franz.”
Otto waited for Jean-Christophe to say something, but he seemed not to have heard. He was cutting a switch from a hazel-tree. Otto went on:
“He is amusing. He has all sorts of stories.”
Jean-Christophe whistled carelessly.
Otto renewed the attack:
“And he is so clever … and distinguished! …”
Jean-Christophe shrugged his shoulders as though to say:
“What interest can this person have for me?”
And as Otto, piqued, began to go on, he brutally cut him short, and pointed out a spot to which to run.
They did not touch on the subject again the whole afternoon, but they were frigid, affecting an exaggerated politeness which was unusual for them, especially for Jean-Christophe. The words stuck in his throat. At last he could contain himself no longer, and in the middle of the road he turned to Otto, who was lagging five yards behind. He took him fiercely by the hands, and let loose upon him:
“Listen, Otto! I will not—I will not let you be so friendly with Franz, because … because you are my friend, and I will not let you love anyone more than me! I will not! You see, you are everything to me! You cannot … you must not! … If I lost you, there would be nothing left but death. I do not know what I should do. I should kill myself; I should kill you! No, forgive me! …”
Tears fell from his eyes.
Otto, moved and frightened by the sincerity of such grief, growling out threats, made haste to swear that he did not and never would love anybody so much as Jean-Christophe, that Franz was nothing to him, and that he would not see him again if Jean-Christophe wished it. Jean-Christophe drank in his words, and his heart took new life. He laughed and breathed heavily; he thanked Otto effusively. He was ashamed of having made such a scene, but he was relieved of a great weight. They stood face to face and looked at each other, not moving, and holding hands. They were very happy and very much embarrassed. They became silent; then they began to talk again, and found their old gaiety. They felt more at one than ever.
But it was not the last scene of the kind. Now that Otto felt his power over Jean-Christophe, he was tempted to abuse it. He knew his sore spot, and was irresistibly tempted to place his finger on it. Not that he had any pleasure in Jean-Christophe’s anger; on the contrary, it made him unhappy—but he felt his power by making Jean-Christophe suffer. He was not bad; he had the soul of a girl.
In spite of his promises, he continued to appear arm in arm with Franz or some other comrade. They made a great noise between them, and he used to laugh in an affected way. When Jean-Christophe reproached him with it, he used to titter and pretend not to take him seriously, until, seeing Jean-Christophe’s eyes change and his lips tremble with anger, he would change his tone, and fearfully promise not to do it again, and the next day he would do it. Jean-Christophe would write him furious letters, in which he called him:
“Scoundrel! Let me never hear of you again! I do not know you! May the devil take you and all dogs of your kidney!”
But a tearful word from Otto, or, as he ever did,
