It is better not to take it

Christophe looked at him: and his mind was due to his former random friend, a selfish and immoral grisett, who was incapable of any kind of real emotion, but when he saw suffering, he accelerated as a mother cherishing something yesterday or an unknown person to him. Even the most disgusting tasks at that time did not scare him: on the contrary, he seemed to feel strange pleasure in submitting to the chores that demand the greatest refusal. It was just a matter of informing him: he seemed to have found in it an action for all the need for ideality, that is, without expressing his expression in him; his soul was, for the rest of the time, completely exhausted in his life, but in these few seasons he breathed and lived; in relieving his neighbor’s suffering, he felt well-being, laughing internally; his joy was almost inappropriate to such an opportunity. – Both goodness in this girl who was selfish, that egoism in Jacqueline, which was good, was neither bad nor good; they were just a breakdown required by health. But the first of them can be better after its health care.

Jacquelin was terrified of suffering. He would have died before he did not tolerate corporal carnage. Before he died, he lost some of his joy because of his beauty or youth. The fact that he did not have all the happiness he believed in his own right, – (for he believed in happiness, it was faith in him, integrity and inexplicable: true religion), – the fact that others had more happiness than he felt the worst of the injustices. Happiness was not only his religion, it was a virtue for him. The accident seemed like some kind of illness. His whole life gradually evolved to this principle. Now, his righteous character was visible from the curtains of the idealness that he virtually vanished into a virgin. When my reaction to former idealism came, he saw everything with a clear and cold eye. There was nothing more about him than anything else, whether it was the matter or the fact of the great world and the demands of comfort. He had now reached the stage of his mother’s soul development: he also went to church and prayed regularly and indifferently. He no longer bothered to investigate whether that was true: for he had other, more positive thinking; and now he thought of the mysterious rebellion he had as a child, he was graciously pitying. – However, his current positive sense was not more of a reality than his former ideal. He forced himself: to something. He was not an angel or alive. She, was a bored woman-wrath. he saw everything with a clear and cold eye. There was nothing more about him than anything else, whether it was the matter or the fact of the great world and the demands of comfort. He had now reached the stage of his mother’s soul development: he also went to church and prayed regularly and indifferently. He no longer bothered to investigate whether that was true: for he had other, more positive thinking; and now he thought of the mysterious rebellion he had as a child, he was graciously pitying. – However, his current positive sense was not more of a reality than his former ideal. He forced himself: to something. He was not an angel or alive. She, was a bored woman-wrath. he saw everything with a clear and cold eye. There was nothing more about him than anything else, whether it was the matter or the fact of the great world and the demands of comfort. He had now reached the stage of his mother’s soul development: he also went to church and prayed regularly and indifferently. He no longer bothered to investigate whether that was true: for he had other, more positive thinking; and now he thought of the mysterious rebellion he had as a child, he was graciously pitying. – However, his current positive sense was not more of a reality than his former ideal. He forced himself: to something. He was not an angel or alive. She, was a bored woman-wrath. whether or not it is the opinion of the great world and the demands of comfort. He had now reached the stage of his mother’s soul development: he also went to church and prayed regularly and indifferently. He no longer bothered to investigate whether that was true: for he had other, more positive thinking; and now he thought of the mysterious rebellion he had as a child, he was graciously pitying. – However, his current positive sense was not more of a reality than his former ideal. He forced himself: to something. He was not an angel or alive. She, was a bored woman-wrath. whether or not it is the opinion of the great world and the demands of comfort. He had now reached the stage of his mother’s soul development: he also went to church and prayed regularly and indifferently. He no longer bothered to investigate whether that was true: for he had other, more positive thinking; and now he thought of the mysterious rebellion he had as a child, he was graciously pitying. – However, his current positive sense was not more of a reality than his former ideal. He forced himself: to something. He was not an angel or alive. She, was a bored woman-wrath. He no longer bothered to investigate whether that was true: for he had other, more positive thinking; and now he thought of the mysterious rebellion he had as a child, he was graciously pitying. – However, his current positive sense was not more of a reality than his former ideal. He forced himself: to something. He was not an angel or alive. She, was a bored woman-wrath. He no longer bothered to investigate whether that was true: for he had other, more positive thinking; and now he thought of the mysterious rebellion he had as a child, he was graciously pitying. – However, his current positive sense was not more of a reality than his former ideal. He forced himself: to something. He was not an angel or alive. She, was a bored woman-wrath.

He was tedious, miss; the worse he could not defend himself by not being loved by him or by being able to suffer his husband. His life seemed cluttered, overwhelmed, with no future for him; he longed for a new happiness, a sublime regeneration: a childish longing that did not justify the lowness of his happiness. She was like many other women, many idle couples who have every reason to be happy and tease themselves. The world sees many such spouses, sees the rich, having beautiful children, good health who are intelligent and able to feel beautiful, people who always have the opportunity to act, do good, enrich their own and others’ lives. And yet they spend their time whining that they do not love each other,

– You’re not in any way interested. It is unfortunate to complain when you own so many ways you need happiness!

They should be deprived of their wealth, their health, all their wonderful things they do not deserve! Those slaves who are unable to control their freedom, but who make freedom freedom, should be pressed into the yoke of real misery and pain! If they had to make their own bread with their own hands, they would eat it with satisfaction. And if they saw a cruel suffering from face to face, they wouldn’t dare to pretend to be an angry ilveil.

But nevertheless: they suffer. They’re sick. Could they be unpunished? – Jacqueline’s wrath was indeed innocent, just as innocent as she was leaving her husband, like Olivier, who couldn’t hold her. He was why nature had made him. He did not know that marriage is defying against nature, and that if you have thrown the battlefield on great nature, you have to wait for it to lift it out of the ground, and prepare bravely for the duel that you have taken. Jacqueline noticed that she was disappointed. He hated him for himself; and then that disappointment turned into hostility against all that he had previously loved, against Olivier’s belief that had been his faith. An intelligent woman sometimes has a better idea than a man with eternal things; but it is harder for him to remain faithful to them. A man who has attained his world view feeds it with his life. A woman feeds her life with it; he burns it to himself, he doesn’t create it. Alinoma must throw new food on his head and in his heart; they alone are not enough for him. When a woman does not believe or love, she will degenerate – at least if she does not have the highest goodness, serenity.

Jacqueline had previously believed passionately in an alliance based on a joint decision: to fight for happiness and to work together to build a common work. But he had not believed in that work and in that faith except when the sun of love had cultivated it; insofar as the sun fell, they began to look like her infertile mountains, gloomy under the empty sky; and he felt that he would not have the strength to continue his journey: what do you aim for? Because what it was in the second half? What a deception!… Jacqueline could no longer understand how Olivier was still giving himself that life-preventive dream; and he concluded that Olivier was not quite intelligent nor lifelike. Jacqueline felt suffocated in her atmosphere, which didn’t fit her lungs; and the self-preservation instinct forced him to defend himself, to attack. He tried to crush the disgusting beliefs in the creature he still loved; he then used all the weapons of irony and pleasure; he wrapped up Olivier’s lust and little day-care for the wild boots. She tried to turn her husband into a mere reflection of herself … about her who didn’t know what she wanted, and what she was! He was humiliated by the fact that Olivier did not succeed in his career; He didn’t care otherwise whether Olivier was right or wrong: for he had already learned to believe that only success distinguishes a talented man from a day-old art critic. Olivier felt Jacquel’s suspicion weigh on himself and lost his best support. However, he struggled with all his power, As many others have fought and struggled, though in vain, this uneven struggle in which a woman’s selfish instinct rises against a man’s intellectual selfishness, invoking the man’s weakness, his disappointment, and his common sense: words that man beautify the consumption of life and cowardice. – However, Jacqueline and Olivier were better than most of the other fighters. For Olivier would never have betrayed his ideal, as thousands of other men do, letting his laziness, vanity, and trivial love attract himself to the prohibition of his eternal soul. And Jacqueline would have despised her if she had been. But in his blindness, however, he now tried to destroy this Olivier power, even though it was his best power, their only common security;

Ever since the young couple had inherited their heritage, Christophe had felt alien to their home. The pretended snobism and at the same time the rather shallow practical intelligence, which Jacqueline’s behavior in his nasty mind still emphasized, made a great impression. Sometimes Christophe got angry and said the hard words that were taken with indignation. However, they would not have been able to mess up with friends: they thought you were too different. At no cost in the world, Olivier would not have given up on Christoph. But he didn’t get Jacquelea to understand Christoph; and when he loved his wife, he was weak and could not tempt him. Christophe saw what Olivier had and suffered, and so he helped Olivier decide what to choose. Christophe himself withdrew from their company. He understood, however, he would not be able to help his friend, even if he stayed with him: rather he would only be a friend to his friend. Christophe began to present pretexts that allow him to resign from his friend; and Olivier, in his weakness, accepted those poor reasons, suggesting that Christophe wanted to sacrifice, and suffered from it.

Christophe did not bear any resentment on him. He just thought that for a reason the woman was called the other side of the man. For the wounded man is only a half man.

Christophe tried to reorganize his life and get along without his friend. But even though he could convince himself that the difference would only last for a short period of time, despite the optimism, he was sadly sad. He was already accustomed to a different life than loneliness. He had been alone in Olivier’s countryside, though. But then he could still imagine something else: he said to himself that the friend was far away, but that he would come back. Now a friend came. But she was out of her as never before. Christophe suddenly ended up with the affection that had made his life many years full: he felt as if he had lost his cause for all his actions. Ever since he started to hold Olivier Jeannin, he was used to thinking with him, connect him to everything he did. The work alone was not enough to fill that gap: Christophe had always been able to mix his friend’s picture with his work. Now, when a friend was not involved with him, Christophe shook as if he had lost his balance: he needed some new affection to recover.

He had M: Arnaud and Filomela as friends. But in this state of mind, such souls of peace could not be enough for him.

Those two women, in turn, seemed to have the idea of ​​Christophe’s grief, and they secretly took part in it. One night Christophe stunned greatly when he saw M coming to Arnaud. Until then, she was never supposed to come to her residence. Now he looked restless. Christophe didn’t realize that; he thought it was because of that woman’s usual sorrow. The lady sat down and didn’t speak anything. Christophe tried to make the atmosphere more cozy and did his best to do the host’s tasks. Called Olivier Jeannin because he was full of his memories. Christophe joyfully, naturally, his words did not reveal anything that had happened. But M: We Arnaud felt the event and could not look at Christophe a little sad and without telling him:

– Do you just meet each other anymore?

Christophe thought M: we Arnaud had come to comfort him; and his impatience arose, because he disliked that his affairs were confused. He answered:

– Whenever we want.

The lady blushed and said:

– Oh, I didn’t want to crack.

Christophe regretted his daytime and took the lad out of hand:

– Sorry, he asked. I’m always afraid that he will be hit by him. Poor boy! He’s suffering as hard as I do… No, we don’t meet anymore.

– And he won’t write to you?

– No, Christophe said, a little bit ashamed.

– How sad is life! said M: we arrived at Arnaud’s time.

Christophe raised his head.

– No, he replied, life is not sad. It only has sad moments.

M: We Arnaud continued, hardly with a bit of bitterness:

– When you have loved, and no longer love, what is the meaning of anything?

Christophe replied:

– That’s loved. The lady spoke:

– You’ve sacrificed for another. If your gift would be for the benefit of the person you love! But he is still not happy with it.

– I’m not sacrificed, Christophe answered angrily. And if I sacrifice, I’ll do it because it pleases me. There is not much to think about that. Makes as a must do. Unless it did, it would be unhappy! Nothing is more stupid than the word: sacrifice! And I do not understand which priestly souls in their heart poverty have messed up with some kind of impulse, sadness, snout, and fist. It seems like sacrifice should be uncomfortable and embarrassing, otherwise it will not be worthy of people… If sacrifice is your sorrow and not joy, then the hell will come, do not sacrifice, you are not worth it. No man sacrifices for gold or glory, but for his own sake. If you do not feel luck in giving yourself, then go for a swamp! You don’t deserve life.

M: We Arnaud listened to Christoph without daring to look at him. Suddenly he then got up and said:

– Goodbye.

Then Christophe thought the lady had come to believe her, and she exclaimed:

– Oh, sorry, I’m kind of an egoist, I speak only for myself. Stay alive now, please.

M: We Arnaud replied:

– No, I can’t… Thanks to you…

And he left.

Some time went by and they didn’t see each other. M: We Arnaud didn’t give himself a sign of Christophelle. And Christophe didn’t visit him any more than Philomela. She liked them, but she was afraid of having a conversation with them that would make her sad. And, moreover, their peaceful, mundane life did not match him at that moment, nor did he ever find that they had rarely met them. He now needed to know new beings; he had to grab something extraordinary, to get into new love.

In order to open out, Christophe began to go to theaters: a hobby he had been defeating for a long time. Otherwise, the theater was very interesting for him as a school musician, who wants to see and explore the various “shock” of passion. He was not, however, more fond of French plays than his first time in Paris. Not only did he not like the age-old themes of him who were embarrassing and rude, the psycho-physiology of love affairs, the French language of the French people was wrong, especially in poetry plays. No more their prose than the poetry were in line with the people’s living language and spirit. Proosa was a man-made language, best of the finest chronicles in the world, with inferior low-cost top-down language. Again, poetry was agreed with this Goethe Knockout:

“The poem is necessary for those who have nothing to say.”

It was a long-winded and violent prose; wasting the accused poems that had been inappropriately inoculated into it, imitating the patterns of lyricism of other peoples, seemed wrong with every honest being. Christophe did not care about these poems as well as Italian operas with roaring and strange arias and bass vocals. He was much more attracted to the Actors than the songs themselves. Not only did the writers try to imitate them. ” It could not have been hoped that a play would be performed well, unless you remembered shaping its people to match the actresses.”There was no change in the way that Diderot wrote these lines. The actors had become models of the playwright. As soon as one of them achieved success, he also received his own theater, his flexible written tailor-made and his ordered plays.

Of these great mannequins of literary molds, Christophe’s interest was inspired by another actress named Françoise Oudon. It was only about a year ago that Parisi had fallen in love with him. Of course, she also had her own theater and her own role-playing instrument; mostly he starred in the products he made for him; his rather varied repertoire also included Ibsen and Sardou, Gabriele d’Annunzio, Dumas younger and Bernard Shaw, with the exception of the most recent French writers. Sometimes she dared to go to the Versailles Parks of the Classical Hexameter, and throw her into the Shakespeare scene. But in them he was not at home, and his audience even less. What he did, he starred himself, always alone. It was his weakness and strength. As long as the public’s attention had not been passed on by his own person, his acting did not have any success. On the day that attention was drawn to him, everything he played was excellent for the audience. And indeed, it was a trouble to see him, because often the plays that were often so bad that he had to completely fake them and beautify them in his own life were often forgotten. The mystery of that feminine body, its forms in which a strange, strange soul appeared, was more Christophile than any of the songs the actress performed. For then, the plays that were often so bad that they had to completely fake them and beautify them in their own lives were often forgotten. The mystery of that feminine body, its forms in which a strange, strange soul appeared, was more Christophile than any of the songs the actress performed. For then, the plays that were often so bad that they had to completely fake them and beautify them in their own lives were often forgotten. The mystery of that feminine body, its forms in which a strange, strange soul appeared, was more Christophile than any of the songs the actress performed.

Françoise Oudon had a beautiful, clear and greatly tragic profile. No steep, heavy lines to the Roman model. On the contrary, there are sensitive Parisian lines, à la Jean Goujon, who resembled as much a young boy as a woman. Nose short but noble. Mouth beautiful, lips thin, their bites slightly bitter. Cheeks with intelligent, youthful lean; they had something moving, reflecting on internal suffering. The jaw was persistent. Skin color pale. The face as a whole witch-hurt; But against their will they were so translucent that they saw a vibrating human soul just as naked: as the soul spread everywhere under the skin. Her hair and eyebrows were very fine, her eyes varying in tone, gray, yellowish, are able to turn into something subtle, when to green, when to golden: cat’s eyes. And he reminded the cat of his whole being; in it was the fact that she always seemed to be asleep; it was similar to the eyes that were open when they were alert and alert, and suddenly brutally brutalized. He was smaller in size than he looked and fooled; his shoulder was beautiful, his arms well proportioned, his hands fine and long. She dressed up and dressed her hair in a whimsical and simple manner, without allowing any kind of bohemian neglect or the exaggerated elegance of some artists, even in relation to the cat, her instinct, even though she had risen from the roof.

He couldn’t yet be thirty. Christophe had heard talking about him at Gamach; there he admired him in a brutal way, a very free, intelligent and unscrupulous girl, whose work was iron and burned by infinite ambition, but which was otherwise wobbly, fantastic, often downright astounding, violent; he was said to have seen something before he reached the hill of his present glory and could avenge his suffering.

When Christophe went to the station one day to travel to Meudon to see Filomela, he saw the carriage door opening when the artist’s name was already there. He seemed to be in an accelerated and painful state of mind; and Christophe’s appearance was disgusting about him. He turned his back on Christophe and stared out at the opposite window of the wagon compartment. But Christophea was astonished by his usual altered traits so that he looked at him, naively pitying and annoying. The actress lost her temper, and singed Christophe’s frustrated look, which Christophe didn’t understand. At the next station, the actor left and moved to another car. Then Christophe was thinking – yes, too late – that he had expelled him from the carriage:

A few days later, Christophe sat on the same track on his way back to Paris, waiting for the train, on the only bench there was. The actress appeared on the scene and sat next to her. Christophe was going to get up. The actress said:

– Please.

They were two there. Christophe apologized for having forced her to leave her wagon compartment; he said that if he had thought he would be disturbed, he would have moved from there. An eminent smile on her face the actress only answered:

– Yeah, you were unbearable, staring stubbornly, but at me.

Christophe said:

– I apologize; I couldn’t do anything for it … You looked like a victim of me.

– What did it belong to you? asked another.

– It’s something I can’t do. If you see someone, for example, drowning, wouldn’t you want to hand your hand over him?

– What? Far from it, the actress answered. On the contrary, I would press his head under the water so that the rest would come sooner.

He said this bitterness and humor; and when Christophe looked at him, he laughed.

The train came to the station. All the wagons were full, except the last one.
Françoise Oudon got up to it. The Conductor asked them to hurry.
Christophe, who was not interested in being in the same position as
a day ago, was looking for a place in the second compartment.
The actress said to her:
– Come on.

Christophe went to the trolley. Traveler hired:

– It’s irrelevant to me today.

They were talking to each other. Christophe tried to explain very seriously to him that he had no right to be ignorant of others, and that the world could do a lot of good to each other, help each other, comfort …

– Those comforts aren’t up to me, the actress answered.

And when Christophe was stunned and accelerated, he continued to desperately smile:

– Yes, the part of the Comforter is very hilarious to the one who plays it.

It was time before Christophe understood this answer. When he understood it, he imagined that the actress suspected he was speaking in some way for his own benefit, even though he only thought of his travel companion; then Christophe got up in anger, opened the door and was about to leave the carriage while the train was already in motion. Françoise Oudon made him blocked with quite a bit of trouble. Christophe sat in his frenzy and closed the door just as the train crashed into the tunnel.

– Oh, yeah, the actress said, you could have killed yourself.

– That’s what I miss, Christophe replied.

And he didn’t want to talk to that woman anymore.

– The world is so stupid, he said. Producing suffering for others, suffering for themselves; and when you want another help, you are suspected. It is ridiculous. Such people are not people.

The actress tried her to laugh. He put his gloved arm on Christophe’s hand; she spoke to her beautifully, mentioning her name.

– What, you know me? asked Christophe.

– As not all people would know each other in Paris. You’re in fashion now, too. But I was wrong when I spoke to you that way. You’re a good boy, I see it. But calm down now. Hit your palm! Get off.

They gave each other a hand and talked to each other kindly.
The actress said:
– It’s not my fault, you understand. I received from the people the kinds of experiences that I have become suspicious.

– I am disappointed over them, very often, said Christophe.
But I always trust them.
– I see you’re born into a blindfold.

Christophe burst into laughter:

– Yes, I swallowed one and the other a fly in my life; but it does not matter. I have a good stomach. Eat larger animals, a whole bull, and if necessary, some gnats that get out of my way. And I can only do it better.

– You have the right content, said the actress; you are a man.

– And you, woman,

– It’s not much, it.

– That’s beautiful, Christophe said, and that may be so good!

Françoise laughed and repeated:

– That’s it! But what does the world do to it ?

– You have to defend yourself.

– That’s not good for long then.

– That’s because it’s not enough.

– Maybe. And it may be too much suffering. There is an excess that dries the soul.

Christophe was already deeply sorry for him. But then he remembered what the actress had just been to him …

– You’re going to talk about a funny comforter again …

– No, Françoise replied, I’m not going any more. I feel you are good that you are straight. Thanks. But don’t talk anything. Because you can’t know … I thank you.

I came to Paris. They divorced from each other, did not inform each other of their address and did not invite each other to visit him.

A couple of three months later, the actress himself played
Christophe’s doorbell.
– I’ll come to you. I have to get a little talk with you.
I thought you guys sometime after it encounters.
He sat down.

– Only the time. I won’t bother you for a long time.

Christophe was going to talk. Françoise said:

– Just a few minutes, can you wait? They were silent. Then
Françoise said with a smile:
– I couldn’t do it anymore. Now it’s better.

Christophe was about to ask what he was.

– No, no, said the actress.

He looked around, criticized what he saw, and noticed a
photo of Louise:
– Is that the mother? he asked.

– Yeah.

He took a photo and looked at it with a snap and gentle eye.

– Good old man! he said. You’re happy.

– Oh, he’s already dead.

– It doesn’t hurt, he’s got you.

– Yeah; how about you?

The actress charted this subject, wrinkling her eyebrows. He didn’t want Christophe to ask about his business.

– No, tell yourself. For me here… Something about your life…

– What are you doing about it?

– Yeah, but, tell me now. Christophe did not want to tell, but he could not answer the actress’s questions, because the questioner was quite clever. And maybe not, Christophe told some of the things he was painful about his friendship with Olivier Jeannin, who had resigned from him. Actress listened to a grim and gorgeous smile with her lips?… Suddenly she asked:

– What time is it? Ah, bless! Yea, I have been here for two hours! … Excuse me … What rest, this was for me! …

He added:

– I would like to go here more often … I often … Just sometimes … It would make me good. But I wouldn’t want you bored, miss your time… Only minutes sometimes, occasionally…

– I’ll come to you, Christophe said.

– No, no, not to me. Here, with you, it’s better than me …