A little mirri in the middle, all three motionless in their own thoughts, watching the flames. The fire that was extinct threw soft reflections on the lady’s beautiful faces, which now blushed her rare inner vitality. He wondered himself that he had opened his heart. He had never spoken so much about himself. And he would never talk again.
Finally he put his hand on Christophe’s hand and said:
– What are you doing to the child?
He had thought about that from the very beginning. He spoke, spoke, was just like another woman, as drunk. But he just thought about it. Right after Christophe’s announcement of the incident, he had already built a whole novel in his heart. He thought of the child that his mother had left, good luck to grow it, weave a little soul around his own dreams and love. But he said to himself:
– No, it’s bad, I’m not allowed to enjoy the accident of others.
However, that wish was stronger for him. He spoke, spoke, and his silent heart warmed up with hope.
– We’ve thought about it. Oh little puppy! Not Olivier and I can’t grow it. It needs woman care. I thought maybe you would like a friend to help us…
M: We can hardly breathe Arnaud anymore.
Christophe went on:
– I wanted to talk about it with you. And then Cécile just got the best out there. When he heard the incident and saw the child, he was so moved; he seemed to be so joyful and said to me: “Christophe…”
M: We stopped the heart of Arnaud; he no longer heard anything, in his eyes blinded, he would have screamed:
– No, no, give it to me … Christophe talked. M: We didn’t hear what he said. But he forced himself to be silent. She remembered how Cécile had opened her heart, and she thought:
– She needs it better than me. I have my beloved husband … and everything else I can think of … And I’m the older one …
That’s why he smiled and said to Christoph:
– That was a good thing.
But the fire on the stove had gone out; and likewise the redness of his face. So, those tired and affectionate faces no longer showed their usual submissive goodness.
– A friend betrayed me.
This idea pushed Olivier Jeannin to the ground. In vain,
Christophe tried to shake him back to life, in a gentle way.
– What are you doing now? he shouted. The fact that a friend is deceiving is a daily affair, just like poverty, illness, struggle against fools. I have to get up against it. If he can’t get up, it’s because he’s a foul man.
– Ah, that’s what I am. I’m not afraid to change my mind.?. An eagle, one who longs for tenderness and dies if it is no longer available.
– Not your life is gone: after all, those you love to love.
– I don’t believe any more. No more friends anymore.
– Forgive me. I do not doubt you, even when there are those moments when I suspect everything … myself … But you are strong, you don’t need anyone, you can live without me.
– He’s even easier.
– You’re cruel, Christophe.
– Good friend, I treat you hard; but I’ll do it for you to bounce back to resistance. Listen, hide it, shame the sacrifices of those who love you, and your own life for the creature that makes you ridicule.
– What about those who love me? I love her.
– Work. One that you were excited about before…
-… no more excited me. I’m tired. It feels like I have left life. Everything is so far away from me, far away … I see, but I don’t understand anything anymore. a book, a dozen actresses or against her… Ah, how do I feel like I am old! There is no hatred in me, no resentment, no one: everything is unfortunate about me. I feel that there is no purpose… Do you write? Why write? Who understands us? I have written so far only for a single creature; all I was was just for him … Now there’s nothing. I’m tired, Christophe, tired. I would like to sleep.
– Well, sleep my friend. I’ll control you.
But to sleep, Olivier was the least. Ah, if the sufferer could sleep, sleep for months until the pain has passed away from his renewed being until he is a new person! But nothing can give him this gift; and he would not want it. The deepest suffering would be for him to suffer from suffering. Olivier was like a fever sick that just fever survives. It was a real fever; it regularly rose in the cloudy hours, especially in the evening, at dusk, in the light of the light. And for the rest of the time he left him in a broken space, in poisoning love, in a slumping memory, in a burial of one and only thought, just like an intelligent who chews the same mouthpiece without knowing it; all of his brain powers were paralyzed, they were absorbed by one single indelible thought.
He did not have Christophella’s ability to precipitate his affliction, to curse the one who was guilty of it. Olivier was more visionary and fairer, he knew that he was a responsible person and that he did not suffer alone: Jacqueline was also a victim, – was his victim. Jacqueline had relied on her care: what did she do to her? If he had no power to make him happy, why was he bound by another? Jacqueline was right when she cut off those ties that threatened her with death.
– It’s not her fault, Olivier thought. It’s me. I loved her badly. And I really loved him. But I couldn’t love her because I was never able to love her.
So Olivier blamed himself; and maybe he was right. But it does not help to repent of the past: it would not prevent repentance from starting again, if it could begin; and it prevents life. A powerful man is the one who forgets the evil and what has been done to him – even, O us, even the evil that he himself has done – forget the point when he sees that the act is no longer helpful. But man is not strong with his mind, but with the passion of life. Love and those passions are distant relatives to each other; rarely do they merge. Olivier loved; he was powerful only against himself. In the state of passivity he had been in, he was prone to all the injuries. He was hit by influenza, then throat and pneumonia. He was sick of a good part of the summer. Christophe was faithfully treated by Mrs Arnaud n; and they were suppressed by the physical disease. But they were powerless against the spiritual illness; And gradually they began to feel that submissive grief, frustrating and tiring of themselves and longing to escape.
The accident isolates man into a strange state of loneliness. Others are haunting instinctively. It feels as if they fear it is infectious; at least it bored them; Trying to save the vicinity of an unfortunate one. How few are there that forgive people for suffering! The old story of Job’s friends is always repeated. Elifas Teman accuses Job of being insane. Bildad Suah is of the opinion that Job’s accidents are punishments for his sins. Sofar Naemma condemns him for being brash. ” And finally, Elihu Barakel’s son, Busi, of the tribe of Ram, is angry with Job, to keep his soul more God.”- For the few, sorrow is really serious. Many are called, few are chosen. Olivier was them. Just as a misanthropist said,” he seemed to be pleased to have been treated badly. There is no advantage of being unhappy: doing herself. ”
Olivier couldn’t talk to anyone, not even the closest ones. He noticed that such a bully was another. Only his beloved friend made that persistent and disturbing pain impatient. Christophe felt too clumsy to fix it. But to be honest, this man, whose heart was noble, and who himself had a lot of suffering, was unable to own the pain of his friend. A man is so inadequate. Although he would be good, pathetic, patient, he suffered thousands of pains of death: he does not know the pain of another if one has a toothache. And if the disease continues, he’s almost ready to think the sick is moaning too much. How much harder it is to understand when the pain is completely invisible, to the depths of the soul! A person who doesn’t have it is nervous, that his neighbors are in such a bad mood because of a feeling that does not move another at all. And besides, he craves his conscience to calm down:
– And what can I do for it? Don’t talk about it.
Not really speaking. The sufferer cannot do good things except by loving him, loving the primitive blindly, without trying to convince him that he is not sick, without trying to heal him, only by loving and pitying him. Love is the only remedy for wounds of love. But love is not even endless when it is the most; they do not have enough of a limited warehouse. When friends say or write to each other what they have come up with when they feel they have fulfilled their duties, they retreat wisely aside from the sick as a criminal. And because they are secretly ashamed of helping to play so little, they start to help him less and less; they try to get sick to forget them, and they try to forget themselves. And if they are still disturbed by the unhappy, if the echo of his appeal penetrates their escape, they will severely reproach that unruly man who does not stand up to his ordeal. Let us be assured that if he falls under his burden, there will be the following despicable secret in the good faith of men:
– That damn! I thought he was better.
How untold good may be in the midst of such general selfishness to make a small affectionate word, a sign of subtlety, a look that pity and loves! Then you will notice the value of goodness. And how poor everybody else in the world is alongside it!… For the sake of goodness, we came to Arnaud Olivier Jeannin now more than anyone else, Christophek alone, who was so dear to the dying man. And yet, Christophe forced himself to a very commendable patience; he hid in love with his friend what he thought of him. But Olivier, whose clear view of suffering was still sharpened, noticed Christophe’s struggle against himself and that his sorrow was a burden for Christoph. It was enough to turn her away from a friend and bring her desire to excuse him:
– Go away!
In this way, the accident often takes away hearts that love each other. Like a grain whisker that separates chaff and grains, it sorts it into another bunch of things that want to die, and another that wants to live. The terrible law of life, even stronger than love! A mother who sees her son dying, a friend who knows her friend’s drowning – unless they can save them, they will save themselves, don’t die with them. And yet they love them a thousand times more than their own spirit…
In spite of his deep love, Christophen was sometimes forced to flee his friend. He was too strong, he could be too well, he was suffocated to live in the midst of such an airless pain. How she shamed herself! He suffered the death penalty when he could not do anything for his friend; and when he had to get revenge on someone, he demolished his anger at Jacqueline. Although M: Arnaud had spoken to him with so clear-cut words, Christophe still severely condemned Jacquelea, as a young, full and intense character, who has not yet experienced enough life, so he is relentless in its weaknesses.
Christophe went to see Cécile’s friends and the child who had been entrusted with Cécile’s treatment. It refreshed his soul. Cécile had completely changed this loan; he now looked straight out of a young, happy, refined, sensitized. The escaping of Jacqueline was by no means provoked in him any unexpected hopes of happiness. He felt that Jacquel’s memory would take Olivier further from him than if Jacqueline had been present. Moreover, the confusion of emotions in his brain had already passed by him: it had been a crisis that had also been healed by Jacquel’s dislocation. Cécile soon returned to his usual peace, and he no longer understood how he had lost it. His best longing for love has now been found in his love for the child in love. With the marvelous imaginative power of the woman – intuition – she also got the man she loved in that little being; and there was Olivier in his weakness, totally in his power, his own; and he was allowed to love him, loves passionately, with the same pure heart as that innocent child and his bright, blue eyes, light-moist eyes…. Ah, however, the other child is not exactly the same as if it were our own pomp! with an equally pure heart as that innocent child and his bright, blue eyes, light-moist eyes… Not that his affection would be confused by the sadness of the lower limbs. Ah, however, the other child is not exactly the same as if it were our own pomp! with an equally pure heart as that innocent child and his bright, blue eyes, light-moist eyes… Not that his affection would be confused by the sadness of the lower limbs. Ah, however, the other child is not exactly the same as if it were our own pomp!
Christophe now looked at Cécile with a whole new eye. He remembered the following
ironic words of Françoise Oudon:
– Where is it that you and Filomela, who would agree so well, do not love each other?
But Françoise knew the reason, though not Christophe himself: once a man is Christophe, it is rare for him to love a creature that could make him good: he prefers to love one who can make him bad. Opposites attract each other; Nature is looking for its destruction, it strives for an intense life that burns itself, not a sensible and self-saving. And this act of nature is good for a person like Christophe, whose purpose is not to live as long as possible, but as vigorously as possible.
But Christophe, who was not as clairvoyant as Françoise, thought that love was a blind and inhumane power. It brings together those who cannot suffer each other. It prohibits those who are of the same kind. Its lifestyle is minimal compared to what it destroys. Luckily, it takes me from the will of man. In an accident it breaks the human. What good does it ever do?
And while he saw your love for you, he saw the ironic and gentle smile, and the smile said to him:
Christophe could not have gone to some of the Austrian delegation’s night outings. Filomela sang Schubert, Hugo Wolf and Christophe Liedi there . He was happy about his own and his friend’s success, a friend who was now admired by the constituency. Among the general public, Christophe’s name gained more and more value in the day; Lévy-Coeur was no longer entitled to be ignorant of it. His compositions were played at concerts; Opéra-Comiquehad taken his song. The invisible favorites took care of him. The mysterious friend who had been helping him many times still promoted his efforts. Often Christophe felt that friendly hand in his business: somebody kept his eye on him all the time and kept himself secret. Christophe had tried to find out who it was; but the helper was outraged by the fact that Christophe had never tried to make him clear, and now he remained inaccessible. In addition, Christophella had a lot to remember: Olivier was in his care and Françoise in his thoughts; just this morning he had read in a newspaper that Françoise had been ill in a dangerous disease in San Francisco: Christophe imagined
In these painful thoughts, he avoided the praises of the evening calls; he had gone alone to a smaller branch. She stood on her back against a wall, in a manger, half-shaded behind green plants and flowers, and listened to Filomela’s elegant and warm voice singing Schubert’s Lehm; and the wings of the tones lifted the whole despair of memories into his soul. Opposite him the other wall had a large reflector that reflected the bright lights of the adjacent big hall. He didn’t see it: he looked at himself; and his eyes were shaken by the tears of tears… Suddenly, his body began to shake, as if Schubert’s old shaking tree, without any reason. He stood there for a second, Kalma’s pale, motionless. Then his eyes disappeared, and he saw in front of him a “friend” who looked at him from there … a friend: a friend. Who was he? Christophe knew nothing but that he was a friend and that he knew him as a friend; and leaning against his back in the wall and looking at him from the eye to the eye, Christophe still trembled. Friends smiled. Christophe didn’t see The shape of his face or body was not the color of his eyes, not whether he was large or small and what kind of suit. Only one thing he saw was that he was sorry for the divine goodness of his smile.
And suddenly, in the mind of Christophe, the smile aroused an already forgotten memory of his earlier childhood … He was then six, seven years old; he was at school, was unhappy, parents and stronger comrades had humiliated and beaten him, they had all ridiculed him, and the teacher had punished him innocently; Christophe had squeezed into a corner, alone, bridle like others were playing, and he wept silently. A small and upset girl who hadn’t been playing with others – (Christophe saw her vividly at the moment, though she hadn’t thought about her here: the girl was short-lived, her head was big, hair and eyebrows white like linen, eyes very light blue , cheeks wide and diaphragm, lips thick, fluffy face, and his little hand red); The girl had come to Christophe, stopped in her mouth and looked at Christophe crying; then he had put his little hand on the head of Christophe and said to him with grace, quickly, smiling piously: just like this friend:
– Don’t cry, don’t cry!
Then Christophe was no longer able to hold his pain, he had begun to voice his voice, and pressed his little girl’s apron, a baby who hocked with an increasingly shaky and gentle voice:
– Do not Cry.
That girl had died some time after that, just a few weeks later if Christophe’s memory; when he comforted Christoph, he was already killed near him … Why did Christophe now think of him? There was no connection between the forgotten little deceiver of the forgotten German city, and the young nobleman who watched him this time. But there is only one soul in the universe; and even though the millions of beings in the world look different from each other, just as the celestial bodies circulating in the air, the radius of the same thought or love shines in all the hearts that are separated by hundreds of years. Christophe now saw the light of the same light that he had once seen with that little comforter on his lips…
This only took a short time. The flock of great crowds blocked the door and covered Christoph in the other hall. Christophe quickly retreated out of the mirror; he was afraid that his disgusted state of mind would be noticed. But when he got a little calm, he wanted to see that friend again. He was uneasy that only a friend would have left the party. She went to the big hall. And in the midst of the crowd of people, Christophe found him, even though he wasn’t looking the same as he was now. Now Christophe got to watch her profile; he sat in the middle of a great group of unmarried women; the elbow against the edge of the armchair, the torso slightly bowed, the head on his head followed by the other people’s smart and distracted smile on their lips; His face was like that of the young St. John, who was RafaelListening and watching others in the debate , eyes in the seminary, smiling at their own thoughts…
Then his friend lifted his head and saw Christophe, and he wasn’t stunned at all. And Christophe noticed that the friend’s smile was meant for him. Christophe bowed to her and moved toward her.
– Don’t you know me? asked a friend.
Then Christophe suddenly knew him:
– Grazia… he said. [See Jean-Christophe Paris I,
At the same time, the ambassador, Mrs. Miss, went over and she expressed her joy that this long-awaited encounter was finally happening. And he introduced Christoph “Countess Berény”. But Christophe was so moved that he hadn’t heard anything, not even an alien name. He was still just his little Grazian.
Grazia was a two-third year old. A year ago, he had married a young attaché of an Austrian delegationwith the one who belonged to the nobility, a family of an imperial prime minister, a dude, an elder, a fine man, a long time ago; Grazia was really in love with her and still loved her, though she condemned her life. His old father was dead. The man was appointed to the Austrian Embassy in Paris. By virtue of her acquaintance with Count Berény and her own charm and bright intelligence, that girl from the price who had previously been too timid soon became one of the most noteworthy women in the Parisian sophistication, without trying to do that in any way, but easily getting home to it. Such power is a woman’s youth and beauty, and charm, as well as the knowledge that she can charm. And just as great is that he has a peaceful heart, the healthiest and I hear, as in Graziah, who, therefore, found his happiness in his perfect longing and in harmony. The beautiful flower of life was opened; but Grazia had never lost the peaceful music of her Latin soul, which had been tuned by the Italian light and the mighty peace. He had naturally gained a great deal of influence in Paris’s refinement: he did not surprise him and could use it intelligently to support the artistic and philanthropic endeavors if he were secured in those matters; he was taken care of by the official protection of his springs: for even though he was able to perform according to his worth, he had retained the desire for secret independence from the childhood, which had been somewhat insane in the secluded villa in the countryside, so that the world bored him while amusing him;
Grazia hadn’t forgotten her great friend Christoph. The child that was secretly burned by innocent love, though, no longer existed. The current Grazia was a very sensible and not a romantic woman. He thought softly to a childish exaggerated affection. But he was always moved when he remembered it. The picture of Christophe had coincided with the cleanest moments of his life. Whenever he heard his name, he felt pleasure. And he enjoyed every success of him, as he would have had a share of it: for he had thought Christophe would succeed once. When he got married, he tried to meet Christoph. He invited him to a stranger and put his former daughter’s name in the invitation letter. Christophe hadn’t noticed that little thing and he had thrown the letter into the paper basket without answering it. Graz was not hurt by it. He then kept more and more Christophe without knowing his work and his life. Grazia’s friendly hand helped Christoph in the war that the newspapers had just started against him. Of course, pure Grazia did not have anything to do with the world of newsagents, but when it came to helping a friend, he was able to covetly charm those gentlemen who he could have kept the least. He invited his house to become the editor-in-chief of the worst bark of the dog beast; and quite easily he twisted his head; he knew mair man’s self-love; he deceived him so skilfully, the man without hiding the core of the matter, he didn’t need anything else to pass through the astonishing and despicable attacks that Christophe had suffered: it was enough to stop the chase immediately. The editor-in-chief left the next day without publishing an already wretched article, and when the author of that chronicle asked the reason for rejecting his writ, he barked him. Still, he did more: he gave a commandment to an all-wise picent to make an article that praises Christoph within two weeks; it was made, and it was so admirable and silly as hoped. Grazia also invented the idea of arranging performances by her friend in the delegation, and when she knew that Cécile was taking care of Christoph, she helped Cécileak to become known. Then he took on his relationship, which he had in the German diplomats world, quietly, calmly and skillfully arousing the state-minded interest in Christophea from exile from Germany, and finally he tried to make such a translation in the belief that the emperor would be the order that would open the gates of that patriotic artist to his great patriotic artist. And while it was too early today to hope for such a great mercy, however, Grazia managed to get even a promise to look through the fingers if Christophe were to lie down for a few days in her birth town. that would open the gates of that country to a great artist honored by his patriotism. And while it was too early today to hope for such a great mercy, however, Grazia managed to get even a promise to look through the fingers if Christophe were to lie down for a few days in her birth town. that would open the gates of that country to a great artist honored by his patriotism. And while it was too early today to hope for such a great mercy, however, Grazia managed to get even a promise to look through the fingers if Christophe were to lie down for a few days in her birth town.
And now Christophe, who had long been familiar with the intimacy of this invisible friend, had not known who he was, had met him in that young woman like Saint John, who smiled at him.
They call each other from past times. What they said to each other did not know Christophe. The talk of the person he loves does not hear more than he sees. Only love. And when you deeply love, don’t even think of loving her. Christophe’s head did not get the idea. Graz was there: that’s enough. There was nothing else…
Grazia’s call was interrupted. A young, very tall and beautiful man, – elegant, beard carefully driven, head semi-bald, looking bored and disdainful, – watched Christophea through his monocle, and now bowed with self-conscious courage to him:
– My husband, introduced Graz.
The hall’s huma began to belong again. The inner light went out of Christoph. He just as stiffened, silent, bowed to the Lord as a response, and withdrew from the point.
How comical are the harsh demands of the artistic souls and the childish laws that control their emotional life! It was hardly Christophe again to find his friend, whom he had not cared for at the time Graziah loved him, and which he hadn’t remembered for years, so he immediately felt that Graz was his, his possessions; the fact that the other had taken him was as if he was theft: Graz himself had no right to give himself to another. Christophe didn’t even wonder what his feelings really were. But his creative demon, for his part, took care of the matter, and in the following days gave birth to some of his most beautiful love songs.
For quite a long time he didn’t go to see Grazia. His own sorrow and Olivier’s illness were very hard for him. Finally, one day, when he found the address given by Grazia, he decided to go to his strangers.
He got up the steps of the messenger’s dwelling, and heard a hammer in the inside. There was clutter in the front room, full of boxes and travel coffins. Lakeija replied that the Countess could not be reached. But when Christophe, having left his business card, was disappointed to leave, then the servant ran away from him, apologized, and urged him to come back. He took Christophe to a small hall; its carpets were taken out and wrapped in roll. Grazia appeared in front of her with a bright smile on her lips, stretching out her hands with joy. The whole Christophe’s silly pit disappeared. He grabbed that hand as deeply happily as it was handed over to him and kissed it.
– Ah, said Grazia, I’m so happy that you came! I was afraid I would have to go without seeing you!
– The way out? Are you going to travel somewhere? Christophe’s soul was again covered by a dark shadow.
– As you can see, Graz replied, showing the disorder in the room; at the end of this week we are already out of Paris.
– For a long time?
Grazia made an unclear movement:
– You can’t say that.
Christophe was trying to talk. Her throat was suffocated.
– Where are you going?
– To the United States. My husband has been appointed as the first secretary to the delegation.
– And then, then … did Christophe… (and his lips tremble) all over?
– My friend, said Graz, shaking his voice …
No, not in the end.
– I just found you right away to lose.
Christophelle had tears in her eyes.
– My friend, replayed Graz.
Christophe covered his eyes with his hand and turned away to conceal his movement.
– Don’t be sad, Graz said, lowering her hand on her hand.
Even now, Christophe thought of a little German girl. They were both silent.
– Why did you come so late? asked Graz finally. I tried to meet you. But you didn’t answer the invitations.
– I do not know, I did not know it, slurred Christophe … Say, as you have just as many times helped me, even if I do not it might have guessed … I Teillehän debt of gratitude for allowing me to visit Germany?. Did you be the good angel who protected me?
– I was so happy when I could do something for you.
I owe you so much.
– What? asked Christophe. I have not done any good to you.
– You don’t know, Graz replied, what have you been to me.
And he talked about the time when he met his granddaughter Christophe with Stevens and when she got her, her compositions, awakened to discover everything that is beautiful in the world. And gradually he gradually resurrected and told Christoph, through the shore and briefly, but with enough translucent words of his then childhood: how he had taken part in Christophe’s sorrows; told about a concert where Christoph was hated and where Graz cried; and Christophhe wrote to Christophe: for he had not received it. And believing in his imagination, Christophe combined him, listening to the past, his mind and his tenderness that he now felt affectionate for a gentle being.
They talked innocently, heartily with joy. And when he spoke, he grabbed Christophe Grazia. And suddenly they both silenced: for Grazia noticed that Christophe loved her. And Christophe also noticed the same…
Before ancient times, Graz had loved Christoph, and Christophe had not cared about him. Now Christophe loved Grazia in turn; but Grazia no longer had any other feelings for him than peaceful friendship: he now loved another. As is often the case, one of them had a lifetime to go before another, and it was enough to change their fate for life…
Grazia pulled out her hand, which Christophe did not hold back. And for a moment they were puzzled and speechless.
Then Grazia said:
– Remain goodbye.
Christophe once again complained about his grief as he did.
– So after all, did it end?
– Probably better.
– We can’t see each other before you leave?
– No, Graz replied.
– Then what do we see?
Grazia made an unconscious and mournful movement.
– Right? Why did we then meet? asked Christophe.
But when he saw Grazia’s reproach, he repaired the point:
– No, forgive me, I am ungrateful.
– I always think of you, said Graz.
– Oh, I can’t even think of you, Christophe said. I don’t know anything about your life.
Grazia described peacefully and in a few words to her everyday life, and how her day was spent. She spoke about herself and her husband, with a friendly and beautiful smile.
– Ah, Christophe said jealously, you love him?
– I love, Graz replied. Christophe got up.
Grazia rose as well. Then Christophe noticed that she was pregnant. And he felt in his heart an intolerable aversion, affection, jealousy, and deep pity. Grazia brought her to the door of a small-scale. That’s where Christophe turned, took her out of hand, bent over and kissed them for a long time. Grazia didn’t move, the creatures stood half-closed. Finally, Christophe went straight and went quickly to Graz without looking.
… E chi allora m’avesse demandato
dicosa alcuna, la mia risponsione
sarebbe stata solamente AMORE
con Viso Vestito d’um…
Day of the saints. Outside gray light and cold wind. Christophe was at Cécile. Cécile sat beside the child’s cradle, leaning toward us: we stood at Arnaud; he had come in passing there to visit. Christophe dreams. He felt left out of happiness; but he didn’t want to complain: he knew that luck was there… Sun, I don’t have to see you to love you! On long winter days, when the color is dark, my heart is full of you; my love for me warms: I know you are there…?
Also Cécile dreams. He looked at the child, and finally he thought it was his own. Oh, the blessed power of dreams, life’s all-out imagination! Life… What is life? It’s not that cold mind and our eyes see it. Life is what we dream about. Love is a measure of life.
Christophe watched Cécile, whose strong face and wide-eyed eyes radiated the glow of motherhood instinct – more maternal than if she had been a mother. And Christophe looked at the gentle, tired faces of his second friend.
Mrs. Arnaud was like a moving book to her: Christophe saw the secret happiness of her husband’s life and its suffering, a life that can sometimes, though not foresee, be as rich in sorrow and joy as Julia’s or Isolde’s love. But in a religiously bigger way…
Socia rei humanae atque divinae …
And Christophe thought that as unbelievable or unbelievable, neither the children nor the infertility would marry the happiness or accident of past or lost. Happiness is the melting of the soul, the harmony that sounds from the depth of the heart. And the soul’s most beautiful tunes are: Goodness.
Olivier came into the room. His movements were calm; she was now brightened with a whole new serenity. He smiled at the child, squeezed Cécile’s and Mrs. Arnaud’s hands and began to talk calmly. Others watched him gently amazed. He was no longer a former man. In the loneliness that he had closed with sorrow, like the leafy weave into the casing, his hard work succeeded in stripping his grief, just as the caterpillar leaves the case. Later we tell how he now thought he had found a good thing for which he could sacrifice his life because he had no value other than sacrifice; and following the law of human emotions, he was also the warmed-up point of his soul on the day that he had decided to deny himself from life. Now they looked at her friends. They didn’t know what had happened to him, and they did not dare to ask him; but they knew that he had been freed, and that there was no more sorrow in him, no bitterness, no matter, no one.
Christophe got up, went to the piano, and said to his friend:
– Do you want me to sing a song from Brahms?
– Brahmsink? asked Olivier. Do you now play your bloody songs?
– Now is the day of the saints, Christophe answered; forgiveness day for everyone.
He sang in a quiet voice so as not to raise a child, a few verses from a popular song of that schwab:
… Für die Zeit, wo du g’liebt mi hast,
Da dank i dir schön,
Und i wünsch ‘, dass dir’s Anderswo
Besser mag geh’n…
(“The time when you loved me, thank you, and be happier elsewhere…”)
– Christophe! Olivier said.
Christophe closed her embrace.
– Well, my son, we’ve chosen a good part.
They sat, all four, at the bed of a sleeping child. They didn’t speak anything. And if they had been asked what they thought – they would have “humbled the face” only answered :
– Love .