Jean Christophe: In Paris | Page 6

gathering explosion he said hurriedly--(he was not a bad
fellow at bottom: avarice and vanity were struggling in him: he would
have liked to help Christophe, at a price):
"Can I lend you fifty francs?"
Christophe went crimson. He went up to Diener, who stepped back
hurriedly to the door and opened it, and held himself in readiness to call
for help, if necessary. But Christophe only thrust his face near his and

bawled:
"You swine!"
And he flung him aside and walked out through the little throng of
assistants. At the door he spat in disgust.
* * * * *
He strode along down the street. He was blind with fury. The rain
sobered him. Where was he going? He did not know. He did not know
a soul. He stopped to think outside a book-shop, and he stared stupidly
at the rows of books. He was struck by the name of a publisher on the
cover of one of them. He wondered why. Then he remembered that it
was the name of the house in which Sylvain Kohn was employed. He
made a note of the address.... But what was the good? He would not
go.... Why should he not go?... If that scoundrel Diener, who had been
his friend, had given him such a welcome, what had he to expect from a
rascal whom he had handled roughly, who had good cause to hate him?
Vain humiliations! His blood boiled at the thought. But his native
pessimism, derived perhaps from his Christian education, urged him on
to probe to the depths of human baseness.
"I have no right to stand on ceremony. I must try everything before I
give in."
And an inward voice added:
"And I shall not give in."
He made sure of the address, and went to hunt up Kohn He made up his
mind to hit him in the eye at the first show of impertinence.
The publishing house was in the neighborhood of the Madeleine.
Christophe went up to a room on the second floor, and asked for
Sylvain Kohn. A man in livery told him that "Kohn was not known."
Christophe was taken aback, and thought his pronunciation must be at
fault, and he repeated his question: but the man listened attentively, and

repeated that no one of that name was known in the place. Quite out of
countenance, Christophe begged pardon, and was turning to go when a
door at the end of the corridor opened, and he saw Kohn himself
showing a lady out. Still suffering from the affront put upon him by
Diener, he was inclined to think that everybody was having a joke at
his expense. His first thought was that Kohn had seen him, and had
given orders to the man to say that he was not there. His gorge rose at
the impudence of it. He was on the point of going in a huff, when he
heard his name: Kohn, with his sharp eyes, had recognized him: and he
ran up to him, with a smile on his lips, and his hands held out with
every mark of extraordinary delight.
Sylvain Kohn was short, thick-set, clean-shaven, like an American; his
complexion was too red, his hair too black; he had a heavy, massive
face, coarse-featured; little darting, wrinkled eyes, a rather crooked
mouth, a heavy, cunning smile. He was modishly dressed, trying to
cover up the defects of his figure, high shoulders, and wide hips. That
was the only thing that touched his vanity: he would gladly have put up
with any insult if only he could have been a few inches taller and of a
better figure. For the rest, he was very well pleased with himself: he
thought himself irresistible, as indeed he was. The little German Jew,
clod as he was, had made himself the chronicler and arbiter of Parisian
fashion and smartness. He wrote insipid society paragraphs and articles
in a delicately involved manner. He was the champion of French style,
French smartness, French gallantry, French wit--Regency, red heels,
Lauzun. People laughed at him: but that did not prevent his success.
Those who say that in Paris ridicule kills do not know Paris: so far from
dying of it, there are people who live on it: in Paris ridicule leads to
everything, even to fame and fortune. Sylvain Kohn was far beyond
any need to reckon the good-will that every day accumulated to him
through his Frankfortian affectations.
He spoke with a thick accent through his nose.
"Ah! What a surprise!" he cried gaily, taking Christophe's hands in his
own clumsy paws, with their stubby fingers that looked as though they
were crammed into too tight a skin. He could not let go of Christophe's

hands. It was as though, he were