Jean Christophe: In Paris | Page 7

encountering his best friend.
Christophe was so staggered that he wondered again if Kohn was not
making fun of him. But Kohn was doing nothing of the kind--or, rather,
if he was joking, it was no more than usual. There was no rancor about
Kohn: he was too clever for that. He had long ago forgotten the rough
treatment he had suffered at Christophe's hands: and if ever he did
remember it, it did not worry him. He was delighted to have the
opportunity of showing his old schoolfellow his importance and his
new duties, and the elegance of his Parisian manners. He was not lying
in expressing his surprise: a visit from Christophe was the last thing in
the world that he expected: and if he was too worldly-wise not to know
that the visit was of set material purpose, he took it as a reason the
more for welcoming him, as it was, in fact, a tribute to his power.
"And you have come from Germany? How is your mother?" he asked,
with a familiarity which at any other time would have annoyed
Christophe, but now gave him comfort in the strange city.
"But how was it," asked Christophe, who was still inclined to be
suspicious, "that they told me just now that Herr Kohn did not belong
here?"
"Herr Kohn doesn't belong here," said Sylvain Kohn, laughing. "My
name isn't Kohn now. My name is Hamilton."
He broke off.
"Excuse me," he said.
He went and shook hands with a lady who was passing and smiled
grimacingly. Then he came back. He explained that the lady was a
writer famous for her voluptuous and passionate novels. The modern
Sappho had a purple ribbon on her bosom, a full figure, bright golden
hair round a painted face; she made a few pretentious remarks in a
mannish fashion with the accent of Franche-Comté.
Kohn plied Christophe with questions. He asked about all the people at
home, and what had become of so-and-so, pluming himself on the fact

that he remembered everybody. Christophe had forgotten his antipathy;
he replied cordially and gratefully, giving a mass of detail about which
Kohn cared nothing at all, and presently he broke off again.
"Excuse me," he said.
And he went to greet another lady who had come in.
"Dear me!" said Christophe. "Are there only women writers in
France?"
Kohn began to laugh, and said fatuously:
"France is a woman, my dear fellow. If you want to succeed, make up
to the women."
Christophe did not listen to the explanation, and went on with his own
story. To put a stop to it, Kohn asked:
"But how the devil do you come here?"
"Ah!" thought Christophe, "he doesn't know. That is why he was so
amiable. He'll be different when he knows."
He made it a point of honor to tell everything against himself: the brawl
with the soldiers, the warrant out against him, his flight from the
country.
Kohn rocked with laughter.
"Bravo!" he cried. "Bravo! That's a good story!"
He shook Christophe's hand warmly. He was delighted by any smack in
the eye of authority: and the story tickled him the more as he knew the
heroes of it: he saw the funny side of it.
"I say," he said, "it is past twelve. Will you give me the pleasure ...?
Lunch with me?"

Christophe accepted gratefully. He thought:
"This is a good fellow--decidedly a good fellow. I was mistaken."
They went out together. On the way Christophe put forward his
request:
"You see how I am placed. I came here to look for work--music
lessons--until I can make my name. Could you speak for me?"
"Certainly," said Kohn. "To any one you like. I know everybody here.
I'm at your service."
He was glad to be able to show how important he was.
Christophe covered him with expressions of gratitude. He felt that he
was relieved of a great weight of anxiety.
At lunch he gorged with the appetite of a man who has not broken fast
for two days. He tucked his napkin round his neck, and ate with his
knife. Kohn-Hamilton was horribly shocked by his voracity and his
peasant manners. And he was, hurt, too, by the small amount of
attention that his guest gave to his bragging. He tried to dazzle him by
telling of his fine connections and his prosperity: but it was no good:
Christophe did not listen, and bluntly interrupted him. His tongue was
loosed, and he became familiar. His heart was full, and he
overwhelmed Kohn with his simple confidences of his plans for the
future. Above all, he exasperated him by insisting on taking his hand
across the table and pressing it effusively. And he brought him to the
pitch of irritation at