Jean Christophe: In Paris | Page 8

said Kohn quickly. "I'll let you know. Don't you worry."
"Oh! it's no trouble. Quite the contrary. Eh? I've nothing else to do in Paris in the meanwhile."
"Good God!" thought Kohn.... "No," he said aloud. "But I would rather write to you. You wouldn't find me the next few days. Give me your address."
Christophe dictated it.
"Good. I'll write you to-morrow."
"To-morrow?"
"To-morrow. You can count on it"
He cut short Christophe's hand-shaking and escaped.
"Ugh!" he thought. "What a bore!"
As he went into his office he told the boy that he would not be in when "the German" came to see him. Ten minutes later he had forgotten him.
Christophe went back to his lair. He was full of gentle thoughts.
"What a good fellow! What a good fellow!" he thought. "How unjust I was about him. And he bears me no ill-will!"
He was remorseful, and he was on the point of writing to tell Kohn how sorry he was to have misjudged him, and to beg his forgiveness for all the harm he had done him. The tears came to his eyes as he thought of it. But it was harder for him to write a letter than a score of music: and after he had cursed and cursed the pen and ink of the hotel--which were, in fact, horrible--after he had blotted, criss-crossed, and torn up five or six sheets of paper, he lost patience and dropped it.
The rest of the day dragged wearily: but Christophe was so worn out by his sleepless night and his excursions in the morning that at length he dozed off in his chair. He only woke up in the evening, and then he went to bed: and he slept for twelve hours on end.
* * * * *
Next day from eight o'clock on he sat waiting for the promised letter. He had no doubt of Kohn's sincerity. He did not go out, telling himself that perhaps Kohn would come round by the hotel on his way to his office. So as not to be out, about midday he had his lunch sent up from the eating-house downstairs. Then he sat waiting again. He was sure Kohn would come on his way back from lunch. He paced up and down his room, sat down, paced up and down again, opened his door whenever he heard footsteps on the stairs. He had no desire to go walking about Paris to stay his anxiety. He lay down on his bed. His thoughts went back and back to his old mother, who was thinking of him too--she alone thought of him. He had an infinite tenderness for her, and he was remorseful at having left her. But he did not write to her. He was waiting until he could tell her that he had found work. In spite of the love they had for each other, it would never have occurred to either of them to write just to tell their love: letters were for things more definite than that. He lay on the bed with his hands locked behind his head, and dreamed. Although his room was away from the street, the roar of Paris invaded the silence: the house shook. Night came again, and brought no letter.
Came another day like unto the last.
On the third day, exasperated by his voluntary seclusion, Christophe decided to go out. But from the impression of his first evening he was instinctively in revolt against Paris. He had no desire to see anything: no curiosity: he was too much taken up with the problem of his own life to take any pleasure in watching the lives of others: and the memories of lives past, the monuments of a city, had always left him cold. And so, hardly had he set foot out of doors, than, although he had made up his mind not to go near Kohn for a week, he went straight to his office.
The boy obeyed his orders, and said that M. Hamilton had left Paris on business. It was a blow to Christophe. He gasped and asked when M. Hamilton would return. The boy replied at random:
"In ten days."
Christophe went back utterly downcast, and buried himself in his room during the following days. He found it impossible to work. His heart sank as he saw that his small supply of money--the little sum that his mother had sent him, carefully wrapped up in a handkerchief at the bottom of his bag--was rapidly decreasing. He imposed a severe r��gime on himself. He only went down in the evening to dinner in the little pot-house, where he quickly became known to the frequenters of it as the "Prussian" or "Sauerkraut." With frightful effort, he wrote two or three letters to French musicians whose names he knew hazily. One of them had been dead for ten