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Jean Christophe, Vol. I

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"Now," said the girl, "here is the return train. I must go home.
Good-night."

"Wait," said Christophe. "And the fare, what did you do about that?"

"Lorchen gave it me."

"Take this," said Christophe, pressing a few pieces of money into her hand.

He held her back as she was trying to go.

"And then...." he said.

He stooped and kissed her cheeks. The girl affected to protest.

"Don't mind," said Christophe jokingly. "It was not for you."

"Oh! I know that," said the girl mockingly. "It was for Lorchen."

It was not only Lorchen that Christophe kissed as he kissed the little
milkmaid's chubby cheeks; it was all Germany.

The girl slipped away and ran towards the train which was just going. She
hung out of the window and waved her handkerchief to him until she was out
of sight. He followed with his eyes the rustic messenger who had brought
him for the last time the breath of his country and of those he loved.

When she had gone he found himself utterly alone, this time, a stranger
in a strange land. He had in his hand his mother's letter and the shawl
love-token. He pressed the shawl to his breast and tried to open the
letter. But his hands trembled. What would he find in it? What suffering
would be written in it?--No; he could not bear the sorrowful words of
reproach which already he seemed to hear; he would retrace his steps.

At last he unfolded the letter and read: "My poor child, do not be anxious
about me. I will be wise. God has punished me. I must not be selfish and
keep you here. Go to Paris. Perhaps it will be better for you. Do not worry
about me. I can manage somehow. The chief thing is that you should be
happy. I kiss you. MOTHER.

"Write to me when you can."

Christophe sat down on his valise and wept.

* * * * *

The porter was shouting the train for Paris.

The heavy train was slowing down with a terrific noise. Christophe dried
his tears, got up and said:

"I must go."

He looked at the sky in the direction in which Paris must be. The sky, dark
everywhere, was even darker there. It was like a dark chasm. Christophe's
heart ached, but he said again:

"I must go."

He climbed into the train and leaning out of the window went on looking at
the menacing horizon:

"O, Paris!" he thought, "Paris! Come to my aid! Save me! Save my thoughts!"

The thick fog grew denser still. Behind Christophe, above the country he
was leaving, a little patch of sky, pale blue, large, like two eyes--like
the eyes of Sabine--smiled sorrowfully through the heavy veil of clouds and
then was gone. The train departed. Rain fell. Night fell.

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