"Well, let them crawl like children until they learn how to walk by themselves. But whether they go on two legs or on all fours, the first thing, the only thing you can ask is that they should walk somehow." He was prowling round and round and up and down the room, though less than four strides took him across it. He stopped in front of the piano, opened it, turned over the pages of some music, touched the keys, and said: "Play me something." Olivier started. "I!" he said. "What an idea!" "Madame Roussin told me you were a good musician. Come: play me something." "With you listening? Oh!" he said, "I should die." The sincerity and simplicity with which he spoke made Christophe laugh: Olivier, too, though rather bashfully. "Well," said Christophe, "is that a reason for a Frenchman?" Olivier still drew back. "But why? Why do you want me to?" "I'll tell you presently. Play!" "What?" "Anything you like." Olivier sat down at the piano with a sigh, and, obedient to the imperious will of the friend who had sought him out, he began to play the beautiful _Adagio in B Minor_ of Mozart. At first his fingers trembled so that he could hardly make them press down the keys: but he regained courage little by little: and, while he thought he was but repeating Mozart's utterance, he unwittingly revealed his inmost heart. Music is an indiscreet confidant: it betrays the most secret thoughts of its lovers to those who love it. Through the godlike scheme of the _Adagio_ of Mozart Christophe could perceive the invisible lines of the character, not of Mozart, but of his new friend sitting there by the piano: the serene melancholy, the timid, tender smile of the boy, so nervous, so pure, so full of love, so ready to blush. But he had hardly reached the end of the air, the topmost point where the melody of sorrowful love ascends and snaps, when a sudden irrepressible feeling of shame and modesty overcame Olivier, so that he could not go on: his fingers would not move, and his voice failed him. His hands fell by his side, and he said: "I can't play any more...." Christophe was standing behind him, and he stooped and reached over him and finished the broken melody: then he said: "Now I know the music of your soul." He held his hands, and stayed for a long time gazing into his face. At last he said: "How queer it is!... I have seen you before.... I know you so well, and I have known you so long!..." Olivier's lips trembled: he was on the point of speaking. But he said nothing. Christophe went on gazing at him for a moment or two longer. Then he smiled and said no more, and went away. * * * * *