"What, you little fool, don't you see that it is your own?" He was sure of it, but to hear it said made his heart thump. "Oh! grandfather!..." Beaming, the old man showed him the book. "See: _Aria_. It is what you were singing on Tuesday when you were lying on the floor. _March_. That is what I asked you to sing again last week, and you could not remember it. _Minuet_. That is what you were dancing by the armchair. Look!" On the cover was written in wonderful Gothic letters: "_The Pleasures of Childhood: Aria, Minuetto, Valse, and Marcia, Op. 1, by Jean-Christophe Krafft_." Jean-Christophe was dazzled by it. To see his name, and that fine title, and that large book--his work!... He went on murmuring: "Oh! grandfather! grandfather!..." The old man drew him to him. Jean-Christophe threw himself on his knees, and hid his head in Jean Michel's bosom. He was covered with blushes from his happiness. The old man was even happier, and went on, in a voice which he tried to make indifferent, for he felt that he was on the point of breaking down: "Of course, I added the accompaniment and the harmony to fit the song. And then"--he coughed--"and then, I added a _trio_ to the minuet, because ... because it is usual ... and then.... I think it is not at all bad." He played it. Jean-Christophe was very proud of collaborating with his grandfather. "But, grandfather, you must put your name to it too." "It is not worth while. It is not worth while others besides yourself knowing it. Only"--here his voice trembled--"only, later on, when I am no more, it will remind you of your old grandfather ... eh? You won't forget him?" The poor old man did not say that he had been unable to resist the quite innocent pleasure of introducing one of his own unfortunate airs into his grandson's work, which he felt was destined to survive him; but his desire to share in this imaginary glory was very humble and very touching, since it was enough for him anonymously to transmit to posterity a scrap of his own thought, so as not altogether to perish. Jean-Christophe was touched by it, and covered his face with kisses, and the old man, growing more and more tender, kissed his hair. "You will remember me? Later on, when you are a good musician, a great artist, who will bring honor to his family, to his art, and to his country, when you are famous, you will remember that it was your old grandfather who first perceived it, and foretold what you would be?" There were tears in his eyes as he listened to his own words. He was reluctant to let such signs of weakness be seen. He had an attack of coughing, became moody, and sent the boy away hugging the precious manuscript.