She looked up from the little drawer into which she had locked her bills.
“Tell you a story? What are you thinking about? How can I tell a story who am living within four walls?” she smiled and put her hand on her brother’s shoulder.
“Well, little Chris, once upon a time there was an old house: in that house lived a woman who never could sleep her fill, because her two sons waked her up early every morning....”
Christopher’s face twitched as he rose.
“You are right, let us go to sleep....” He bent down and kissed his sister’s hand. “Good night, Anne, and....” He wanted to say something more, but turned his head away with an effort and left the room.
In the corridor he stopped near the loose stone slab and tried it. It was still loose. The ticking of the marble clock accompanied him once more down the stairs.
In his deep, vaulted room a candle was burning, but the small flame could not cope with the big room and left cavelike dark corners. A big white spot attracted Christopher’s eyes. While he had been with Anne, the servant had made his bed and his clothes for the morrow were lying there ready on a chair. He could not bear this sight. To-morrow.... He choked. In that moment a delicate crackling reached his ear. He turned towards it.
The fire was burning in the stove and shone through the old tiles. Christopher went up to it, leaned his hand on the stove and looked through the ventilators. Small flames flickered among the logs. He looked at them for some time with extraordinary interest, then raised himself with a sigh.
Life had deprived him of everything. Whenever he inspected closely things he believed in, he always found them to be delusions, just like the stove fairies. He had been running after delusions too when he had fallen. He had broken when he fell; it was useless to try to stand up again; he could do it no more. Even if he could, what good would it be? All the people he had come in contact with had broken a piece off his soul, taken it with them and cast it away. Where was he to seek the scattered pieces?... What was left to him was too little for life. A little honour, very little. A little pity for Anne ... nothing else.
His hand slid from the stove. Why warm it now, it was no longer worth while....