I was coming down the stairs when a footman accosted me on the first landing.
"A person has called to see you, monsieur, and I have shown him into the library."
I turned to the library, opened the door, and found myself engulfed in the arms of Franzius.
"Mind the violin, mind the violin!" I cried, for he was carrying it, and I felt the bridge snapping against my chest. Then I held him at arm's length.
He was radiant, laughing like a boy. He had come from Etiolles, all the way on foot, and all the joy that had been bottled up in him during the twenty-four miles' tramp had burst loose.
"And now," I said, laughing, too, from the infection of his gaiety, "what is it?"
"Oh, my friend," said Franzius, "she loves me!"
"Good heavens! Who?"
But you might just as well have questioned the Sud Express going full speed.
"Yesterday you saw me—I was in despair. I had not understood aright. She had not understood me. She thought I cared for nothing but my music; she did not know that my music was herself—that her soul had entered into me, that she was me——"