Jean lived with him when not playing Chopin at the ends of the earth, and when the two were together the elder declared himself to be perfectly happy. “I only want you.”
“And your first editions and your Cellini helmet.”
When Jean came back from his American tour his brother was quick to notice a change in him, and when on the day after his Florentine concert he came in late for a dinner which he ate in silence, Hilaire spoke his mind. They were together in the library. Jean had taken a book down from the shelves but he was not reading it.
“Bad coffee.”
“Was it?”
Hilaire was watching his brother’s face. It seemed to him that there were lines in it that he had not seen before, and the brown eyes that gazed so intently into the fire were surely very tired.
He began again rather awkwardly. “You have been here a week, Jean.”
“Yes.”
“Did the concert go off well?”
“Oh, well enough. As usual.”