"You must not take your trouble so to heart. I know all, what a great genius you are, and how cruelly the world has used you. We will nurse you well again, and then all will be right. You shall come to us; we will not disturb you; not one of us; only take care of you. You shall have a little room of your own where you can work as much as you will."
He looked up slowly, a heavy cough shook his sunken breast. The mother passed her arm under his thin shoulders and raised him up a little to ease his breath, his tired head rested on her bosom.
"How fallen away you are," she said, half weeping, "and your poor shirt, all in pieces. To-morrow I must bring you fresh linen. And now try to take something; you must get strong." And she gave him a cup of broth that she had warmed for him. He did as she bade him, silently,--he even relished the broth. His bitter grief, his deep degradation were forgotten in the feeling of being once more cared for. Drowsy, quiet, lazy contentment overcame him. Dumb, but grateful, he kissed his mother's hand.
Her eyes lighted up. "I must go now," she said. "The ticket-office of the circus opens at six; I must be there. Good-bye. I shall get free about eight and can come to you then. Now you will sleep a little."
She pressed her lips to his temples and disappeared.
The violinist fell asleep. A memory glided into his soul, a long forgotten memory,--not of his dead bride, his faithless friend,--no, a painless memory of his first return to the Rue Ravestein.
A dreamy, narcotic odor hovered around him, and he saw a bunch of brilliant-hued poppies. He heard the light rustle of the dying leaves as they fell on the marble gueridon.--He sprang up. His heart beat as if it would burst his breast.--A nameless terror seized him, as of one who finds himself sinking contentedly into a bog.
He collected himself--he would flee--he would seek death. He seized his clothes,--but the garments slipped from his hands,--he reeled and sank back powerless on his bed. The resignation, the sleepy intoxication of ruined souls, who are grown too weary for despair, mastered him. A dark genius hovered for a moment in the bare attic, the genius of the hopeless. He carried a cluster of red poppies in his hand.
* * * * *
Days passed, weeks, months. On the Boulevards Rochechonart and Clichy, peopled by artist workers of all kinds, one often meets a tall, elderly man with grey hair, that hangs disorderly about his cheeks.