"But why? Why do you want me to?"
"I'll tell you presently. Play!"
"What?"
"Anything you like."
Olivier sat down at the piano with a sigh, and, obedient to the imperious will of the friend who had sought him out, he began to play the beautiful Adagio in B Minor of Mozart. At first his fingers trembled so that he could hardly make them press down the keys: but he regained courage little by little: and, while he thought he was but repeating Mozart's utterance, he unwittingly revealed his inmost heart. Music is an indiscreet confidant: it betrays the most secret thoughts of its lovers to those who love it. Through the godlike scheme of the Adagio of Mozart Christophe could perceive the invisible lines of the character, not of Mozart, but of his new friend sitting there by the piano: the serene melancholy, the timid, tender smile of the boy, so nervous, so pure, so full of love, so ready to blush. But he had hardly reached the end of the air, the topmost point where the melody of sorrowful love ascends and snaps, when a sudden irrepressible feeling of shame and modesty overcame Olivier, so that he could not go on: his fingers would not move, and his voice failed him. His hands fell by his side, and he said:
"I can't play any more…."
Christophe was standing behind him, and he stooped and reached over him and finished the broken melody: then he said:
"Now I know the music of your soul."
He held his hands, and stayed for a long time gazing into his face. At last he said:
"How queer it is!… I have seen you before…. I know you so well, and I have known you so long!…"