He stopped as he saw Christophe's face go hot with anger: and he added quickly:
"Not on my own account…. I'm not afraid…. Ah! If I were alone!… But my uncle … you know, the business is his. I can do nothing without him…."
He grew more and more alarmed at Christophe's expression, and at the thought of the gathering explosion he said hurriedly—(he was not a bad fellow at bottom: avarice and vanity were struggling in him: he would have liked to help Christophe, at a price):
"Can I lend you fifty francs?"
Christophe went crimson. He went up to Diener, who stepped back hurriedly to the door and opened it, and held himself in readiness to call for help, if necessary. But Christophe only thrust his face near his and bawled:
"You swine!"
And he flung him aside and walked out through the little throng of assistants. At the door he spat in disgust.
* * * * *
He strode along down the street. He was blind with fury. The rain sobered him. Where was he going? He did not know. He did not know a soul. He stopped to think outside a book-shop, and he stared stupidly at the rows of books. He was struck by the name of a publisher on the cover of one of them. He wondered why. Then he remembered that it was the name of the house in which Sylvain Kohn was employed. He made a note of the address…. But what was the good? He would not go…. Why should he not go?… If that scoundrel Diener, who had been his friend, had given him such a welcome, what had he to expect from a rascal whom he had handled roughly, who had good cause to hate him? Vain humiliations! His blood boiled at the thought. But his native pessimism, derived perhaps from his Christian education, urged him on to probe to the depths of human baseness.
"I have no right to stand on ceremony. I must try everything before I give in."