Christophe cried "bravo!" and roared with laughter.
"The devil! It is becoming difficult to follow them! Am I to let them beat me?… But, you know, this is not a game! I'm done, now…. No matter! They shan't say that they had the last word…."
But the orchestra exhibited such an overpoweringly novel and abundant fancy that there was nothing to be done but to sit and listen open-mouthed. They took his breath away…. Christophe was filled with pity for himself.
"Idiot!" he said to himself. "You are empty. Hold your peace! The instrument has given all that it can give. Enough of this body! I must have another."
But his body took its revenge. Violent fits of coughing prevented his listening:
"Will you hold your peace?"
He clutched his throat, and thumped his chest, wrestled with himself as with an enemy that he must overthrow. He saw himself again in the middle of a great throng. A crowd of men were shouting all around him. One man gripped him with his arms. They rolled down on the ground. The other man was on top of him. He was choking.
"Let me go. I will hear!… I will hear! Let me go, or I'll kill you!…"
He banged the man's head against the wall, but the man would not let him go.
"Who is it, now? With whom am I wrestling? What is this body that I hold in my grasp, this body warm against me?…"