Christophe never noticed anything. He used to go to the office of the Review, leave his copy, and not bother about it any more. Sometimes he would take Mannheim aside and say:
"This time I really have done for the swine. Just read…."
Mannheim would read.
"Well, what do you think of it?"
"Terrible, my dear fellow, there's nothing left of them!"
"What do you think they will say?"
"Oh! there will be a fine row."
But there never was a row. On the contrary, everybody beamed at Christophe: people whom he detested would bow to him in the street. One day he came to the office uneasy and scowling: and, throwing a visiting card on the table, he asked:
"What does this mean?"
It was the card of a musician whom he slaughtered.