A week later, when he had forgotten the whole affair, his grandfather said mysteriously that he had something to show him. He opened his desk, took out a music-book, and put it on the rack of the piano, and told the boy to play. Jean-Christophe was very much interested, and deciphered it fairly well. The notes were written by hand in the old man's large handwriting, and he had taken especial pains with it. The headings were adorned with scrolls and flourishes. After some moments the old man, who was sitting beside Jean-Christophe turning the pages for him, asked him what the music was. Jean-Christophe had been too much absorbed in his playing to notice what he had played, and said that he did not know it.
"Listen!… You don't know it?"
Yes; he thought he knew it, but he did not know where he had heard it. The old man laughed.
"Think."
Jean-Christophe shook his head.
"I don't know."
A light was fast dawning in his mind; it seemed to him that the air….
But, no! He dared not…. He would not recognize it.
"I don't know, grandfather."
He blushed.
"What, you little fool, don't you see that it is your own?"