38

It was Christmas Eve, and very quiet. It was also almost Christmas. Therese had hung up the holly. Children were singing in the streets. It was very still. There had been a new snow, and the roofs of the houses were white with it.

Therese was very tired. She had not seen Karl since the evening meal. He, too, must be tired, working so long in his study. She must call him to bed, remind him that he was still not completely well.

She went upstairs. His study door was ajar. She pushed it wider.

He was sitting at his desk, writing swiftly, his graying head bent, his face severe and absorbed, and attenuated. His fine thin hand moved rapidly. He was not aware of her.

She tried to call him, but something kept her silent.

So Voltaire and Rousseau had sat, at midnight, and later, writing. Their delicate pens had attacked a terrible era of oppresssion, misery and despair and death. These pens had overthrown a nation, a philosophy, a world. The sound of them had moved through generations. The sound had become flutes of liberty and justice, equality and fraternity. Now, savage and barbaric hands had seized on the flutes, had silenced their calling.

Now the fateful drums were booming through the world again. Now the shattering trumpets blazed at every wall, everywhere. Now the thunder was shaking the frail minds of men, and multitudes stood aghast in the darkness, listening to the drums and the trumpets, not knowing where to flee, or where to hide.

The mummy head of Gilu stood on the mantelpiece, near Karl, who was writing below. The evil face smiled ferociously. It was all madness and fury. And below it was Karl, with his smooth delicate pen, writing at midnight.

So it must always be. So the saviors of men must always work, forgetting everything else. Forgetting self and safety, greed and expediency, treachery and frightfulness, and fear.

Therese knew what the end must be. Soon she would be alone once more, and this time for always, in this world. Soon they would find Karl and kill him.

She lifted her head, as though she heard the flutes of Voltaire and Rousseau, and all the voices of those who had died that other men might live in peace. Her pale face became heroic.

Nothing mattered now. Not even Karl’s torture and death. Not even her coming loneliness and desolation.

She heard the carols in the street below. She heard the whispering of the snow against the windows. She heard the faint scratching of Karl’s pen.

“For greater love hath no man …”

She closed the door softly behind her, and went away.