George Paddon, Philippe Bloch, and Karl Zurschmiede stood in the garret behind the Gare Montparnasse, surveying a little heap of objects spread out on the bed: among them a yellow copy of the Liszt Sonata bearing an inscription, "V. W., Wien, 1876." They were looking for an address. Despite everything they had heard him say about his renunciations, they had the human urge to notify some one.
"There was a diary," said Paddon. "That may give us a hint."
Karl, more visibly affected than the others, had been silent. "The concierge burnt it," he interposed. "It was his last request."
They had another talk with the concierge.
"Had he no final message?" asked the Englishman.
"He said something we couldn't understand," she replied. "One word was 'belle.' It was just at midnight, for I remember the great clock outside was chiming the hour."
Only Paddon had an inkling. Bell, midnight. "Alors, il a du être" he began, but quickly checked himself.
He had almost said, "Then he must have been English"—and although he experienced a guilty emotion of pride and proprietorship at the discovery, loyalty bade him withhold it. Bloch was eager to prove that the dead man had been a French Jew. Zurschmiede, whose mind was methodical, had already classified his origin as Germanic. Whereas all the poor devil had ever asked of anybody was that he be allowed to remain his own anomalous self.
The end