CHAPTER V

LITTLE SISTER OF A STAR

The next day Helia was still sleeping when Sœurette aroused her. The little one was trotting along the carpet in her bare feet, talking and laughing to herself in the sunny room. It was her great happiness in the morning to be up first and take her big sister by surprise. She climbed on the bed and awoke her with a good kiss on the cheek.

“Ah, how you frightened me!” cried Helia, pretending fear.

Sœurette burst into laughter.

“Let me lie beside you; I’ll let you sleep!”

“Are you sleeping?” the little one asked a moment later. “Ah, you see, you’re not sleeping. _Eh bien!_ tell me a story!”

“You know,” replied Helia, “if you’re not good you sha’n’t do the trapeze to-day.”

This threat quieted Sœurette.

Helia did not wish to make a gymnast of her. Ah, no! She dreamed of other things for her—anything except that! But she had taught her a few turns to develop her, and the little girl took the greatest pleasure in it.

Soon, won by the warmth of the bed, Sœurette fell asleep. Helia arose gently and finished waking herself with an invigorating bath in cold water. Then she put on her great peignoir, tying the girdle around her waist. To keep herself supple she went through two or three of her flections, bending herself backward, forward, turning her bust on her haunches, breathing again and again long and deep. The sleeves of her peignoir flew loose as she raised her arms, like a statuette from Tanagra come to life.

Then she finished dressing, for she hated wrappers, in which the body grows soft. She put on her apron, and made tea in the samovar which Phil had given her, just as he had given Suzanne a splendid salad-bowl. Tea was Helia’s triumph, as Suzanne’s was salad; there was no disputing it!

The concierge brought up the fresh bread, the butter, and buns; and she cut her _tartines_ thinking of other things. She would put aside savings for Sœurette. She would teach her; have her taught the piano—she scarcely knew what—but not her own trade! The beginnings were too hard; yet if it had not been for her profession would she ever have known Phil? It would have been better not, perhaps; who knows? She owed him great joy—and grief as well! To think that he had not come to see her first night at the _Cirque_!

The idea came to her that she might never live out her love-romance to the end, and her heart swelled within her. But with a gesture she put away these haunting thoughts, and finished preparing the bread and butter. When the breakfast was ready she awoke her little sister.

“Up, and quickly, dear one! the tea is ready!”

Sœurette jumped from the bed, stuck her little feet into her big sister’s slippers, and did not linger playing on the carpet.

Seated on a chair made higher by a great book which she would go to turning over presently, she already had her nose in her cup. Her favorite doll, Glanrhyd, was at Phil’s studio; he was to repaint the face, which had been damaged by a fall. Other dolls were lying on the floor, but they were not Glanrhyd! Glanrhyd had been given her by Helia, who had cherished it ever since her own childhood. In spite of its absence, Sœurette was greatly preoccupied with her bread and butter and tea. She had scarcely the time to smile at her big sister and ask her questions.

“What is that—that medal?”

Helia had just been taking out of her trunk and hanging on the wall mementos of her life, to which she was much attached. Her little sister was not acquainted with these objects.

“And that, and that?” Sœurette ran on, pointing to a gilt-paper wreath, to a group of gymnasts with Helia in the foreground, to still other things.

“And that?” she added, pointing to the photograph of a young girl seated on a kind of throne with a young man at her feet.

“It’s you and Phil!” Sœurette remarked.

“That might be,” answered Helia. “Eat in peace, and keep quiet!”

“No; tell me first what that is?” Sœurette asked, pointing to another photograph. “Barracks in a garden?”

“It’s not barracks, Sœurette; it’s the palace of the Duchess of Glanrhyd, near London.”

“Is it the doll’s palace?”

“No,” Helia said; “but the duchess gave me the doll.”

“Do you know the duchess?”

“When I was in England long ago I played in her park at a benefit for the Society for the Protection of Children and Prevention of Cruelty to the Weak.”

“Oh, what is that, tell me—the protection of children?” Sœurette demanded.

“I can’t explain to you; you would not understand.”

Helia looked at the photograph and remembered the day. “I will send you a pretty present,” the duchess had said to her, caressing her with her gloved hand. And, in fact, to Kennington Avenue, where Helia was then living with Cemetery, they brought her a magnificent doll and pounds of bonbons; but Helia enjoyed neither them nor the doll.

“It will fatten you!” Cemetery said, as he locked up the bonbons. “There is no strength in them.” He put the doll in a cupboard, adding: “You have no time to play, either, except on Sunday. Come, to work!”

“Say, big sister,” asked Sœurette, who was finishing her bun, “what is cruelty to children? And is there cruelty to big persons? Tell me!”

“Come and kiss me. You will know later on; and now, go and play!”

“Say, big sister, Glanrhyd doesn’t come back. Must I write to her?”

“Write if you wish, darling.”

This was quite an affair. Sœurette prepared her table behind a screen in the “doll’s room”; but the paper was too large—Glanrhyd would never be able to read it. Helia had to cut it down to the proper size. At last, having got seated, Sœurette, by way of introduction, stuck out her tongue, rolled her head from right to left, and began.

“Well, Sœurette is busy,” Helia said to herself. “She will leave me a little peace.”

“Say, big sister, does a doll answer?”

“I don’t think so,” said Helia.

“Will Monsieur Phil answer?” Sœurette asked.

“Let Monsieur Phil alone. He has something else to do!”

“But, big sister, it used to be always Phil here and Phil there; you weren’t afraid to speak of him!”

“Well, I won’t have it!” Helia replied after a moment’s silence.

“Why?”

“Because—”

“To whom shall I write, then?”

“I don’t know, my darling.”

Sœurette reflected for a moment, biting her penholder.

“How do you write ‘Little Jesus’—say? Is it one word or two words?”

“Good!” thought Helia. “Now she’s writing to the Little Jesus.”

But some one came to divert their attention. There was a knock at the door, and Socrate came in with a cheek red and limping slightly.

Helia asked what was the matter.

“Oh, last evening, after leaving you, I had a fall. It is nothing,” Socrate hastened to say, not wishing to tell of his affair with Phil; and for a good reason.

“You must have hit something hard,” Helia said.

“Oh!” Socrate went on, in a rage at his red cheek and limping leg, “oh, why are you always spoiling that little girl? Cakes and dolls! Cakes only fatten her, and dolls are good only for Sunday!”

Helia was struck by the remark which brought back word for word Cemetery’s observations. It was of no importance, of course; it was one of Socrate’s jokes—the proof was that he was smiling. But it displeased Helia, who had become very reserved with him, and distrusted him a little. She esteemed him only for the nature of his work. It seemed to Helia that by taking interest in an “intelligence” she redeemed in some way the roughness of her trade as a gymnast. She raised herself in her own eyes. So she helped Socrate, half through charity and half out of pride.

Socrate, knowing Helia’s goodness, looked forward to the time when he should have supplanted in her heart the remembrance of Phil. But he soon discovered Helia’s real feelings, and was all the angrier because he had to hide his wrath. When he described to her the plan of his next poem, or the picture that he was always “going to do,” he was thinking all the while of other things than his pictures and poems.

What! He was not to be the husband of Helia? She was to marry some one else? And he, Socrate, would not have the signing of contracts with her directors, the discussing of prices, and the pocketing of the money? Some one else was to enjoy all that?

What a pleasant life his would be if he should marry Helia! Oh, it was very simple. First of all, he’d set Sœurette to work, steady! They might give her bonbons and dolls; they would all go under lock and key, and then—to work! In the morning, while he would go to the café and take his eye-opener, Helia and the little one would do their dumb-bells, to get under way for rehearsal. And then—_ouste!_—three hours’ exercise in the morning, and three in the afternoon. Then he would show what was in him! He would encourage with a gesture or threaten with a look; sometimes he might let fall a “Very good” for Helia, or “It doesn’t go; begin again!” for the little one. In his conception of himself as professor he had always a cigar between his teeth, diamond buttons on his cuffs turned up to the elbows, and all around him papers and notices talking of the glory of this wife of his—the star.

To think that he was not to be Helia’s husband! The very idea made him turn over in his head all sorts of sinister projects.

Socrate tried to be friendly with Sœurette.

“Good day, Mlle. Princesse! Will you kiss me, Mlle. Princesse?”

“No!” Sœurette answered. “Your red cheek makes me afraid. You look like a bogy man!”

“Now, now, Sœurette!” Helia said. “Be polite, darling. M. Socrate fell down; it wasn’t his fault. Don’t you know that poets walk along looking at the stars?”

“Not at the stars, but at one star, Mlle. Helia. You know the one I mean!”

“Now you are here, Socrate, you can do me a favor,” Helia interrupted, not even listening to his compliments. “First, throw these letters for me into the waste-basket.”

“Must I throw that of Mlle. la Princesse also? What is she writing there? Can I see?”

“No!” Sœurette answered.

“Is it a secret? Well, I won’t insist,” Socrate said, and straightway stretched his neck over the screen and read:

“To the Little Jesus: They say, Little Jesus, that up there in heaven you have a wonderful bazaar, with all the playthings which are in all the earth and some that are not. There is no doubt of it, Little Jesus, is there? Well, then, cure Glanrhyd and send me a little white dog—a curly one that barks. I’d like to have a doll dressed for her wedding, and a little china table service; and let it be pretty—very, very pretty!”

“A letter to Little Jesus?” Socrate thought to himself. “There’s a letter which won’t be delivered!”

Meanwhile Helia was reading her morning’s mail. There was nothing new in it; she had received hundreds of such letters. “Mademoiselle, pardon me, if I dare—” “Mademoiselle, will you allow an admirer of your talent and your beauty—” And so on, and so forth.

Helia did not even read them through to the end. She blushed, not with shame, but with pity for such foolish adorers.

“Do they take me for a toy? Into the basket!” And she held out the letters to Socrate.

“Why, she is crazy!” Socrate thought. “All these letters—they’d be magnificent for blackmailing!”

“You do wrong to destroy them!” Socrate said aloud. “Some of them are, perhaps, in earnest.”

“How is that?” Helia said, looking at him. “What do you mean?”

“I—why—”

Helia’s uprightness disarmed him. She would never understand anything! Was it possible to be so naïve? Socrate was exasperated by it.

“By dint of shutting yourself out from everybody, you’ll soon have no more friends,” he said, trying to be insinuating. “Who knows if there’s not a letter from the duke there?”

“And what then?” Helia said, as she arose.

“He is, perhaps, your best friend,” Socrate answered. “A powerful protector like him—”

“What!”

“Of course, next to Monsieur Phil,” he went on, with the perspiration starting out on his forehead. “But Monsieur Phil is too busy! They say, even—” And Socrate hunted for a word with which to end his embarrassment, and he had to be inventive and prompt.

“What is it they say?” Helia asked.

“That he is going to marry.”

Helia had too great a habit of controlling her nerves, too much mastery of herself, and too much pride, to show her pain. Socrate had not the pleasure of seeing her turn pale. She appeared to be taken up with Sœurette, in her corner.

“Of course,” was Helia’s reply. “And now do this errand for me, will you, Socrate? Here is the money,” she added, explaining what she wished. “Pay—and keep what’s left over.”

She accompanied him to the door. Her limbs were trembling and she seemed to walk on cotton. There was a roaring in her ears. She turned and fell into a chair.

Phil was to marry! Everything seemed crumbling around her, her dreams for the future, her castles in Spain, burying her in their ruins. Ah, she could never recover from such a blow! In vain had she been long awaiting it; she would never have believed it possible that Phil, so gentle and good, would do her such harm! For him, too, she had, then, been but a toy! He had amused himself with her! He had sworn marriage to her, and because she was poor and needed to work,—at a trade which she had not chosen, oh, no!—because she earned her living in a circus, they had the right to look down on her! So she belonged to the public! They could buy a ticket at the door and talk love to her between the acts for a pastime, while oaths—yes, oaths taking Heaven for witness, the oaths which were sworn to her—did not count!

Helia pronounced the last words aloud in a tone of indignation. Sœurette looked up. She saw her big sister put her head in her hands and weep silently.

For some time she had found that her sister was no longer the same. Her child’s memory recalled to her a Helia full of joy and talking always of Phil; a Helia who drew a circle with her pen at the end of her letters, after applying her lips to the spot; a Helia who told her beautiful stories and played and danced her in her arms, which were so firm and gentle that she would have cast herself into them from a belfry with closed eyes.

Sœurette tried to understand. Her little brain divined something without knowing exactly what. First, they did not often see Monsieur Phil. He was always very kind to her, Monsieur Phil,—and yet every time her big sister saw him she was sad afterward. Why? Socrate, too, made Helia sad. She was in trouble when he went away. What had he been saying to her? And Phil, especially, what had he been doing to her big sister?

Helia raised her head. She was as worn out as after her most violent efforts. The suffering calmed her revolted pride. Sœurette saw her lie back in her chair and close her eyes as if to sleep. But Helia did not sleep. During those moments she saw again her entire life—the gloomy childhood in which she could count her happy days, and then her youth, in which Phil had loved her. Had she acted wrongly? What had she done that could displease him? Perhaps it was a mistake to keep on in her trade; but how was she to live? Phil was to have taken her out of it, and he had not done so. And she meanwhile had been so proud to be an artiste, believing that she would become his equal, poor fool that she had been! Yes, it must be that! Phil, the student, was her equal: the Phil who was now tasting glory was not. Then that other young girl had come, so beautiful and good and rich, everybody said; and surely amiable, and smelling of violets!

“No! no! no! It is not possible!” Helia murmured as she sat upright in her chair. “No! I know Phil—he is a man! If he had done that, he would turn away his head when he sees me, or he would come to ask my forgiveness on his knees. But after the oath which he had sworn me, to act like that—without shame and without remorse—no! Socrate is lying!”

Sœurette said nothing. Her instinct told her that all this did not concern her; that her business was to keep quiet, and that big sisters have cares which she could not understand. But she saw that Helia was in trouble, in great trouble; and Sœurette wished to see her full of joy, as she had once been. Her good little heart had a touching inspiration. She drew a mark across her letter and ended it up as follows:

“Little Jesus, keep your playthings for the poor, but tell Phil to be good to my big sister, who used to play all the while and tell me stories. Make him to be not so wicked, for she cries often when she speaks about him. I put my kiss here for you, Little Jesus.”

And Sœurette did as she had seen Helia do: before slipping the letter into the envelop she placed a kiss at the end of it, and made a circle with her pen all around the spot.