CHAPTER V

A BANQUET ON THE SAWDUST

Poufaille and Phil were now friends again—really they had been so for some time, ever since the day when Phil had taken to Poufaille Ethel’s order for a picture. Poufaille was incapable of nursing wrath, and received Phil with open arms. The two _copains_ squeezed each other’s hands.

“Good old Phil!” Poufaille exclaimed; and Phil answered: “Good old Poufaille!”

And they did not speak once of their old quarrel until the day when the artistes had their banquet in the ring of the circus itself.

Phil had a great deal of amusement that day. Suzanne beggared description, and Poufaille was a show in himself, standing up, glass in hand, and singing the glory of the vintage. With a gesture, he snatched his collar from his shirt.

“It chokes me! I can’t give the trills!” he said, for the trills were the strong point of this garlic-eater and roller of _r_’s from the South. So he thundered out his song in honor of wine and vine, of vats and presses, and of the good hot blood of the good old wine-drinkers. Around the table all the voices took up the refrain, but they could not drown the terrible voice of Poufaille, which rumbled and rolled, covering all the rest as the noise of thunder covers the twittering of sparrows.

“Buveurs de vin—couchez dans la poussière Ces buveurs de bière!”

(“Wine drinkers, throw down in the dust All drinkers of beer!”)

Scornful laughter shook his sides, and he struggled to give his good-natured voice a diabolical, biting tone, as he repeated, looking at Phil:

“Ces buveurs de bière!”

Poufaille, excited by the wine, had a look of fury. But when he had finished, his shaggy eyebrows grew peaceful, and a smile spread all at once over his big, good-natured face.

“You’re not angry at me, I hope?” he said to Phil, patting him on the shoulder. “What I said about beer-drinkers does not vex you—_hein_?”

“It doesn’t touch me,” answered Phil, “for I only drink water!”

“True, so you do, poor fellow!” Poufaille said in a tone of pity. “Good old Phil!”

“Good old Poufaille,” Phil replied, “sing whatever you wish; we sha’n’t quarrel for that!”

Poufaille was reassured, filled up his glass, and emptied it at a draught.

“Look out,” said Phil, “you’ll drink too much.”

“Let me be; I need it,” Poufaille answered; and it was almost with a gesture of despair that he filled his glass again. Those around them, also, were not drinking water. Phil had done things on a large scale. He had ordered champagne—as much champagne as they wished. A full glass was offered to Poufaille, but he refused it.

“Champagne? _Pouah!_ That is a wine for foreigners!” he explained. “Give me good old red wine—and let me drink till my thirst is quenched!”

On the table—or rather on the jumping-board of the circus, which stood on props with its chalk-powder giving the illusion of a white cloth—there was a mass of dishes and plates and empty bottles. It had been spread in the very middle of the ring—in the good odor of sawdust. Around the table, seated on the chairs of equilibrists, or on the stools of hand-balancers, were the circus artistes and a few invited guests. They had laughed a great deal during the banquet, before the time came for the songs and toasts.

“We all look as if we had the plague!” Suzanne said, by way of appetizer, pointing to the color of the faces under the green reflected light of the tent. Thereupon Poufaille grew livid, in his constant terror of the most imaginary ailments—stoppage of the blood, wind, stiff neck, plague, and cholera.

“Shut off the draughts of air!” he cried, “we’ll all get our death!”

He all but fainted with fear as he saw, in front of him, his plate rising up in the air without his touching it.

“My plate! my plate is going away!” he stammered, in terror.

“Oh! what is the matter?” Suzanne cried. “I can’t understand it—perhaps a snake has got loose from the menagerie next door!”

“Help! Help!” Poufaille sputtered, ready to faint.

“What are you afraid of?” said Perbaccho, the master of the show. “Don’t you see that it is only Suzanne playing tricks on you?”

“Oh, it’s all right, then!” Poufaille said, recovering his assurance. “She’s been playing me all sorts of tricks lately—not counting the strokes of the broomstick!”

In fact, Suzanne had brought out her whole repertory of practical jokes—liquids that flame up, powder which, thrown into a ragout, crawls about in the shape of a worm, pasteboard mice that run across the table, papier-mâché fruits and cheeses, and paste sweetmeats. The lunch was one long burst of laughter.

When the dessert came Perbaccho, the master, arose, glass in hand.

“To the health of Monsieur Phil!” he said.

“Here’s to his health!” repeated the guests around the jumping-board.

“Vive Monsieur Phil!” said the children, who were sitting farther on, at a little table with spangled velvet fringe, on which, during his performances, the juggler placed his balls and knives. Sœurette was there; Helia had brought her, although she was too great an artiste to show herself at Perbaccho’s circus. She had come to the country to be near Suzanne and to rest.

“Dear friends,” Perbaccho went on, in the same voice with which he announced his Grrrand Representations, “the time has come to thank Monsieur Phil for the great and numerous services which he has rendered us. [Applause.] Now that Monsieur Phil is going to leave us, we do not wish to let him depart without saying to him—hum, hum—how grateful we are for his having been willing to put his talents at our disposition. [“Bravo!”] Hum, hum—although Monsieur Phil has not yet set up for himself in the fairs, nevertheless he is a real artiste; and the delighted public looks with great pleasure—I will even say with enchantment—at the portrait which decorates our platform and represents Mademoiselle Suzanne of the O’Poufaille Family!”

“Vive la joie!” Suzanne began.

“Hear! hear!”

“Also Monsieur Poufaille’s portrait in his exercises of strength.”

“Bravo!” cried Poufaille, squeezing Phil’s hand hard enough to crush it.

“Mesdames et messieurs,” Perbaccho continued, “my modest establishment does not permit me to offer Phil, the artiste, that salary to which he has a right to pretend; but let not that prevent us from drinking his health. Come now, mesdames et messieurs, here’s to the health of Monsieur Phil!”

It was not a thing which had to be repeated; every one drank to Phil’s health; and Phil returned thanks.

Phil enjoyed the popularity he had won by his friendliness to such good people. It was true—to please Suzanne, he had done her portrait with a few hours’ work. Yet Suzanne did not welcome him, as she had done in the old times, with a “Good day, Phil! Roll me a cigarette, _mon petit_!” Even her monkeyshines ceased in his presence; this was something he did not understand. He had also painted Poufaille as a Hercules, lifting enormous weights. Moreover, he had rendered light services to all this little world of the fair. He had his recompense. He had entered most intimately into the life of the little world. His album had been enriched by any number of sketches and types, by picturesque interiors as somber and stirring with life as those of Rembrandt. He had daring foreshortenings of gymnasts at the trapeze, of handsome boys and pretty girls with muscles like antique statues.

Every one admired the strength and address with which a simple amateur like Phil handled the dumb-bells or climbed the smooth rope. They were only astonished that, with a talent like his, he did not open a place for himself to do portraits at four or five francs apiece—that would bring him in a good day’s earnings; and this would not include the pupils who would be with him from time to time—they had seen some of them at the fair with him. He might open a permanent Beauty Exhibition; there was that big blonde, especially—but they never spoke to him about that. They were completely ignorant of whom he was or whom his friends were. Suzanne, flighty as she was, was discretion itself on this point, and there was no danger of Poufaille talking when Suzanne forbade him. No one suspected that the big blonde was rich enough to buy up the circus and its artistes with it, and Signor Perbaccho to boot, as well as all the side-shows and the whole fair, and the houses round about the fair. They did not even know her name. As to Phil, when they met him in the circus-tent, or with the wrestlers, making his sketches, they treated him like any other comrade.

The Rowrers’ yacht was to sail for Morgania in a few days, taking away the whole party, after two months at Camp Rosemont. Before his departure Phil wished to give pleasure to Poufaille and his friends by this luncheon with him. They yielded to his insistence, and accepted without ceremony. It gave him little trouble, and he brought his box and canvas to finish a study near by in the fields. This was a present he wished to offer to Ethel, and it reminded him of the pastimes of other days.

On the morrow, during the hunt—on the morrow, he had promised, he had sworn it to himself, and the moment was drawing near—no power in the world could hinder him—and yet how anxious he was! He was already in a fever and occupied himself with this lunch only to distract his thoughts, to prove to himself that he was calm and reasonable, that he had not lost his head. He looked at the groups around the jumping-board which had been turned into a table, and thought of the morrow. He surprised himself repeating in a low tone: “To-morrow!”

“What are you giving us with your ‘To-morrow’?” asked Poufaille, who overheard it. “Perhaps to-morrow others and not we shall be drinking the wine. I know no to-morrow but to-day! I tell you it’s drinking water that makes you sad and dreamy.”

“And you—is it wine that makes you so gay?” Phil retorted.

“Well, I have little reason to be gay,” Poufaille replied. “If I drink, it is to stun myself. See here, do you want me to tell you?—but what use would it be! He who lives will see. By the way, you know that Helia has come back with Sœurette. She’s in town for a few days.”

“What!” Phil exclaimed; “how is it she is not here?”

“She was tired,” replied Poufaille. “But, _entre nous_, Phil, you’d just as lief she shouldn’t be here—eh?”

“But why?” Phil asked.

Poufaille was on the point of speaking, but some one at the end of the table called out with all his might:

“Farine! farine! Embrassez votre voisine!”

It was the gallant refrain which winds up rustic feasts. Around the board all the women lent themselves with good grace to the custom. Poufaille devoured Suzanne with his eyes.

“Here’s your time,” Phil said to him. “What are you waiting for? Kiss her now, kiss her; she owes you as much as that!”

“Kiss her?” Poufaille said, looking at Phil gloomily. “Are you making fun of me? She hasn’t let me kiss her for more than a month; she’s furious against every one—against myself!”

“Oh, now!” said Phil, “Suzanne furious? She wouldn’t be so gay.”

“I tell you she is; and I can see it. Do you think it gives me pleasure to take the blows of a broomstick on my head? The stick is light, it is true, and I have a false pigskin skull; but never mind! is that a trade? You knew me and you knew her. I was the creator of ‘Liberty’ and ‘Fraternity’; and now you see what I am—a fly-killer! It’s flattering, _hein_? To be a fly-killer when I feel within myself the soul of a lion!”

“Keep up your hopes,” Phil answered; “all that will change.”

“‘Keep up your hopes’! But you know nothing about it,” Poufaille hurried on with his tragic voice; “oh, Suzanne strikes hard with her _aïe donc_! But the hardest is that I should pay up for others. Oh, yes; I receive blows which ought to have been for you!”

“For me?” Phil gasped.

“Yes, for you—which ought to have been for you—for you—you hear?” and Poufaille shook Phil by the coat collar. “I tell you, it’s your fault!”

“You must be crazy,” Phil answered. “What have I done?”

“What have you done?” Poufaille continued, in the excitement of his glass of rum. “Do you want to know what you have done? I am going to tell you what you have done—to me! You have stolen my share of happiness!”

“Has that taken hold of you again?” said Phil. “I thought it was over—all this nonsense about stealing glory.”

“It isn’t glory, I tell you! It’s happiness!”

Phil and Poufaille were speaking low, and no one heard them. Suzanne had sat down, and every one was accustomed to Poufaille’s gestures. No one paid any attention.

“Good Poufaille, dear old Poufaille, I am sorry to give you pain, old man,” Phil said pleasantly, as he took away the bottle.

“No; it’s not worth while,” Poufaille said sadly; “I shall drink no more. Only follow what I say,—do you follow? Do you know why I am not married?”

“No,” said Phil, putting the bottle beyond reach.

“It is because _you_ are not married.”

“Indeed!” said Phil. “So, my good Poufaille, you wish to marry me off like that?”

“Yes; as you swore you would do!” answered Poufaille.

“To whom?”

“To Helia!”

“Speak lower!” Phil said, disquieted.

But even if they had talked louder, no one would have caught a word. Conversation was general around the board. The kissing was finished, and they were smoking cigarettes. The men talked horses, balancing, feats of strength; the ladies talked dress, spangled maillots, gauze skirts.

Phil and Poufaille, at their end of the table, were as free to converse as if they had been alone. Poufaille now bent over Phil, as if to tell him a secret.

“Yes; you swore it!” he continued. “And Suzanne concludes from it that the best of men are worth nothing at all—that men are windmills for lying. When I tell her I love her, that I’ll make her happy—when I swear to her that I cannot live without her, she turns on her heel, saying: ‘That’s all humbug!’ and that she can trust no one, not me more than you; that it costs nothing to get down on one’s knees; that our promises and oaths ought to be stuffed down our throats; and that the way you treated Helia was a shame—”

“Speak lower!” said Phil.

“—that you had promised her marriage,” Poufaille kept on; “that you loved her madly; that if need had been you would have taken God to witness; that you had sworn to her she should be your wife, and that you could not live without her. And, besides, it was no sudden stroke—you had known her for years, you had long loved her. And all at once, without any one knowing why, just because you earn a little money and have talent, while she is only a poor acrobat,—suddenly, without reason, you know her no longer; and if you should meet her in the street, you would turn your head. That’s what Suzanne says; and she has more head than all of us—and more heart, too!”

Poufaille looked toward Suzanne with a sigh. Then he went on again: “Oh, Phil, I should never have told you all this; but, _ma foi_, it was choking me! I’m not one of your Northern folks, to keep a secret. To me it’s like a starched collar—I must pull it off! Now give me a glass of wine!”

Phil hesitated.

“Pour it out, I tell you,” Poufaille insisted. “I have a fever. It calms me; and, after all, there’s truth in wine!”

Phil poured out a full glass, which Poufaille emptied.

“Ah, yes, yes!” he went on again, wanderingly, as he put his glass down on the table; “when I think that without these stories she would have been my wife—and now she will not be, for when she says No, it means no! She may be gay to look at, but she’s sad at heart. She has heaps of ideas that turn my blood. On my honor, I believe she will end in a convent! What! Phil, I laugh also; but I have no desire to laugh. It’s only by habit, you know; I feel more like weeping. And as to all those stories about glory which bothered me, how stupid one is to curdle one’s blood for so little! But my happiness is gone forever; I shall never marry Suzanne, never, never!”

Poufaille’s gestures emphasized his words; his fist came down heavily upon the table.

“Eh, over there! don’t break anything,” Suzanne cried. “Poufaille, you’re losing your head!”

“Yes, I’m losing it—I mean no!” answered Poufaille. “I’m only telling a story.”

“That’s no reason for getting into a rage,” Suzanne answered pleasantly.

“Yes, it is a reason,” Poufaille murmured. “There is reason to get into a rage—and break things!”

“Calm yourself; be quiet,” said Phil, who now regretted that he had come.

“Bah!” he thought; “is it worth my while listening to drunken maunderings?” But the hour for breaking up was near.

Phil stayed on, however, and Poufaille kept on talking.

“Ah!” he said, crossing his arms and looking Phil in the face; “after all, why didn’t you marry her? Yes, why? You loved Helia, and no one can say anything against her. You agree with me about that, I suppose?”

Phil did not answer.

“Dear old Phil,” Poufaille insisted strongly, “you can’t deny it? We shouldn’t be friends otherwise, you know.”

“I alone must be judge of that,” Phil said.

“No!” Poufaille said; “that’s your new way of looking at things; but I tell you, there’s not a woman in the world above her—do you understand?—not one! I tell you—not one!”

Phil frowned.

“I’m not making any allusions,” said Poufaille.

“I should hope not,” said Phil.

“I am only telling you the truth,” Poufaille declared; “and I am glad to have said it. I can breathe better now. It’s true! It turned my blood to hear Suzanne telling it, with Helia so sad. When I think that you used to be so rigid about such things—and now you act just like the others! What’s the difference between you and Socrate? For a man who is always quoting the Bible and setting himself up as an example—you’re a bad one, that’s all!”

Phil turned pale.

“Poufaille is drunk,” he thought. “I’d best go away.”

But he stayed on; and Poufaille kept on talking; and Phil listened, in spite of himself, unmoved to all appearance, but deeply touched at bottom, for he could not say to Poufaille: “You are lying! It is false! I promised nothing!”

“Yes,” Poufaille continued, in a low voice, making sure that no one was listening—“yes, I know what you might say: Helia’s surroundings, Socrate,—I know not what. You have suspected her, that I do know! Suzanne has told me. Our good Helia, who would give her life for you—if she only gives money to a beggar you suspect her for it; for Socrate is a beggar—a beggar she keeps alive out of pure charity, just as she helps Cemetery, simply because he is old and cannot work. But you know that as well as I.”

“But the duke,” Phil spoke up. “I saw Helia—”

“You saw Suzanne! Ah, I’ve blamed Suzanne often enough for it since—what an idea in her to go to take supper with the duke! I’d rather she would strike me with the broomstick!”

“And yet,” Phil began.

“It’s true the duke was greatly taken with her,” Poufaille continued; “she had only a word to say and he would have offered her anything. She never accepted a thing—not even a flower!”

“Ah!” said Phil.

“You see,” Poufaille went on, “you don’t care much to meet Helia—you have your own reasons for it—for she is here, you know!”

Phil raised his head, as if he expected to see the canvas of the circus-tent open and Helia appear there looking at him. But there was no one save the artistes rising from the table and taking away the things. They were even removing the board, so as to leave the ring free. In the stables they were preparing the horses for rehearsal. He could hear the harness rattling, and the whips snapping. The ring, which had been so gay, suddenly became gloomy. Phil frankly regretted that he had come. He had a single thought,—how to get away. Taking up his color-box and canvas, he said good day to every one, and shook Poufaille’s hand.

“You’re going away?” Poufaille said. “You haven’t a grudge against me, I hope—it was too much for me!”

“I have nothing against you, old Poufaille.”

“Shall we see you again soon?”

“Who knows!” answered Phil; adding within himself: “Perhaps never!”

As he went out he cast a farewell look on the empty benches, on the white ladder and great globe, on the saddles and the maillots which were drying, and on the clowns’ costumes. They were like old acquaintances whom he should see no more.