CHAPTER III

REMEMBERING THE GOLDEN DAYS

They looked at each other as if astonished to be once again together. Helia admired Phil, whom she found handsomer and stronger—more, indeed, of a man. Phil scanned the refined features of Helia: she seemed even more beautiful than in the old days.

Seated thus, hand in hand, eyes gazing into eyes, everything came back to memory: their first meeting in the little provincial town where Phil was studying, and where the circus in which Helia appeared had been set up; their simple, childish love, the pretty romance of their youth.

In the old days Phil used to speak to her with the familiar “thou”; here, in the quiet of the studio, alone with this beautiful young girl, it seemed too familiar, almost wanting in respect for her.

“Perhaps Phil is more intimidated than myself,” Helia thought in her surprise. “He has not even kissed me. But whether he speaks to me with a ‘thou’ or a ‘you’ matters little, provided he loves me still!”

“Now, then, Phil,” she asked, between her smiles, “what hast thou—what have you been doing all this time?”

“Oh!” answered Phil, “many things! And you, Helia?”

“Oh, for me it has been always the same thing, always just as it was before—do you remember?”

Ah, the childish doings of other days! How happy Helia was to take shelter in their sweet memories!

“Do you remember,” said Phil, “the day I saw you first? You know it was at the Fête-Dieu procession. How pretty you were as the little Saint John!”

On that day houses are decorated; the walls are hung with white sheets, on which are pinned flowers and greenery, and the procession passes between these blossoming walls. But the one thing in the procession for Phil had been the little Saint John.

It was Helia who took the rôle. At first they had chosen the daughter of a rich merchant; but fear of drafts and a possible fall of rain—a cold is caught so quickly—led them to change at the last moment; and in haste they took a creature of less importance, whose colds did not count.

“I remember,” said Helia, “they came to get me at the circus. I happened to be in a pink _maillot_, and they put the sheepskin on my back and the wooden cross in my hand—and ten francs in papa’s hand—and so I became the little Saint John.”

“And what a delightful Saint John you were!” said Phil. “I became a lover and a poet on the spot; I wrote verses—I was wild!”

“And you got wilder still,” said Helia, “when you found out that, instead of a merchant’s daughter, I was the famous Helia—the acrobatic star whom the posters pictured on her trapeze, amid stars and suns!”

Helia, in her turn, had seen Phil a few days later, while she was playing Wolf and Sheep. Sinking back in the sofa-cushions of the great studio, she chatted with Phil of that momentous event.

“That was the day after they had thrown so many oranges to me—do you remember, Phil?—and I was playing Wolf in the square with the neighbors’ children. You remember the game? One of the players is the wolf, another is the shepherd, the others are the sheep. They stand behind the shepherd and walk around singing:

‘Promenons-nous dans les bois Pendant que le loup n’y est pas!’

(‘Let’s go walking through the woods, While the wolf’s away!’)

And then the wolf jumps out and tries to catch a sheep.”

That second meeting of Phil and Helia had passed off very prettily. Helia was a regular little tomboy at play. Of course she did not often get a chance to play, and she found it pleasant to leap and laugh with other children; and Phil was there, standing around with the boys. He would have given everything in the world to be wolf and seize Helia and devour her with kisses—if he had dared.

And perhaps he might have dared,—lured on by a smile from the little Saint John,—but some one (it was Cemetery, the clown) came out from the circus-tent, and at sight of him sheep and shepherd scattered. He called harshly to Helia, and with a gesture sent her into the tent.

The little girl obeyed without a word, raising her elbow as she passed before her master, as if to ward off a blow. The last thing seen by Phil was the appealing glance of Helia, which seemed to say to him, “You see—and yet I was doing no harm—and we’d have had such fun!”

That was their second meeting.

The next day Phil prowled around the circus-tent with the other boys and tried to catch a glimpse of Helia through the holes of the canvas, or from beneath, stretched out flat on the ground.

All the day long the little girl was kept rehearsing her exercises. Sometimes it was the trapeze, or again the carpet. Cemetery gave her his directions with a serious air.

“_Allez!_—firm on your feet—smile, smile—throw your head back—don’t move your feet! Bend back! bend! bend! Fall on your hands! There—there—smile! _Tonnerre!_ Won’t you smile?”

But Phil waited in vain; he never saw her play again with the others.

Soon afterward the circus went away, and Phil, when vacation-time came, returned to America. He took with him tender remembrances, seeing often the last touching glance of Helia with her beautiful sad eyes. Pity mingled with his tenderness.

Phil went on his way through Paris and London and across the ocean to New York, and then on to the sunny South and his old ancestral mansion on the Chesapeake. But nothing, neither terrapin-catching nor duck-shooting nor horseback-riding through the country, could efface his childhood’s first love, which only grew in solitude. How he regretted that he had not taken part in the game when the little Helia invited him with a smile—that he had not kissed her through her brown curls!

Phil came back to France to go on with his studies. Helia was already a grown girl when he saw her again. The circus was being advertised, and great posters with the name of Helia placarded the walls.

With what impatience Phil awaited her! He was to see her again. He passed hours in the open square where the circus was being set up in the disorder of wagons and poles and canvas, peering anxiously into the circus-wagons.

The circus was in a single tent. The artistes for changing their costumes had rude dressing-rooms amid the confusion of circus properties underneath the benches on which the public sat.

One evening Helia had finished dressing by the light of a candle when she heard a noise above her head. She saw the bunting beneath the benches lifted, and a little bunch of flowers fell on her shoulder. She nearly cried out with surprise. During her turn they often threw oranges and flowers to her—that was commonplace; but these flowers!

As soon as she came into the ring she looked at the benches above her dressing-room. She fancied she recognized there the one whom she had seen when she was playing Wolf—how long ago!

“Le Roy fait battre le tambour Pour appeler ses dames.”

(Phil took his banjo from the wall behind the sofa. In a low voice he murmured the old song, which he had not forgotten, to the air played by the band when it announced Helia’s entrance into the ring:

“Le Roy fait battre le tambour Pour appeler ses dames,... Et la première qu’il a vue Lui a ravi son âme.”

(“The King has the drum beat To call out his ladies,... And the first one he sees Steals away his soul.”)

All the memories of the past rose up in Helia at the familiar air.)

* * * * *

At that time she was living inside a courtyard where the circus people put up their wagons. There was a stable for the horses and an inn for the men. Through the great gate of the courtyard the circus was in full sight, out in the public square.

One evening it was raining. Helia was at the gate and, caught by the rain, hesitated to go on. All at once Phil came up. She recognized him, and both were so moved that they said only the simplest things to each other.

“Thanks for your bouquet,” said Helia.

“Mademoiselle,” Phil began.

“I remember you very well,” Helia went on; “I knew you a long time ago. Why did you not play Wolf with us?”

“Because that man made you go in,” Phil answered.

“Ah, yes! true,” said Helia.

Phil feared she would hear the beating of his heart. He tried to put an end to their embarrassment, so he chattered about the rain and the bad weather.

“Mademoiselle, you must forgive me—I have no umbrella!” he said.

“That’s no matter,” said Helia. “Accompany me to the circus. Wait a bit—here’s what we want!”

On the wall beside them there hung a circus-poster. She took it, lifted it with one hand above her head, while Phil held the other end; and the two under one shelter crossed the square.

“Shall I see you again, mademoiselle?” Phil asked, when they had reached the circus.

“Surely—in the courtyard yonder by the wagons—or here in the evening.”

Phil left her without speaking further. Soon, through the canvas, he heard the air that announced her turn:

“Marquis, t’es bien plus heureux que moi D’avoir femme si belle; Si tu voulais me l’accorder Je me chargerai d’elle!”

(“Marquis, you’re happier than I Because your wife’s so pretty; If you’ll give her up to me, Willingly’ll take her!”)

The days that followed were for Helia the sunny corner of her sad childhood. When she saw Phil she was happy—and she saw him every day! The very difficulty of meeting added charm to the adventure.

They saw each other in the courtyard of the inn.

Helia had the care of many things. A baby—Sœurette (Little Sister), held on to her skirts, and Helia gave a mother’s care to the child. She busied herself also with the linen drying on the clothes-lines; she scattered grain before the chickens which were tied by their legs; she sewed at her bodices or at her little performance-slippers; or else she would be coming back from market with a great loaf of bread under her arm and provisions in her basket. Always she was charming. Her least movement was full of grace.

When Phil could not speak with Helia he would press her hand as he passed. Then he would watch her from afar. Unconsciously they fell greatly in love with each other—he because he found her so pathetic, she because he was so timid and so handsome. From a few words picked up here and there, and from a talk with the clown at a café, Phil had come to know something of Helia’s story—for she never spoke of it herself, through pride. Or was it a woman’s shame in her desire to show to the one she loved only what was fair? Yet she had nothing to conceal,—pretty, sweet, valiant Helia!

Her story?

Helia was her circus name. Her real name Phil did not learn. She was not the daughter of Cemetery the clown, although she called herself so; she was only his trained pupil.

Her father was a gentleman of Arles who became a widower with two daughters on his hands,—Helia and Sœurette,—one much older than the other. He fell in love with a circus-rider, and a terrible life began for him, with tours across Europe, and marriage with the woman, who ruled him with a rod of iron. The little daughters went with him, for he had no family other than relatives far removed. Then ruin came. A circus whose director and backer he had become, and into which he had put all his money, failed. He died, abandoned by every one, and leaving his two little girls to the care of Cemetery, who had been his circus-manager. Cemetery, harsh and honest, adopted the children and determined to make artistes of them. He at once began the training of the elder, and Helia grew up under him for master. “You shall do it or die!” Cemetery used to say when teaching her to perform. To those who represented to him that the profession was already encumbered, he answered: “There is always room on top! Beauty is well—talent is better. To work!”

Such was the story of Helia.

When Phil asked her about it, Helia did not answer, but only smiled faintly.

But Phil knew that she was unhappy, and his love for her went on growing. He dreamed a thousand chivalrous schemes—each madder than the one before. He felt within him the passion and daring resolution of the Longuevilles, his ancestors. He had also inherited their zeal for virtue. He would tear Helia away from her rough life. He would educate her—he would make her fit to be his companion. He explained his ideas to Helia. At first they amused her, but when she saw how sincere he was, she ended by believing them.

Helia went out rarely—scarcely more than from the inn to the circus. She would have liked to meet Phil oftener. When evening came, in her dressing-room under the benches, she donned her costume quickly and received her friend. It was easy for him to enter without being remarked. On the outside there were wagons which left only a narrow passage. It was where the canvas of the circus-tent joined; he had only to pull it aside to enter. Then he was at once in the dressing-room inclosed by boards and fragments of carpets worn out by generations of tumblers.

Phil would sit on a trunk while Helia combed her beautiful hair in front of a broken mirror. It never came to their minds that there could be anything wrong in what they were doing. They had long talks. Helia spoke of her profession and described her exercises.

“I am going to do the high leap. I spring and catch the bar—I get my balance, standing on my hands—and then I go off with a somersault! The high leap, Phil, you could learn in a month—you who are afraid of nothing!”

Phil would listen, and then interrupt her gently and speak of all sorts of things, opening new horizons before her; and Helia was happy and glad to learn.

“What beautiful arms!” said Phil one evening, as she was soaping them in a basin of cold water.

“And I take care of them!” answered Helia, “_songe donc_, Phil! (They were already using the familiar French “thou” to each other.) Just think; every evening I owe my life to these arms! When I do the flying trapeze they mustn’t miss their hold. I should be crushed on the benches,—think of it!—and I have to smile all the same.”

As she dried her arms, Phil raised his eyes and saw, near the shoulder, a brown stain on the white skin.

“That’s nothing,” said Helia; “I knocked against a post.”

Phil looked at her closely.

“You’ve been crying again to-day! But I—I’m not afraid of Cemetery,” he went on. “I’ll go for him to-morrow and punch his face. I won’t have him touching you any more. First of all, he hasn’t the right! and I’ll forbid him.”

But Helia shook her head: “No!” She added: “I’ll attend to that! I belong to you now—not to him! There he comes,” she said suddenly. “Go away—and not a word, whatever happens!”

Above the noise of the band and of the public, Helia had heard Cemetery’s voice. Phil had just time to get away.

“Are you going to come when you are called?” the man said.

At a glance, from Helia’s emotion, from certain noises he had heard, he guessed the truth. But he was far from thinking of Phil. He suspected that some circus man was paying court to her.

Phil, from the outside, heard this dialogue.

“You were not alone?”

“No!”

“There was a man here?”

Helia did not answer.

“Wait a bit,” said Cemetery. “I’ll teach you—”

“Don’t touch me—I forbid you!”

Phil looked through a rent in the canvas.

Helia stood transfigured, superb with energy. She was no longer a child driven by cuffs and blows; she was the young woman awakened by love, conscious of her rights and her duties. Phil’s soul was in her. Helia spoke in a low tone, and her attitude was so calm that the man stopped in amazement.

“_Hein!_ what is it?” he stammered.

“Leave this room!” said Helia, “or I will have the police arrest you. You have no right over me! From to-day you shall keep your hands off me! Leave the room,” she repeated.

As if her gesture had the power of a charm, the man went out, dumb with surprise and raising his elbow as if to protect himself.

Phil was filled with enthusiasm at the sight of Helia’s self-deliverance. His counsels had fallen on good ground. He had awakened in Helia a spirit of independence, and this made him feel an increase of responsibility.

At midnight, while the artistes were supping at the inn, Phil saw Helia in the shadow of the wagons. It was there that he met her henceforth, for after this he went no more to the dressing-room. Their conversations took place in the peace of night; they said a thousand things to each other, talking, like children, of whatever passed through their heads, drifting with the current which bore both onward.

“I don’t like the career they have chosen for me,” said Phil! “they want me to be a diplomat. Later on I wish to be an artist—a painter or sculptor; a painter, I think. My guardian will never be willing. But never mind! I will go to Paris—I will make my way by myself!”

“Who knows if I shall ever see you again!” said Helia. “What will become of me?”

“Helia, you shall come to me as soon as I have earned money.”

“Paris,” said Helia, dreamily. “You will be all alone there when you arrive. Ah! if I only knew some one! At any rate, I will give you the address of a hotel for artistes where I have been myself with Cemetery, and a letter for Suzanne, whom I knew at school. Suzanne is an actress. We write to each other sometimes.”

Ah, what adieus were theirs the evening before the separation! How Helia trembled when Phil kissed her—and what promises he made her!

* * * * *

Sinking back in the sofa-cushions, Helia and Phil stared vaguely before them at the Morgana picture. The perfume of Miss Rowrer’s violets reached them, light and subtle; and the minutes passed in silence. Then Phil sang in an undertone:

“Adieu, ma mie, adieu, mon cœur, Adieu, mon espérance!... Puisque il me faut servir le roi, Séparons-nous d’ensemble.”

(“Farewell, my love, farewell, my heart, Farewell, all my hope!... And since I must serve my king, We must separate from each other!”)

He put aside the banjo and began talking with Helia, asking questions about her present life.

“How long have you been in Paris, Helia? A short time only?”

Helia, who was astonished, was on the point of replying: “Why, I wrote you.” She remained silent, however. The sumptuous studio—the visits of monseigneurs and beautiful young ladies—how different it was from the Phil of other days, the Phil of the circus, the student who had been devoted to her later on in Paris! Why not a word of their life then, of their idyl of the Louvre roof-garden? etc.... He did not even speak of all that; his remembrance seemed to be at an end. This, then, was all he found to say to her after more than a year of separation—he who could not live without her, who had said it a hundred times.

“Where are you living?” asked Phil. “At the Hôtel des Artistes, where I went when I came to Paris? I left it on the advice of Suzanne, your great actress,” Phil went on, smilingly.

“Ah, Phil! I thought her a great actress,” said Helia. “She was the only person I knew in Paris. Oh, if I could have been more useful to you, I would have been! No,” she began again, quickly, “I am not living there; but I keep Cemetery there.”

“Cemetery!” replied Phil.

“The poor fellow has grown old—he is out of work; I pay for his room until he can find an engagement.”

“What, Cemetery, that brute?”

“He made me an artiste!” Helia replied, bravely.

“And your little sister?” continued Phil,—“Sœurette, you called her—what has become of her? Do you keep her with you?”

“Yes,” said Helia. “My father’s family claimed her, but it was a little late, was it not? I have kept her, thanks to several friends—M. Socrate, the poet, among the rest.”

“Socrate!” said Phil. “I know a person of that name. It can’t be the same—mine is a painter.”

“So is mine.”

“He is a sculptor also,” added Phil.

“It must be the same man,” said Helia.

“Impossible!” thought Phil. “Socrate a friend of Helia! How can they have met?”

Phil thought of the life of Helia in circuses and music-halls—the coarse environment where art touches elbows with shamelessness. “What influences have been around her,” he thought in sadness, “during all this time in which I have not seen her?”

“Socrate does many kind little things for me,” Helia went on. “He posts my letters and makes himself useful. He’s a man who will be celebrated some day; oh, you will see!”

So spoke Helia, in the spirit of loyalty. In reality she cared little enough for Socrate; but it pleased her to let Phil think that she cared for him. So much the worse if Phil should be vexed! Had _he_ been afraid to give pain? Since she has been in the studio he has not once kissed her!

Helia rose to go away.

“Then it’s for to-morrow, Phil?”

Phil begged her to stay.

“No; I will come back,” said Helia, “and we’ll pose to-morrow. I have so many things to do to-day—my costumer, my director, a new apparatus to try—I must hurry.”

“Phil has forgotten me,” said Helia to herself. “It had to come—I am nothing to him now!”

As she passed out of the door she was aware of the perfume of the violets which Miss Rowrer had let fall.