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!”