“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!”