A silence, and then some one called, “Fifty sous!”
“Bid it up a thousand francs, Will!” Ethel said to her brother.
“Really, now, Ethel,” Will answered, “even at fifty sous it’s dear. I’ll buy something else from M. Poufaille, some other time.”
So many years of toil and want, and all his poor dreams of the future soon to be scattered and ground to mortar—yet Poufaille was right! He had followed his dream, he had tried his fortune; it had tumbled to the ground, but what a beautiful dream it had been all the same! And Phil thought, with a thrill at his heart, that there was one thing which justified every effort; one thing which broke down distinctions and made a poor artist the equal of a reigning duke, of a king even; something which would put him on a level with Ethel; something which he would reach, had he to kill himself in the struggle for it!
Ethel came up to Phil as they were going out of the hall.
“Tell me, Phil, what can induce a man like Poufaille to try art? Isn’t it sheer folly?”
“No, Miss Rowrer. It is true Poufaille has not succeeded, but that matters little. He has tried to reach the only thing which makes life worth living.”
“What is that, Phil?”