He was a touching sight, with the veins in his forehead swollen by his effort, exhausting himself in the handling of brushes and paint-knives, which were things too delicate for his big hairy hands made for the plow and the wine-press.
Nothing could amuse him. Yet Suzanne lifted toward him her laughing face and told her funniest stories. One was an adventure of the other evening, when she had taken Helia’s hat and cloak to go and sup with the duke. Mon Dieu! how she had laughed. At the thought of it she still held her sides, careless of the stares of the public.
“I wish you had been there, my little Poufaille, when I went up the stairs. They bowed to me as if I were a queen—ah, mais oui! I made myself as fine as I could and I had Helia’s hat and cloak. If Phil had seen me he might have thought it was Helia.
“Eh bien! quoi!” Suzanne exclaimed, interrupting herself to look at Poufaille. “What do you mean by grinding your teeth when I speak of Phil? One would say you were going to eat some one up. Phil doesn’t hear us, you know; he is up there with Helia, who is posing for him in what they used to call their oasis—the garden, you know, where you wanted to grow potatoes. Oh, forgive me, my little Poufaille, I didn’t wish to hurt your feelings,” Suzanne added quickly, as she saw Poufaille clenching his fist at the remembrance of the rejected potatoes, as painful to him as the stolen share of glory. Poufaille went back to work with a heavy sigh.
“Besides,” Suzanne went on, “you know I’m not so stuck on Phil myself any more, and I wish he were here, to tell him what I think of his way of acting toward Helia. I wouldn’t hide the truth from him; and I’d like to know if he’d answer as he used to do in his attic—‘I’m not that kind of a man!’ Ah!” Suzanne continued, “you’re all the same, you men! You’re not worth the rope to hang you!”
Poufaille sighed as if his heart were breaking. He kept on painting his goat and kids.
“I wish you had been there when the garçon brought me in,” Suzanne began again, to finish her story. “Imagine a table all spread with fruits and flowers and lights; and whom do I see coming toward me but the duke, in evening clothes, leaning over and kissing my hand. I had my veil down and he did not recognize me—it was Helia he was waiting for; the duke had invited her with a little note, very well expressed, you know, such as dukes know how to write. When Helia had opened the note she asked me to go and present her excuses. You can imagine I took the opportunity—I whom you see before you. I had supped before that with smart people, but with a duke never! What would you have done, Poufaille? That humbug of a Caracal once told me I should have to get down on my knees when I spoke to him. Well, I just took off my veil and said: ‘Cuckoo! It’s me! You’re waiting for Helia, but she begs to be excused!’ Would you think men could be so odd? My little Poufaille, Helia’s stock went up with him at once. I could see it by the way he spoke of her. But never mind that; he was very amiable and kept me to dinner. I didn’t wish to, but he insisted so—and it’s a very chic place, that restaurant. Then all at once there was a squabble at the door and I saw two bears coming in!—I mean two men like bears, bowing to the ground to the duke and calling him monseigneur. They spoke of lots of things—that they had just come from the monseigneur’s house; that they had been told monseigneur was in diplomatic consultation—et patati et patata—and then there was Turkey and Morgania and I don’t know what all. The duke had a very embarrassed look—‘my dear Zrnitschka—Bjelopawlitji—my dear minister—’
“Ministers—those two bears! I was bursting! And, on my word, I believe the duke presented me as the diplomatic agent! After that there was dinner and jokes and songs, and the duke brewed a champagne salad, while I tickled the two bears under the chin to make them swallow brandied cherries.”
Suzanne spoke in vain. Poufaille kept the fated look of a man who has been grazed by glory as it passes. He lifted his head sullenly and then let it fall again on his breast, as if crushed.
“Attention!” suddenly cried Suzanne, who was looking down the gallery. “Here are serious customers—Miss Rowrer and Mme. Rowrer, Mr. Will, the duke, and Caracal. I’m sure they’re going to visit Phil up there in his oasis. Helia isn’t expecting such an honor!”