“M. Caracal,” Ethel interrupted, “you are right; this is a real Paradise!”
“And over there you have Adam and Eve,” Caracal said, pointing amid the greenery to where Phil was painting Helia, posed in an old arm-chair half hidden by climbing plants.
“That is what is best in the Louvre,” Ethel said to the group, looking at Helia. “Let us greet her Majesty Beauty!”
Phil had just caught sight of Ethel and her party. He hurriedly laid down his palette and came forward. Helia saw them also, and arose and bowed. Ethel recognized her and spoke with a friendly manner. They looked at each other in that peculiar way which women have of taking each other’s measure,—it was like a mute dialogue between Beauty and Culture. But Beauty—poor Helia—lowered her eyes. She became humble and acknowledged herself vanquished.
For Helia no longer had any hope. She understood, she saw with fright the ever-growing distance between herself and Phil. Ah, no! Phil was no longer the same; he was above her, far above, among the rich and powerful; and he would continue his upward march, while she, Helia, would, little by little, go downwards.
She had agreed to pose for him that day—it was the decisive test. It had cost her much to do it. Phil, after all, ought to know what his conscience told him to do; but she did not wish there should be any fault on her part. She had never had the courage to say to herself it was all over, until this day, which she was passing alone with him. She had come to see if he would remember—if the trees in bloom amid their oasis would recall anything to him. She counted on the complicity of the blue sky and the fragrance of roses. But the day had passed, under the splendid heavens, and they had not, as in other days, gathered fruit from the trees or picked flowers from the parterres. Phil had been good-natured, but he was like a friend and nothing more. Phil—she saw it clearly—Phil would be a stranger for her to-morrow. Who knows? The time might come when he would forget even her name.
Helia acknowledged that it was possible when she looked at Miss Rowrer, who drew near and began chatting with Phil. What charm there was in her words! Helia was never tired of listening to her. She felt no jealousy of Ethel, whose goodness saved her from envy. She admired her in silence. Sometimes, like a lightning flash, she seemed to understand the abyss which separated them, and then everything reëntered the shadow. No—she did not know; everything escaped her grasp in that sphere of life, more inaccessible to her than the white clouds up in the depths of the azure. What had she with which to struggle against this young girl, so brilliant and so playful, before whom Phil and the duke were content to seem little? And then, she was so rich!
But Helia blushed for herself and quickly cast away any thoughts of Miss Rowrer’s wealth. Since she could not help loving Phil, she at least would not cease giving him her esteem. She looked in a sort of fear at Miss Rowrer, of whom so much was said, and who seemed so simple and gay. What could she do against so many advantages—she, Helia, who had only her beauty? And perhaps Phil found her ugly now!
“What are you painting?” Ethel asked Phil. “I suppose I may look.”
“Miss Rowrer, I beg you,” Phil answered, “give me your advice.”