“So he’s made himself a Hercules of the fair,” thought Phil, “and he’s made his name Irish! What a fall for an autochtone!”
“Phil,” asked Ethel, who had stopped in front of the Pierrette, “wouldn’t you say it was Suzanne? And here on the poster is O’Poufaille—it must be M. Poufaille! Decidedly, Tout-Paris has given itself a rendezvous in the provinces!”
“What—do you know those people?” grand’mère asked of Ethel. “I suppose you saw them in some circus!”
“I saw them in Paris—at the Louvre and at Monsieur Phil’s studio. They are good, brave hearts. Suzanne has posed for me and so did the famous Helia, whose portrait Yvonne did.”
“Impossible!”
“Why, yes, grand’mère,” Yvonne said. “That head of a Madonna—the miniature which you keep on your prie-dieu, don’t you know?—Mlle. Helia posed for it.”
“A Madonna copied from devils like that?” gasped grand’mère, amazed at the Pierrette’s gesticulations on the platform. “What! you bring such people into your house! You are not afraid?”
“I?” answered Ethel; “no fear at all! I would give them the key of my desk! Mme. Grojean, only ask Monsieur Phil, who knows them better than I. Every one earns his living as he can. Each one has his trade—and God for us all!”
“When you go to see them—for I hope you are going to see them,” Ethel continued, speaking to Phil, “remember me to them, and you will oblige me much! If M. Poufaille still has a picture to sell, I will buy it. Poor M. Poufaille!” she added. “After all, he might have succeeded, who knows? It is all such a question of chance!”
Phil, in his heart, did not care much about seeing Poufaille again; what sort of a welcome was there in store for him? But he could not explain all that to Miss Rowrer; and, besides, her desires were orders for him—and then, he would come to Poufaille bearing the gifts of Artaxerxes; that would calm him, no doubt.