“Hear! hear!”
“Also Monsieur Poufaille’s portrait in his exercises of strength.”
“Bravo!” cried Poufaille, squeezing Phil’s hand hard enough to crush it.
“Mesdames et messieurs,” Perbaccho continued, “my modest establishment does not permit me to offer Phil, the artiste, that salary to which he has a right to pretend; but let not that prevent us from drinking his health. Come now, mesdames et messieurs, here’s to the health of Monsieur Phil!”
It was not a thing which had to be repeated; every one drank to Phil’s health; and Phil returned thanks.
Phil enjoyed the popularity he had won by his friendliness to such good people. It was true—to please Suzanne, he had done her portrait with a few hours’ work. Yet Suzanne did not welcome him, as she had done in the old times, with a “Good day, Phil! Roll me a cigarette, mon petit!” Even her monkeyshines ceased in his presence; this was something he did not understand. He had also painted Poufaille as a Hercules, lifting enormous weights. Moreover, he had rendered light services to all this little world of the fair. He had his recompense. He had entered most intimately into the life of the little world. His album had been enriched by any number of sketches and types, by picturesque interiors as somber and stirring with life as those of Rembrandt. He had daring foreshortenings of gymnasts at the trapeze, of handsome boys and pretty girls with muscles like antique statues.
Every one admired the strength and address with which a simple amateur like Phil handled the dumb-bells or climbed the smooth rope. They were only astonished that, with a talent like his, he did not open a place for himself to do portraits at four or five francs apiece—that would bring him in a good day’s earnings; and this would not include the pupils who would be with him from time to time—they had seen some of them at the fair with him. He might open a permanent Beauty Exhibition; there was that big blonde, especially—but they never spoke to him about that. They were completely ignorant of whom he was or whom his friends were. Suzanne, flighty as she was, was discretion itself on this point, and there was no danger of Poufaille talking when Suzanne forbade him. No one suspected that the big blonde was rich enough to buy up the circus and its artistes with it, and Signor Perbaccho to boot, as well as all the side-shows and the whole fair, and the houses round about the fair. They did not even know her name. As to Phil, when they met him in the circus-tent, or with the wrestlers, making his sketches, they treated him like any other comrade.
The Rowrers’ yacht was to sail for Morgania in a few days, taking away the whole party, after two months at Camp Rosemont. Before his departure Phil wished to give pleasure to Poufaille and his friends by this luncheon with him. They yielded to his insistence, and accepted without ceremony. It gave him little trouble, and he brought his box and canvas to finish a study near by in the fields. This was a present he wished to offer to Ethel, and it reminded him of the pastimes of other days.
On the morrow, during the hunt—on the morrow, he had promised, he had sworn it to himself, and the moment was drawing near—no power in the world could hinder him—and yet how anxious he was! He was already in a fever and occupied himself with this lunch only to distract his thoughts, to prove to himself that he was calm and reasonable, that he had not lost his head. He looked at the groups around the jumping-board which had been turned into a table, and thought of the morrow. He surprised himself repeating in a low tone: “To-morrow!”
“What are you giving us with your ‘To-morrow’?” asked Poufaille, who overheard it. “Perhaps to-morrow others and not we shall be drinking the wine. I know no to-morrow but to-day! I tell you it’s drinking water that makes you sad and dreamy.”