But he stayed on; and Poufaille kept on talking; and Phil listened, in spite of himself, unmoved to all appearance, but deeply touched at bottom, for he could not say to Poufaille: “You are lying! It is false! I promised nothing!”
“Yes,” Poufaille continued, in a low voice, making sure that no one was listening—“yes, I know what you might say: Helia’s surroundings, Socrate,—I know not what. You have suspected her, that I do know! Suzanne has told me. Our good Helia, who would give her life for you—if she only gives money to a beggar you suspect her for it; for Socrate is a beggar—a beggar she keeps alive out of pure charity, just as she helps Cemetery, simply because he is old and cannot work. But you know that as well as I.”
“But the duke,” Phil spoke up. “I saw Helia—”
“You saw Suzanne! Ah, I’ve blamed Suzanne often enough for it since—what an idea in her to go to take supper with the duke! I’d rather she would strike me with the broomstick!”
“And yet,” Phil began.
“It’s true the duke was greatly taken with her,” Poufaille continued; “she had only a word to say and he would have offered her anything. She never accepted a thing—not even a flower!”
“Ah!” said Phil.
“You see,” Poufaille went on, “you don’t care much to meet Helia—you have your own reasons for it—for she is here, you know!”
Phil raised his head, as if he expected to see the canvas of the circus-tent open and Helia appear there looking at him. But there was no one save the artistes rising from the table and taking away the things. They were even removing the board, so as to leave the ring free. In the stables they were preparing the horses for rehearsal. He could hear the harness rattling, and the whips snapping. The ring, which had been so gay, suddenly became gloomy. Phil frankly regretted that he had come. He had a single thought,—how to get away. Taking up his color-box and canvas, he said good day to every one, and shook Poufaille’s hand.
“You’re going away?” Poufaille said. “You haven’t a grudge against me, I hope—it was too much for me!”