Phil thought of the landscape he had painted for Ethel when he had come from the circus, and of the man who had sought for a knife in his pocket, threatening Helia from a distance.
That very moment, as if some mysterious sympathy had been set up between Helia and himself, he felt the young girl’s arm tremble in his own. Helia pressed against him in a movement of unreasoned fear.
“What is the matter, Helia?” he asked. “Does the sight of so many weapons make you nervous?”
“No, it is not that,” said Helia, looking at the market-place thronged with people.
“What are you looking at?” Phil insisted. “Has any one frightened you? Do me the honor to fear nothing when on my arm, Helia!”
“Oh! I am afraid of nothing,” answered Helia. “Forgive me! it was surprise. I thought I saw some one, recognized some one; but no, I must be crazy—”
“You have seen some one? Whom?”
Helia was on the point of answering, “Socrate!” but she did not pronounce the name. Already he had been spoken of too much between her and Phil. Besides, she no longer could see the man. Yet she would have sworn that but now, there, behind that group, she had beheld the flat face of Socrate looking at her stealthily. It must have been an illusion. Was she now going to meet Socrate everywhere? Already, on board the yacht, one evening when she was looking from the deck into the boiler-room, she thought she had seen him in the red rays of the fires with his eyes lifted toward her, shining from a face black with coal-dust. Surely, it must have been because, when they left Marseilles, Suzanne burst into laughter, saying: “See the stokers they are taking on! There is one who looks like Socrate!”
“Do you wish me to find out?” Phil asked.
“No; remain here, Phil—here, at my side. It was just an idea I had—but do not leave me,” she added, pressing against him once more.