(“Marquis, you’re happier than I
Because your wife’s so pretty;
If you’ll give her up to me,
Willingly’ll take her!”)
The days that followed were for Helia the sunny corner of her sad childhood. When she saw Phil she was happy—and she saw him every day! The very difficulty of meeting added charm to the adventure.
They saw each other in the courtyard of the inn.
Helia had the care of many things. A baby—Sœurette (Little Sister), held on to her skirts, and Helia gave a mother’s care to the child. She busied herself also with the linen drying on the clothes-lines; she scattered grain before the chickens which were tied by their legs; she sewed at her bodices or at her little performance-slippers; or else she would be coming back from market with a great loaf of bread under her arm and provisions in her basket. Always she was charming. Her least movement was full of grace.
When Phil could not speak with Helia he would press her hand as he passed. Then he would watch her from afar. Unconsciously they fell greatly in love with each other—he because he found her so pathetic, she because he was so timid and so handsome. From a few words picked up here and there, and from a talk with the clown at a café, Phil had come to know something of Helia’s story—for she never spoke of it herself, through pride. Or was it a woman’s shame in her desire to show to the one she loved only what was fair? Yet she had nothing to conceal,—pretty, sweet, valiant Helia!
Her story?
Helia was her circus name. Her real name Phil did not learn. She was not the daughter of Cemetery the clown, although she called herself so; she was only his trained pupil.