“Oh! never fear for her; I understand what urges her on: it is still that love of danger which made her heroic yesterday. Have no fear for Helia,” Ethel said to Suzanne, as she gave her the glass. “If I thought there was the least danger, I would send out the boat; but I think she—she wishes to be alone; we will respect her desire.”
That day Ethel had a thousand things to do: letters to write; her preparations for the evening; to choose the music which was to be played on board during the reception on land. Especially there was an old-time melody which she had heard Helia singing in a low voice in her cabin. Ethel had a muffled rehearsal of it in the forecastle. She wished to keep it as a surprise for Helia in the evening, when she should enter the throne-room. She counted greatly on the effect; the music would come in waves mingled with the sea-breeze, filling the night with harmony and encircling Helia with her favorite melody. There were also flowers to bring and other orders to give.
While they were thus making ready her triumph, Helia, who was now stretched out on the seaweed amid the rocks, dreamed, with her mind far away. The effort she had made and the coolness of the water had calmed her. The ardent light shone on her damp neck and arms as on rose-colored marble. The wet bathing-dress clung to her round limbs, and her heavy hair rolled over her shoulders. She was like a dreaming Naiad clinging to the sharp rocks above a sunken Atlantis.
All around her the sky heaped up tumultuous splendor. Fata Morgana was disporting herself in the burning mists.
Helia looked at the glowing apotheosis so far above her, as inaccessible as her dream. Then her eyes fell to the craggy ruins so much more in harmony with her thoughts. The green light upon the sea was reflected in her clear eyes. Beneath the transparent waters she could perceive a strange vegetation gently waving its leaves. Ah, how well one might rest down there, lying on the golden sands amid flowers which seemed alive!
Suddenly Helia blushed for herself—no! away with the ugly thought! All her pride revolted against it. Really, she was going mad! This idle, artificial life had been gnawing at her ever since she had come on the yacht. What was she doing with these happy ones of the earth, in the midst of their luxury? She saw clearly that Phil and Miss Rowrer were made for each other. No, she would not go to America to be exposed to such continual torture as the sight of their love would be—to see Phil living serenely on, without remorse and without regret. She must escape as soon as possible from him, and go back to her dressing-room, smelling of patchouli, and adorned with its broken mirror. There, at least, she would feel at home!
Helia, with her eyes fixed upon the sea, was building a hundred schemes. First of all, one thing was certain. She would now dare to attempt feats which she had never done before—which no one had ever done before. She might break her neck—well, it would be dying on the field of honor!
Her success should be dazzling. She would conquer New York, London, and Berlin. They would cover her with flowers, which she would crush beneath her feet as she retired behind the scenes. She would turn her back on the hall thundering with bravos, and would answer to her calls not by a flip-flap entrance like some peasant mountebank! No, she would find some unheard-of feat to make the hall grow pale with fright. Ah! she was not good for love; they would see what she was worth for terror!
Her brain went on inventing exercises and seeing movements, composing sensational numbers. She would have all the managers at her feet—Barrasford, in England, and Krokowski, in St. Petersburg. At Moscow the Boyards should offer her diamonds, and she would throw them back into their faces! She would be an artiste, only an artiste, the greatest artiste of all time! She would not be of those who are afraid to spoil their beauty or tear their maillots at the trapeze. She would have the number preceded by orchestral silences, suddenly breaking like a thunder-storm. She alone would do more than all the others, more than the Alexes and the Hanlons, more than fifty Leamy sisters. And on the tight-rope she would do more than the Omers, on her hands more than Bartholdi, on the carpet more than the Kremos or Scheffers! She could see herself, to the roaring of the band, with the crowd beneath her feet—the crowd of lying mouths, of soft and cowardly hearts; and she would cast at them a look of scorn while taking her flight to the roof.
She would have posters on all the walls in the least village town—a Gymnast, in England; a Gymnasiarque, in France; in Germany, a Bravourturnerin,—great posters to dazzle the Ochsenmaulsalatsfabrikanten! That would be fortune and glory! Oh, what a dog’s life! How could a man like Phil live with falsehood in his heart, and never a word of excuse? She would have given him up, she would have understood! She was not made for him; so be it. Phil could not give Miss Rowrer a rival like Helia—no! He had only to ask her pardon to obtain it—a kind word, and a kiss, and good-by. But no! there was not even that. Ah, Phil, Phil; he did not even take the trouble to give her back her word!