Her father was a gentleman of Arles who became a widower with two daughters on his hands,—Helia and Sœurette,—one much older than the other. He fell in love with a circus-rider, and a terrible life began for him, with tours across Europe, and marriage with the woman, who ruled him with a rod of iron. The little daughters went with him, for he had no family other than relatives far removed. Then ruin came. A circus whose director and backer he had become, and into which he had put all his money, failed. He died, abandoned by every one, and leaving his two little girls to the care of Cemetery, who had been his circus-manager. Cemetery, harsh and honest, adopted the children and determined to make artistes of them. He at once began the training of the elder, and Helia grew up under him for master. “You shall do it or die!” Cemetery used to say when teaching her to perform. To those who represented to him that the profession was already encumbered, he answered: “There is always room on top! Beauty is well—talent is better. To work!”
Such was the story of Helia.
When Phil asked her about it, Helia did not answer, but only smiled faintly.
But Phil knew that she was unhappy, and his love for her went on growing. He dreamed a thousand chivalrous schemes—each madder than the one before. He felt within him the passion and daring resolution of the Longuevilles, his ancestors. He had also inherited their zeal for virtue. He would tear Helia away from her rough life. He would educate her—he would make her fit to be his companion. He explained his ideas to Helia. At first they amused her, but when she saw how sincere he was, she ended by believing them.
Helia went out rarely—scarcely more than from the inn to the circus. She would have liked to meet Phil oftener. When evening came, in her dressing-room under the benches, she donned her costume quickly and received her friend. It was easy for him to enter without being remarked. On the outside there were wagons which left only a narrow passage. It was where the canvas of the circus-tent joined; he had only to pull it aside to enter. Then he was at once in the dressing-room inclosed by boards and fragments of carpets worn out by generations of tumblers.
Phil would sit on a trunk while Helia combed her beautiful hair in front of a broken mirror. It never came to their minds that there could be anything wrong in what they were doing. They had long talks. Helia spoke of her profession and described her exercises.
“I am going to do the high leap. I spring and catch the bar—I get my balance, standing on my hands—and then I go off with a somersault! The high leap, Phil, you could learn in a month—you who are afraid of nothing!”
Phil would listen, and then interrupt her gently and speak of all sorts of things, opening new horizons before her; and Helia was happy and glad to learn.
“What beautiful arms!” said Phil one evening, as she was soaping them in a basin of cold water.
“And I take care of them!” answered Helia, “songe donc, Phil! (They were already using the familiar French “thou” to each other.) Just think; every evening I owe my life to these arms! When I do the flying trapeze they mustn’t miss their hold. I should be crushed on the benches,—think of it!—and I have to smile all the same.”