He put aside the banjo and began talking with Helia, asking questions about her present life.
“How long have you been in Paris, Helia? A short time only?”
Helia, who was astonished, was on the point of replying: “Why, I wrote you.” She remained silent, however. The sumptuous studio—the visits of monseigneurs and beautiful young ladies—how different it was from the Phil of other days, the Phil of the circus, the student who had been devoted to her later on in Paris! Why not a word of their life then, of their idyl of the Louvre roof-garden? etc.... He did not even speak of all that; his remembrance seemed to be at an end. This, then, was all he found to say to her after more than a year of separation—he who could not live without her, who had said it a hundred times.
“Where are you living?” asked Phil. “At the Hôtel des Artistes, where I went when I came to Paris? I left it on the advice of Suzanne, your great actress,” Phil went on, smilingly.
“Ah, Phil! I thought her a great actress,” said Helia. “She was the only person I knew in Paris. Oh, if I could have been more useful to you, I would have been! No,” she began again, quickly, “I am not living there; but I keep Cemetery there.”
“Cemetery!” replied Phil.
“The poor fellow has grown old—he is out of work; I pay for his room until he can find an engagement.”
“What, Cemetery, that brute?”
“He made me an artiste!” Helia replied, bravely.
“And your little sister?” continued Phil,—“Sœurette, you called her—what has become of her? Do you keep her with you?”