The Concierge
“Do you remember when I used to go to wait for you?”
“And you,” answered Helia, “the flowers you gave me—do you remember?”
But now it was full day and the sun was lighting up the studio. Phil’s memories faded little by little, scattered by the early morning cries of Paris. The shrill piping of the wandering plumber awakened him with a start just as he was dropping off into real sleep and seeing in his dream Helia soar through a strange world amid heavenly splendors.
“Here’s the morning paper, M. Longwill,” said the old concierge, who came up with the mail; but he stopped short with open mouth at the sight of Phil’s costume. To dress one’s self like that! Etait-il Dieu possible! They didn’t have such ideas in his time!
Certainly, Phil was an odd figure in his Indian dress. If he lowered his head he risked scratching his chin against the bear’s claws of his collar. He was clad in leather and glass beads. There were feathers down his legs and a calumet was stuck in his belt. At his feet lay the tomahawk which he had brandished a few hours before in honor of beautiful Helia. He had the look of a veritable savage. No one would have recognized in him the society painter, descendant of Philidor de Longueville, the Protestant banished from France by Louis XIV, who became a great proprietor in Virginia.
“Ah, monsieur,” the concierge began again, “in the old times when you took walks with Mlle. Helia in my garden on the roofs of the Louvre, where I was inspector, you didn’t need to dress up like that to amuse yourself. Ah, it was the good time then! I remember one day—”
“I say, concierge,” interrupted Phil, in a solemn tone; “go down quick and get me a bottle of seltzer water. I am dying of thirst!”