There were lofty chimneys profusely carved with garlands; the leaves of acanthus and laurel and oak were interlaced with strange flowers, among which laughed the loves and satyrs of the Renaissance. Cornucopias poured at their feet their marble fruits; and goddesses, standing against the blue sky, trumpeted through their shells the happiness of their loves.
In the distance their own garden seemed like an oasis of greenery. After long reveries it was sweet to them to come back and breathe the air of its roses and to hear the birds twitter in the shrubbery of their paradise.
Helia, since she had made Phil’s acquaintance, blushed for her ignorance. She had given to reading all the time left her by her exercises; there was in her something else than superb physical beauty. Sometimes, with the blood in her face and glad to be alive, after scaling with an acrobat’s agility the obstacles of the roof, she would stop and ask Phil questions which showed a thoughtful mind. She listened to his replies with attention, little by little ridding herself of the common speech and narrow views of her trade.
“Say, Phil,” she remarked to him one day as they were looking out over the great courtyard of the Louvre beneath them, “Blondin would have crossed that, dancing on a tight-rope! I believe I could do it, too,” she added, so light and strong did she feel. But she soon saw that such ideas were not pleasing to Phil: he loved her in spite of her being a circus-girl and not because she was one.
At once she spoke of other things.
“No one ever taught me anything, Phil; teach me, you who speak so well.”
Phil was radiant. Encouraged by her desire to know, he willingly became her educator and poured out his knowledge for her. He modeled Helia’s mind on his own. She belonged to him more and more. She thought like him, through him, for him. Her maiden intelligence gave itself up to him. Phil was grateful to her for the progress she was making. A look from her limpid eyes, a grasp of her hand, were his sweet reward. They moved him more deeply than words of love could have done; and more and more Helia grew to be a part of him. Phil talked to her of Paris and of the persons he knew there. Helia answered with her clear good sense.
“The dirty banks of the Bièvre—what an idea—when the Seine is so pretty at Saint-Cloud! But perhaps ugliness is easier to paint?”
“Perhaps,” said Phil. “That must be the reason.” “As for me,” Helia said, “I’m only an ignorant girl—I love beautiful things!”
“Look, Phil, what is that we see down there?” she said one day, as she was leaning over a skylight.