There were also more substantial joys. They had even as a supreme hope a chicken tied by the leg in a corner of the room. They had intended fattening it. Helia dreamed of a banquet to which she would invite Poufaille and Suzanne; but the chicken was not ready. The banquet was put off, and the day now came when Helia was to go away.
Phil experienced the sadness of farewells at a railway station on the crowded platform; there was the grasping of hands, the promises to write, and the anguish of seeing the train disappear in the night.
He came back overcome with grief. For the first time the poverty of his room overwhelmed him; the paper falling from the walls, his sketches fading upon them, all was somber and desolate in spite of the flowers on the table and the curtains at the window.
He had never noticed it before, for Helia’s presence had absorbed him wholly. Now he realized that he was living in an attic and he blushed at his poverty.
Was he to fritter away his life in this way? How could he—man that he was—endure this? With all his desire he had not been able to keep in Paris the young girl he loved—to tear her from her wandering life and marry her. He, so free and strong, could not rid himself of these bonds of poverty? He swore that he would be free even though he should kill himself with work.
CHAPTER VIII
THE END OF THE GUITAR
One effort and then another, and little by little Phil freed himself. So far his health could stand it. He had glimpses of better days. Along with his will his talent also grew strong. His progress was rapid; step by step he mounted upward; and the horizon grew wider before him.
The day when it was certain that Phil would have his Salon medal, Socrate drank off his absinthe savagely and declared:
“That fellow is lost!”
In a few words he put the case before the comrades.