“It will drive me crazy!” said Phil.
“You will produce a masterpiece,” replied Socrate.
One evening Phil came in radiant. “I have it!” he cried.
He explained his idea. Women had been painted in the moonlight, in the sunlight, and in the light of flames. Eh bien! he, Phil, would light his woman with reflections from a guitar!
“You see, I have a woman’s head in shadow,” Phil explained to Socrate, as he made lines with his pencil on the table; “and the guitar itself is lighted up by a ray from heaven—do you understand? Music, an echo of heaven, enlightens our sad humanity!”
“Bravo!” exclaimed Socrate.
Poufaille, in his emotion, pressed Phil’s hand.
“I’ll give you a write-up!” said Caracal; “something really good.” But he added to himself: “So you’re painting echoes from heaven, pork-packer that you are!”
Phil, under the guidance of Socrate, began his picture. It was hard to set himself again to real work after so many months of doing nothing. He exhausted his strength and spirits over his canvas. He ate next to nothing and grew thin visibly; he lived merely a life of the brain.
“Oh, if I could only have a great success and get rich,” he said to himself, “I would have Helia come back!”