He wrote long letters to her. Helia’s replies breathed love and the lofty confidence she had in him. At the bottom of the page there was always a circle traced with a pen, and to this he touched his lips.
It was Helia whom he was painting in the background of his picture—a Helia illuminated by a strange light like a vision.
But Phil, worn out and bloodless, no longer had the strength to fix her features on canvas. He was all the time beginning over again, floundering in his powerlessness.
Every now and then Socrate came to see him and borrowed his last piece of money: “You haven’t five francs about you?—and this old overcoat, lend it to me till to-morrow!
“Tiens! a chicken!” Socrate went on, continuing his inspection; and he winked at Phil and made a gesture of wringing the fowl’s neck—“like that! couïc!” Then he looked at the picture.
“It doesn’t go,” Socrate said, rubbing his hands.
At other times the picture seemed to go better.
“Look out! You’re going too fast!” Socrate said, in a fright at the idea that his guitar might be brought back to him and that he might no longer have a pretext to come and borrow five francs or an overcoat. Suzanne also paid Phil visits. He often spoke to her of Helia.
“You’re always thinking about her!” Suzanne said, as she lighted a cigarette, taking two or three puffs and throwing it away with a pouah!
“Well, you must be in love with Helia!” she continued. “I had no idea of it! It won’t last, mon cher!”