“It is I!” Helia answered. “Don’t speak—rest! You must rest!”
Yes, Helia had come back. Suzanne, in her belief that Phil was on the point of dying, had not been able to resist the impulse to write to her. It did not occur to Helia to ask if the disease was catching. She gave up everything. She paid her forfeit, took her leave of absence, her own good money going to pay another attraction as a substitute. Nearly all her savings went in this way—but she heeded it not. Nothing in the world would have held her back. She had to be with Phil. She alone had the right to tend him. Another with her own betrothed in time of danger? No!
Helia nursed him night and day. Suzanne helped her, and Poufaille did the errands, going for food to Mère Michel’s and for scuttles of coal to the charbonnier. From morning to night his heavy shoes shook the staircase.
“Why don’t you give him wine?” he said, as he looked at the sick man.
“Why not goat’s-milk cheese?” retorted Suzanne. “Will you keep silence, grand nigaud? Go and get some wood!”
“And the money to buy it with?”
“Here!” Helia said.
With what joy Helia watched Phil’s progress toward health!
“Dear, dear friend, my little Saint John,” Phil said to her. “How can I ever thank you for all you are doing for me!”
He kissed her hand or put it to his burning forehead. Once he rose up and looked around the room saying: “Who is there?”