“It is I—Helia!”
“Who is Helia?”
“Helia, your friend—your Helia; I am here with Suzanne!”
“Out, wretches!” And he fell back exhausted.
“Leave him alone,” said the young doctor. “In a fortnight he will be on his feet and I’ll send him to the country.”
Helia, who was forced to depart, went away. Her leave was over. Besides, she had no more money. Phil grew better and better. At first he was surprised to find his room so changed.
“Where are my pictures?” he asked. “What have you done with them?”
“We’ve put them one side—you can see them later,” answered Suzanne.
“What were they about?” inquired Phil. “Anyway, it’s all the same to me!”
The young doctor, with the good-fellowship that binds students together, accompanied him to a public sanatorium not far from Paris. From that moment Phil changed visibly. He who had been so anemic in the vitiated atmosphere of his studio, with his nose always over his oils and colors, and his eyes fixed on the canvas, in Socrate’s company, had now abundance of pure air and walks through the open fields. He felt himself reborn, although his head was a little empty and his body stiff and sore like one just taken from the torture-rack. But good food and quiet did wonders for him. He had an excellent constitution, made for work and struggle, and it came up again.