How he lives is a mystery. Any evening you can see him in the Café d’Harcourt, or the Soufflet, and generally accompanied by Rougette. When he is in funds he spends recklessly. Once he gained a prize for a Moulin Rouge poster, and celebrated his success in a supper that cost him three times the value of his prize. Sometimes he contributes a very naughty drawing to Pages Folles, and I know that he does aquarelles for the long-haired genius who sells them on the boulevards, and who, though he can draw little else than a cork from a bottle, in appearance out-rapins the rapins.
One afternoon I heard Helstern painfully toiling upstairs.
“I’ve got an idea,” he began. “You know as soon as I set eyes on the mother of your little Solonge I saw she was just the type I’ve been looking for for my group, Maternity. That woman’s a born mother, a mother by destiny. See, here’s a sketch of my group.”
Helstern’s statues, I notice, seldom get beyond the sketch stage. This one showed a mother suckling an infant and gazing fondly at another little girl, who in her turn was looking maternally at the baby.
“That’s all very well,” I objected banally; “but Frosine hasn’t got a baby.”
“Pooh! a mere trifle. I’ll soon supply the baby. Already I see my group crowned in the Salon. The thing’s as good as done. It only remains for you to go down and get the consent of Madam.”
“Me!”
“Why, yes. You know I’m no good at talking to women. It takes an Irishman to be persuasive. Go on, there’s a good fellow.”
Was I ever able to resist an appeal to my vanity? But pretty soon I returned rather crestfallen.
“It’s no use, old man. Can’t make anything of the lady. I showed her your sketch; I offered to provide the infant; I pointed out the sensation it would make in the Salon; no use. She positively refuses to pose; prefers to sew lingerie. If she would be serious I might be able to wheedle her; but she only laughs, and when a woman laughs I’ve got to laugh with her. But I can’t help thinking there’s something at the back of her refusal.”