A RUDE AWAKENING
Now followed a time of struggle and want; but Phil supported his trials
gaily, and gave the same enthusiasm to his work which he had given to
his love.
At the school Phil was successful. The walls of his room became covered
with sketches,—life studies, landscapes, compositions,—and more and
more studies of Helia, studies without end, all adorably graceful,
and showing at once the artist and the lover. All the phases of their
existence were there, from the little Saint John, and the girl mending
her _maillot_ on the steps of the circus-wagon, to the present Helia,
the beautiful young woman whom he had decided to make his companion for
life.
It was without fear that Phil felt this increase of responsibility. It
was even necessary that Helia should use all her authority over him to
persuade him to let her go where her engagements called her. He was
too poor to pay her forfeits, and he consented. Soon Helia was to go
abroad. This would be the last time they should separate; Phil swore
it. When Helia should come back, it would be for always. And what a
woman he would make of her! Helia should be his masterpiece.
The portrait he had painted from her would be worth a Salon
medal,—his master assured him so,—and that would bring him out of his
difficulties. Orders would doubtless follow; but, while waiting, he
would have to live. Phil here and there sold a few little paintings.
Sometimes he had to run all over Paris to accomplish this; but he told
Helia where he was going, and they would come back arm in arm like
brother and sister, while her smile scattered all his cares to the
winds.
His troubles had their reward in great happiness. There were vases full
of flowers upon his table and pretty curtains at his window; and, on
his birthday, Helia, with a bouquet, gave him a kiss into which she put
all the friendship and gratitude with which her heart was filled.
There were also more substantial joys. They had even as a supreme hope
a chicken tied by the leg in a corner of the room. They had intended
fattening it. Helia dreamed of a banquet to which she would invite
Poufaille and Suzanne; but the chicken was not ready. The banquet was
put off, and the day now came when Helia was to go away.
Phil experienced the sadness of farewells at a railway station on the
crowded platform; there was the grasping of hands, the promises to
write, and the anguish of seeing the train disappear in the night.
He came back overcome with grief. For the first time the poverty of his
room overwhelmed him; the paper falling from the walls, his sketches
fading upon them, all was somber and desolate in spite of the flowers
on the table and the curtains at the window.
He had never noticed it before, for Helia’s presence had absorbed him
wholly. Now he realized that he was living in an attic and he blushed
at his poverty.
Was he to fritter away his life in this way? How could he—man that he
was—endure this? With all his desire he had not been able to keep in
Paris the young girl he loved—to tear her from her wandering life and
marry her. He, so free and strong, could not rid himself of these bonds
of poverty? He swore that he would be free even though he should kill
himself with work.