Trilby Read online

  Part Third

  "Par deçà, ne dela la mer Ne sçay dame ni damoiselle Qui soit en tous biens parfaits telle-- C'est un songe que d'y penser: Dieu! qu'il fait bon la regarder!"

  One lovely Monday morning in late September, at about eleven or so,Taffy and the Laird sat in the studio--each opposite his picture,smoking, nursing his knee, and saying nothing. The heaviness of Mondayweighed on their spirits more than usual, for the three friends hadreturned late on the previous night from a week spent at Barbizon and inthe forest of Fontainebleau--a heavenly week among the painters:Rousseau, Millet, Corot, Daubigny, let us suppose, and others less knownto fame this day. Little Billee, especially, had been fascinated by allthis artistic life in blouses and sabots and immense straw hats andpanamas, and had sworn to himself and to his friends that he would someday live and die there--painting, the forest as it is, and peopling itwith beautiful people out of his own fancy--leading a healthy out-doorlife of simple wants and lofty aspirations.

  At length Taffy said: "Bother work this morning! I feel much more like astroll in the Luxembourg Gardens and lunch at the Café de l'Odéon, wherethe omelets are good and the wine isn't blue."

  "The very thing I was thinking of myself," said the Laird.

  THE HAPPY LIFE]

  So Taffy slipped on his old shooting-jacket and his old Harrow cricketcap, with the peak turned the wrong way, and the Laird put on an oldgreat-coat of Taffy's that reached to his heels, and a battered strawhat they had found in the studio when they took it; and both salliedforth into the mellow sunshine on the way to Carrel's. For they meant toseduce Little Billee from his work, that he might share in theirlaziness, greediness, and general demoralization.

  And whom should they meet coming down the narrow turreted old RueVieille des Mauvais Ladres but Little Billee himself, with an air ofgeneral demoralization so tragic that they were quite alarmed. He hadhis paint-box and field-easel in one hand and his little valise in theother. He was pale, his hat on the back of his head, his hair staringall at sixes and sevens, like a sick Scotch terrier's.

  "Good Lord! what's the matter?" said Taffy.

  "Oh! oh! oh! she's sitting at Carrel's!"

  "Who's sitting at Carrel's?"

  "Trilby! sitting to all those ruffians! There she was, just as I openedthe door; I saw her, I tell you! The sight of her was like a blowbetween the eyes, and I bolted! I shall never go back to that beastlyhole again! I'm off to Barbizon, to paint the forest; I was coming roundto tell you. Good-bye!..."

  "Stop a minute--are you mad?" said Taffy, collaring him.

  "Let me go, Taffy--let me go, damn it! I'll come back in a week--but I'mgoing now! Let me go; do you hear?"

  "But look here--I'll go with you."

  "No; I want to be alone--quite alone. Let me go, I tell you!"

  "I sha'n't let you go unless you swear to me, on your honor, that you'llwrite directly, you get there, and every day till you come back. Swear!"

  "All right; I swear--honor bright! Now there! Good-bye--good-bye; backon Sunday--good-bye!" And he was off.

  "Now, what the devil does all that mean?" asked Taffy, much perturbed.

  "I suppose he's shocked at seeing Trilby in that guise, or disguise, orunguise, sitting at Carrel's--he's such an odd little chap. And I mustsay, I'm surprised at Trilby. It's a bad thing for her when we're away.What could have induced her? She never sat in a studio of that kindbefore. I thought she only sat to Durien and old Carrel."

  They walked for a while in silence.

  "Do you know, I've got a horrid idea that the little fool's in love withher!"

  "I've long had a horrid idea that _she's_ in love with _him_."

  "That would be a very stupid business," said Taffy.

  They walked on, brooding over those two horrid ideas, and the more theybrooded, considered, and remembered, the more convinced they became thatboth were right.

  "Here's a pretty kettle of fish!" said the Laird--"and talking of fish,let's go and lunch."

  And so demoralized were they that Taffy ate three omelets withoutthinking, and the Laird drank two half-bottles of wine, and Taffy three,and they walked about the whole of that afternoon for fear Trilby shouldcome to the studio--and were very unhappy.

  * * * * *

  This is how Trilby came to sit at Carrel's studio:

  Carrel had suddenly taken it into his head that he would spend a weekthere, and paint a figure among his pupils, that they might see andpaint with--and if possible like--him. And he had asked Trilby as agreat favor to be the model, and Trilby was so devoted to the greatCarrel that she readily consented. So that Monday morning found herthere, and Carrel posed her as Ingres's famous figure in his picturecalled "La Source," holding a stone pitcher on her shoulder.

  "'LET ME GO, TAFFY ...'"]

  And the work began in religious silence. Then in five minutes or soLittle Billee came bursting in, and as soon as he caught sight of her hestopped and stood as one petrified, his shoulders up, his eyes staring.Then lifting his arms, he turned and fled.

  "Qu'est ce qu'il a donc, ce Litrebili?" exclaimed one or two students(for they had turned his English nickname into French).

  "Perhaps he's forgotten something," said another. "Perhaps he'sforgotten to brush his teeth and part his hair!"

  "Perhaps he's forgotten to say his prayers!" said Barizel.

  "He'll come back, I hope!" exclaimed the master.

  And the incident gave rise to no further comment.

  But Trilby was much disquieted, and fell to wondering what on earth wasthe matter.

  At first she wondered in French: French of the quartier latin. She hadnot seen Little Billee for a week, and wondered if he were ill. She hadlooked forward so much to his painting her--painting herbeautifully--and hoped he would soon come back, and lose no time.

  Then she began to wonder in English--nice clean English of the studio inthe Place St. Anatole des Arts--her father's English--and suddenly aquick thought pierced her through and through, and made the flesh tingleon her insteps and the backs of her hands, and bathed her brow andtemples with sweat.

  She had good eyes, and Little Billee had a singularly expressive face.

  Could it possibly be that he was _shocked_ at seeing her sitting there?

  She knew that he was peculiar in many ways. She remembered that neitherhe nor Taffy nor the Laird had ever asked her to sit for the figure,though she would have been only too delighted to do so for them. Shealso remembered how Little Billee had always been silent whenever shealluded to her posing for the "altogether," as she called it, and hadsometimes looked pained and always very grave.

  She turned alternately pale and red, pale and red all over, again andagain, as the thought grew up in her--and soon the growing thoughtbecame a torment.

  "'QU'EST CE QU'IL A DONC, CE LITREBILI?'"]

  This new-born feeling of shame was unendurable--its birth a travail thatracked and rent every fibre of her moral being, and she suffered agoniesbeyond anything she had ever felt in her life.

  "What is the matter with you, my child? Are you ill?" asked Carrel,who, like every one else, was very fond of her, and to whom she had satas a child ("l'Enfance de Psyché," now in the Luxembourg Gallery, waspainted from her).

  She shook her head, and the work went on.

  Presently she dropped her pitcher, that broke into bits; and putting hertwo hands to her face she burst into tears and sobs--and there, to theamazement of everybody, she stood crying like a big baby--"La source auxlarmes?"

  "What _is_ the matter, my poor dear child?" said Carrel, jumping up andhelping her off the throne.

  "Oh, I don't know--I don't know--I'm ill--very ill--let me go home!"

  And with kind solicitude and despatch they helped her on with herclothes, and Carrel sent for a cab and took her home.

  And on the way she dropped her head on his shoulder, and wept, and toldhim all about it as well as she could, and Monsieur Carrel had tears in
his eyes too, and wished to Heaven he had never induced her to sit forthe figure, either then or at any other time. And pondering deeply andsorrowfully on such terrible responsibility (he had grown-up daughtersof his own), he went back to the studio; and in an hour's time they gotanother model and another pitcher, and went to work again.

  * * * * *

  And Trilby, as she lay disconsolate on her bed all that day and all thenext, and all the next again, thought of her past life with agonies ofshame and remorse that made the pain in her eyes seem as a light andwelcome relief. For it came, and tortured worse and lasted longer thanit had ever done before. But she soon found, to her miserablebewilderment, that mind-aches are the worst of all.

  Then she decided that she must write to one of the trois Angliches, andchose the Laird.

  She was more familiar with him than with the other two: it wasimpossible not to be familiar with the Laird if he liked one, as he wasso easy-going and demonstrative, for all that he was such a canny Scot!Then she had nursed him through his illness; she had often hugged andkissed him before the whole studio full of people--and even when alonewith him it had always seemed quite natural for her to do so. It waslike a child caressing a favorite young uncle or elder brother. Andthough the good Laird was the least susceptible of mortals, he wouldoften find these innocent blandishments a somewhat trying ordeal! Shehad never taken such a liberty with Taffy; and as for Little Billee, shewould sooner have died!

  So she wrote to the Laird. I give her letter without the spelling, whichwas often faulty, although her nightly readings had much improved it:

  "MY DEAR FRIEND,--I am very unhappy. I was sitting at Carrel's, in the Rue des Potirons, and Little Billee came in, and was so shocked and disgusted that he ran away and never came back.

  "I saw it all in his face.

  "I sat there because M. Carrel asked me to. He has always been very kind to me--M. Carrel--ever since I was a child; and I would do anything to please him, but never _that_ again.

  "He was there too.

  "I never thought anything about sitting before. I sat first as a child to M. Carrel. Mamma made me, and made me promise not to tell papa, and so I didn't. It soon seemed as natural to sit for people as to run errands for them, or wash and mend their clothes. Papa wouldn't have liked my doing that either, though we wanted the money badly. And so he never knew.

  "I have sat for the altogether to several other people besides--M. Gérôme, Durien, the two Hennequins, and Émile Baratier; and for the head and hands to lots of people, and for the feet only to Charles Faure, André Besson, Mathieu Dumoulin, and Collinet. Nobody else.

  "It seemed as natural for me to sit as for a man. Now I see the awful difference.

  "And I have done dreadful things besides, as you must know--as all the quartier knows. Baratier and Besson but not Durien, though people think so. Nobody else, I swear--except old Monsieur Penque at the beginning, who was mamma's friend.

  "It makes me almost die of shame and misery to think of it; for that's not like sitting. I knew how wrong it was all along--and there's no excuse for me, none. Though lots of people do as bad, and nobody in the quartier seems to think any the worse of them.

  "If you and Taffy and Little Billee cut me, I really think I shall go mad and die. Without your friendship I shouldn't care to live a bit. Dear Sandy, I love your little finger better than any man or woman I ever met; and Taffy's and Little Billee's little fingers too.

  REPENTANCE]

  "What shall I do? I daren't go out for fear of meeting one of you. Will you come and see me?

  "I am never going to sit again, not even for the face and hands. I am going back to be a _blanchisseuse de fin_ with my old friend Angèle Boisse, who is getting on very well indeed, in the Rue des Cloîtres Ste. Pétronille.

  "You _will_ come and see me, won't you? I shall be in all day till you do. Or else I will meet you somewhere, if you will tell me where and when; or else I will go and see you in the studio, if you are sure to be alone. Please don't keep me waiting long for an answer.

  "You don't know what I'm suffering.

  "Your ever-loving, faithful friend,

  "TRILBY O'FERRALL."

  She sent this letter by hand, and the Laird came in less than tenminutes after she had sent it; and she hugged and kissed and cried overhim so that he was almost ready to cry himself; but he burst outlaughing instead--which was better and more in his line, and very muchmore comforting--and talked to her so nicely and kindly and naturallythat by the time he left her humble attic in the Rue des Pousse-Caillouxher very aspect, which had quite shocked him when he first saw her, hadalmost become what it usually was.

  The little room under the leads, with its sloping roof and mansardwindow, was as scrupulously neat and clean as if its tenant had been aholy sister who taught the noble daughters of France at some Convent ofthe Sacred Heart. There were nasturtiums and mignonette on the outerwindow-sill, and convolvulus was trained to climb round the window.

  As she sat by his side on the narrow white bed, clasping and strokinghis painty, turpentiny hand, and kissing it every five minutes, hetalked to her like a father--as he told Taffy afterwards--and scoldedher for having been so silly as not to send for him directly, or come tothe studio. He said how glad he was, how glad they would all be, thatshe was going to give up sitting for the figure--not, of course, thatthere was any real harm in it, but it was better not--and especially howhappy it would make them to feel she intended to live straight for thefuture. Little Billee was to remain at Barbizon for a little while; butshe must promise to come and dine with Taffy and himself that very day,and cook the dinner; and when he went back to his picture, "Les Noces duToréador"--saying to her as he left, "à ce soir donc, mille sacréstonnerres de nong de Dew!"--he left the happiest woman in the wholeLatin quarter behind him: she had confessed and been forgiven.

  And with shame and repentance and confession and forgiveness had come astrange new feeling--that of a dawning self-respect.

  Hitherto, for Trilby, self-respect had meant little more than the merecleanliness of her body, in which she had always revelled; alas! it wasone of the conditions of her humble calling. It now meant another kindof cleanliness, and she would luxuriate in it for evermore; and thedreadful past--never to be forgotten by her--should be so lived down asin time, perhaps, to be forgotten by others.

  The dinner that evening was a memorable one for Trilby. After she hadwashed up the knives and forks and plates and dishes, and put them by,she sat and sewed. She wouldn't even smoke her cigarette, it remindedher so of things and scenes she now hated. No more cigarettes for TrilbyO'Ferrall.

  They all talked of Little Billee. She heard about the way he had beenbrought up, about his mother and sister, the people he had always livedamong. She also heard (and her heart alternately rose and sank as shelistened) what his future was likely to be, and how rare his genius was,and how great--if his friends were to be trusted. Fame and fortune wouldsoon be his--such fame and fortune as fell to the lot of veryfew--unless anything should happen to spoil his promise and mar hisprospects in life, and ruin a splendid career; and the rising of theheart was all for him, the sinking for herself. How could she ever hopeto be even the friend of such a man? Might she ever hope to be hisservant--his faithful, humble servant?

  * * * * *

  Little Billee spent a month at Barbizon, and when he came back it waswith such a brown face that his friends hardly knew him; and he broughtwith him such studies as made his friends "sit up."

  The crushing sense of their own hopeless inferiority was lost in wonderat his work, in love and enthusiasm for the workman.

  CONFESSION]

  Their Little Billee, so young and tender, so weak of body, so strong ofpurpose, so warm of heart, so light of hand,
so keen and quick andpiercing of brain and eye, was their master, to be stuck on a pedestaland looked up to and bowed down to, to be watched and warded andworshipped for evermore.

  When Trilby came in from her work at six, and he shook hands with herand said "Hullo, Trilby!" her face turned pale to the lips, herunder-lip quivered, and she gazed down at him (for she was among thetallest of her sex) with such a moist, hungry, wide-eyed look of humblecraving adoration that the Laird felt his worst fears were realized, andthe look Little Billee sent up in return filled the manly bosom of Taffywith an equal apprehension.

  Then they all four went and dined together at le père Trin's, and Trilbywent back to her _blanchisserie de fin_.

  Next day Little Billee took his work to show Carrel, and Carrel invitedhim to come and finish his picture "The Pitcher Goes to the Well" at hisown private studio--an unheard-of favor, which the boy accepted with athrill of proud gratitude and affectionate reverence.

  So little was seen for some time of Little Billee at the studio in thePlace St. Anatole des Arts, and little of Trilby; a _blanchisseuse defin_ has not many minutes to spare from her irons. But they often met atdinner. And on Sunday mornings Trilby came to repair the Laird's linenand darn his socks and look after his little comforts, as usual, andspend a happy day. And on Sunday afternoons the studio would be aslively as ever, with the fencing and boxing, the piano-playing andfiddling--all as it used to be.

  And week by week the friends noticed a gradual and subtle change inTrilby. She was no longer slangy in French, unless it were now and thenby a slip of the tongue, no longer so facetious and droll, and yet sheseemed even happier than she had ever seemed before.

  Also, she grew thinner, especially in the face, where the bones of hercheeks and jaw began to show themselves, and these bones wereconstructed on such right principles (as were those of her brow and chinand the bridge of her nose) that the improvement was astonishing, almostinexplicable.

  Also, she lost her freckles as the summer waned and she herself wentless into the open air. And she let her hair grow, and made of it asmall knot at the back of her head, and showed her little flat ears,which were charming, and just in the right place, very far back andrather high; Little Billee could not have placed them better himself.Also, her mouth, always too large, took on a firmer and sweeter outline,and her big British teeth were so white and even that even Frenchmenforgave them their British bigness. And a new soft brightness came intoher eyes that no one had ever seen there before. They were stars, justtwin gray stars--or rather planets just thrown off by some new sun, forthe steady mellow light they gave out was not entirely their own.

  Favorite types of beauty change with each succeeding generation. Thesewere the days of Buckner's aristocratic Album beauties, with loftyforeheads, oval faces, little aquiline noses, heart-shaped littlemouths, soft dimpled chins, drooping shoulders, and long side ringletsthat fell over them--the Lady Arabellas and the Lady Clementinas,Musidoras and Medoras! A type that will perhaps come back to us someday.

  May the present scribe be dead!

  Trilby's type would be infinitely more admired now than in the fifties.Her photograph would be in the shop-windows. Sir Edward Burne-Jones--ifI may make so bold as to say so--would perhaps have marked her for hisown, in spite of her almost too exuberant joyousness and irrepressiblevitality. Rossetti might have evolved another new formula from her; SirJohn Millais another old one of the kind that is always new and neversates nor palls--like Clytie, let us say--ever old and ever new as loveitself!

  Trilby's type was in singular contrast to the type Gavarni had made sopopular in the Latin quarter at the period we are writing of, so thatthose who fell so readily under her charm were rather apt to wonder why.Moreover, she was thought much too tall for her sex, and her day, andher station in life, and especially for the country she lived in. Shehardly looked up to a bold gendarme! and a bold gendarme was nearly astall as a "dragon de la garde," who was nearly as tall as an averageEnglish policeman. Not that she was a giantess, by any means. She wasabout as tall as Miss Ellen Terry--and that is a charming height, _I_think.

  "ALL AS IT USED TO BE"]

  One day Taffy remarked to the Laird: "Hang it! I'm blest if Trilby isn'tthe handsomest woman I know! She looks like a grande dame masqueradingas a grisette--almost like a joyful saint at times. She's lovely! ByJove! I couldn't stand her hugging me as she does you! There'd be atragedy--say the slaughter of Little Billee."

  "Ah! Taffy, my boy," rejoined the Laird, "when those long sisterly armsare round my neck it isn't _me_ she's hugging."

  "And then," said Taffy, "what a trump she is! Why, she's as upright andstraight and honorable as a man! And what she says to one about one'sself is always so pleasant to hear! That's Irish, I suppose. And, what'smore, it's always true."

  "Ah, that's Scotch!" said the Laird, and tried to wink at Little Billee,but Little Billee wasn't there.

  "TWIN GRAY STARS"]

  Even Svengali perceived the strange metamorphosis. "Ach, Drilpy," hewould say, on a Sunday afternoon, "how beautiful you are! It drives memad! I adore you. I like you thinner; you have such beautiful bones! Whydo you not answer my letters? What! you do not _read_ them? You _burn_them? And yet I--Donnerwetter! I forgot! The grisettes of the quartierlatin have not learned how to read or write; they have only learned howto dance the cancan with the dirty little pig-dog monkeys they call men.Sacrement! We will teach the little pig-dog monkeys to dance somethingelse some day, we Germans. We will make music for them to dance to!Boum! boum! Better than the waiter at the Café de la Rotonde, hein? Andthe grisettes of the quartier latin shall pour us out your little whitewine--'fotre betit fin planc,' as your pig-dog monkey of a poet says,your rotten verfluchter De Musset, 'who has got such a splendid futurebehind him'! Bah! What do _you_ know of Monsieur Alfred de Musset? Wehave got a poet too, my Drilpy. His name is Heinrich Heine. If he'sstill alive, he lives in Paris, in a little street off the ChampsÉlysées. He lies in bed all day long, and only sees out of one eye, likethe Countess Hahn-Hahn, ha! ha! He adores French grisettes. He marriedone. Her name is Mathilde, and she has got süssen füssen, like you. Hewould adore you too, for your beautiful bones; he would like to countthem one by one, for he is very playful, like me. And, ach! what abeautiful skeleton you will make! And very soon, too, because you do notsmile on your madly-loving Svengali. You burn his letters withoutreading them! You shall have a nice little mahogany glass case all toyourself in the museum of the École de Médecine, and Svengali shall comein his new fur-lined coat, smoking his big cigar of the Havana, and pushthe dirty carabins out of the way, and look through the holes of youreyes into your stupid empty skull, and up the nostrils of your high bonysounding-board of a nose without either a tip or a lip to it, and intothe roof of your big mouth, with your thirty-two big English teeth, andbetween your big ribs into your big chest, where the big leather lungsused to be, and say, 'Ach! what a pity she had no more music in her thana big tomcat!' And then he will look all down your bones to your poorcrumbling feet, and say, 'Ach! what a fool she was not to answerSvengali's letters!' and the dirty carabins shall--"

  "Shut up, you sacred fool, or I'll precious soon spoil _your_ skeletonfor you."

  Thus the short-tempered Taffy, who had been listening.

  Then Svengali, scowling, would play Chopin's funeral march more divinelythan ever; and where the pretty, soft part comes in, he would whisper toTrilby, "That is Svengali coming to look at you in your little mahoganyglass case!"

  And here let me say that these vicious imaginations of Svengali's, whichlook so tame in English print, sounded much more ghastly in French,pronounced with a Hebrew-German accent, and uttered in his hoarse,rasping, nasal, throaty rook's caw, his big yellow teeth baringthemselves in a mongrel canine snarl, his heavy upper eyelids droopingover his insolent black eyes.

  Besides which, as he played the lovely melody he would go through aghoulish pantomime, as though he were taking stock of the differentbones in her skeleton with greedy but discrim
inating approval. And whenhe came down to the feet, he was almost droll in the intensity of histerrible realism. But Trilby did not appreciate this exquisite fooling,and felt cold all over.

  He seemed to her a dread, powerful demon, who, but for Taffy (who alonecould hold him in check), oppressed and weighed on her like anincubus--and she dreamed of him oftener than she dreamed of Taffy, theLaird, or even Little Billee!

  * * * * *

  Thus pleasantly and smoothly, and without much change or adventure,things went on till Christmastime.

  Little Billee seldom spoke of Trilby, or Trilby of him. Work went onevery morning at the studio in the Place St. Anatole des Arts, andpictures were begun and finished--little pictures that didn't take longto paint--the Laird's Spanish bull-fighting scenes, in which the bullnever appeared, and which he sent to his native Dundee and sold there;Taffy's tragic little dramas of life in the slums of Paris--starvings,drownings--suicides by charcoal and poison--which he sent everywhere,but did not sell.

  "AN INCUBUS"]

  Little Billee was painting all this time at Carrel's studio--his privateone--and seemed preoccupied and happy when they all met at mealtime, andless talkative even than usual.

  He had always been the least talkative of the three; more prone tolisten, and no doubt to think the more.

  In the afternoon people came and went as usual, and boxed and fenced anddid gymnastic feats, and felt Taffy's biceps, which by this timeequalled Mr. Sandow's!

  Some of these people were very pleasant and remarkable, and have becomefamous since then in England, France, America--or have died, or married,and come to grief or glory in other ways. It is the Ballad of theBouillabaisse all over again!

  It might be worth while my trying to sketch some of the more noteworthy,now that my story is slowing for a while--like a French train when theengine-driver sees a long curved tunnel in front of him, as I do--and nolight at the other end!

  My humble attempts at characterization might be useful as "mémoires pourservir" to future biographers. Besides, there are other reasons, as thereader will soon discover.

  There was Durien, for instance--Trilby's especial French adorer, "pourle bon motif!" a son of the people, a splendid sculptor, a very finecharacter in every way--so perfect, indeed, that there is less to sayabout him than any of the others--modest, earnest, simple, frugal,chaste, and of untiring industry; living for his art, and perhaps also alittle for Trilby, whom he would have been only too glad to marry. Hewas Pygmalion she was his Galatea--a Galatea whose marble heart wouldnever beat for _him_!

  Durien's house is now the finest in the Parc Monceau; his wife anddaughters are the best-dressed women in Paris, and he one of thehappiest of men; but he will never quite forget poor Galatea:

  "La belle aux pieds d'albâtre--aux deux talons de rose!"

  * * * * *

  Then there was Vincent, a Yankee medical student, who could both workand play.

  He is now one of the greatest oculists in the world, and Europeans crossthe Atlantic to consult him. He can still play, and when he crosses theAtlantic himself for that purpose he has to travel incognito like aroyalty, lest his play should be marred by work. And his daughters areso beautiful and accomplished that British dukes have sighed after themin vain. Indeed, these fair young ladies spend their autumn holiday inrefusing the British aristocracy. We are told so in the society papers,and I can quite believe it. Love is not always blind; and if he is,Vincent is the man to cure him.

  In those days he prescribed for us all round, and punched andstethoscoped us, and looked at our tongues for love, and told us what toeat, drink, and avoid, and even where to go for it.

  For instance: late one night Little Billee woke up in a cold sweat, andthought himself a dying man--he had felt seedy all day and taken nofood; so he dressed and dragged himself to Vincent's hotel, and woke himup, and said, "Oh, Vincent, Vincent! I'm a dying man!" and all butfainted on his bed. Vincent felt him all over with the greatest care,and asked him many questions. Then, looking at his watch, he deliveredhimself thus: "Humph! 3.30! rather late--but still--look here, LittleBillee--do you know the Halle, on the other side of the water, wherethey sell vegetables?"

  "Oh yes! yes! What vegetable shall I--"

  "Listen! On the north side are two restaurants, Bordier and Baratte.They remain open all night. Now go straight off to one of those tuckshops, and tuck in as big a supper as you possibly can. Some peopleprefer Baratte. I prefer Bordier myself. Perhaps you'd better tryBordier first and Baratte after. At all events, lose no time; so off yougo!"

  Thus he saved Little Billee from an early grave.

  * * * * *

  Then there was the Greek, a boy of only sixteen, but six feet high, andlooking ten years older than he was, and able to smoke even strongertobacco than Taffy himself, and color pipes divinely; he was a greatfavorite in the Place St. Anatole, for his _bonhomie_, his niceness, hiswarm geniality. He was the capitalist of this select circle (and noblylavish of his capital). He went by the name of PoluphloisboiospaleapologosPetrilopetrolicoconose--for so he was christened by the Laird--becausehis real name was thought much too long and much too lovely for thequartier latin, and reminded one of the Isles of Greece--where burningSappho loved and sang.

  What was he learning in the Latin quarter? French? He spoke French likea native! Nobody knows. But when his Paris friends transferred theirbohemia to London, where were they ever made happier and more at homethan in his lordly parental abode--or fed with nicer things?

  THE CAPITALIST AND THE SWELL]

  That abode is now his, and lordlier than ever, as becomes the dwellingof a millionaire and city magnate; and its gray-bearded owner is asgenial, as jolly, and as hospitable as in the old Paris days, but he nolonger colors pipes.

  * * * * *

  Then there was Carnegie, fresh from Balliol, redolent of the 'varsity.He intended himself then for the diplomatic service, and came to Paristo learn French as it is spoke; and spent most of his time with hisfashionable English friends on the right side of the river, and the restwith Taffy, the Laird, and Little Billee on the left. Perhaps that iswhy he has not become an ambassador. He is now only a rural dean, andspeaks the worst French I know, and speaks it wherever and whenever hecan.

  It serves him right, I think.

  He was fond of lords, and knew some (at least, he gave one thatimpression), and often talked of them, and dressed so beautifully thateven Little Billee was abashed in his presence. Only Taffy, in histhreadbare out-at-elbow shooting-jacket and cricket cap, and the Laird,in his tattered straw hat and Taffy's old overcoat down to his heels,dared to walk arm in arm with him--nay, insisted on doing so--as theylistened to the band in the Luxembourg Gardens.

  And his whiskers were even longer and thicker and more golden thanTaffy's own. But the mere sight of a boxing-glove made him sick.

  * * * * *

  Then there was the yellow-haired Antony, a Swiss--the idle apprentice,le "roi des truands," as we called him--to whom everything wasforgiven, as to François Villon, _à cause de ses gentillesses_ surely,for all his reprehensible pranks, the gentlest and most lovable creaturethat ever lived in bohemia, or out of it.

  Always in debt, like Svengali--for he had no more notion of the value ofmoney than a humming-bird, and gave away in reckless generosity tofriends what in strictness belonged to his endless creditors--likeSvengali, humorous, witty, and a most exquisite and original artist, andalso somewhat eccentric in his attire (though scrupulously clean), sothat people would stare at him as he walked along--a thing that alwaysgave him dire offence! But unlike Svengali, full of delicacy,refinement, and distinction of mind and manner--void of anyself-conceit--and, in spite of the irregularities of his life, the verysoul of truth and honor, as gentle as he was chivalrous and brave--thewarmest, stanchest, sincerest, most unselfish friend in the world; and,as long as his purse was f
ull, the best and drollest boon companion inthe world--but that was not forever!

  When the money was gone, then would Antony hie him to some beggarlyattic in some lost Parisian slum, and write his own epitaph in lovelyFrench or German verse--or even English (for he was an astoundinglinguist); and, telling himself that he was forsaken by family, friends,and mistress alike, look out of his casement over the Paris chimney-potsfor the last time, and listen once more to "the harmonies of nature," ashe called it--and "aspire towards the infinite," and bewail "the crueldeceptions of his life"--and finally lay himself down to die of sheerstarvation.

  And as he lay and waited for his release that was so long in coming, hewould beguile the weary hours by mumbling a crust "watered with his ownsalt tears," and decorating his epitaph with fanciful designs of themost exquisite humor, pathos, and beauty--these illustrated epitaphs ofthe young Antony, of which there exists a goodly number, are nowpriceless, as all collectors know all over the world.

  Fainter and fainter would he grow--and finally, on the third day orthereabouts, a remittance would reach him from some long-sufferingsister or aunt in far Lausanne--or else the fickle mistress or faithlessfriend (who had been looking for him all over Paris) would discover hishiding-place, the beautiful epitaph would be walked off in triumph to lepère Marcas in the Rue du Ghette and sold for twenty, fifty, a hundredfrancs--and then _Vogue la galére!_ And back again to bohemia, dearbohemia and all its joys, as long as the money lasted ... _e poi, dacapo!_

  And now that his name is a household word in two hemispheres, and hehimself an honor and a glory to the land he has adopted as his own, heloves to remember all this and look back from the lofty pinnacle onwhich he sits perched up aloft to the impecunious days of his idleapprenticeship--_le bon temps où l'on était si malheureux!_

  And with all that Quixotic dignity of his, so famous is he as a wit thatwhen he jokes (and he is always joking) people laugh first, and then askwhat he was joking about. And you can even make your own mild funnimentsraise a roar by merely prefacing them "as Antony once said!"

  The present scribe has often done so.

  And if by a happy fluke you should some day hit upon a really good thingof your own--good enough to be quoted--be sure it will come back to youafter many days prefaced "as Antony once said."

  And these jokes are so good-natured that you almost resent their beingmade at anybody's expense but your own--never from Antony

  "The aimless jest that striking has caused pain, The idle word that he'd wish back again!"

  Indeed, in spite of his success, I don't suppose he ever made an enemyin his life.

  And here, let me add (lest there be any doubt as to his identity), thathe is now tall and stout and strikingly handsome, though ratherbald--and such an aristocrat in bearing, aspect, and manner that youwould take him for a blue-blooded descendant of the crusaders instead ofthe son of a respectable burgher in Lausanne.

  * * * * *

  Then there was Lorrimer, the industrious apprentice, who is now alsowell-pinnacled on high; himself a pillar of the Royal Academy--probably,if he lives long enough, its future president--the duly knighted orbaroneted Lord Mayor of "all the plastic arts" (except one or twoperhaps, here and there, that are not altogether without someimportance).

  May this not be for many, many years! Lorrimer himself would be thefirst to say so!

  Tall, thin, red-haired, and well-favored, he was a most eager, earnest,and painstaking young enthusiast, of precocious culture, who readimproving books, and did not share in the amusements of the quartierlatin, but spent his evenings at home with Handel, Michael Angelo, andDante, on the respectable side of the river. Also, he went into goodsociety sometimes, with a dress-coat on, and a white tie, and his hairparted in the middle!

  But in spite of these blemishes on his otherwise exemplary record as anart student, he was the most delightful companion--the mostaffectionate, helpful, and sympathetic of friends. May he live long andprosper!

  Enthusiast as he was, he could only worship one god at a time. It waseither Michael Angelo, Phidias, Paul Veronese, Tintoret, Raphael, orTitian--never a modern--moderns didn't exist! And so thoroughgoing washe in his worship, and so persistent in voicing it, that he made thoseimmortals quite unpopular in the Place St. Anatole des Arts. We grew todread their very names. Each of them would last him a couple of monthsor so; then he would give us a month's holiday, and take up another.

  Antony did not think much of Lorrimer in those days, nor Lorrimer ofhim, for all they were such good friends. And neither of them thoughtmuch of Little Billee, whose pinnacle (of pure unadulterated fame) isnow the highest of all--the highest probably that can be for a merepainter of pictures!

  And what is so nice about Lorrimer, now that he is a graybeard, anacademician, an accomplished man of the world and society, is that headmires Antony's genius more than he can say--and reads Mr. RudyardKipling's delightful stories as well as Dante's "Inferno"--and canlisten with delight to the lovely songs of Signor Tosti, who has notprecisely founded himself on Handel--can even scream with laughter at acomic song--even a nigger melody--so, at least, that it but be sung inwell-bred and distinguished company--for Lorrimer is no bohemian.

  "Shoo, fly! don'tcher bother me! For I belong to the Comp'ny G!"

  Both these famous men are happily (and most beautifully)married--grandfathers, for all I know--and "move in the very bestsociety" (Lorrimer always, I'm told; Antony now and then); "la haute,"as it used to be called in French bohemia--meaning dukes and lords andeven royalties, I suppose, and those who love them and whom they love.

  That _is_ the best society, isn't it? At all events, we are assured itused to be; but that must have been before the present scribe (a meekand somewhat innocent outsider) had been privileged to see it with hisown little eye.

  And when they happen to meet there (Antony and Lorrimer, I mean), Idon't expect they rush very wildly into each other's arms, or talk veryfluently about old times. Nor do I suppose their wives are veryintimate. None of our wives are. Not even Taffy's and the Laird's.

  Oh, Orestes! Oh, Pylades!

  Oh, ye impecunious, unpinnacled young inseparables of eighteen,nineteen, twenty, even twenty-five, who share each other's thoughts andpurses, and wear each other's clothes, and swear each other's oaths,and smoke each other's pipes, and respect each other's lights o' love,and keep each other's secrets, and tell each other's jokes, and pawneach other's watches and merrymake together on the proceeds, and sit allnight by each other's bedsides in sickness, and comfort each other insorrow and disappointment with silent, manly sympathy--"wait till youget to forty year!"

  Wait even till each or either of you gets himself a little pinnacle ofhis own--be it ever so humble!

  Nay, wait till either or each of you gets himself a wife!

  History goes on repeating itself, and so do novels, and this is aplatitude, and there's nothing new under the sun.

  May too cecee (as the idiomatic Laird would say, in the language headores)--may too cecee ay nee eecee nee láh!

  * * * * *

  Then there was Dodor, the handsome young dragon de la garde--a fullprivate, if you please, with a beardless face, and damask-rosy cheeks,and a small waist, and narrow feet like a lady's, and who, strange tosay, spoke English just like an Englishman.

  And his friend Gontran, _alias_ l'Zouzou--a corporal in the Zouaves.

  Both of these worthies had met Taffy in the Crimea, and frequented thestudios in the quartier latin, where they adored (and were adored by)the grisettes and models, especially Trilby.

  Both of them were distinguished for being the worst subjects (_les plusmauvais sujets_) of their respective regiments; yet both were specialfavorites not only with their fellow-rankers, but with those in command,from their colonels downward.

  Both were in the habit of being promoted to the rank of corporal orbrigadier, and degraded to the rank of private next day for generalmisconduct, the
result of a too exuberant delight in their promotion.

  Neither of them knew fear, envy, malice, temper, or low spirits; eversaid or did an ill-natured thing; ever even thought one; ever had anenemy but himself. Both had the best or the worst manners going,according to their company, whose manners they reflected; they were truechameleons!

  Both were always ready to share their last ten-sou piece (not that theyever seemed to have one) with each other or anybody else, or anybodyelse's last ten-sou piece with you; to offer you a friend's cigar; toinvite you to dine with any friend they had; to fight with you, or foryou, at a moment's notice. And they made up for all the anxiety,tribulation, shame, and sorrow they caused at home by the endless funand amusement they gave to all outside.

  It was a pretty dance they led; but our three friends of the Place St.Anatole (who hadn't got to pay the pipers) loved them both, especiallyDodor.

  One fine Sunday afternoon Little Billee found himself studying life andcharacter in that most delightful and festive scene la Fête de St.Cloud, and met Dodor and l'Zouzou there, who hailed him with delight,saying:

  "Nous allons joliment jubiler, nom d'une pipe!" and insisted on hisjoining in their amusements and paying for them--roundabouts, swings,the giant, the dwarf, the strong man, the fat woman--to whom they madelove and were taken too seriously, and turned out--the menagerie of wildbeasts, whom they teased and aggravated till the police had tointerfere. Also _al fresco_ dances, where their cancan step was of thewildest and most unbridled character, till a sous-officier or a gendarmecame in sight, and then they danced quite mincingly and demurely, _enmaître d'école_, as they called it, to the huge delight of an immenseand ever-increasing crowd, and the disgust of all truly respectable men.

  They also insisted on Little Billee's walking between them, arm in arm,and talking to them in English whenever they saw coming towards them arespectable English family with daughters. It was the dragoon's delightto get himself stared at by fair daughters of Albion for speaking asgood English as themselves--a rare accomplishment in a Frenchtrooper--and Zouzou's happiness to be thought English too, though theonly English he knew was the phrase "I will not! I will not!" which hehad picked up in the Crimea, and repeated over and over again when hecame within ear-shot of a pretty English girl.

  Little Billee was not happy in these circumstances. He was no snob. Buthe was a respectably brought-up young Briton of the higher middle class,and it was not quite pleasant for him to be seen (by fair countrywomenof his own) walking arm in arm on a Sunday afternoon with a couple ofFrench private soldiers, and uncommonly rowdy ones at that.

  "'I WILL NOT! I WILL NOT!'"]

  Later, they came back to Paris together on the top of an omnibus,among a very proletarian crowd, and there the two facetious warriorsimmediately made themselves pleasant all round and became very popular,especially with the women and children; but not, I regret to say,through the propriety, refinement, and discretion of their behavior.Little Billee resolved that he would not go a-pleasuring with them anymore.

  However, they stuck to him through thick and thin, and insisted onescorting him all the way back to the quartier latin, by the Pont de laConcorde and the Rue de Lille in the Faubourg St. Germain.

  Little Billee loved the Faubourg St. Germain, especially the Rue deLille. He was fond of gazing at the magnificent old mansions, the"hôtels" of the old French noblesse, or rather the outside wallsthereof, the grand sculptured portals with the armorial bearings and thesplendid old historic names above them--Hôtel de This, Hôtel de That,Rohan-Chabot, Montmorency, La Rochefoucauld-Liancourt, La Tourd'Auvergne.

  He would forget himself in romantic dreams of past and forgotten Frenchchivalry which these glorious names called up; for he knew a little ofFrench history, loving to read Froissart and Saint-Simon and the genialBrantôme.

  Halting opposite one of the finest and oldest of all these gateways, hisespecial favorite, labelled "Hôtel de la Rochemartel" in letters offaded gold over a ducal coronet and a huge escutcheon of stone, he beganto descant upon its architectural beauties and noble proportions tol'Zouzou.

  "_Parbleu!_" said l'Zouzou, "_connu_, _farceur!_ why, I was _born_there, on the 6th of March, 1834, at 5.30 in the morning. Lucky day forFrance--_hein_?"

  "Born there? what do you mean--in the porter's lodge?"

  At this juncture the two great gates rolled back, a liveried Suisseappeared, and an open carriage and pair came out, and in it were twoelderly ladies and a younger one.

  DODOR IN HIS GLORY]

  To Little Billee's indignation, the two incorrigible warriors made themilitary salute, and the three ladies bowed stiffly and gravely.

  And then (to Little Billee's horror this time) one of them happened tolook back, and Zouzou actually kissed his hand to her.

  "Do you _know_ that lady?" asked Little Billee, very sternly.

  "_Parbleu! si je la connais!_ Why, it's my mother! Isn't she nice? She'srather cross with me just now."

  "Your _mother_! Why, what do you mean? What on earth would your motherbe doing in that big carriage and at that big house?"

  "_Parbleu, farceur!_ She lives there!"

  "_Lives_ there! Why, who and what is she, your mother?"

  "The Duchesse de la Rochemartel, _parbleu!_ and that's my sister; andthat's my aunt, Princess de Chevagné-Bauffremont! She's the '_patronne_'of that _chic_ equipage. She's a millionaire, my aunt Chevagné!"

  "Well, I never! What's _your_ name, then?"

  "Oh, _my_ name! Hang it--let me see!Well--Gontran-Xavier--François--Marie--Joseph d'Amaury--Brissac deRoncesvaulx de la Rochemartel-Boisségur, at your service!"

  "Quite correct!" said Dodor; "_l'enfant dit vrai!_"

  "Well--I--never! And what's _your_ name, Dodor?"

  "Oh! I'm only a humble individual, and answer to the one-horse name ofThéodore Rigolot de Lafarce. But Zouzou's an awful swell, you know--hisbrother's the Duke!"

  HÔTEL DE LA ROCHEMARTEL]

  Little Billee was no snob. But he was a respectably brought-up youngBriton of the higher middle class, and these revelations, which he couldnot but believe, astounded him so that he could hardly speak. Much as heflattered himself that he scorned the bloated aristocracy, titles aretitles--even French titles!--and when it comes to dukes and princesseswho live in houses like the Hôtel de la Rochemartel ...!

  It's enough to take a respectably brought-up young Briton's breath away!

  When he saw Taffy that evening, he exclaimed: "I say, Zouzou's mother'sa duchess!"

  "Yes--the Duchesse de la Rochemartel-Boisségur."

  "You never told me!"

  "You never asked me. It's one of the greatest names in France. They'revery poor, I believe."

  "Poor! You should see the house they live in!"

  "I've been there, to dinner; and the dinner wasn't very good. They let agreat part of it, and live mostly in the country. The Duke is Zouzou'sbrother; very unlike Zouzou; he's consumptive and unmarried, and themost respectable man in Paris. Zouzou will be the Duke some day."

  "And Dodor--he's a swell, too, I suppose--he says he's _de_ something orother!"

  "Yes--Rigolot de Lafarce. I've no doubt he descends from the Crusaders,too; the name seems to favor it, anyhow; and such lots of them do inthis country. His mother was English, and bore the worthy name of Brown.He was at school in England; that's why he speaks English so well--andbehaves so badly, perhaps! He's got a very beautiful sister, married toa man in the 60th Rifles--Jack Reeve, a son of Lord Reevely's; a selfishsort of chap. I don't suppose he gets on very well with hisbrother-in-law. Poor Dodor! His sister's about the only living thing hecares for--except Zouzou."

  * * * * *

  I wonder if the bland and genial Monsieur Théodore--"notre SieurThéodore"--now junior partner in the great haberdashery firm of"Passefil et Rigolot," on the Boulevard des Capucines, and a pillar ofthe English chapel in the Rue Marbœuf, is very hard on his employésand employées if they are a little late at their counters on
a Mondaymorning?

  I wonder if that stuck-up, stingy, stodgy, communard-shooting,church-going, time-serving, place-hunting, pious-eyed, pompous old prig,martinet, and philistine, Monsieur le Maréchal-Duc de laRochemartel-Boisségur, ever tells Madame la Maréchale-Duchesse (_née_Hunks, of Chicago) how once upon a time Dodor and he--

  We will tell no tales out of school.

  The present scribe is no snob. He is a respectably brought-up old Britonof the higher middle-class--at least, he flatters himself so. And hewrites for just such old philistines as himself, who date from a timewhen titles were not thought so cheap as to-day. Alas! all reverence forall that is high and time-honored and beautiful seems at a discount.

  So he has kept his blackguard ducal Zouave for the bouquet of thislittle show--the final _bonne bouche_ in his bohemian _menu_--that hemay make it palatable to those who only look upon the good old quartierlatin (now no more to speak of) as a very low, common, vulgar quarterindeed, deservedly swept away, where misters the students (shockingbounders and cads) had nothing better to do, day and night, than mountup to a horrid place called the thatched house--_la chaumière_--

  "Pour y danser le cancan Ou le Robert Macaire-- Toujours--toujours--toujours-- La nuit comme le jour ... Et youp! youp! youp! Tra la la la la ... la la la!"

  * * * * *

  * * * * *

  * * * * *

  Christmas was drawing near.

  There were days when the whole quartier latin would veil its iniquitiesunder fogs almost worthy of the Thames Valley between London Bridge andWestminster, and out of the studio window the prospect was a drearyblank. No morgue! no towers of Notre Dame! not even the chimney-potsover the way--not even the little mediæval toy turret at the corner ofthe Rue Vieille des Mauvais Ladres, Little Billee's delight!

  The stove had to be crammed till its sides grew a dull deep red beforeone's fingers could hold a brush or squeeze a bladder; one had to box orfence at nine in the morning, that one might recover from the cold bath,and get warm for the rest of the day!

  Taffy and the Laird grew pensive and dreamy, childlike and bland; andwhen they talked it was generally about Christmas at home in merryEngland and the distant land of cakes, and how good it was to be thereat such a time--hunting, shooting, curling, and endless carouse!

  It was Ho! for the jolly West Riding, and Hey! for the bonnets of BonnieDundee, till they grew quite homesick, and wanted to start by the verynext train.

  They didn't do anything so foolish. They wrote over to friends in Londonfor the biggest turkey, the biggest plum-pudding, that could be got forlove or money, with mince-pies, and holly and mistletoe, and sturdy,short, thick English sausages, half a Stilton cheese, and a sirloin ofbeef--two sirloins, in case one should not be enough.

  For they meant to have a Homeric feast in the studio on ChristmasDay--Taffy, the Laird, and Little Billee--and invite all the delightfulchums I have been trying to describe; and that is just why I tried todescribe them--Durien, Vincent, Antony, Lorrimer, Carnegie,Petrolicoconose, l'Zouzou, and Dodor!

  The cooking and waiting should be done by Trilby, her friend AngèleBoisse, M. et Mme. Vinard, and such little Vinards as could be trustedwith glass and crockery and mince-pies; and if that was not enough, theywould also cook themselves and wait upon each other.

  When dinner should be over, supper was to follow with scarcely anyinterval to speak of; and to partake of this other guests should bebidden--Svengali and Gecko, and perhaps one or two more. No ladies!

  For, as the unsusceptible Laird expressed it, in the language of agillie he had once met at a servants' dance in a Highland country-house,"Them wimmen spiles the ball!"

  Elaborate cards of invitation were sent out, in the designing andornamentation of which the Laird and Taffy exhausted all their fancy(Little Billee had no time).

  Wines and spirits and English beers were procured at great cost from M.E. Delevingne's, in the Rue St. Honoré, and liqueurs of everydescription--chartreuse, curaçoa, ratafia de cassis, and anisette; noexpense was spared.

  Also, truffled galantines of turkey, tongues, hams, rillettes de Tours,pâtés de foie gras, "fromage d'Italie" (which has nothing to do withcheese), saucissons d'Arles et de Lyon, with and without garlic, coldjellies peppery and salt--everything that French charcutiers and theirwives can make out of French pigs, or any other animal whatever, beast,bird, or fowl (even cats and rats), for the supper; and sweet jellies,and cakes, and sweetmeats, and confections of all kinds, from the famouspastry-cook at the corner of the Rue Castiglione.

  Mouths went watering all day long in joyful anticipation. They watersomewhat sadly now at the mere remembrance of these deliciousthings--the mere immediate sight or scent of which in these degeneratelatter days would no longer avail to promote any such delectablesecretion. Hélas! ahimè! ach weh! ay de mi! eheu! ?????--inpoint of fact, _alas_!

  That is the very exclamation I wanted.

  CHRISTMAS EVE]

  Christmas Eve came round. The pieces of resistance and plum-puddingand mince-pies had not yet arrived from London--but there was plenty oftime.

  Les trois Angliches dined at le père Trin's, as usual, and playedbilliards and dominos at the Café du Luxembourg, and possessed theirsouls in patience till it was time to go and hear the midnight mass atthe Madeleine, where Roucouly, the great barytone of the Opéra Comique,was retained to sing Adam's famous Noël.

  The whole quartier seemed alive with the réveillon. It was a clear,frosty night, with a splendid moon just past the full, and mostexhilarating was the walk along the quays on the Rive Gauche, over thePont de la Concorde and across the Place thereof, and up the throngedRue de la Madeleine to the massive Parthenaic place of worship thatalways has such a pagan, worldly look of smug and prosperous modernity.

  They struggled manfully, and found standing and kneeling room among thatfervent crowd, and heard the impressive service with mixed feelings, asbecame true Britons of very advanced liberal and religious opinions; notwith the unmixed contempt of the proper British Orthodox (who were therein full force, one may be sure).

  But their susceptible hearts soon melted at the beautiful music, and inmere sensuous _attendrissement_ they were quickly in unison with all therest.

  For as the clock struck twelve out pealed the organ, and up rose thefinest voice in France:

  "Minuit, Chrétiens! c'est l'heure solennelle Où l'Homme-Dieu descendit parmi nous!"

  And a wave of religious emotion rolled over Little Billee and submergedhim; swept him off his little legs, swept him out of his little self,drowned him in a great seething surge of love--love of his kind, love oflove, love of life, love of death, love of all that is and ever was andever will be--a very large order indeed, even for Little Billee.

  "'ALLONS GLYCÈRE! ROUGIS MON VERRE....'"]

  And it seemed to him that he stretched out his arms for love to onefigure especially beloved beyond all the rest--one figure erect on highwith arms outstretched to him, in more than common fellowship of need;not the sorrowful figure crowned with thorns, for it was in the likenessof a woman; but never that of the Virgin Mother of Our Lord.

  It was Trilby, Trilby, Trilby! a poor fallen sinner and waif all butlost amid the scum of the most corrupt city on earth. Trilby weak andmortal like himself, and in woful want of pardon! and in her graydovelike eyes he saw the shining of so great a love that he was abashed;for well he knew that all that love was his, and would be his forever,come what would or could.

  "Peuple, debout! Chante ta délivrance! _Noël! Noël! Voici le Rédempteur!_"

  So sang and rang and pealed and echoed the big, deep, metallic barytonebass--above the organ, above the incense, above everything else in theworld--till the very universe seemed to shake with the rolling thunderof that great message of love and forgiveness!

  Thus at least felt Little Billee, whose way it was to magnify andexaggerate all th
ings under the subtle stimulus of sound, and thesinging human voice had especially strange power to penetrate into hisinmost depths--even the voice of man!

  And what voice but the deepest and gravest and grandest there is cangive worthy utterance to such a message as that, the epitome, theabstract, the very essence of all collective humanity's wisdom at itsbest!

  Little Billee reached the Hôtel Corneille that night in a very exaltedframe of mind indeed, the loftiest, lowliest mood of all.

  Now see what sport we are of trivial, base, ignoble earthly things!

  Sitting on the door-step and smoking two cigars at once he found Ribot,one of his fellow-lodgers, whose room was just under his own. Ribot wasso tipsy that he could not ring. But he could still sing, and did so atthe top of his voice. It was not the Noël of Adam that he sang. He hadnot spent his réveillon in any church.

  With the help of a sleepy waiter, Little Billee got the bacchanalianinto his room and lit his candle for him, and, disengaging himself fromhis maudlin embraces, left him to wallow in solitude.

  As he lay awake in his bed, trying to recall the deep and high emotionsof the evening, he heard the tipsy hog below tumbling about his room andstill trying to sing his senseless ditty:

  "Allons, Glycère! Rougis mon verre Du jus divin dont mon cœur est toujours jaloux ... Et puis à table, Bacchante aimable! Enivrons-nous (hic) Les g-glougloux sont des rendezvous!"...

  Then the song ceased for a while, and soon there were other sounds, ason a Channel steamer. Glougloux indeed!

  Then the fear arose in Little Billee's mind lest the drunken beastshould set fire to his bedroom curtains. All heavenly visions werechased away for the night....

  Our hero, half-crazed with fear, disgust, and irritation, lay wideawake, his nostrils on the watch for the smell of burning chintz ormuslin, and wondered how an educated man--for Ribot was alaw-student--could ever make such a filthy beast of himself as that! Itwas a scandal--a disgrace; it was not to be borne; there should be noforgiveness for such as Ribot--not even on Christmas Day! He wouldcomplain to Madame Paul, the patronne; he would have Ribot turned outinto the street; he would leave the hotel himself the very next morning!At last he fell asleep, thinking of all he would do; and thus,ridiculously and ignominiously for Little Billee, ended the réveillon.

  Next morning he complained to Madame Paul; and though he did not giveher warning, nor even insist on the expulsion of Ribot (who, as he heardwith a hard heart, was "bien malade ce matin"), he expressed himselfvery severely on the conduct of that gentleman, and on the dangers fromfire that might arise from a tipsy man being trusted alone in a smallbedroom with chintz curtains and a lighted candle. If it hadn't been forhimself, he told her, Ribot would have slept on the door-step, and servehim right! He was really grand in his virtuous indignation, in spite ofhis imperfect French; and Madame Paul was deeply contrite for herpeccant lodger, and profuse in her apologies; and Little Billee beganhis twenty-first Christmas Day like a Pharisee, thanking his star thathe was not as Ribot!