Trilby Read online

  Part Sixth

  '"Vraiment, la reine auprès d'elle était laide Quand, vers le soir, Elle passait sur le pont de Tolède En corset noir! Un chapelet du temps de Charlemagne Ornait son cou.... _La vent qui vient à travers la montagne Me rendra fou!_

  "'Dansez, chantez, villageois! la nuit tombe.... Sabine, un jour, A tout donné--sa beauté de colombe, Et son amour-- Pour l'anneau d'or du Comte de Soldagne, Pour un bijou.... _La vent qui vient à travers la montagne M'a rendu fou!_'"

  Behold our three musketeers of the brush once more reunited in Paris,famous, after long years.

  In emulation of the good Dumas, we will call it "cinq ans après." It wasa little more.

  Taffy stands for Porthos and Athos rolled into one, since he is big andgood-natured, and strong enough to "assommer un homme d'un coup depoing," and also stately and solemn, of aristocratic and romanticappearance, and not too fat--not too much ongbong-pwang, as the Lairdcalled it--and also he does not dislike a bottle of wine, or even two,and looks as if he had a history.

  The Laird, of course, is d'Artagnan, since he sells his pictures well,and by the time we are writing of has already become an Associate of theRoyal Academy; like Quentin Durward, this d'Artagnan was a Scotsman:

  "Ah, was na he a Roguy, this piper of Dundee!"

  And Little Billee, the dainty friend of duchesses, must stand forAramis, I fear! It will not do to push the simile too far; besides,unlike the good Dumas, one has a conscience. One does not play ducks anddrakes with historical facts, or tamper with historical personages. Andif Athos, Porthos & Co. are not historical by this time, I should liketo know who are!

  Well, so are Taffy, the Laird, and Little Billee--_tout ce qu'il y a deplus historiques_!

  Our three friends, well groomed, frock-coated, shirt-collared within aninch of their lives, duly scarfed and scarf-pinned, chimney-pot-hatted,and most beautifully trousered, and balmorally booted, or neatly spatted(or whatever was most correct at the time), are breakfasting together oncoffee, rolls, and butter at a little round table in the huge court-yardof an immense caravanserai, paved with asphalt, and covered in at thetop with a glazed roof that admits the sun and keeps out the rain--andthe air.

  A magnificent old man as big as Taffy, in black velvet coat and breechesand black silk stockings, and a large gold chain round his neck andchest, looks down like Jove from a broad flight of marble steps--asthough to welcome the coming guests, who arrive in cabs and railwayomnibuses through a huge archway on the boulevard, or to speed those whopart through a lesser archway opening on to a side street.

  "Bon voyage, messieurs et dames!"

  At countless other little tables other voyagers are breakfasting orordering breakfast; or, having breakfasted, are smoking and chatting andlooking about. It is a babel of tongues--the cheerfulest, busiest,merriest scene in the world, apparently the costly place of rendezvousfor all wealthy Europe and America; an atmosphere of bank-notes andgold.

  Already Taffy has recognized (and been recognized by) half a dozen oldfellow-Crimeans, of unmistakable military aspect like himself; and threecanny Scotsmen have discreetly greeted the Laird; and as for LittleBillee, he is constantly jumping up from his breakfast and running tothis table or that, drawn by some irresistible British smile ofsurprised and delighted female recognition: "What, _you_ here? How nice!Come over to hear la Svengali, I suppose."

  At the top of the marble steps is a long terrace, with seats and peoplesitting, from which tall glazed doors, elaborately carved and gilded,give access to luxurious drawing-rooms, dining-rooms, reading-rooms,lavatories, postal and telegraph offices; and all round and about arehuge square green boxes, out of which grow tropical and exoticevergreens all the year round--with beautiful names that I haveforgotten. And leaning against these boxes are placards announcing whattheatrical or musical entertainments will take place in Paris that dayor night; and the biggest of these placards (and the mostfantastically decorated) informs the cosmopolite world that MadameSvengali intends to make her first appearance in Paris that veryevening, at nine punctually, in the Cirque des Bashibazoucks, Rue St.Honoré!

  "AN ATMOSPHERE OF BANK-NOTES AND GOLD"]

  Our friends had only arrived the previous night, but they had managed tosecure stalls a week beforehand. No places were any longer to be got forlove or money. Many people had come to Paris on purpose to hear laSvengali--many famous musicians from England and everywhere else--butthey would have to wait many days.

  The fame of her was like a rolling snowball that had been rolling allover Europe for the last two years--wherever there was snow to be pickedup in the shape of golden ducats.

  Their breakfast over, Taffy, the Laird, and Little Billee, cigar inmouth, arm in arm, the huge Taffy in the middle (_comme autrefois_),crossed the sunshiny boulevard into the shade, and went down the Rue dela Paix, through the Place Vendôme and the Rue Castiglione to the Rue deRivoli--quite leisurely, and with a tender midriff-warming sensation offreedom and delight at almost every step.

  Arrived at the corner pastry-cook's, they finished the stumps of theircigars as they looked at the well-remembered show in the window; thenthey went in and had, Taffy a Madeleine, the Laird a baba, and LittleBillee a Savarin--and each, I regret to say, a liqueur-glass of _rhum dela Jamaïque_.

  After this they sauntered through the Tuileries Gardens, and by the quayto their favorite Pont des Arts, and looked up and down theriver--_comme autrefois_!

  It is an enchanting prospect at any time and under any circumstances;but on a beautiful morning in mid-October, when you haven't seen it forfive years, and are still young! and almost every stock and stone thatmeets your eye, every sound, every scent, has some sweet and subtlereminder for you--

  Let the reader have no fear. I will not attempt to describe it. Ishouldn't know where to begin (nor when to leave off!).

  Not but what many changes had been wrought; many old landmarks weremissing. And among them, as they found out a few minutes later, and muchto their chagrin, the good old Morgue!

  They inquired of a _gardien de la paix_, who told them that a newMorgue--"une bien jolie Morgue, ma foi!"--and much more commodious andcomfortable than the old one, had been built beyond Notre Dame, a littleto the right.

  "Messieurs devraient voir ça--on y est très bien!"

  But Notre Dame herself was still there, and la Sainte Chapelle, and LePont Neuf, and the equestrian statue of Henri IV. _C'est toujours ça!_

  And as they gazed and gazed, each framed unto himself, mentally, alittle picture of the Thames they had just left--and thought of WaterlooBridge, and St. Paul's, and London--but felt no homesickness whatever,no desire to go back!

  And looking down the river westward there was but little change.

  On the left-hand side the terraces and garden of the Hôtel de laRochemartel (the sculptured entrance of which was in the Rue de Lille)still overtopped the neighboring houses and shaded the quay with talltrees, whose lightly falling leaves yellowed the pavement for at least ahundred yards of frontage--or backage, rather; for this was but the rearof that stately palace.

  "A LITTLE PICTURE OF THE THAMES"]

  "I wonder if l'Zouzou has come into his dukedom yet?" said Taffy.

  And Taffy the realist, Taffy the modern of moderns, also said manybeautiful things about old historical French dukedoms; which, in spiteof their plentifulness, were so much more picturesque than English ones,and constituted a far more poetical and romantic link with the past;partly on account of their beautiful, high-sounding names!

  "Amaury de Brissac de Roncesvaulx de la Rochemartel-Boisségur was agenerous mouthful! Why, the very sound of it is redolent of the twelfthcentury! Not even Howard of Norfolk can beat that!"

  For Taffy was getting sick of "this ghastly thin-faced time of ours," ashe sadly called it (quoting from a strange and very beautiful poemcalled "Faustine," which had just appeared in the _Spectator
_--and whichour three enthusiasts already knew by heart), and beginning to love allthings that were old and regal and rotten and forgotten and of badrepute, and to long to paint them just as they really were.

  "Ah! they managed these things better in France, especially in thetwelfth century, and even the thirteenth!" said the Laird. "Still,Howard of Norfolk isn't bad at a pinch--_fote de myoo_!" he continued,winking at Little Billee. And they promised themselves that they wouldleave cards on Zouzou, and, if he wasn't a duke, invite him to dinner;and also Dodor, if they could manage to find him.

  Then along the quay and up the Rue de Seine, and by well-rememberedlittle mystic ways to the old studio in the Place St. Anatole des Arts.

  Here they found many changes: A row of new houses on the north side, byBaron Haussmann--the well-named; a boulevard was being constructed rightthrough the place; but the old house had been respected, and, lookingup, they saw the big north window of their good old abode blindless andblank and black but for a white placard in the middle of it with thewords: "À louer. Un atelier, et une chambre à coucher."

  They entered the court-yard through the little door in the portecochère, and beheld Madame Vinard standing on the step of her loge, herarms akimbo, giving orders to her husband--who was sawing logs forfirewood, as usual at that time of the year--and telling him he was themost helpless log of the lot.

  She gave them one look, threw up her arms, and rushed at them, saying,"Ah, mon Dieu! les trois Angliches!"

  And they could not have complained of any lack of warmth in hergreeting, or in Monsieur Vinard's.

  "Ah! mais quel bonheur de vous revoir! Et comme vous avez bonne mine,tous! Et Monsieur Litrebili, donc! il a grandi!" etc., etc. "Mais vousallez boire la goutte avant tout--vite, Vinard! Le ratafia de cassis queMonsieur Durien nous a envoyé la semaine dernière!"

  And they were taken into the loge and made free of it--welcomed likeprodigal sons; a fresh bottle of black-currant brandy was tapped, anddid duty for the fatted calf. It was an ovation, and made quite a stirin the quartier.

  _Le Retour des trois Angliches--cinq ans après!_

  She told them all the news: about Bouchardy; Papelard; Jules Guinot, whowas now in the Ministère de la Guerre; Barizel, who had given up thearts and gone into his father's business (umbrellas); Durien, who hadmarried six months ago, and had a superb atelier in the Rue Taitbout,and was coining money; about her own family--Aglaë, who was going to bemarried to the son of the charbonnier at the corner of the Rue de laCanicule--"un bon mariage; bien solide!" Niniche, who was studying thepiano at the Conservatoire, and had won the silver medal; Isidore, who,alas! had gone to the bad--"perdu par les femmes! un si joli garçon,vous concevez! ça ne lui a pas porté bonheur, par exemple!" And yet shewas proud! and said his father would never have had the pluck!

  "À dix-huit ans, pensez donc!

  "And that good Monsieur Carrel; he is dead, you know! Ah, messieurssavaient ça? Yes, he died at Dieppe, his natal town, during the winter,from the consequences of an indigestion--que voulez-vous! He always hadthe stomach so feeble!... Ah! the beautiful interment, messieurs! Fivethousand people, in spite of the rain! Car il pleuvait averse! And M. leMaire and his adjunct walking behind the hearse, and the gendarmerie andthe douaniers, and a bataillon of the douzième chasseurs-à-pied, withtheir music, and all the sapper-pumpers, en grande tenue with theirbeautiful brass helmets! All the town was there, following: so there wasnobody left to see the procession go by! q'c'était beau! Mon Dieu,q'c'était beau! c'que j'ai pleuré, d'voir ça! n'est-ce-pas, Vinard?"

  "Dame, oui, ma biche! j'crois ben! It might have been Monsieur le Mairehimself that one was interring in person!"

  "Ah, ça! voyons, Vinard; thou'rt not going to compare the Maire ofDieppe to a painter like Monsieur Carrel?"

  "Certainly not, ma biche! But still, M. Carrel was a great man all thesame, in his way. Besides, I wasn't there--nor thou either, as to that!"

  "Mon Dieu! comme il est idiot, ce Vinard--of a stupidity to cut with aknife! Why, thou might'st almost be a Mayor thyself, sacred imbecilethat thou art!"

  And an animated discussion arose between husband and wife as to therespective merits of a country mayor on one side and a famous painterand member of the Institute on the other, during which _les troisAngliches_ were left out in the cold. When Madame Vinard hadsufficiently routed her husband, which did not take very long, sheturned to them again, and told them that she had started a _magasin debric-à-brac_, "vous verres ça!"

  Yes, the studio had been to let for three months. Would they like to seeit? Here were the keys. They would, of course, prefer to see it bythemselves, alone; "je comprends ça! et vous verrez ce que vous verrez!"Then they must come and drink once more again the drop, and inspect her_magasin de bric-à-brac_.

  So they went up, all three, and let themselves into the old place wherethey had been so happy--and one of them for a while so miserable!

  It was changed indeed.

  Bare of all furniture, for one thing; shabby and unswept, with apathetic air of dilapidation, spoliation, desecration, and a musty,shut-up smell; the window so dirty you could hardly see the new housesopposite; the floor a disgrace!

  All over the walls were caricatures in charcoal and white chalk, withmore or less incomprehensible legends; very vulgar and trivial andcoarse, some of them, and pointless for _trois Angliches_.

  "'AH! THE BEAUTIFUL INTERMENT, MESSIEURS!'"]

  But among these (touching to relate) they found, under a square ofplate-glass that had been fixed on the wall by means of an oak frame,Little Billee's old black-and-white-and-red chalk sketch of Trilby'sleft foot, as fresh as if it had been done only yesterday! Over it waswritten: "Souvenir de la Grande Trilby, par W. B. (Litrebili)." Andbeneath, carefully engrossed on imperishable parchment, and pasted onthe glass, the following stanzas:

  "Pauvre Trilby--la belle et bonne et chère! Je suis son pied. Devine qui voudra Quel tendre ami, la chérissant naguère, Encadra d'elle (et d'un amour sincère) Ce souvenir charmant qu'un caprice inspira-- Qu'un souffle emportera!

  "J'étais jumeau: qu'est devenu mon frère? Hélas! Hélas! L'Amour nous égara. L'Éternité nous unira, j'espère; Et nous ferons comme autrefois la paire Au fond d'un lit bien chaste où nul ne troublera Trilby--qui dormira.

  "Ô tendre ami, sans nous qu'allez-vous faire? La porte est close où Trilby demeura. Le Paradis est loin ... et sur la terre (Qui nous fut douce et lui sera légère) Pour trouver nos pareils, si bien qu'on cherchera-- Beau chercher l'on aura!"

  Taffy drew a long breath into his manly bosom, and kept it there as heread this characteristic French doggerel (for so he chose to call thistouching little symphony in _ère_ and _ra_). His huge frame thrilledwith tenderness and pity and fond remembrance, and he said to himself(letting out his breath): "Dear, dear Trilby! Ah! if you had only caredfor _me_, _I_ wouldn't have let you give me up--not for any one onearth. _You_ were the mate for _me_!"

  "PAUVRE TRILBY"]

  And that, as the reader has guessed long ago, was big Taffy's "history."

  The Laird was also deeply touched, and could not speak. Had he been inlove with Trilby, too? Had he ever been in love with any one?

  He couldn't say. But he thought of Trilby's sweetness and unselfishness,her gayety, her innocent kissings and caressings, her drollery andfrolicsome grace, her way of filling whatever place she was in with herpresence, the charming sight and the genial sound of her; and felt thatno girl, no woman, no lady he had ever seen yet was a match for thispoor waif and stray, this long-legged, cancan-dancing, quartier-latingrisette, blanchisseuse de fin, "and Heaven knows what besides!"

  "Hang it all!" he mentally ejaculated, "I wish to goodness I'd marriedher _myself_!"

  Little Billee said nothing either. He felt unhappier than he had everonce felt for five long years--to think that he could gaze on such amemento as this, a thing so strongly personal to himself,
with dry eyesand a quiet pulse! and he unemotionally, dispassionately, wished himselfdead and buried for at least the thousand and first time!

  All three possessed casts of Trilby's hands and feet and photographs ofherself. But nothing so charmingly suggestive of Trilby as this littlemasterpiece of a true artist, this happy fluke of a happy moment. It wasTrilbyness itself, as the Laird thought, and should not be suffered toperish.

  They took the keys back to Madame Vinard in silence.

  She said: "Vous avez vu--n'est-ce pas, messieurs?--le pied de Trilby!c'est bien gentil! C'est Monsieur Durien qui a fait mettre le verre,quand vous êtes partis; et Monsieur Guinot qui a composé _l'épitaphe_.Pauvre Trilby! qu'est-ce qu'elle est devenue! comme elle était bonnefille, hein? et si belle! et comme elle était vive elle était vive elleétait vive! Et comme elle vous aimait tous bien--et surtout MonsieurLitrebili--n'est-ce pas?"

  Then she insisted on giving them each another liqueur-glass of Durien'sratafia de cassis, and took them to see her collection of bric-à-bracacross the yard, a gorgeous show, and explained everything about it--howshe had begun in quite a small way, but was making it a big business.

  "Voyez cette pendule! It is of the time of Louis Onze, who gave it withhis own hands to Madame de Pompadour(!). I bought it at a sale in--"

  "Combiang?" said the Laird.

  "C'est cent-cinquante francs, monsieur--c'est bien bon marché--unevéritable occasion, et--"

  "Je prong!" said the Laird, meaning "I take it!"

  Then she showed them a beautiful brocade gown "which she had picked upat a bargain at--"

  "Combiang?" said the Laird.

  "Ah, ça, c'est trois cents francs, monsieur. Mais--"

  "Je prong!" said the Laird.

  "Et voici les souliers qui vont avec, et que--"

  "Je pr--"

  But here Taffy took the Laird by the arm and dragged him by force outof this too seductive siren's cave.

  The Laird told her where to send his purchases; and with manyexpressions of love and good-will on both sides, they tore themselvesaway from Monsieur et Madame Vinard.

  The Laird, however, rushed back for a minute, and hurriedly whispered toMadame Vinard: "Oh--er--le piay de Trilby--sur le mure, vous savvy--avecle verre et toot le reste--coopy le mure--comprenny?... Combiang?"

  "Ah, monsieur!" said Madame Vinard--"c'est un peu difficile, voussavez--couper un mur comme ça! On parlera au propriétaire si vousvoulez, et ça pourrait peut-être s'arranger, si c'est en bois! seulementil fau--"

  "Je prong!" said the Laird, and waved his hand in farewell.

  "'JE PRONG!'"]

  They went up the Rue Vieille des Mauvais Ladres, and found that abouttwenty yards of a high wall had been pulled down--just at the bend wherethe Laird had seen the last of Trilby, as she turned round and kissedher hand to him--and they beheld, within, a quaint and ancientlong-neglected garden; a gray old garden, with tall, warty, black-boledtrees, and damp, green, mossy paths that lost themselves under the brownand yellow leaves and mould and muck which had drifted into heaps hereand there, the accumulation of years--a queer old faded pleasance, withwasted bowers and dilapidated carved stone benches and weather-beatendiscolored marble statues--noseless, armless, earless fauns andhamadryads! And at the end of it, in a tumble-down state of utter ruin,a still inhabited little house, with shabby blinds and window-curtains,and broken window-panes mended with brown paper--a Pavillon de Flore,that must have been quite beautiful a hundred years ago--the oncemysterious love-resort of long-buried abbés with light hearts, andwell-forgotten lords and ladies gay--red-heeled, patched, powdered,frivolous, and shameless, but oh! how charming to the imagination ofthe nineteenth century! And right through the ragged lawn, (where lay,upset in the long dewy grass, a broken doll's perambulator by a tatteredPunchinello) went a desecrating track made by cart-wheels and horses'hoofs; and this, no doubt, was to be a new street--perhaps, as Taffysuggested, "La Rue _Neuve_ des Mauvais Ladres!" (The _New_ Street of theBad Lepers!).

  "Ah, Taffy!" sententiously opined the Laird, with his usual wink atLittle Billee, "I've no doubt the _old_ lepers were the best, bad asthey were!"

  "I'm quite _sure_ of it!" said Taffy, with sad and sober conviction anda long-drawn sigh. "I only wish I had a chance of painting one--just ashe really was!"

  How often they had speculated on what lay hidden behind that lofty oldbrick wall! and now this melancholy little peep into the once festivepast, the touching sight of this odd old poverty-stricken abode ofHeaven knows what present grief and desolation, which a few strokes ofthe pickaxe had laid bare, seemed to chime in with their own gray moodthat had been so bright and sunny an hour ago; and they went on theirway quite dejectedly, for a stroll through the Luxembourg Gallery andGardens.

  The same people seemed to be still copying the same pictures in thelong, quiet, genial room, so pleasantly smelling of oil-paint--RosaBonheur's "Labourage Nivernais"--Hébert's "Malaria"--Couture's "DecadentRomans."

  And in the formal dusty gardens were the same pioupious and zouzousstill walking with the same nounous, or sitting by their sides onbenches by formal ponds with gold and silver fish in them--and just thesame old couples petting the same toutous and loulous![A]

  [A] _Glossary._--Pioupiou (_alias_ pousse-caillou, _alias_tourlourou)--a private soldier of the line. Zouzou--a Zouave. Nounou--awet-nurse with a pretty ribboned cap and long streamers. Toutou--anondescript French lapdog, of no breed known to Englishmen (a regularlittle beast!) Loulou--a Pomeranian dog--not much better.

  Then they thought they would go and lunch at le père Trin's--theRestaurant de la Couronne, in the Rue du Luxembourg--for the sake ofauld lang syne! But when they got there the well-remembered fumes ofthat humble refectory, which had once seemed not unappetizing, turnedtheir stomachs. So they contented themselves with warmly greeting lepère Trin, who was quite overjoyed to see them again, and anxious toturn the whole establishment topsy-turvy that he might entertain suchguests as they deserved.

  Then the Laird suggested an omelet at the Café de l'Odéon. But Taffysaid, in his masterful way, "Damn the Café de l'Odéon!"

  And hailing a little open fly, they drove to Ledoyen's, or some suchplace, in the Champs Élysées, where they feasted as became threeprosperous Britons out for a holiday in Paris--three irresponsiblemusketeers, lords of themselves and Lutetia, _beati possidentes!_--andafterwards had themselves driven in an open carriage and pair throughthe Bois de Boulogne to the fête de St. Cloud (or what still remained ofit, for it lasts six weeks), the scene of so many of Dodor's andZouzou's exploits in past years, and found it more amusing than theLuxembourg Gardens; the lively and irrepressible spirit of Dodor seemedto pervade it still.

  But it doesn't want the presence of a Dodor to make the blue-blousedsons of the Gallic people (and its neatly shod, white-capped daughters)delightful to watch as they take their pleasure. And the Laird (thinkingperhaps of Hampstead Heath on an Easter Monday) must not be blamed foronce more quoting his favorite phrase--the pretty little phrase withwhich the most humorous and least exemplary of British parsons began hisfamous journey to France.

  When they came back to the hotel to dress and dine, the Laird found hewanted a pair of white gloves for the concert--"Oon pair de gong blong,"as he called it--and they walked along the boulevards till they came toa haberdasher's shop of very good and prosperous appearance, and, goingin, were received graciously by the "patron," a portly little bourgeois,who waved them to a tall and aristocratic and very well dressed youngcommis behind the counter, saying, "Une paire de gants blancs pourmonsieur."

  And what was the surprise of our three friends in recognizing Dodor!

  The gay Dodor, Dodor l'irrésistible, quite unembarrassed by hisposition, was exuberant in his delight at seeing them again, andintroduced them to the patron and his wife and daughter, Monsieur,Madame, and Mademoiselle Passefil. And it soon became pretty evidentthat, in spite of his humble employment in that house, he was a greatfavorite in that family, and especially with mademois
elle.

  "'OON PAIR DE GONG BLONG'"]

  Indeed, Monsieur Passefil invited our three heroes to stay and dine thenand there; but they compromised matters by asking Dodor to come and dinewith _them_ at the hotel, and he accepted with alacrity.

  Thanks to Dodor, the dinner was a very lively one, and they soon forgotthe regretful impressions of the day.

  They learned that he hadn't got a penny in the world, and had left thearmy, and had for two years kept the books at le père Passefil's andserved his customers, and won his good opinion and his wife's, andespecially his daughter's; and that soon he was to be not only hisemployer's partner, but his son-in-law; and that, in spite of hisimpecuniosity, he had managed to impress them with the fact that inmarrying a Rigolot de Lafarce she was making a very splendid matchindeed!

  His brother-in-law, the Honorable Jack Reeve, had long cut him for a badlot. But his sister, after a while, had made up her mind that to marryMlle. Passefil wasn't the worst he could do; at all events, it wouldkeep him out of England, and _that_ was a comfort! And passing throughParis, she had actually called on the Passefil family, and they hadfallen prostrate before such splendor; and no wonder, for Mrs. JackReeve was one of the most beautiful, elegant, and fashionable women inLondon, the smartest of the smart.

  "And how about l'Zouzou?" asked Little Billee.

  "Ah, old Gontran! I don't see much of him. We no longer quite move inthe same circles, you know; not that he's proud, or me either! but he'sa sub-lieutenant in the Guides--an officer! Besides, his brother'sdead, and he's the Duc de la Rochemartel, and a special pet of theEmpress; he makes her laugh more than anybody! He's looking out for thebiggest heiress he can find, and he's pretty safe to catch her, withsuch a name as that! In fact, they say he's caught her already--MissLavinia Hunks, of Chicago. Twenty million dollars!--at least, so the_Figaro_ says!"

  Then he gave them news of other old friends; and they did not part tillit was time for them to go to the Cirque des Bashibazoucks, and afterthey had arranged to dine with his future family on the following day.

  * * * * *

  In the Rue St. Honoré was a long double file of cabs and carriagesslowly moving along to the portals of that huge hall, Le Cirque desBashibazoucks. Is it there still, I wonder? I don't mind betting not!Just at this period of the Second Empire there was a mania fordemolition and remolition (if there is such a word), and I have no doubtmy Parisian readers would search the Rue St. Honoré for the Salle desBashibazoucks in vain!

  Our friends were shown to their stalls, and looked round in surprise.This was before the days of the Albert Hall, and they had never been insuch a big place of the kind before, or one so regal in aspect, sogorgeously imperial with white and gold and crimson velvet, so dazzlingwith light, so crammed with people from floor to roof, and crammingitself still.

  A platform carpeted with crimson cloth had been erected in front of thegates where the horses had once used to come in, and their fair riders,and the two jolly English clowns; and the beautiful nobleman with thelong frock-coat and brass buttons, and soft high boots, and four-in-handwhip--"la chambrière."

  In front of this was a lower stand for the orchestra. The circus itselfwas filled with stalls--stalles d'orchestre. A pair of crimson curtainshid the entrance to the platform at the back, and by each of these stooda small page, ready to draw it aside and admit the diva.

  The entrance to the orchestra was by a small door under the platform,and some thirty or forty chairs and music-stands, grouped around theconductor's estrade, were waiting for the band.

  Little Billee looked round, and recognized many countrymen andcountrywomen of his own--many great musical celebrities especially, whomhe had often met in London. Tiers upon tiers of people rose up all roundin a widening circle, and lost themselves in a dazy mist of light at thetop--it was like a picture by Martin! In the imperial box were theEnglish ambassador and his family, with an august British personagesitting in the middle, in front, his broad blue ribbon across his breastand his opera-glass to his royal eyes.

  Little Billee had never felt so excited, so exhilarated by such a showbefore, nor so full of eager anticipation. He looked at his programme,and saw that the Hungarian band (the first that had yet appeared inwestern Europe, I believe) would play an overture of gypsy dances. ThenMadame Svengali would sing "un air connu, sans accompagnement," andafterwards other airs, including the "Nussbaum" of Schumann (for thefirst time in Paris, it seemed). Then a rest of ten minutes; then morecsárdás; then the diva would sing "Malbrouck s'en va-t'en guerre," ofall things in the world! and finish up with "un impromptu de Chopin,sans paroles."

  Truly a somewhat incongruous bill of fare!

  GECKO]

  Close on the stroke of nine the musicians came in and took their seats.They were dressed in the foreign hussar uniform that has now become sofamiliar. The first violin had scarcely sat down before friendsrecognized in him their old friend Gecko.

  Just as the clock struck, Svengali, in irreproachable evening dress,tall and stout and quite splendid in appearance, notwithstanding hislong black mane (which had been curled), took his place at his desk. Ourfriends would have known him at a glance, in spite of the wonderfulalteration time and prosperity had wrought in his outward man.

  He bowed right and left to the thunderous applause that greeted him,gave his three little baton-taps, and the lovely music began at once. Wehave grown accustomed to strains of this kind during the last twentyyears; but they were new then, and their strange seduction was asurprise as well as an enchantment.

  Besides, no such band as Svengali's had ever been heard; and inlistening to this overture the immense crowd almost forgot that it was amere preparation for a great musical event, and tried to encore it. ButSvengali merely turned round and bowed--there were to be no encores thatnight.

  Then a moment of silence and breathless suspense--curiosity on tiptoe!

  Then the two little page-boys each drew a silken rope, and the curtainsparted and looped themselves up on each side symmetrically; and a tallfemale figure appeared, clad in what seemed like a classical dress ofcloth of gold, embroidered with garnets and beetles' wings; her snowyarms and shoulders bare, a gold coronet of stars on her head, her thicklight brown hair tied behind and flowing all down her back to nearly herknees, like those ladies in hair-dressers' shops who sit with theirbacks to the plate-glass windows to advertise the merits of someparticular hair-wash.

  She walked slowly down to the front, her hands hanging at her sides inquite a simple fashion, and made a slight inclination of her head andbody towards the imperial box, and then to right and left. Her lips andcheeks were rouged; her dark level eyebrows nearly met at the bridge ofher short high nose. Through her parted lips you could see her largeglistening white teeth; her gray eyes looked straight at Svengali.

  Her face was thin, and had a rather haggard expression, in spite of itsartificial freshness; but its contour was divine, and its character sotender, so humble, so touchingly simple and sweet, that one melted atthe sight of her. No such magnificent or seductive apparition has everbeen seen before or since on any stage or platform--not even Miss EllenTerry as the priestess of Artemis in the late Laureate's play, "TheCup."

  The house rose at her as she came down to the front; and she bowed againto right and left, and put her hand to her heart quite simply and with amost winning natural gesture, an adorable gaucherie--like a graceful andunconscious school-girl, quite innocent of stage deportment.

  _It was Trilby!_

  * * * * *

  Trilby the tone-deaf, who couldn't sing one single note in tune! Trilby,who couldn't tell a C from an F!!

  What was going to happen!

  Our three friends were almost turned to stone in the immensity of theirsurprise.

  Yet the big Taffy was trembling all over; the Laird's jaw had all butfallen on to his chest; Little Billee was staring, staring his eyesalmost out of his head. There was something, to them, so stran
ge anduncanny about it all; so oppressive, so anxious, so momentous!

  The applause had at last subsided. Trilby stood with her hands behindher, one foot (the left one) on a little stool that had been left thereon purpose, her lips parted, her eyes on Svengali's, ready to begin.

  He gave his three beats, and the band struck a chord. Then, at anotherbeat from him, but in her direction, she began, without the slightestappearance of effort, without any accompaniment whatever, he stillbeating time--conducting her, in fact, just as if she had been anorchestra herself:

  "Au clair de la lune, Mon ami Pierrot! Prête-moi ta plume Pour écrire un mot. Ma chandelle est morte ... Je n'ai plus de feu! Ouvre-moi ta porte Pour l'amour de Dieu!"

  This was the absurd old nursery rhyme with which la Svengali chose tomake her début before the most critical audience in the world! She sangit three times over--the same verse. There is but one.

  The first time she sang it without any expression whatever--not theslightest. Just the words and the tune; in the middle of her voice, andnot loud at all; just as a child sings who is thinking of somethingelse; or just as a young French mother sings who is darning socks by acradle, and rocking her baby to sleep with her foot.

  But her voice was so immense in its softness, richness, freshness, thatit seemed to be pouring itself out from all round; its intonationabsolutely, mathematically pure; one felt it to be not only faultless,but infallible; and the seduction, the novelty of it, the strangelysympathetic quality! How can one describe the quality of a peach or anectarine to those who have only known apples?

  Until la Svengali appeared, the world had only known apples--Catalanis,Jenny Linds, Grisis, Albonis, Pattis! The best apples that can be, forsure--but still only apples!

  "AU CLAIR DE LA LUNE"]

  If she had spread a pair of large white wings and gracefully flutteredup to the roof and perched upon the chandelier, she could not haveproduced a greater sensation. The like of that voice has never beenheard, nor ever will be again. A woman archangel might sing like that,or some enchanted princess out of a fairy-tale.

  Little Billee had already dropped his face into his hands and hid hiseyes in his pocket-handkerchief; a big tear had fallen on to Taffy'sleft whisker; the Laird was trying hard to keep his tears back.

  She sang the verse a second time, with but little added expression andno louder; but with a sort of breathy widening of her voice that made itlike a broad heavenly smile of universal motherhood turned into sound.One felt all the genial gayety and grace and impishness of Pierrot andColumbine idealized into frolicsome beauty and holy innocence, as thoughthey were performing for the saints in Paradise--a baby Columbine, witha cherub for clown! The dream of it all came over you for a second ortwo--a revelation of some impossible golden age--priceless--never to beforgotten! How on earth did she do it?

  Little Billee had lost all control over himself, and was shaking withhis suppressed sobs--Little Billee, who hadn't shed a single tear forfive long years! Half the people in the house were in tears, but tearsof sheer delight, of delicate inner laughter.

  Then she came back to earth, and saddened and veiled and darkened hervoice as she sang the verse for the third time; and it was a great andsombre tragedy, too deep for any more tears; and somehow or other poorColumbine, forlorn and betrayed and dying, out in the cold atmidnight--sinking down to hell, perhaps--was making her last franticappeal! It was no longer Pierrot and Columbine--it was Marguerite--itwas Faust! It was the most terrible and pathetic of all possible humantragedies, but expressed with no dramatic or histrionic exaggeration ofany sort; by mere tone, slight, subtle changes in the quality of thesound--too quick and elusive to be taken count of, but to be felt with,oh, what poignant sympathy!

  When the song was over the applause did not come immediately, and shewaited with her kind wide smile, as if she were well accustomed to waitlike this; and then the storm began, and grew and spread and rattled andechoed--voice, hands, feet, sticks, umbrellas!--and down came thebouquets, which the little page-boys picked up; and Trilby bowed tofront and right and left in her simple _débonnaire_ fashion. It was herusual triumph. It had never failed, whatever the audience, whatever thecountry, whatever the song.

  Little Billee didn't applaud. He sat with his head in his hands, hisshoulders still heaving. He believed himself to be fast asleep and in adream, and was trying his utmost not to wake; for a great happiness washis. It was one of those nights to be marked with a white stone!

  As the first bars of the song came pouring out of her parted lips (whoseshape he so well remembered), and her dovelike eyes looked straight overSvengali's head, straight in his own direction--nay, _at_ him--somethingmelted in his brain, and all his long-lost power of loving came backwith a rush.

  It was like the sudden curing of a deafness that has been lasting foryears. The doctor blows through your nose into your Eustachian tube witha little India-rubber machine; some obstacle gives way, there is a snapin your head, and straightway you hear better than you had ever heard inall your life, almost too well; and all your life is once more changedfor you!

  At length he sat up again, in the middle of la Svengali's singing of the"Nussbaum," and saw her; and saw the Laird sitting by him, and Taffy,their eyes riveted on Trilby, and knew for certain that it was _no_dream this time, and his joy was almost a pain!

  "OUVRE-MOI TA PORTE POUR L'AMOUR DE DIEU!"]

  She sang the "Nussbaum" (to its heavenly accompaniment) as simply as shehad sung the previous song. Every separate note was a highly finishedgem of sound, linked to the next by a magic bond.

  You did not require to be a lover of music to fall beneath the spell ofsuch a voice as that; the mere melodic phrase had all but ceased tomatter. Her phrasing, consummate as it was, was as simple as a child's.

  It was as if she said: "See! what does the composer count for? Here isabout as beautiful a song as was ever written, with beautiful words tomatch, and the words have been made French for you by one of yoursmartest poets! But what do the words signify, any more than the tune,or even the language? The 'Nussbaum' is neither better nor worse than'Mon ami Pierrot' when _I_ am the singer; for I am _Svengali_; and youshall hear nothing, see nothing, think of nothing but _Svengali,Svengali, Svengali_!"

  It was the apotheosis of voice and virtuosity! It was "il bel canto"come back to earth after a hundred years--the bel canto of Vivarelli,let us say, who sang the same song every night to the same King of Spainfor a quarter of a century, and was rewarded with a dukedom, and wealthbeyond the dreams of avarice.

  And, indeed, here was this immense audience, made up of the mostcynically critical people in the world, and the most anti-German,assisting with rapt ears and streaming eyes at the imagined spectacle ofa simple German damsel, a Mädchen, a Fräulein, just "verlobte"--a futureHausfrau--sitting under a walnut-tree in some suburban garden--àBerlin!--and around her her family and their friends, probably drinkingbeer and smoking long porcelain pipes, and talking politics or business,and cracking innocent elaborate old German jokes; with bated breath,lest they should disturb her maiden dream of love! And all as though itwere a scene in Elysium, and the Fräulein a nymph of many-fountainedIda, and her people Olympian gods and goddesses.

  And such, indeed, they were when Trilby sang of them!

  After this, when the long, frantic applause had subsided, she made agracious bow to the royal British opera-glass (which had never left herface), and sang "Ben Bolt" in English!

  And then Little Billee remembered there was such a person as Svengali inthe world, and recalled his little flexible flageolet!

  "That is how I teach Gecko; that is how I teach la bedite Honorine; thatis how I teach il bel canto.... It was lost, il bel canto--and I foundit in a dream--I, Svengali!"

  And his old cosmic vision of the beauty and sadness of things, the veryheart of them, and their pathetic evanescence, came back with a tenfoldclearness--that heavenly glimpse beyond the veil! And with it a crushingsense of his own
infinitesimal significance by the side of this gloriouspair of artists, one of whom had been his friend and the other hislove--a love who had offered to be his humble mistress and slave, notfeeling herself good enough to be his wife!

  It made him sick and faint to remember, and filled him with hot shame,and then and there his love for Trilby became as that of a dog for itsmaster!

  She sang once more--"Chanson de Printemps," by Gounod (who was present,and seemed very hysterical), and the first part of the concert was over,and people had time to draw breath and talk over this new wonder, thisrevelation of what the human voice could achieve; and an immense humfilled the hall--astonishment, enthusiasm, ecstatic delight!

  But our three friends found little to say--for what _they_ felt therewere as yet no words!

  "MALBROUCK S'EN VA-T'EN GUERRE"]

  Taffy and the Laird looked at Little Billee, who seemed to be lookinginward at some transcendent dream of his own; with red eyes, and hisface all pale and drawn, and his nose very pink, and rather thicker thanusual; and the dream appeared to be out of the common blissful, thoughhis eyes were swimming still, for his smile was almost idiotic in itsrapture!

  The second part of the concert was still shorter than the first, andcreated, if possible, a wilder enthusiasm.

  Trilby only sang twice.

  Her first song was "Malbrouck s'en va-t'en guerre."

  She began it quite lightly and merrily, like a jolly march; in themiddle of her voice, which had not as yet revealed any exceptionalcompass or range. People laughed quite frankly at the first verse:

  "Malbrouck s'en va-t'en guerre-- _Mironton, mironton, mirontaine!_ Malbrouck s'en va-t'en guerre.... Ne sais quand reviendra! Ne sais quand reviendra! Ne sais quand reviendra!"

  The _mironton, mirontaine_ was the very essence of high martial resolveand heroic self-confidence; one would have led a forlorn hope afterhearing it once!

  "Il reviendra-z-à Pâques-- _Mironton, mironton, mirontaine!_ Il reviendra-z-à Pâques.... Ou ... à la Trinité!"

  People still laughed, though the _mironton, mirontaine_ betrayed anuncomfortable sense of the dawning of doubts and fears--vagueforebodings!

  "La Trinité se passe-- _Mironton, mironton, mirontaine!_ La Trinité se passe.... Malbrouck ne revient pas!"

  And here, especially in the _mironton, mirontaine_, a note of anxietyrevealed itself--so poignant, so acutely natural and human, that itbecame a personal anxiety of one's own, causing the heart to beat, andone's breath was short.

  "Madame à sa tour monte-- _Mironton, mironton, mirontaine!_ Madame à sa tour monte, Si haut qu'elle peut monter!"

  Oh! How one's heart went with her! Anne! Sister Anne! Do you seeanything?

  "Elle voit de loin son page-- _Mironton, mironton, mirontaine!_ Elle voit de loin son page, Tout de noir habillé!"

  One is almost sick with the sense of impending calamity--it is all butunbearable!

  "Mon page--mon beau page!-- _Mironton, mironton, mirontaine!_ Mon page--mon beau page! Quelles nouvelles apportez?"

  And here Little Billee begins to weep again, and so does everybody else!The _mironton, mirontaine_ is an agonized wail of suspense--poorbereaved duchess!--poor Sarah Jennings! Did it all announce itself toyou just like that?

  All this while the accompaniment had been quite simple--just a fewobvious ordinary chords.

  But now, quite suddenly, without a single modulation or note of warning,down goes the tune a full major third, from E to C--into the graverdepths of Trilby's great contralto--so solemn and ominous that there isno more weeping, but the flesh creeps; the accompaniment slows andelaborates itself; the march becomes a funeral march, with mutedstrings, and quite slowly:

  "Aux nouvelles que j'apporte-- _Mironton, mironton, mirontaine!_ Aux nouvelles que j'apporte, Vos beaux yeux vont pleurer!"

  Richer and richer grows the accompaniment. The _mironton, mirontaine_becomes a dirge--

  "Quittez vos habits roses-- _Mironton, mironton, mirontaine!_ Quittez vos habits roses, Et vos satins brochés!"

  Here the ding-donging of a big bell seems to mingle with the score; ...and very slowly, and so impressively that the news will ring forever inthe ears and hearts of those who hear it from la Svengali's lips:

  "Le Sieur Malbrouck est mort-- _Mironton, mironton, mirontaine!_ Le Sieur--Malbrouck--est--mort! Est mort--et enterré!"

  And thus it ends quite abruptly!

  And this heart-rending tragedy, this great historical epic in two dozenlines, at which some five or six thousand gay French people aresniffling and mopping their eyes like so many Niobes, is just a commonold French comic song--a mere nursery ditty, like "Little Bo-peep"--tothe tune,

  "We won't go home till morning, Till daylight doth appear."

  And after a second or two of silence (oppressive and impressive as thatwhich occurs at a burial when the handful of earth is being dropped onthe coffin-lid) the audience bursts once more into madness; and laSvengali, who accepts no encores, has to bow for nearly five minutes,standing amid a sea of flowers....

  "AUX NOUVELLES QUE J'APPORTE, VOS BEAUX YEUX VONT PLEURER!"]

  Then comes her great and final performance. The orchestra swiftly playsthe first four bars of the bass in Chopin's Impromptu (A flat); andsuddenly, without words, as a light nymph catching the whirl of a doubleskipping-rope, la Svengali breaks in, and vocalizes that astoundingpiece of music that so few pianists can even play; but no pianist hasever played it like this; no piano has ever given out such notes asthese!

  Every single phrase is a string of perfect gems, of purest ray serene,strung together on a loose golden thread! The higher and shriller shesings, the sweeter it is; higher and shriller than any woman had eversung before.

  Waves of sweet and tender laughter, the very heart and essence ofinnocent, high-spirited girlhood, alive to all that is simple and joyousand elementary in nature--the freshness of the morning, the ripple ofthe stream, the click of the mill, the lisp of wind in the trees, thesong of the lark in the cloudless sky--the sun and the dew, the scent ofearly flowers and summer woods and meadows--the sight of birds and beesand butterflies and frolicsome young animals at play--all the sights andscents and sounds that are the birthright of happy children, happysavages in favored climes--things within the remembrance and the reachof most of us! All this, the memory and the feel of it, are in Trilby'svoice as she warbles that long, smooth, lilting, dancing laugh, thatwondrous song without words; and those who hear feel it all, andremember it with her. It is irresistible; it forces itself on you; nowords, no pictures, could ever do the like! So that the tears that areshed out of all these many French eyes are tears of pure, unmixeddelight in happy reminiscence! (Chopin, it is true, may have meantsomething quite different--a hot-house, perhaps, with orchids and arumlilies and tuberoses and hydrangeas--but that is neither here northere.)

  UN IMPROMPTU DE CHOPIN]

  Then comes the slow movement, the sudden adagio, with its capriciousornaments--the waking of the virgin heart, the stirring of the sap, thedawn of love; its doubts and fears and questionings; and the mellow,powerful, deep chest notes are like the pealing of great golden bells,with a light little pearl shower tinkling round--drops from the upperfringe of her grand voice as she shakes it....

  Then back again the quick part, childhood once more, da capo, onlyquicker! hurry, hurry! but distinct as ever. Loud and shrill and sweetbeyond compare--drowning the orchestra; of a piercing quality quiteineffable; a joy there is no telling; a clear, purling, crystal streamthat gurgles and foams and bubbles along over sunlit stones; "a wonder,a world's delight!"

  And there is not a sign of effort, of difficulty overcome. All through,Trilby smiles her broad, angelic smile; her lips well parted, her bigwhite teeth glistening as she gently jerks her head from side to side intime to Svengali's bâton, as if to shake
the willing notes out quickerand higher and shriller....

  And in a minute or two it is all over, like the lovely bouquet offireworks at the end of the show, and she lets what remains of it dieout and away like the afterglow of fading Bengal fires--her voicereceding into the distance--coming back to you like an echo from allround, from anywhere you please--quite soft--hardly more than a breath;but _such_ a breath! Then one last chromatically ascending rocket,pianissimo, up to E in alt, and then darkness and silence!

  And after a little pause the many-headed rises as one, and waves itshats and sticks and handkerchiefs, and stamps and shouts.... "Vive laSvengali! Vive la Svengali!"

  Svengali steps on to the platform by his wife's side and kisses herhand; and they both bow themselves backward through the curtains, whichfall, to rise again and again and again on this astounding pair!

  Such was la Svengali's début in Paris.

  It had lasted little over an hour, one quarter of which, at least, hadbeen spent in plaudits and courtesies!

  The writer is no musician, alas! (as, no doubt, his musical readers havefound out by this) save in his thraldom to music of not too severe akind, and laments the clumsiness and inadequacy of this wild (thoughsomewhat ambitious) attempt to recall an impression received more thanthirty years ago; to revive the ever-blessed memory of thatunforgettable first night at the Cirque des Bashibazoucks.

  Would that I could transcribe here Berlioz's famous series of twelvearticles, entitled "La Svengali," which were republished from _La LyreÉolienne_, and are now out of print!

  Or Théophile Gautier's elaborate rhapsody, "Madame Svengali--Ange, ouFemme?" in which he proves that one need not have a musical ear (hehadn't) to be enslaved by such a voice as hers, any more than the eyefor beauty (this he _had_) to fall the victim of "her celestial formand face." It is enough, he says, to be simply human! I forget in whichjournal this eloquent tribute appeared; it is not to be found in hiscollected works.

  Or the intemperate diatribe by Herr Blagner (as I will christen him) onthe tyranny of the prima donna called "Svengalismus"; in which heattempts to show that mere virtuosity carried to such a pitch is mereviciosity--base acrobatismus of the vocal chords, a hysteric appeal tomorbid Gallic "sentimentalismus"; and that this monstrous development ofa phenomenal larynx, this degrading cultivation and practice of theabnormalismus of a mere physical peculiarity, are death and destructionto all true music; since they place Mozart and Beethoven, and even_himself_, on a level with Bellini, Donizetti, Offenbach--any Italiantune-tinkler, any ballad-monger of the hated Paris pavement! and canmake the highest music of all (even _his own_) go down with the commonFrench herd at the very first hearing, just as if it were some idioticrefrain of the café chantant!

  So much for Blagnerismus _v_. Svengalismus.

  But I fear there is no space within the limits of this humble tale forthese masterpieces of technical musical criticism.

  Besides, there are other reasons.

  * * * * *

  Our three heroes walked back to the boulevards, the only silent onesamid the throng that poured through the Rue St. Honoré, as the Cirquedes Bashibazoucks emptied itself of its over-excited audience.

  They went arm in arm, as usual; but this time Little Billee was in themiddle. He wished to feel on each side of him the warm and genialcontact of his two beloved old friends. It seemed as if they hadsuddenly been restored to him, after five long years of separation hisheart was overflowing with affection for them, too full to speak justyet! Overflowing, indeed, with the love of love, the love of life, thelove of death--the love of all that is, and ever was, and ever will be!just as in his old way.

  He could have hugged them both in the open street, before the wholeworld; and the delight of it was that this was no dream; about thatthere was no mistake. He was himself again at last, after five years,and wide awake; and he owed it all to Trilby!

  And what did he feel for Trilby? He couldn't tell yet. It was too vastas yet to be measured; and, alas! it was weighted with such a burden ofsorrow and regret that he might well put off the thought of it a littlewhile longer, and gather in what bliss he might: like the man whosehearing has been restored after long years, he would revel in the merephysical delight of hearing for a space, and not go out of his way asyet to listen for the bad news that was already in the air, and wouldcome to roost quite soon enough.

  Taffy and the Laird were silent also; Trilby's voice was still in theirears and hearts, her image in their eyes, and utter bewilderment stilloppressed them and kept them dumb.

  It was a warm and balmy night, almost like mid-summer; and they stoppedat the first café they met on the Boulevard de la Madeleine (_commeautrefois_), and ordered bocks of beer, and sat at a little table onthe pavement, the only one unoccupied; for the café was already crowded,the hum of lively talk was great, and "la Svengali" was in every mouth.

  The Laird was the first to speak. He emptied his bock at a draught, andcalled for another, and lit a cigar, and said, "I don't believe it wasTrilby, after all!" It was the first time her name had been mentionedbetween them that evening--and for five years!

  "Good heavens!" said Taffy. "Can you doubt it?"

  "Oh yes! that was Trilby," said Little Billee.

  Then the Laird proceeded to explain that, putting aside theimpossibility of Trilby's ever being taught to sing in tune, and herwell-remembered loathing for Svengali, he had narrowly scanned her facethrough his opera-glass, and found that in spite of a likeness quitemarvellous there were well-marked differences. Her face was narrower andlonger, her eyes larger, and their expression not the same; then sheseemed taller and stouter, and her shoulders broader and more drooping,and so forth.

  But the others wouldn't hear of it, and voted him cracked, and declaredthey even recognized the peculiar twang of her old speaking voice in thevoice she now sang with, especially when she sang low down. And they allthree fell to discussing the wonders of her performance like everybodyelse all round; Little Billee leading, with an eloquence and a seemingof technical musical knowledge that quite impressed them, and made themfeel happy and at ease; for they were anxious for his sake about theeffect this sudden and so unexpected sight of her would have upon himafter all that had passed.

  He seemed transcendently happy and elate--incomprehensibly so, infact--and looked at them both with quite a new light in his eyes, as ifall the music he had heard had trebled not only his joy in being alive,but his pleasure at being with them. Evidently he had quite outgrown hisold passion for her, and that was a comfort indeed!

  But Little Billee knew better.

  He knew that his old passion for her had all come back, and was sooverwhelming and immense that he could not feel it just yet, nor yet thehideous pangs of a jealousy so consuming that it would burn up his life.He gave himself another twenty-four hours.

  But he had not to wait so long. He woke up after a short, uneasy sleepthat very night, to find that the flood was over him; and he realizedhow hopelessly, desperately, wickedly, insanely he loved this woman, whomight have been his, but was now the wife of another man; a greater thanhe, and one to whom she owed it that she was more glorious than anyother woman on earth--a queen among queens--a goddess! for what was anyearthly throne compared to that she established in the hearts and soulsof all who came within the sight and hearing of her! beautiful as shewas besides--beautiful, beautiful! And what must be her love for the manwho had taught her and trained her, and revealed her towering genius toherself and to the world!--a man resplendent also, handsome and tall andcommanding--a great artist from the crown of his head to the sole of hisfoot!

  And the remembrance of them--hand in hand, master and pupil, husband andwife--smiling and bowing in the face of all that splendid tumult theyhad called forth and could not quell, stung and tortured and maddenedhim so that he could not lie still, but got up and raged and rampaged upand down his hot, narrow, stuffy bedroom, and longed for his oldfamiliar brain-disease to come back and narcotize his trouble
, and behis friend, and stay with him till he died!

  "AND THE REMEMBRANCE OF THEM--HAND IN HAND"]

  Where was he to fly for relief from such new memories as these, whichwould never cease; and the old memories, and all the glamour and graceof them that had been so suddenly called out of the grave? And how couldhe escape, now that he felt the sight of her face and the sound of hervoice would be a craving--a daily want--like that of some poor starvingoutcast for warmth and meat and drink?

  And little innocent, pathetic, ineffable, well-remembered sweetnesses ofher changing face kept painting themselves on his retina; andincomparable tones of this new thing, her voice, her infinite voice,went ringing in his head, till he all but shrieked aloud in his agony.

  And then the poisoned and delirious sweetness of those mad kisses,

  "by hopeless fancy feigned On lips that are for others"!

  And then the grewsome physical jealousy, that miserable inheritance ofall artistic sons of Adam, that plague and torment of the dramatic,plastic imagination, which can idealize so well, and yet realize, alas!so keenly. After three or four hours spent like this, he could stand itno longer; madness was lying his way. So he hurried on a garment, andwent and knocked at Taffy's door.

  "Good God! what's the matter with you?" exclaimed the good Taffy, asLittle Billee tumbled into his room, calling out:

  "Oh, Taffy, Taffy, I've g-g-gone mad, I think!" And then, shivering allover, and stammering incoherently, he tried to tell his friend what wasthe matter with him, with great simplicity.

  Taffy, in much alarm, slipped on his trousers and made Little Billee getinto his bed, and sat by his side holding his hand. He was greatlyperplexed, fearing the recurrence of another attack like that of fiveyears back. He didn't dare leave him for an instant to wake the Lairdand send for a doctor.

  Suddenly Little Billee buried his face in the pillow and began to sob,and some instinct told Taffy this was the best thing that could happen.The boy had always been a highly strung, emotional, over-excitable,over-sensitive, and quite uncontrolled mammy's-darling, a cry-baby sortof chap, who had never been to school. It was all a part of his genius,and also a part of his charm. It would do him good once more to have agood blub after five years! After a while Little Billee grew quieter,and then suddenly he said: "What a miserable ass you must think me, whatan unmanly duffer!"

  "Why, my friend?"

  "Why, for going on in this idiotic way. I really couldn't help it. Iwent mad, I tell you. I've been walking up and down my room all night,till everything seemed to go round."

  "So have I."

  "You? What for?"

  "The very same reason."

  "_What!_"

  "I was just as fond of Trilby as you were. Only she happened to prefer_you_."

  "_What!_" cried Little Billee again. "_You_ were fond of Trilby?"

  "I believe you, my boy!"

  "In _love_ with her?"

  "I believe you, my boy!"

  "She never knew it, then!"

  "'I BELIEVE YOU, MY BOY!'"]

  "Oh yes, she did."

  "She never told me, then!"

  "Didn't she? That's like her. _I_ told _her_, at all events. I asked herto marry me."

  "Well--I _am_ damned! When?"

  "That day we took her to Meudon, with Jeannot, and dined at the GardeChampêtre's, and she danced the cancan with Sandy."

  "Well--I _am_--And she _refused_ you?"

  "Apparently so."

  "Well, I--Why on earth did she refuse you?"

  "Oh, I suppose she'd already begun to fancy _you_, my friend. _Il y en atoujours un autre!_"

  "Fancy _me_--prefer _me_--to _you_?"

  "Well, yes. It _does_ seem odd--eh, old fellow? But there's noaccounting for tastes, you know. She's built on such an ample scaleherself, I suppose, that she likes little uns--contrast, you see. She'svery maternal, I think. Besides, you're a smart little chap; and youain't half bad; and you've got brains and talent, and lots of cheek, andall that. I'm rather a _ponderous_ kind of party."

  "Well--I _am_ damned!"

  "_C'est comme ça!_ I took it lying down, you see."

  "Does the Laird know?"

  "No; and I don't want him to--nor anybody else."

  "Taffy, what a regular downright old trump you are!"

  "Glad you think so; anyhow, we're both in the same boat, and we've gotto make the best of it. She's another man's wife, and probably she'svery fond of him. I'm sure she ought to be, cad as he is, after all he'sdone for her. So there's an end of it."

  "Ah! there'll never be an end of it for _me_--never--never--oh, never,my God! She would have married me but for my mother's meddling, and thatstupid old ass, my uncle. What a wife! Think of all she must have in herheart and brain, only to _sing_ like that! And, O Lord! how beautifulshe is--a goddess! Oh, the brow and cheek and chin, and the way herhead's put on! did you _ever_ see anything like it! Oh, if only I hadn'twritten and told my mother I was going to marry her! why, we should havebeen man and wife for five years by this time--living atBarbizon--painting away like mad! Oh, what a heavenly life! Oh, curseall officious meddling with other people's affairs! Oh! oh!..."

  "There you go again! What's the good? and where do _I_ come in, myfriend? _I_ should have been no better off, old fellow--worse than ever,I think."

  Then there was a long silence.

  At length Little Billee said:

  "Taffy, I can't tell you what a trump you are. All I've ever thought ofyou--and God knows that's enough--will be nothing to what I shall alwaysthink of you after this."

  "All right, old chap."

  "And now I think _I_'m all right again, for a time--and I shall cut backto bed. Good-night! Thanks more than I can ever express!" And LittleBillee, restored to his balance, cut back to his own bed just as the daywas breaking.