Page 8 of Trilby

  Part Seventh

  "The moon made thy lips pale, beloved; The wind made thy bosom chill; The night did shed On thy dear head Its frozen dew, and thou didst lie Where the bitter breath of the naked sky Might visit thee at will."

  Next morning our three friends lay late abed, and breakfasted in theirrooms.

  They had all three passed "white nights"--even the Laird, who had tossedabout and pressed a sleepless pillow till dawn, so excited had he beenby the wonder of Trilby's reincarnation, so perplexed by his own doubtsas to whether it was really Trilby or not.

  And certain haunting tones of her voice, that voice so cruelly sweet(which clove the stillness with a clang so utterly new, so strangelyheart-piercing and seductive, that the desire to hear it once morebecame nostalgic--almost an ache!), certain bits and bars and phrases ofthe music she had sung, unspeakable felicities and facilities ofexecution sudden exotic warmths, fragrances, tendernesses, graces,depths, and breadths; quick changes from grave to gay, from rough tosmooth, from great metallic brazen clangors to soft golden suavities;all the varied modes of sound we try so vainly to borrow from vocalnature by means of wind and reed and string--all this new "Trilbyness"kept echoing in his brain all night (for he was of a nature deeplymusical), and sleep had been impossible to him.

  "As when we dwell upon a word we know, Repeating, till the word we know so well Becomes a wonder, and we know not why,"

  so dwelt the Laird upon the poor old tune "Ben Bolt," which kept singingitself over and over again in his tired consciousness, and maddened himwith novel, strange, unhackneyed, unsuspected beauties such as he hadnever dreamed of in any earthly music.

  It had become a wonder, and he knew not why!

  They spent what was left of the morning at the Louvre, and tried tointerest themselves in the "Marriage of Cana," and the "Woman at theWell," and Vandyck's man with the glove, and the little princess ofVelasquez, and Lisa Gioconda's smile: it was of no use trying. There wasno sight worth looking at in all Paris but Trilby in her golden raiment;no other princess in the world; no smile but hers, when through herparted lips came bubbling Chopin's Impromptu. They had not long to stayin Paris, and they must drink of that bubbling fountain oncemore--_coûte que coûte!_ They went to the Salle des Bashibazoucks, andfound that all seats all over the house had been taken for days andweeks; and the "queue" at the door had already begun! and they had togive up all hopes of slaking this particular thirst.

  Then they went and lunched perfunctorily, and talked desultorily overlunch, and read criticisms of la Svengali's début in the morningpapers--a chorus of journalistic acclamation gone mad, a frenzied eulogyin every key--but nothing was good enough for them! Brand-new words werewanted--another language!

  Then they wanted a long walk, and could think of nowhere to go in allParis--that immense Paris, where they had promised themselves to see somuch that the week they were to spend there had seemed too short!

  Looking in a paper, they saw it announced that the band of the ImperialGuides would play that afternoon in the Pré Catelan, Bois de Boulogne,and thought they might as well walk there as anywhere else, and walkback again in time to dine with the Passefils--a prandial function whichdid not promise to be very amusing; but still it was something to killthe evening with, since they couldn't go and hear Trilby again.

  Outside the Pré Catelan they found a crowd of cabs and carriages,saddle-horses and grooms. One might have thought one's self in theheight of the Paris season. They went in, and strolled about here andthere, and listened to the band, which was famous (it has performed inLondon at the Crystal Palace), and they looked about and studied life,or tried to.

  Suddenly they saw, sitting with three ladies (one of whom, the eldest,was in black), a very smart young officer, a guide, all red and greenand gold, and recognized their old friend Zouzou. They bowed, and heknew them at once, and jumped up and came to them and greeted themwarmly, especially his old friend Taffy, whom he took to his mother--thelady in black--and introduced to the other ladies, the younger of whom,strangely unlike the rest of her countrywomen, was so lamentably, sopathetically plain that it would be brutal to attempt the cheap and easytask of describing her. It was Miss Lavinia Hunks, the famous Americanmillionairess, and her mother. Then the good Zouzou came back and talkedto the Laird and Little Billee.

  Zouzou, in some subtle and indescribable way, had become very ducalindeed.

  He looked extremely distinguished, for one thing, in his beautifulguide's uniform, and was most gracefully and winningly polite. Heinquired warmly after Mrs. and Miss Bagot, and begged Little Billeewould recall him to their amiable remembrance when he saw them again. Heexpressed most sympathetically his delight to see Little Billee lookingso strong and so well (Little Billee looked like a pallid littlewashed-out ghost, after his white night).

  They talked of Dodor. He said how attached he was to Dodor, and alwaysshould be; but Dodor, it seemed, had made a great mistake in leaving thearmy and going into a retail business (_petit commerce_). He had donefor himself--_dégringolé!_ He should have stuck to the _dragons_--with alittle patience and good conduct he would have "won his epaulet"--andthen one might have arranged for him a good little marriage--_un particonvenable_--for he was "très joli garçon, Dodor! bonne tournure--ettrès gentiment né! C'est très ancien, les Rigolot--dans le Poitou, jecrois--Lafarce, et tout ça; tout à fait bien!"

  It was difficult to realize that this polished and discreet and somewhatpatronizing young man of the world was the jolly dog who had gone afterLittle Billee's hat on all fours in the Rue Vieille des Mauvais Ladresand brought it back in his mouth--the Caryhatide!

  Little Billee little knew that Monsieur le Duc de laRochemartel-Boisségur had quite recently delighted a very small andselect and most august imperial supper-party at Compiègne with this verystory, not blinking a single detail of his own share in it--and hadgiven a most touching and sympathetic description of "le joli petitpeintre anglais qui s'appelait Litrebili, et ne pouvait pas se tenir surses jambes--et qui pleurait d'amour fraternel dans les bras de moncopain Dodor!"

  "Ah! Monsieur Gontran, ce que je donnerais pour avoir vu ça!" had saidthe greatest lady in France; "un de mes zouaves--à quatre pattes--dansla rue--un chapeau dans la bouche--oh--c'est impayable!"

  Zouzou kept these blackguard bohemian reminiscences for the imperialcircle alone--to which it was suspected that he was secretly rallyinghimself. Among all outsiders--especially within the narrow precincts ofthe cream of the noble Faubourg (which remained aloof from theTuileries)--he was a very proper and gentlemanlike person indeed, as hisbrother had been--and, in his mother's fond belief, "très bien pensant,très bien vu, à Frohsdorf et à Rome."

  _On lui aurait donné le bon Dieu sans confession_--as Madame Vinard hadsaid of Little Billee--they would have shriven him at sight, andadmitted him to the holy communion on trust!

  He did not present Little Billee and the Laird to his mother, nor toMrs. and Miss Hunks; that honor was reserved for "the Man of Blood"alone; nor did he ask where they were staying, nor invite them to callon him. But in parting he expressed the immense pleasure it had givenhim to meet them again, and the hope he had of some day shaking theirhands in London.

  As the friends walked back to Paris together, it transpired that "theMan of Blood" had been invited by Madame Duchesse Mère (Maman Duchesse,as Zouzou called her) to dine with her next day, and meet the Hunkses ata furnished apartment she had taken in the Place Vendôme; for they hadlet (to the Hunkses) the Hôtel de la Rochemartel in the Rue de Lille;they had also been obliged to let their place in the country, le châteaude Boisségur (to Monsieur Despoires, or "des Poires," as he chose tospell himself on his visiting-cards--the famous soap-manufacturer--"Untrès brave homme, à ce qu'on dit!" and whose only son, by-the-way, soonafter married Mademoiselle Jeanne-Adélaïde d'Amaury-Brissac deRoncesvaulx de Boisségur de la Rochemartel).

  "Il ne fait pas gras chez nous à présent--je vous assure!" M
adameDuchesse Mère had pathetically said to Taffy--but had given him tounderstand that things would be very much better for her son, in theevent of his marriage with Miss Hunks.

  "Good heavens!" said Little Billee, on hearing this; "that grotesquelittle bogy in blue? Why, she's deformed--she squints--she's a dwarf,and looks like an idiot! Millions or no millions, the man who marriesher is a felon! As long as there are stones to break and a road to breakthem on, the able-bodied man who marries a woman like that for anythingbut pity and kindness--and even then--dishonors himself, insults hisancestry, and inflicts on his descendants a wrong that nothing will everredeem--he nips them in the bud--he blasts them forever! He ought to becut by his fellow-men--sent to Coventry--to jail--to penal servitude forlife! He ought to have a separate hell to himself when he dies. He oughtto--"

  "Shut up, you little blaspheming ruffian!" said the Laird. "Where do_you_ expect to go to, yourself, with such frightful sentiments? Andwhat would become of your beautiful old twelfth-century dukedoms, with ahundred yards of back-frontage opposite the Louvre, on a beautifulhistoric river, and a dozen beautiful historic names, and no money--if_you_ had your way?" and the Laird wunk his historic wink.

  "Twelfth-century dukedoms be damned!" said Taffy _au grand sérieux_, asusual. "Little Billee's quite right, and Zouzou makes me sick! Besides,what does she marry _him_ for--not for his beauty either, I guess! She'shis fellow-criminal, his deliberate accomplice, _particeps delicti_,accessory before the act and after! She has no right to marry at all!tar and feathers and a rail for both of them--and for Maman Duchessetoo--and I suppose that's why I refused her invitation to dinner! andnow let's go and dine with Dodor--...anyhow Dodor's young woman doesn'tmarry him for a dukedom--or even his 'de'--_mais bien pour ses beauxyeux!_ and if the Rigolots of the future turn out less nice to look atthan their sire, and not quite so amusing, they will probably be a greatimprovement on him in many other ways. There's room enough--and tospare!"

  "MAMAN DUCHESSE"]

  "'Ear! 'ear!" said Little Billee (who always grew flippant when Taffygot on his high horse). "Your 'ealth and song, sir--them's my sentimentsto a T! What shall we 'ave the pleasure of drinkin', after that wery nice'armony?"

  After which they walked on in silence, each, no doubt, musing on thegeneral contrariness of things, and imagining what splendid littleWynnes, or Bagots, or McAlisters might have been ushered into a decadentworld for its regeneration if fate had so willed it that a certainmagnificent and singularly gifted grisette, etc., etc., etc....

  Mrs. and Miss Hunks passed them as they walked along, in a beautifulblue barouche with C springs--_un "huit-ressorts"_; Maman Duchessepassed them in a hired fly; Zouzou passed them on horseback; "toutParis" passed them; but they were none the wiser, and agreed that theshow was not a patch on that in Hyde Park during the London season.

  When they reached the Place de la Concorde it was that lovely hour of afine autumn day in beautiful bright cities when all the lamps are lit inthe shops and streets and under the trees, and it is still daylight--aquickly fleeting joy; and as a special treat on this particular occasionthe sun set, and up rose the yellow moon over eastern Paris, and floatedabove the chimney-pots of the Tuileries.

  They stopped to gaze at the homeward procession of cabs and carriages,as they used to do in the old times. Tout Paris was still passing; toutParis is very long.

  They stood among a little crowd of sight-seers like themselves, LittleBillee right in front--in the road.

  Presently a magnificent open carriage came by--more magnificent thaneven the Hunkses', with liveries and harness quite vulgarlyresplendent--almost Napoleonic.

  Lolling back in it lay Monsieur et Madame Svengali--he with hisbroad-brimmed felt sombrero over his long black curls, wrapped in costlyfurs, smoking his big cigar of the Havana.

  By his side la Svengali--also in sables--with a large black velvet haton, her light brown hair done up in a huge knot on the nape of her neck.She was rouged and pearl-powdered, and her eyes were blackened beneath,and thus made to look twice their size; but in spite of all suchdisfigurements she was a most splendid vision, and caused quite a littlesensation in the crowd as she came slowly by.

  Little Billee's heart was in his mouth. He caught Svengali's eye, andsaw him speak to her. She turned her head and looked at him standingthere--they both did. Little Billee bowed. She stared at him with a coldstare of disdain, and cut him dead--so did Svengali. And as they passedhe heard them both snigger--she with a little high-pitched, flippantsnigger worthy of a London bar-maid.

  Little Billee was utterly crushed, and everything seemed turning round.

  The Laird and Taffy had seen it all without losing a detail. TheSvengalis had not even looked their way. The Laird said:

  "It's not Trilby--I swear! She could _never_ have done that--it's not_in_ her! and it's another face altogether--I'm sure of it!"

  THE CUT DIRECT]

  Taffy was also staggered and in doubt. They caught hold of LittleBillee, each by an arm, and walked him off to the boulevards. He wasquite demoralized, and wanted not to dine at the Passefils'. He wantedto go straight home at once. He longed for his mother as he used to longfor her when he was in trouble as a small boy and she was away fromhome--longed for her desperately--to hug her and hold her and fondleher, and be fondled, for his own sake and hers; all his old love for herhad come back in full--with what arrears! all his old love for hissister, for his old home.

  When they went back to the hotel to dress (for Dodor had begged them toput on their best evening war-paint, so as to impress his futuremother-in-law), Little Billee became fractious and intractable. And itwas only on Taffy's promising that he would go all the way to Devonshirewith him on the morrow, and stay with him there, that he could be got todress and dine.

  The huge Taffy lived entirely by his affections, and he hadn't many tolive by--the Laird, Trilby, and Little Billee.

  Trilby was unattainable, the Laird was quite strong and independentenough to get on by himself, and Taffy had concentrated all hisfaculties of protection and affection on Little Billee, and was equal toany burden or responsibility all this instinctive young fathering mightinvolve.

  In the first place, Little Billee had always been able to do quiteeasily, and better than any one else in the world, the very things Taffymost longed to do himself and couldn't, and this inspired the good Taffywith a chronic reverence and wonder he could not have expressed inwords.

  Then Little Billee was physically small and weak, and incapable ofself-control. Then he was generous, amiable, affectionate, transparentas crystal, without an atom of either egotism or conceit; and had a giftof amusing you and interesting you by his talk (and its completesincerity) that never palled; and even his silence was charming--onefelt so sure of him--so there was hardly any sacrifice, little or big,that big Taffy was not ready and glad to make for Little Billee. On theother hand, there lay deep down under Taffy's surface irascibility andearnestness about trifles (and beneath his harmless vanity of the strongman), a long-suffering patience, a real humility, a robustness ofjudgment, a sincerity and all-roundness, a completeness of sympathy,that made him very good to trust and safe to lean upon. Then hispowerful, impressive aspect, his great stature, the gladiatorlike poiseof his small round head on his big neck and shoulders, his huge deltoidsand deep chest and slender loins, his clean-cut ankles and wrists, allthe long and bold and highly-finished athletic shapes of him, that easygrace of strength that made all his movements a pleasure to watch, andany garment look well when he wore it--all this was a perpetual feast tothe quick, prehensile, æsthetic eye. And then he had such a solemn,earnest, lovable way of bending pokers round his neck, and breaking themon his arm, and jumping his own height (or near it), and lifting uparm-chairs by one leg with one hand, and what not else!

  So that there was hardly any sacrifice, little or big, that LittleBillee would not accept from big Taffy as a mere matter of course--afitting and proper tribute rendered by bodily strength to genius.

  _P
ar nobile fratrum_--well met and well mated for fast and long-enduringfriendship.

  * * * * *

  The family banquet at Monsieur Passefil's would have been dull but forthe irrepressible Dodor, and still more for the Laird of Cockpen, whorose to the occasion, and surpassed himself in geniality, drollery, andeccentricity of French grammar and accent. Monsieur Passefil was also adroll in his way, and had the quickly familiar, jocose facetiousnessthat seems to belong to the successful middle-aged bourgeois all overthe world, when he's not pompous instead (he can even be bothsometimes).

  Madame Passefil was not jocose. She was much impressed by thearistocratic splendor of Taffy, the romantic melancholy and refinementof Little Billee, and their quiet and dignified politeness. She alwaysspoke of Dodor as Monsieur de Lafarce, though the rest of the family(and one or two friends who had been invited) always called him MonsieurThéodore, and he was officially known as Monsieur Rigolot.

  Whenever Madame Passefil addressed him or spoke of him in thisaristocratic manner (which happened very often), Dodor would wink at hisfriends, with his tongue in his cheek. It seemed to amuse him beyondmeasure.

  Mademoiselle Ernestine was evidently too much in love to say anything,and seldom took her eyes off Monsieur Théodore, whom she had never seenin evening dress before. It must be owned that he looked very nice--moreducal than even Zouzou--and to be Madame de Lafarce _en perspective_,and the future owner of such a brilliant husband as Dodor, was enough toturn a stronger little bourgeois head than Mademoiselle Ernestine's.

  She was not beautiful, but healthy, well grown, well brought up, andpresumably of a sweet, kind, and amiable disposition--an _ingénue_ freshfrom her convent--innocent as a child, no doubt; and it was felt thatDodor had done better for himself (and for his race) than Monsieur leDuc. Little Dodors need have no fear.

  After dinner the ladies and gentlemen left the dining-room together, andsat in a pretty salon overlooking the boulevard, where cigarettes wereallowed, and there was music. Mademoiselle Ernestine laboriously played"Les Cloches du Monastère" (by Monsieur Lefébure-Wély, if I'm notmistaken). It's the most bourgeois piece of music I know.

  "PETIT ENFANT, J'AIMAIS D'UN AMOUR TENDRE MA MÈRE ET DIEU--SAINTES AFFECTIONS! PUIS MON AMOUR AUX FLEURS SE FIT ENTENDRE, PUIS AUX OISEAUX, ET PUIS AUX PAPILLONS!"]

  Then Dodor, with his sweet high voice, so strangely pathetic and true,sang goody-goody little French songs of innocence (of which he seemedto have an endless répertoire) to his future wife's conscientiousaccompaniment--to the immense delight, also, of all his future family,who were almost in tears--and to the great amusement of the Laird, atwhom he winked in the most pathetic parts, putting his forefinger to theside of his nose, like Noah Claypole in _Oliver Twist_.

  The wonder of the hour, la Svengali, was discussed, of course; it wasunavoidable. But our friends did not think it necessary to reveal thatshe was "la grande Trilby." That would soon transpire by itself.

  And, indeed, before the month was a week older the papers were full ofnothing else.

  Madame Svengali--"la grande Trilby"--was the only daughter of thehonorable and reverend Sir Lord O'Ferrall.

  She had run away from the primeval forests and lonely marshes of leDublin, to lead a free-and-easy life among the artists of the quartierlatin of Paris--_une vie de bohème!_

  She was the Venus Anadyomene from top to toe.

  She was _blanche comme neige, avec un volcan dans le cœur_.

  Casts of her alabaster feet could be had at Brucciani's, in the Rue dela Souricière St. Denis. (He made a fortune.)

  Monsieur Ingres had painted her left foot on the wall of a studio in thePlace St. Anatole des Arts; and an eccentric Scotch milord (le Comte dePencock) had bought the house containing the flat containing the studiocontaining the wall on which it was painted, had had the house pulleddown, and the wall framed and glazed and sent to his castle ofÉdimbourg.

  (This, unfortunately, was in excess of the truth. It was foundimpossible to execute the Laird's wish, on account of the material thewall was made of. So the Lord Count of Pencock--such was Madame Vinard'sversion of Sandy's nickname--had to forego his purchase.)

  * * * * *

  Next morning our friends were in readiness to leave Paris; even theLaird had had enough of it, and longed to get back to his work again--a"Hari-kari in Yokohama." (He had never been to Japan; but no more hadany one else in those early days.)

  They had just finished breakfast, and were sitting in the court-yard ofthe hotel, which was crowded, as usual.

  Little Billee went into the hotel post-office to despatch a note to hismother. Sitting sideways there at a small table and reading letters wasSvengali--of all people in the world. But for these two and a couple ofclerks the room was empty.

  Svengali looked up; they were quite close together.

  Little Billee, in his nervousness, began to shake, and half put out hishand, and drew it back again, seeing the look of hate on Svengali'sface.

  Svengali jumped up, put his letters together, and passing by LittleBillee on his way to the door, called him "verfluchter Schweinhund," anddeliberately spat in his face.

  Little Billee was paralyzed for a second or two; then he ran afterSvengali, and caught him just at the top of the marble stairs, andkicked him, and knocked off his hat, and made him drop all his letters.Svengali turned round and struck him over the mouth and made it bleed,and Little Billee hit out like a fury, but with no effect: he couldn'treach high enough, for Svengali was well over six feet.

  There was a crowd round them in a minute, including the beautiful oldman in the court suit and gold chain, who called out:

  "Vite! vite! un commissaire de police!"--a cry that was echoed all overthe place.

  Taffy saw the row, and shouted, "Bravo, little un!" and jumping up fromhis table, jostled his way through the crowd; and Little Billee,bleeding and gasping and perspiring and stammering, said:

  "He spat in my face, Taffy--damn him! I'd never even spoken to him--nota word, I swear!"

  Svengali had not reckoned on Taffy's being there; he recognized him atonce, and turned white.

  Taffy, who had dog-skin gloves on, put out his right hand, and deftlyseized Svengali's nose between his fore and middle fingers and nearlypulled it off, and swung his head two or three times backward andforward by it, and then from side to side, Svengali holding on to hiswrist; and then, letting him go, gave him a sounding open-handed smackon his right cheek--and a smack on the face from Taffy (even in play)was no joke, I'm told; it made one smell brimstone, and see and hearthings that didn't exist.

  Svengali gasped worse than Little Billee, and couldn't speak for awhile. Then he said,

  "Lâche--grand lâche! che fous enferrai mes témoins!"

  "At your orders!" said Taffy, in beautiful French, and drew out hiscard-case, and gave him his card in quite the orthodox French manner,adding: "I shall be here till to-morrow at twelve--but that is my Londonaddress, in case I don't hear from you before I leave. I'm sorry, butyou really mustn't spit, you know--it's not done. I will come to youwhenever you send for me--even if I have to come from the end of theworld."

  "Très bien! très bien!" said a military-looking old gentleman close by,who gave Taffy _his_ card, in case he might be of any service--and whoseemed quite delighted at the row--and indeed it was really pleasant tonote with what a smooth, flowing, rhythmical spontaneity the good Taffycould always improvise these swift little acts of summary retributivejustice: no hurry or scurry or flurry whatever--not an inharmoniousgesture, not an infelicitous line--the very poetry of violence, and itsonly excuse!

  Whatever it was worth, this was Taffy's special gift, and it neverfailed him at a pinch.

  When the commissaire de police arrived, all was over. Svengali had goneaway in a cab, and Taffy put himself at the disposition of thecommissaire.

  They went into the post-office and discussed it all with the oldmilitary gentleman, and the maj
or-domo in velvet, and the two clerks whohad seen the original insult. And all that was required of Taffy and hisfriends for the present was "their names, prenames, titles, qualities,age, address, nationality, occupation," etc.

  "'VITE! VITE! UN COMMISSAIRE DE POLICE!'"]

  "C'est une affaire qui s'arrangera autrement, et autre part!" had saidthe military gentleman--monsieur le général Comte de la Tour-aux-Loups.

  So it blew over quite simply; and all that day a fierce unholy joyburned in Taffy's choleric blue eye.

  Not, indeed, that he had any wish to injure Trilby's husband, or meantto do him any grievous bodily harm, whatever happened. But he was gladto have given Svengali a lesson in manners.

  That Svengali should injure _him_ never entered into his calculationsfor a moment. Besides, he didn't believe Svengali would show fight; andin this he was not mistaken.

  But he had, for hours, the feel of that long, thick, shapely Hebrew nosebeing kneaded between his gloved knuckles, and a pleasing sense of theeffectiveness of the tweak he had given it. So he went about chewing thecud of that heavenly remembrance all day, till reflection broughtremorse, and he felt sorry; for he was really the mildest-mannered manthat ever broke a head!

  Only the sight of Little Billee's blood (which had been made to flow bysuch an unequal antagonist) had roused the old Adam.

  No message came from Svengali to ask for the names and addresses ofTaffy's seconds; so Dodor and Zouzou (not to mention Mister the generalCount of the Tooraloorals, as the Laird called him) were leftundisturbed; and our three musketeers went back to London clean ofblood, whole of limb, and heartily sick of Paris.

  Little Billee stayed with his mother and sister in Devonshire tillChristmas, Taffy staying at the village inn.

  It was Taffy who told Mrs. Bagot about la Svengali's all but certainidentity with Trilby, after Little Billee had gone to bed, tired andworn out, the night of their arrival.

  "Good heavens!" said poor Mrs. Bagot. "Why, that's the new singing womanwho's coming over here! There's an article about her in to-day's_Times_. It says she's a wonder, and that there's no one like her!Surely that can't be the Miss O'Ferrall I saw in Paris!"

  "It seems impossible--but I'm almost certain it is--and Willy has nodoubts in the matter. On the other hand, McAlister declares it isn't."

  "Oh, what trouble! So _that's_ why poor Willy looks so ill andmiserable! It's all come back again. Could she sing at all then, whenyou knew her in Paris?"

  "Not a note--her attempts at singing were quite grotesque."

  "Is she still very beautiful?"

  "Oh yes; there's no doubt about that; more than ever!"

  "And her singing--is that so very wonderful? I remember that she had abeautiful voice in speaking."

  "Wonderful? Ah, yes; I never heard or dreamed the like of it. Grisi,Alboni, Patti--not one of them to be mentioned in the same breath!"

  "Good heavens! Why, she must be simply irresistible! I wonder you're notin love with her yourself. How dreadful these sirens are, wrecking thepeace of families!"

  "You mustn't forget that she gave way at once at a word from you, Mrs.Bagot; and she was very fond of Willy. She wasn't a siren then."

  "Oh yes--oh yes! that's true--she behaved very well--she did her duty--Ican't deny that! You must try and forgive me, Mr. Wynne--although Ican't forgive _her_!--that dreadful illness of poor Willy's--that bittertime in Paris...."

  And Mrs. Bagot began to cry, and Taffy forgave. "Oh, Mr. Wynne--let usstill hope that there's some mistake--that it's only somebody like her!Why, she's coming to sing in London after Christmas! My poor boy'sinfatuation will only increase. What _shall_ I do?

  "Well--she's another man's wife, you see. So Willy's infatuation isbound to burn itself out as soon as he fully recognizes that importantfact. Besides, she cut him dead in the Champs Élysées--and her husbandand Willy had a row next day at the hotel, and cuffed and kicked eachother--that's rather a bar to any future intimacy, I think."

  "Oh, Mr. Wynne! my son cuffing and kicking a man whose wife he's in lovewith! Good heavens!"

  "Oh, it was all right--the man had grossly insulted him--and Willybehaved like a brick, and got the best of it in the end, and nothingcame of it. I saw it all."

  "Oh, Mr. Wynne--and you didn't interfere?'

  "Oh yes, I interfered--everybody interfered. It was all right, I assureyou. No bones were broken on either side, and there was no nonsenseabout calling out, or swords or pistols, and all that."

  "I SUPPOSE YOU DO ALL THIS KIND OF THING FOR MEREAMUSEMENT, MR. WYNNE?"]

  "Thank Heaven!"

  In a week or two Little Billee grew more like himself again, and paintedendless studies of rocks and cliffs and sea--and Taffy painted with him,and was very content. The vicar and Little Billee patched up their feud.The vicar also took an immense fancy to Taffy, whose cousin, Sir OscarWynne, he had known at college, and lost no opportunity of beinghospitable and civil to him. And his daughter was away in Algiers.

  And all "the nobility and gentry" of the neighborhood, including "thepoor dear marquis" (one of whose sons was in Taffy's old regiment), werecivil and hospitable also to the two painters--and Taffy got as muchsport as he wanted, and became immensely popular. And they had, on thewhole, a very good time till Christmas, and a very pleasant Christmas,if not an exuberantly merry one.

  After Christmas Little Billee insisted on going back to London--to painta picture for the Royal Academy; and Taffy went with him; and there wasdulness in the house of Bagot--and many misgivings in the maternal heartof its mistress.

  And people of all kinds, high and low, from the family at the Court tothe fishermen on the little pier and their wives and children, missedthe two genial painters, who were the friends of everybody, and madesuch beautiful sketches of their beautiful coast.

  * * * * *

  La Svengali has arrived in London. Her name is in every mouth. Herphotograph is in the shop-windows. She is to sing at J----'s monsterconcerts next week. She was to have sung sooner, but it seems some hitchhas occurred--a quarrel between Monsieur Svengali and his first violin,who is a very important person.

  A crowd of people as usual, only bigger, is assembled in front of thewindows of the Stereoscopic Company in Regent Street, gazing atpresentments of Madame Svengali in all sizes and costumes. She is verybeautiful--there is no doubt of that; and the expression of her face issweet and kind and sad, and of such a distinction that one feels animperial crown would become her even better than her modest littlecoronet of golden stars. One of the photographs represents her inclassical dress, with her left foot on a little stool, in something ofthe attitude of the Venus of Milo, except that her hands are claspedbehind her back; and the foot is bare but for a Greek sandal, and sosmooth and delicate and charming, and with so rhythmical a set and curlof the five slender toes (the big one slightly tip-tilted and well apartfrom its longer and slighter and more aquiline neighbor), that thispresentment of her sells quicker than all the rest.

  And a little man who, with two bigger men, has just forced his way infront says to one of his friends: "Look, Sandy, look--_the foot!_ _Now_have you got any doubts?"

  "Oh yes--those are Trilby's toes, sure enough!" says Sandy. And they allgo in and purchase largely.

  As far as I have been able to discover, the row between Svengali and hisfirst violin had occurred at a rehearsal in Drury Lane Theatre.

  Svengali, it seems, had never been quite the same since the 15th ofOctober previous, and that was the day he had got his face slapped andhis nose tweaked by Taffy in Paris. He had become short-tempered andirritable, especially with his wife (if she _was_ his wife). Svengali,it seems, had reasons for passionately hating Little Billee.

  He had not seen him for five years--not since the Christmas festivity inthe Place St. Anatole, when they had sparred together after supper, andSvengali's nose had got in the way on this occasion, and had been madeto bleed; but that was not why he hated Little Billee.

  When he ca
ught sight of him standing on the curb in the Place de laConcorde and watching the procession of "tout Paris," he knew himdirectly, and all his hate flared up; he cut him dead, and made his wifedo the same.

  Next morning he saw him again in the hotel post-office, looking smalland weak and flurried, and apparently alone; and being an OrientalIsraelite Hebrew Jew, he had not been able to resist the temptation ofspitting in his face, since he must not throttle him to death.

  The minute he had done this he had regretted the folly of it. LittleBillee had run after him, and kicked and struck him, and he had returnedthe blow and drawn blood; and then, suddenly and quite unexpectedly, hadcome upon the scene that apparition so loathed and dreaded of old--thepig-headed Yorkshireman--the huge British philistine, the irresponsiblebull, the junker, the ex-Crimean, Front-de-Bœuf, who had alwaysreminded him of the brutal and contemptuous sword-clanking,spur-jingling aristocrats of his own country--ruffians that treated Jewslike dogs. Callous as he was to the woes of others, the self-indulgentand highly-strung musician was extra sensitive about himself--a verybundle of nerves--and especially sensitive to pain and rough usage, andby no means physically brave. The stern, choleric, invincible blue eyeof the hated Northern gentile had cowed him at once. And that violenttweaking of his nose, that heavy open-handed blow on his face, had soshaken and demoralized him that he had never recovered from it.

  He was thinking about it always--night and day--and constantly dreamingat night that he was being tweaked and slapped over again by a colossalnightmare Taffy, and waking up in agonies of terror, rage, and shame.All healthy sleep had forsaken him.

  Moreover, he was much older than he looked--nearly fifty--and far fromsound. His life had been a long, hard struggle.

  He had for his wife, slave, and pupil a fierce, jealous kind ofaffection that was a source of endless torment to him; for indeliblygraven in her heart, which he wished to occupy alone, was thenever-fading image of the little English painter, and of this she madeno secret.

  Gecko no longer cared for the master. All Gecko's doglike devotion wasconcentrated on the slave and pupil, whom he worshipped with a fiercebut pure and unselfish passion. The only living soul that Svengali couldtrust was the old Jewess who lived with them--his relative--but even shehad come to love the pupil as much as the master.

  On the occasion of this rehearsal at Drury Lane he (Svengali) wasconducting and Madame Svengali was singing. He interrupted her severaltimes, angrily and most unjustly, and told her she was singing out oftune, "like a verfluchter tomcat," which was quite untrue. She wassinging beautifully, "Home, Sweet Home."

  Finally he struck her two or three smart blows on her knuckles with hislittle bâton, and she fell on her knees, weeping and crying out:

  "Oh! oh! Svengali! ne me battez pas, mon ami--je fais tout ce que jepeux!"

  On which little Gecko had suddenly jumped up and struck Svengali on theneck near the collar-bone, and then it was seen that he had a littlebloody knife in his hand, and blood flowed from Svengali's neck, and atthe sight of it Svengali had fainted; and Madame Svengali had taken hishead on her lap, looking dazed and stupefied, as in a waking dream.

  Gecko had been disarmed, but as Svengali recovered from his faint andwas taken home, the police had not been sent for, and the affair washushed up, and a public scandal avoided. But la Svengali's firstappearance, to Monsieur J----'s despair, had to be put off for a week.For Svengali would not allow her to sing without him; nor, indeed, wouldhe be parted from her for a minute, or trust her out of his sight.

  The wound was a slight one. The doctor who attended Svengali describedthe wife as being quite imbecile, no doubt from grief and anxiety. Butshe never left her husband's bedside for a moment, and had the obedienceand devotion of a dog.

  When the night came round for the postponed début, Svengali was allowedby the doctor to go to the theatre, but he was absolutely forbidden toconduct.

  THE FIRST VIOLIN LOSES HIS TEMPER]

  His grief and anxiety at this were uncontrollable; he raved like amadman; and Monsieur J---- was almost as bad.

  Monsieur J---- had been conducting the Svengali band at rehearsalsduring the week, in the absence of its master--an easy task. It had beenso thoroughly drilled and knew its business so well that it could almostconduct itself, and it had played all the music it had to play (much ofwhich consisted of accompaniments to la Svengali's songs) many timesbefore. Her répertoire was immense, and Svengali had written theseorchestral scores with great care and felicity.

  On the famous night it was arranged that Svengali should sit in a boxalone, exactly opposite his wife's place on the platform, where shecould see him well; and a code of simple signals was arranged betweenhim and Monsieur J---- and the band, so that virtually he might conduct,himself, from his box should any hesitation or hitch occur. Thisarrangement was rehearsed the day before (a Sunday) and had turned outquite successfully, and la Svengali had sung in perfection in the emptytheatre.

  When Monday evening arrived everything seemed to be going smoothly; thehouse was soon crammed to suffocation, all but the middle box on thegrand tier. It was not a promenade concert, and the pit was turned intoguinea stalls (the promenade concerts were to be given a week later).

  Right in the middle of these stalls sat the Laird and Taffy and LittleBillee.

  The band came in by degrees and tuned their instruments.

  Eyes were constantly being turned to the empty box, and people wonderedwhat royal personages would appear.

  Monsieur J---- took his place amid immense applause, and bowed in hisinimitable way, looking often at the empty box.

  Then he tapped and waved his bâton, and the band played its Hungariandance music with immense success; when this was over there was a pause,and soon some signs of impatience from the gallery. Monsieur J---- haddisappeared.

  Taffy stood up, his back to the orchestra, looking round.

  Some one came into the empty box, and stood for a moment in front,gazing at the house. A tall man, deathly pale, with long black hair anda beard.

  It was Svengali.

  He caught sight of Taffy and met his eyes, and Taffy said: "Good God!Look! look!"

  Then Little Billee and the Laird got up and looked.

  "HAST THOU FOUND ME, O MINE ENEMY?"]

  And Svengali for a moment glared at them. And the expression of his facewas so terrible with wonder, rage, and fear that they were quiteappalled--and then he sat down, still glaring at Taffy, the whites ofhis eyes showing at the top, and his teeth bared in a spasmodic grin ofhate.

  Then thunders of applause filled the house, and turning round andseating themselves, Taffy and Little Billee and the Laird saw Trilbybeing led by J---- down the platform, between the players, to the front,her face smiling rather vacantly, her eyes anxiously intent on Svengaliin his box.

  She made her bows to right and left just as she had done in Paris.

  The band struck up the opening bars of "Ben Bolt," with which she wasannounced to make her début.

  She still stared--but she didn't sing--and they played the littlesymphony three times.

  One could hear Monsieur J---- in a hoarse, anxious whisper saying,

  "Mais chantez donc, madame--pour l'amour de Dieu, commencezdonc--commencez!"

  She turned round with an extraordinary expression of face, and said,

  "Chanter? pourquoi donc voulez-vous que je chante, moi? chanter quoi,alors?"

  "Mais 'Ben Bolt,' parbleu--chantez!"

  "Ah--'Ben Bolt!' oui--je connais ça!"

  Then the band began again.

  And she tried, but failed to begin herself. She turned round and said,

  "Comment diable voulez-vous que je chante avec tout ce train qu'ilsfont, ces diables de musiciens!"

  "Mais, mon Dieu, madame--qu'est-ce que vous avez donc?" cried MonsieurJ----.

  "'OH, DON'T YOU REMEMBER SWEET ALICE, BEN BOLT?'"]

  "J'ai que j'aime mieux chanter sans toute cette satanée musique,parbleu! J'aime mieux chanter toute seule!"


  "Sans musique, alors--mais chantez--chantez!"

  The band was stopped--the house was in a state of indescribable wonderand suspense.

  She looked all round, and down at herself, and fingered her dress. Thenshe looked up to the chandelier with a tender, sentimental smile, andbegan:

  "Oh, don't you remember sweet Alice, Ben Bolt? Sweet Alice with hair so brown, Who wept with delight when you gave her a smile--"

  She had not got further than this when the whole house was in anuproar--shouts from the gallery--shouts of laughter, hoots, hisses,catcalls, cock-crows.

  She stopped and glared like a brave lioness, and called out:

  "Qu'est-ce que vous avez donc, tous! tas de vieilles pommes cuites quevous êtes! Est-ce qu'on a peur de vous?" and then, suddenly:

  "Why, you're all English, aren't you?--what's all the row about?--whathave you brought me here for?--what have _I_ done, I should like toknow?"

  And in asking these questions the depth and splendor of her voice wereso extraordinary--its tone so pathetically feminine, yet so full of hurtand indignant command, that the tumult was stilled for a moment.

  It was the voice of some being from another world--some insulteddaughter of a race more puissant and nobler than ours; a voice thatseemed as if it could never utter a false note.

  Then came a voice from the gods in answer:

  "Oh, ye're Henglish, har yer? Why don't yer sing as yer _hought_ tosing--yer've got _voice_ enough, any'ow! why don't yer sing in _tune_?"

  "Sing in _tune_!" cried Trilby. "I didn't want to sing at all--I onlysang because I was asked to sing--that gentleman asked me--that Frenchgentleman with the white waistcoat! I won't sing another note!"

  "Oh, yer won't, won't yer! then let us 'ave our money back, or we'llknow what for!"

  And again the din broke out, and the uproar was frightful.

  Monsieur J---- screamed out across the theatre: "Svengali! Svengali!qu'est-ce qu'elle a donc, votre femme?... Elle est devenue folle!"

  Indeed she had tried to sing "Ben Bolt," but had sung it in her oldway--as she used to sing it in the quartier latin--the most lamentablygrotesque performance ever heard out of a human throat!

  "Svengali! Svengali!" shrieked poor Monsieur J----, gesticulatingtowards the box where Svengali was sitting, quite impassible, gazing atMonsieur J----, and smiling a ghastly, sardonic smile, a rictus of hateand triumphant revenge--as if he were saying,

  "I've got the laugh of you _all_, this time!"

  Taffy, the Laird, Little Billee, the whole house, were now staring atSvengali, and his wife was forgotten.

  She stood vacantly looking at everybody and everything--the chandelier,Monsieur J----, Svengali in his box, the people in the stalls, in thegallery--and smiling as if the noisy scene amused and excited her.

  "Svengali! Svengali! Svengali!"

  The whole house took up the cry, derisively. Monsieur J---- led MadameSvengali away; she seemed quite passive. That terrible figure ofSvengali still sat, immovable, watching his wife's retreat--stillsmiling his ghastly smile. All eyes were now turned on him once more.

  Monsieur J---- was then seen to enter his box with a policeman and twoor three other men, one of them in evening dress. He quickly drew thecurtains to; then, a minute or two after, he reappeared on the platform,bowing and scraping to the audience, as pale as death, and called forsilence, the gentleman in evening dress by his side; and this personexplained that a very dreadful thing had happened--that MonsieurSvengali had suddenly died in that box--of apoplexy or heart-disease;that his wife had seen it from her place on the stage, and hadapparently gone out of her senses, which accounted for her extraordinarybehavior.

  He added that the money would be returned at the doors, and begged theaudience to disperse quietly.

  Taffy, with his two friends behind him, forced his way to a stage doorhe knew. The Laird had no longer any doubts on the score of Trilby'sidentity--_this_ Trilby, at all events!

  Taffy knocked and thumped till the door was opened, and gave his card tothe man who opened it, stating that he and his friends were old friendsof Madame Svengali, and must see her at once.

  The man tried to slam the door in his face, but Taffy pushed through,and shut it on the crowd outside, and insisted on being taken toMonsieur J---- immediately; and was so authoritative and big, andlooked such a swell, that the man was cowed, and led him.

  They passed an open door, through which they had a glimpse of aprostrate form on a table--a man partially undressed, and some menbending over him, doctors probably.

  That was the last they saw of Svengali.

  Then they were taken to another door, and Monsieur J---- came out, andTaffy explained who they were, and they were admitted.

  La Svengali was there, sitting in an arm-chair by the fire, with severalof the band standing round gesticulating, and talking German or Polishor Yiddish. Gecko, on his knees, was alternately chafing her hands andfeet. She seemed quite dazed.

  But at the sight of Taffy she jumped up and rushed at him, saying: "Oh,Taffy dear--oh, Taffy! what's it all about? Where on earth am I? What anage since we met?"

  Then she caught sight of the Laird, and kissed him; and then sherecognized Little Billee.

  She looked at him for a long while in great surprise, and then shookhands with him.

  "How pale you are! and so changed--you've got a mustache! What's thematter? Why are you all dressed in black, with white cravats, as if youwere going to a ball? Where's Svengali? I should like to go home!"

  "Where--what do you call--home, I mean--where is it?" asked Taffy.

  "C'est à l'hôtel de Normandie, dans le Haymarket. On va vous yconduire, madame!" said Monsieur J----.

  "Oui--c'est ça!" said Trilby--"Hôtel de Normandie--mais Svengali--oùest-ce qu'il est?"

  "Hélas! madame--il est très malade!"

  "Malade? Qu'est-ce qu'il a? How funny you look, with your mustache,Little Billee! dear, _dear_ Little Billee! so pale, so very pale! Areyou ill too? Oh, I hope not! How _glad_ I am to see you again--you can'ttell! though I promised your mother I wouldn't--never, never! Where arewe now, dear Little Billee?"

  Monsieur J---- seemed to have lost his head. He was constantly runningin and out of the room, distracted. The bandsmen began to talk and tryto explain, in incomprehensible French, to Taffy. Gecko seemed to havedisappeared. It was a bewildering business--noises from outside, thetramp and bustle and shouts of the departing crowd, people running inand out and asking for Monsieur J----, policemen, firemen, and what not!

  Then Little Billee, who had been exerting the most heroic self-control,suggested that Trilby should come to his house in Fitzroy Square, firstof all, and be taken out of all this--and the idea struck Taffy as ahappy one--and it was proposed to Monsieur J----, who saw that our threefriends were old friends of Madame Svengali's, and people to be trusted;and he was only too glad to be relieved of her, and gave his consent.

  "THE LAST THEY SAW OF SVENGALI"]

  Little Billee and Taffy drove to Fitzroy Square to prepare LittleBillee's landlady, who was much put out at first at having such a noveland unexpected charge imposed on her. It was all explained to her thatit must be so. That Madame Svengali, the greatest singer in Europe andan old friend of her tenant's, had suddenly gone out of her mind fromgrief at the tragic death of her husband, and that for this night atleast the unhappy lady must sleep under that roof--indeed, in LittleBillee's own bed, and that he would sleep at a hotel; and that a nursewould be provided at once--it might be only for that one night; and thatthe lady was as quiet as a lamb, and would probably recover herfaculties after a night's rest. A doctor was sent for from close by; andsoon Trilby appeared, with the Laird, and her appearance and hermagnificent sables impressed Mrs. Godwin, the landlady--brought herfiguratively on her knees. Then Taffy, the Laird, and Little Billeedeparted again and dispersed--to procure a nurse for the night, to findGecko, to fetch some of Trilby's belongings from the Hôtel de Normandie,and her maid.

&nb
sp; The maid (the old German Jewess and Svengali's relative), distracted bythe news of her master's death, had gone to the theatre. Gecko was inthe hands of the police. Things had got to a terrible pass. But ourthree friends did their best, and were up most of the night.

  So much for la Svengali's début in London.

  The present scribe was not present on that memorable occasion, and haswritten this inadequate and most incomplete description partly fromhearsay and private information, partly from the reports in thecontemporary newspapers.

  Should any surviving eye-witness of that lamentable fiasco read thesepages, and see any gross inaccuracy in this bald account of it, the P.S. will feel deeply obliged to the same for any corrections oradditions, and these will be duly acted upon and gratefully acknowledgedin all subsequent editions; which will be numerous, no doubt, on accountof the great interest still felt in "la Svengali," even by those whonever saw or heard her (and they are many), and also because the presentscribe is better qualified (by his opportunities) for the compiling ofthis brief biographical sketch than any person now living, with theexception, of course, of "Taffy" and "the Laird," to whose kindness,even more than to his own personal recollections, he owes whatever itmay contain of serious historical value.

  * * * * *

  Next morning they all three went to Fitzroy Square. Little Billee hadslept at Taffy's rooms in Jermyn Street.

  Trilby seemed quite pathetically glad to see them again. She was dressedsimply and plainly--in black; her trunks had been sent from the hotel.

  The hospital nurse was with her; the doctor had just left. He had saidthat she was suffering from some great nervous shock--a pretty safediagnosis!

  Her wits had apparently not come back, and she seemed in no way torealize her position.

  "Ah! what it is to see you again, all three! It makes one feel glad tobe alive! I've thought of many things, but never of this--never! Threenice clean Englishmen, all speaking English--and _such_ dear oldfriends! Ah! j'aime tant ça--c'est le ciel! I wonder I've got a word ofEnglish left!"

  "'THREE NICE CLEAN ENGLISHMEN'"]

  Her voice was so soft and sweet and low that these ingenuous remarkssounded like a beautiful song. And she "made the soft eyes" at them allthree, one after another, in her old way; and the soft eyes quicklyfilled with tears.

  She seemed ill and weak and worn out, and insisted on keeping theLaird's hand in hers.

  "What's the matter with Svengali? He must be dead!"

  They all three looked at each other, perplexed.

  "Ah! he's dead! I can see it in your faces. He'd got heart-disease. I'msorry! oh, very sorry indeed! He was always very kind, poor Svengali!"

  "Yes. He's dead," said Taffy.

  "And Gecko--dear little Gecko--is he dead too? I saw him last night--hewarmed my hands and feet: where were we?"

  "No. Gecko's not dead. But he's had to be locked up for a little while.He struck Svengali, you know. You saw it all."

  "I? No! I never saw it. But I _dreamt_ something like it! Gecko with aknife, and people holding him, and Svengali bleeding on the ground. Thatwas just before Svengali's illness. He'd cut himself in the neck, youknow--with a rusty nail, he told me. I wonder how!... But it was wrongof Gecko to strike him. They were such friends. Why did he?"

  "Well--it was because Svengali struck you with his conductor's wand whenyou were rehearsing. Struck you on the fingers and made you cry! don'tyou remember?"

  "Struck _me_! _rehearsing?_--made me _cry_! what _are_ you talkingabout, dear Taffy? Svengali never _struck_ me! he was kindness itself!always! and what should _I_ rehearse?"

  "Well, the songs you were to sing at the theatre in the evening."

  "Sing at the theatre! _I_ never sang at any theatre--except last night,if that big place was a theatre! and they didn't seem to like it! I'lltake precious good care never to sing in a theatre again! How theyhowled! and there was Svengali in the box opposite, laughing at me. Whywas I taken there? and why did that funny little Frenchman in the whitewaistcoat ask me to sing? I know very well I can't sing well enough tosing in a place like that! What a fool I was! It all seems like a baddream! What was it all about? _Was_ it a dream, I wonder!"

  "Well--but don't you remember singing at Paris, in the Salle desBashibazoucks--and at Vienna--St. Petersburg--lots of places?"

  "What nonsense, dear--you're thinking of some one else! _I_ never sanganywhere! I've been to Vienna and St. Petersburg--but I never _sang_there--good heavens!"

  Then there was a pause, and our three friends looked at her helplessly.

  Little Billee said: "Tell me, Trilby--what made you cut me dead when Ibowed to you in the Place de la Concorde, and you were riding withSvengali in that swell carriage?"

  "_I_ never rode in a swell carriage with Svengali! omnibuses were morein _our_ line! You're dreaming, dear Little Billee--you're taking me forsomebody else; and as for my cutting _you_--why, I'd sooner cutmyself--into little pieces!"

  "_Where_ were you staying with Svengali in Paris?"

  "I really forget. _Were_ we in Paris? Oh yes, of course. Hôtel Bertrand,Place Notre Dame des Victoires."

  "How long have you been going about with Svengali?"

  "Oh, months, years--I forget. I was very ill. He cured me."

  "Ill! What was the matter?"

  "Oh! I was mad with grief, and pain in my eyes, and wanted to killmyself, when I lost my dear little Jeannot, at Vibraye. I fancied Ihadn't been careful enough with him. I was crazed! Don't you rememberwriting to me there, Taffy--through Angèle Boisse? Such a sweet letteryou wrote! I know it by heart! And you too, Sandy"; and she kissed him."I wonder where they are, your letters?--I've got nothing of my own inthe world--not even your dear letters--nor little Billee's--such lots ofthem!

  "P?'NA PEDE CLAUDO"]

  "Well, Svengali used to write to me too--and then he got my address fromAngèle....

  "When Jeannot died, I felt I must kill myself or get away fromVibraye--get away from the people there--so when he was buried I cut myhair short and got a workman's cap and blouse and trousers and walkedall the way to Paris without saying anything to anybody. I didn't wantanybody to know; I wanted to escape from Svengali, who wrote that hewas coming there to fetch me. I wanted to hide in Paris. When I gotthere at last it was two o'clock in the morning, and I was in dreadfulpain--and I'd lost all my money--thirty francs--through a hole in mytrousers-pocket. Besides, I had a row with a carter in the Halle. Hethought I was a man, and hit me and gave me a black eye, just because Ipatted his horse and fed it with a carrot I'd been trying to eat myself.He was tipsy, I think. Well, I looked over the bridge at the river--justby the Morgue--and wanted to jump in. But the Morgue sickened me, so Ihadn't the pluck. Svengali used to be always talking about the Morgue,and my going there some day. He used to say he'd come and look at methere, and the idea made me so sick I couldn't. I got bewildered, andquite stupid.

  "Then I went to Angèle's, in the Rue des Cloîtres Ste. Pétronille, andwaited about; but I hadn't the courage to ring, so I went to the PlaceSt. Anatole des Arts, and looked up at the old studio window, andthought how comfortable it was in there, with the big settee near thestove, and all that, and felt inclined to ring up Madame Vinard; andthen I remembered Little Billee was ill there, and his mother and sisterwere with him. Angèle had written me, you know. Poor Little Billee!There he was, very ill!

  "So I walked about the place, and up and down the Rue des MauvaisLadres. Then I went down the Rue de Seine to the river again, and againI hadn't the pluck to jump in. Besides, there was a sergent de ville whofollowed and watched me. And the fun of it was that I knew him quitewell, and he didn't know me a bit. It was Célestin Beaumollet, who gotso tipsy on Christmas night. Don't you remember? The tall one, who waspitted with the small-pox.

  "THE OLD STUDIO"]

  "Then I walked about till near daylight. Then I could stand it nolonger, and went to Svengali's, in the Rue Tire-Liard, but he'd moved tothe Rue des Saints Pères; and I went
there and found him. I didn't wantto a bit, but I couldn't help myself. It was fate, I suppose! He wasvery kind, and cured me almost directly, and got me coffee andbread-and-butter--the best I ever tasted--and a warm bath from BidetFrères, in the Rue Savonarole. It was heavenly! And I slept for two daysand two nights! And then he told me how fond he was of me, and how hewould always cure me, and take care of me, and marry me, if I would goaway with him. He said he would devote his whole life to me, and took asmall room for me, next to his.

  "I stayed with him there a week, never going out or seeing any one,mostly asleep. I'd caught a chill.

  "He played in two concerts and made a lot of money; and then we wentaway to Germany together; and no one was a bit the wiser."

  "And _did_ he marry you?"

  "Well--no. He couldn't, poor fellow! He'd already got a wife living; andthree children, which he declared were not his. They live in Elberfeldin Prussia; she keeps a small sweet-stuff shop there. He behaved verybadly to them. But it was not through me! He'd deserted them longbefore; but he used to send them plenty of money when he'd got any; Imade him, for I was very sorry for her. He was always talking about her,and what she said and what she did; and imitating her saying her prayersand eating pickled cucumber with one hand and drinking schnapps with theother, so as not to lose any time; till he made me die of laughing. Hecould be very funny, Svengali, though he _was_ German, poor dear! Andthen Gecko joined us, and Marta."

  "Who's Marta?"

  "His aunt. She cooked for us, and all that. She's coming here presently;she sent word from the hotel; she's very fond of him. Poor Marta! PoorGecko! What _will_ they ever do without Svengali?"

  "Then what did he do to live?"

  "Oh! he played at concerts, I suppose--and all that."

  "Did you ever hear him?"

  "Yes. Sometimes Marta took me; at the beginning, you know. He was alwaysvery much applauded. He plays beautifully. Everybody said so."

  "Did he never try and teach you to sing?"

  "Oh, maïe, aïe! not he! Why, he always laughed when I tried to sing; andso did Marta; and so did Gecko! It made them roar! I used to sing 'BenBolt.' They used to make me, just for fun--and go into fits. _I_ didn'tmind a scrap. I'd had no training, you know!"

  "Was there anybody else he knew--any other woman?"

  "Not that _I_ know of! He always made out he was so fond of me that hecouldn't even _look_ at another woman. Poor Svengali!" (Here her eyesfilled with tears again.) "He was always very kind! But I never could befond of him in the way he wished--never! It made me sick even to thinkof! Once I used to hate him--in Paris--in the studio; don't youremember?

  "He hardly ever left me; and then Marta looked after me--for I've alwaysbeen weak and ill--and often so languid that I could hardly walk acrossthe room. It was that walk from Vibraye to Paris. I never got over it.

  "I used to try and do all I could--be a daughter to him, as I couldn'tbe anything else--mend his things, and all that, and cook him littleFrench dishes. I fancy he was very poor at one time; we were alwaysmoving from place to place. But I always had the best of everything. Heinsisted on that--even if he had to go without himself. It made himquite unhappy when I wouldn't eat, so I used to force myself.

  "Then, as soon as I felt uneasy about things, or had any pain, he wouldsay, 'Dors, ma mignonne!' and I would sleep at once--for hours, Ithink--and wake up, oh, so tired! and find him kneeling by me, always soanxious and kind--and Marta and Gecko! and sometimes we had the doctor,and I was ill in bed.

  "Gecko used to dine and breakfast with us--you've no idea what an angelhe is, poor little Gecko! But what a dreadful thing to strike Svengali!_Why_ did he? Svengali taught him all he knows!"

  "And you knew no one else--no other woman?"

  "No one that I can remember--except Marta--not a soul!"

  "And that beautiful dress you had on last night?"

  "It isn't mine. It's on the bed up-stairs, and so's the fur cloak. Theybelong to Marta. She's got lots of them, lovely things--silk, satin,velvet--and lots of beautiful jewels. Marta deals in them, and makeslots of money.

  "I've often tried them on I'm very easy to fit," she said, "being sotall and thin. And poor Svengali would kneel down and cry, and kiss myhands and feet, and tell me I was his goddess and empress, and all that,which I hate. And Marta used to cry, too. And then he would say,

  "'Et maintenant dors, ma mignonne!'

  "And when I woke up I was so tired that I went to sleep again on my ownaccount.

  "'ET MAINTENANT DORS, MA MIGNONNE!'"]

  "But he was very patient. Oh, dear me! I've always been a poor,helpless, useless log and burden to him!

  "Once I actually walked in my sleep--and woke up in the market-place atPrague--and found an immense crowd, and poor Svengali bleeding from theforehead, in a faint on the ground. He'd been knocked down by a horseand cart, he told me. He'd got his guitar with him. I suppose he andGecko had been playing somewhere, for Gecko had his fiddle. If Geckohadn't been there, I don't know what we should have done. You never sawsuch queer people as they were--such crowds--you'd think they'd neverseen an Englishwoman before. The noise they made, and the things theygave me ... some of them went down on their knees, and kissed my handsand the skirts of my gown.

  "He was ill in bed for a week after that, and I nursed him, and he wasvery grateful. Poor Svengali! God knows _I_ felt grateful to _him_ formany things! Tell me how he died! I hope he hadn't much pain."

  They told her it was quite sudden, from heart-disease.

  "Ah! I knew he had that; he wasn't a healthy man; he used to smoke toomuch. Marta used always to be very anxious."

  Just then Marta came in.

  Marta was a fat, elderly Jewess of rather a grotesque and ignoble type.She seemed overcome with grief--all but prostrate.

  Trilby hugged and kissed her, and took off her bonnet and shawl, andmade her sit down in a big arm-chair, and got her a footstool.

  She couldn't speak a word of anything but Polish and a little German.Trilby had also picked up a little German, and with this and by means ofsigns, and no doubt through a long intimacy with each other's ways, theyunderstood each other very well. She seemed a very good old creature,and very fond of Trilby, but in mortal terror of the three Englishmen.

  Lunch was brought up for the two women and the nurse, and our friendsleft them, promising to come again that day.

  They were utterly bewildered; and the Laird would have it that there wasanother Madame Svengali somewhere, the real one, and that Trilby was afraud--self-deceived and self-deceiving--quite unconsciously so, ofcourse.

  Truth looked out of her eyes, as it always had done--truth was in everyline of her face.

  The truth only--nothing but the truth could ever be told in that "voiceof velvet," which rang as true when she spoke as that of any thrush ornightingale, however rebellious it might be now (and forever perhaps) toartificial melodic laws and limitations and restraints. The longtraining it had been subjected to had made it "a wonder, a world'sdelight," and though she might never sing another note, her mere speechwould always be more golden than any silence, whatever she might say.

  Except on the one particular point of her singing, she had seemedabsolutely sane--so, at least, thought Taffy, the Laird, and LittleBillee. And each thought to himself, besides, that this last incarnationof Trilbyness was quite the sweetest, most touching, most endearing ofall.

  They had not failed to note how rapidly she had aged, now that they hadseen her without her rouge and pearl-powder; she looked thirty atleast--she was only twenty-three.

  Her hands were almost transparent in their waxen whiteness; delicatelittle frosty wrinkles had gathered round her eyes; there were graystreaks in her hair; all strength and straightness and elasticity seemedto have gone out of her with the memory of her endless triumphs (if shereally _was_ la Svengali), and of her many wanderings from city to cityall over Europe.

  It was evident enough that the sudden stroke which had destroyed herpower of singing had lef
t her physically a wreck.

  But she was one of those rarely gifted beings who cannot look or speakor even stir without waking up (and satisfying) some vague longing thatlies dormant in the hearts of most of us, men and women alike; grace,charm, magnetism--whatever the nameless seduction should be called thatshe possessed to such an unusual degree--she had lost none of it whenshe lost her high spirits, her buoyant health and energy, her wits!

  Tuneless and insane, she was more of a siren than ever--a quiteunconscious siren--without any guile, who appealed to the heart all themore directly and irresistibly that she could no longer stir thepassions.

  All this was keenly felt by all three--each in his different way--byTaffy and Little Billee especially.

  All her past life was forgiven--her sins of omission and commission! Andwhatever might be her fate--recovery, madness, disease, or death--thecare of her till she died or recovered should be the principal businessof their lives.

  Both had loved her. All three, perhaps. One had been loved by her aspassionately, as purely, as unselfishly as any man could wish to beloved, and in some extraordinary manner had recovered, after many years,at the mere sudden sight and sound of her, his lost share in our commoninheritance--the power to love, and all its joy and sorrow; withoutwhich he had found life not worth living, though he had possessed everyother gift and blessing in such abundance.

  "Oh, Circe, poor Circe, dear Circe, divine enchantress that you were!"he said to himself, in his excitable way. "A mere look from your eyes, amere note of your heavenly voice, has turned a poor, miserable, callousbrute back into a man again! and I will never forget it--never! And nowthat a still worse trouble than mine has befallen you, you shall alwaysbe first in my thoughts till the end!"

  And Taffy felt pretty much the same, though he was not by way of talkingto himself so eloquent about things as Little Billee.

  * * * * *

  As they lunched, they read the accounts of the previous evening's eventsin different papers, three or four of which (including the _Times_) hadalready got leaders about the famous but unhappy singer who had been sosuddenly widowed and struck down in the midst of her glory. All theseaccounts were more or less correct. In one paper it was mentioned thatMadame Svengali was under the roof and care of Mr. William Bagot, thepainter, in Fitzroy Square.

  The inquest on Svengali was to take place that afternoon, and alsoGecko's examination at the Bow Street Police Court, for his assault.

  "TAFFY WAS ALLOWED TO SEE GECKO"]

  Taffy was allowed to see Gecko, who was remanded till the result of thepost-mortem should be made public. But beyond inquiring most anxiouslyand minutely after Trilby, and betraying the most passionate concern forher, he would say nothing, and seemed indifferent as to his own fate.

  When they went to Fitzroy Square, late in the afternoon, they foundthat many people, musical, literary, fashionable, and otherwise (andmany foreigners), had called to inquire after Madame Svengali, but noone had been admitted to see her. Mrs. Godwin was much elated by theimportance of her new lodger.

  Trilby had been writing to Angèle Boisse, at her old address in the Ruedes Cloîtres Ste. Pétronille, in the hope that this letter would findher still there. She was anxious to go back and be a _blanchisseuse defin_ with her friend. It was a kind of nostalgia for Paris, the quartierlatin, her clean old trade.

  This project our three heroes did not think it necessary to discuss withher just yet; she seemed quite unfit for work of any kind.

  The doctor, who had seen her again, had been puzzled by her strangephysical weakness, and wished for a consultation with some specialauthority; Little Billee, who was intimate with most of the greatphysicians, wrote about her to Sir Oliver Calthorpe.

  She seemed to find a deep happiness in being with her three old friends,and talked and listened with all her old eagerness and geniality, andmuch of her old gayety, in spite of her strange and sorrowful position.But for this it was impossible to realize that her brain was affected inthe slightest degree, except when some reference was made to hersinging, and this seemed to annoy and irritate her, as though she werebeing made fun of. The whole of her marvellous musical career, andeverything connected with it, had been clean wiped out of herrecollection.

  She was very anxious to get into other quarters, that Little Billeeshould suffer no inconvenience, and they promised to take rooms for herand Marta on the morrow.

  They told her cautiously all about Svengali and Gecko; she was deeplyconcerned, but betrayed no such poignant anguish as might have beenexpected. The thought of Gecko troubled her most, and she showed muchanxiety as to what might befall him.

  Next day she moved with Marta to some lodgings in Charlotte Street,where everything was made as comfortable for them as possible.

  Sir Oliver saw her with Dr. Thorne (the doctor who was attending her)and Sir Jacob Wilcox.

  Sir Oliver took the greatest interest in her case, both for her sake andhis friend Little Billee's. Also his own, for he was charmed with her.He saw her three times in the course of the week, but could not say forcertain what was the matter with her, beyond taking the very gravestview of her condition. For all he could advise or prescribe, herweakness and physical prostration increased rapidly, through no cause hecould discover. Her insanity was not enough to account for it. She lostweight daily; she seemed to be wasting and fading away from sheergeneral atrophy.

  Two or three times he took her and Marta for a drive.

  On one of these occasions, as they went down Charlotte Street, she saw ashop with transparent French blinds in the window, and through them someFrench women, with neat white caps, ironing. It was a French_blanchisserie de fin_, and the sight of it interested and excited herso much that she must needs insist on being put down and on going intoit.

  "Je voudrais bien parler à la patronne, si ça ne la dérange pas," shesaid.

  A FAIR BLANCHISSEUSE DE FIN]

  The patronne, a genial Parisian, was much astonished to hear a greatFrench lady, in costly garments, evidently a person of fashion andimportance, applying to her rather humbly for employment in thebusiness, and showing a thorough knowledge of the work (and of theParisian work-woman's colloquial dialect). Marta managed to catch thepatronne's eye, and tapped her own forehead significantly, and SirOliver nodded. So the good woman humored the great lady's fancy, andpromised her abundance of employment whenever she should want it.

  Employment! Poor Trilby was hardly strong enough to walk back to thecarriage; and this was her last outing.

  But this little adventure had filled her with hope and good spirits--forshe had as yet received no answer from Angèle Boisse (who was inMarseilles), and had begun to realize how dreary the quartier latinwould be without Jeannot, without Angèle, without the trois Angliches inthe Place St. Anatole des Arts.

  She was not allowed to see any of the strangers who came and made kindinquiries. This her doctors had strictly forbidden. Any reference tomusic or singing irritated her beyond measure. She would say to Marta,in bad German:

  "Tell them, Marta--what nonsense it is! They are taking me foranother--they are mad. They are trying to make a fool of me!"

  And Marta would betray great uneasiness--almost terror--when she wasappealed to in this way.

  Part Eighth

  "La vie est vaine: Un peu d'amour, Un peu de haine.... Et puis--bonjour!

  "La vie est brève: Un peu d'espoir, Un peu de rève.... Et puis--bonsoir."

  Svengali had died from heart-disease. The cut he had received from Geckohad not apparently (as far as the verdict of a coroner's inquest couldbe trusted) had any effect in aggravating his malady or hastening hisdeath.

  But Gecko was sent for trial at the Old Bailey, and sentenced to hardlabor for six months (a sentence which, if I remember aright, gave riseto much comment at the time). Taffy saw him again, but with no betterresult than before. He chose to preserve an obstinate silence on hisrelations with the Svengalis and their rela
tions with each other.

  When he was told how hopelessly ill and insane Madame Svengali was, heshed a few tears, and said: "Ah, pauvrette, pauvrette--ah! monsieur--jel'aimais tant, je l'aimais tant! il n'y en a pas beaucoup comme elle,Dieu de misère! C'est un ange du Paradis!"

  And not another word was to be got out of him.

  It took some time to settle Svengali's affairs after his death. No willwas found. His old mother came over from Germany, and two of hissisters, but no wife. The comic wife and the three children, and thesweet-stuff shop in Elberfeld, had been humorous inventions of hisown--a kind of Mrs. Harris!

  He left three thousand pounds, every penny of which (and of far largersums that he had spent) had been earned by "la Svengali," but nothingcame to Trilby of this; nothing but the clothes and jewels he had givenher, and in this respect he had been lavish enough; and there werecountless costly gifts from emperors, kings, great people of all kinds.Trilby was under the impression that all these belonged to Marta. Martabehaved admirably; she seemed bound hand and foot to Trilby by a kind ofslavish adoration, as that of a plain old mother for a brilliant andbeautiful but dying child.

  It soon became evident that, whatever her disease might be, Trilby hadbut a very short time to live.

  She was soon too weak even to be taken out in a Bath-chair, and remainedall day in her large sitting-room with Marta; and there, to her greatand only joy, she received her three old friends every afternoon, andgave them coffee, and made them smoke cigarettes of caporal as of old;and their hearts were daily harrowed as they watched her rapid decline.

  Day by day she grew more beautiful in their eyes, in spite of herincreasing pallor and emaciation--her skin was so pure and white anddelicate, and the bones of her face so admirable!

  A THRONE IN BOHEMIA]

  Her eyes recovered all their old humorous brightness when les troisAngliches were with her, and the expression of her face was so wistfuland tender for all her playfulness, so full of eager clinging toexistence and to them, that they felt the memory of it would haunt themforever, and be the sweetest and saddest memory of their lives.

  Her quick, though feeble gestures, full of reminiscences of the vigorousand lively girl they had known a few years back, sent waves of pitythrough them and pure brotherly love; and the incomparable tones andchanges and modulations of her voice, as she chatted and laughed,bewitched them almost as much as when she had sung the "Nussbaum" ofSchumann in the Salle des Bashibazoucks.

  Sometimes Lorrimer came, and Antony and the Greek. It was like a geniallittle court of bohemia. And Lorrimer, Antony, the Laird, and LittleBillee made those beautiful chalk and pencil studies of her head whichare now so well known--all so singularly like her, and so singularlyunlike each other! _Trilby vue à travers quatre tempéraments!_

  These afternoons were probably the happiest poor Trilby had ever spentin her life--with these dear people round her, speaking the language sheloved; talking of old times and jolly Paris days, she never thought ofthe morrow.

  But later--at night, in the small hours--she would wake up with a startfrom some dream full of tender and blissful recollection, and suddenlyrealize her own mischance, and feel the icy hand of that which was tocome before many morrows were over; and taste the bitterness of death sokeenly that she longed to scream out loud, and get up, and walk up anddown, and wring her hands at the dreadful thought of parting forever!

  But she lay motionless and mum as a poor little frightened mouse in atrap, for fear of waking up the good old tired Marta, who was snoring ather side.

  And in an hour or two the bitterness would pass away, the creeps and thehorrors; and the stoical spirit of resignation would steal over her--thebalm, the blessed calm! and all her old bravery would come back.

  And then she would sink into sleep again, and dream more blissfully thanever, till the good Marta woke her with a motherly kiss and a fragrantcup of coffee; and she would find, feeble as she was, and doomed as shefelt herself to be, that joy cometh of a morning; and life was stillsweet for her, with yet a whole day to look forward to.

  * * * * *

  One day she was deeply moved at receiving a visit from Mrs. Bagot, who,at Little Billee's earnest desire, had come all the way from Devonshireto see her.

  As the graceful little lady came in, pale and trembling all over, Trilbyrose from her chair to receive her, and rather timidly put out her hand,and smiled in a frightened manner. Neither could speak for a second.Mrs. Bagot stood stock-still by the door gazing (with all her heart inher eyes) at the so terribly altered Trilby--the girl she had once sodreaded.

  Trilby, who seemed also bereft of motion, and whose face and lips wereashen, exclaimed, "I'm afraid I haven't quite kept my promise to you,after all! but things have turned out so differently! anyhow, youneedn't have any fear of me _now_."

  "'OH, MY POOR GIRL! MY POOR GIRL!'"]

  At the mere sound of that voice, Mrs. Bagot, who was as impulsive,emotional, and unregulated as her son, rushed forward, crying, "Oh, mypoor girl, my poor girl!" and caught her in her arms, and kissed andcaressed her, and burst into a flood of tears, and forced her back intoher chair, hugging her as if she were a long-lost child.

  "I love you now as much as I always admired you--pray believe it!"

  "Oh, how kind of you to say that!" said Trilby, her own eyes filling."I'm not at all the dangerous or designing person you thought. I knewquite well I wasn't a proper person to marry your son all the time; andtold him so again and again. It was very stupid of me to say yes atlast. I was miserable directly after, I assure you. Somehow I couldn'thelp myself--I was driven."

  "Oh, don't talk of that! don't talk of that! You've never been to blamein any way--I've long known it--I've been full of remorse! You've beenin my thoughts always, night and day. Forgive a poor jealous mother. Asif _any_ man could help loving you--or any woman either. Forgive me!"

  "Oh, Mrs. Bagot--forgive _you_! What a funny idea! But, anyhow, you'veforgiven _me_, and that's all I care for now. I was very fond of yourson--as fond as could be. I am now, but in quite a different sort ofway, you know--the sort of way _you_ must be, I fancy! There was neveranother like him that I ever met--anywhere! You _must_ be so proud ofhim; who wouldn't? _Nobody's_ good enough for him. I would have beenonly too glad to be his servant, his humble servant! I used to tell himso--but he wouldn't hear of it--he was much too kind! He always thoughtof others before himself. And, oh! how rich and famous he's become! I'veheard all about it, and it did me good. It does me more good to think ofthan anything else; far more than if I were to be ever so rich andfamous myself, I can tell you!"

  This from la Svengali, whose overpowering fame, so utterly forgotten byherself, was still ringing all over Europe; whose lamentable illnessand approaching death were being mourned and discussed and commentedupon in every capital of the civilized world, as one distressingbulletin appeared after another. She might have been a royal personage!

  Mrs. Bagot knew, of course, the strange form her insanity had taken, andmade no allusion to the flood of thoughts that rushed through her ownbrain as she listened to this towering goddess of song, this poor madqueen of the nightingales, humbly gloating over her son's success....

  Poor Mrs. Bagot had just come from Little Billee's, in Fitzroy Square,close by. There she had seen Taffy, in a corner of Little Billee'sstudio, laboriously answering endless letters and telegrams from allparts of Europe--for the good Taffy had constituted himself Trilby'ssecretary and _homme d'affaires_--unknown to her, of course. And thiswas no sinecure (though he liked it): putting aside the numerous peoplehe had to see and be interviewed by, there were kind inquiries andmessages of condolence and sympathy from nearly all the crowned heads ofEurope, through their chamberlains; applications for help fromunsuccessful musical strugglers all over the world to the pre-eminentlysuccessful one; beautiful letters from great and famous people, musicalor otherwise; disinterested offers of service; interested proposals forengagements when the present trouble should be ov
er; beggings for aninterview from famous impresarios, to obtain which no distance would bethought too great, etc., etc., etc. It was endless, in English, French,German, Italian--in languages quite incomprehensible (many letters hadto remain unanswered)--Taffy took an almost malicious pleasure inexplaining all this to Mrs. Bagot.

  Then there was a constant rolling of carriages up to the door, and athundering of Little Billee's knocker: Lord and Lady Palmerston wish toknow--the Lord Chief Justice wishes to know--the Dean of Westminsterwishes to know--the Marchioness of Westminster wishes to know--everybodywishes to know if there is any better news of Madame Svengali!

  These were small things, truly; but Mrs. Bagot was a small person from asmall village in Devonshire, and one whose heart and eye had hithertobeen filled by no larger image than that of Little Billee; and LittleBillee's fame, as she now discovered for the first time, did not quitefill the entire universe.

  And she mustn't be too much blamed if all these obvious signs of aworld-wide colossal celebrity impressed and even awed her a little.

  Madame Svengali! Why, this was the beautiful girl whom she remembered sowell, whom she had so grandly discarded with a word, and who hadaccepted her congé so meekly in a minute; whom, indeed, she had beencursing in her heart for years, because--because what?

  Poor Mrs. Bagot felt herself turn hot and red all over, and humbledherself to the very dust, and almost forgot that she had been in theright, after all, and that "la grande Trilby" was certainly no fit matchfor her son!

  So she went quite humbly to see Trilby, and found a poor, pathetic, madcreature still more humble than herself, who still apologized for--forwhat?

  A poor, pathetic, mad creature who had clean forgotten that she was thegreatest singer in all the world--one of the greatest artists that hadever lived; but who remembered with shame and contrition that she hadonce taken the liberty of yielding (after endless pressure and repeateddisinterested refusals of her own, and out of sheer irresistibleaffection) to the passionate pleadings of a little obscure art student,a mere boy--no better off than herself--just as penniless andinsignificant a nobody; but--the son of Mrs. Bagot.

  All due sense of proportion died out of the poor lady as she rememberedand realized all this!

  And then Trilby's pathetic beauty, so touching, so winning, in its rapiddecay; the nameless charm of look and voice and manner that was herspecial apanage, and which her malady and singular madness had onlyincreased; her childlike simplicity, her transparent forgetfulness ofself--all these so fascinated and entranced Mrs. Bagot, whose quicksusceptibility to such impressions was just as keen as her son's, thatshe very soon found herself all but worshipping this fast-fadinglily--for so she called her in her own mind--quite forgetting (oraffecting to forget) on what very questionable soil the lily had beenreared, and through what strange vicissitudes of evil and corruption ithad managed to grow so tall and white and fragrant!

  Oh, strange compelling power of weakness and grace and prettinesscombined, and sweet, sincere unconscious natural manners! not to speakof world-wide fame!

  For Mrs. Bagot was just a shrewd little conventional British countrymatron of the good upper middle-class type, bristling all over withprovincial proprieties and respectabilities, a philistine of thephilistines, in spite of her artistic instincts; one who for years had(rather unjustly) thought of Trilby as a wanton and perilous siren, anunchaste and unprincipled and most dangerous daughter of Heth, and thespecial enemy of her house.

  And here she was--like all the rest of us monads and nomads andbohemians--just sitting at Trilby's feet.... "A washer-woman! a figuremodel! and Heaven knows what besides!" and she had never even heard hersing!

  It was truly comical to see and hear!

  * * * * *

  Mrs. Bagot did not go back to Devonshire. She remained in FitzroySquare, at her son's, and spent most of her time with Trilby, doing anddevising all kinds of things to distract and amuse her, and lead herthoughts gently to heaven, and soften for her the coming end of all.

  Trilby had a way of saying, and especially of looking, "Thank you" thatmade one wish to do as many things for her as one could, if only to makeher say and look it again.

  And she had retained much of her old, quaint, and amusing manner oftelling things, and had much to tell still left of her wandering life,although there were so many strange lapses in her powers ofmemory--gaps--which, if they could only have been filled up, would havebeen full of such surpassing interest!

  Then she was never tired of talking and hearing of Little Billee; andthat was a subject of which Mrs. Bagot could never tire either!

  Then there were the recollections of her childhood. One day, in adrawer, Mrs. Bagot came upon a faded daguerreotype of a woman in a Tamo' Shanter, with a face so sweet and beautiful and saint-like that italmost took her breath away. It was Trilby's mother.

  "Who and what was your mother, Trilby?"

  "Ah, poor mamma!" said Trilby, and she looked at the portrait a longtime. "Ah, she was ever so much prettier than that! Mamma was once ademoiselle de comptoir--that's a bar-maid, you know--at the MontagnardsÉcossais, in the Rue du Paradis Poissonnière--a place where men used todrink and smoke without sitting down. That was unfortunate, wasn't it?

  "Papa loved her with all his heart, although, of course, she wasn't hisequal. They were married at the Embassy, in the Rue du Faubourg St.Honoré.

  "'AH, POOR MAMMA! SHE WAS EVER SO MUCH PRETTIER THANTHAT!'"]

  "_Her_ parents weren't married at all. Her mother was the daughter of aboatman on Loch Ness, near a place called Drumnadrockit; but her fatherwas the Honorable Colonel Desmond. He was related to all sorts of greatpeople in England and Ireland. He behaved very badly to my grandmotherand to poor mamma--his own daughter! deserted them both! Not very_honorable_ of him, _was_ it? And that's all I know about him."

  And then she went on to tell of the home in Paris that might have beenso happy but for her father's passion for drink; of her parents' deaths,and little Jeannot, and so forth. And Mrs. Bagot was much moved andinterested by these naïve revelations, which accounted in a measure forso much that seemed unaccountable in this extraordinary woman; who thusturned out to be a kind of cousin (though on the wrong side of theblanket) to no less a person than the famous Duchess of Towers.

  With what joy would that ever kind and gracious lady have taken poorTrilby to her bosom had she only known! She had once been all the wayfrom Paris to Vienna merely to hear her sing. But, unfortunately, theSvengalis had just left for St. Petersburg, and she had her long journeyfor nothing!

  * * * * *

  Mrs. Bagot brought her many good books, and read them to her--Dr.Cummings on the approaching end of the world, and other works of a likecomforting tendency for those who are just about to leave it; the_Pilgrim's Progress_, sweet little tracts, and what not.

  Trilby was so grateful that she listened with much patient attention.Only now and then a faint gleam of amusement would steal over her face,and her lips would almost form themselves to ejaculate, "Oh, maïe, aïe!"

  Then Mrs. Bagot, as a reward for such winning docility, would read her_David Copperfield_, and that was heavenly indeed!

  But the best of all was for Trilby to look over John Leech's _Picturesof Life and Character_, just out. She had never seen any drawings ofLeech before, except now and then in an occasional _Punch_ that turnedup in the studio in Paris. And they never palled upon her, and taughther more of the aspect of English life (the life she loved) than anybook she had ever read. She laughed and laughed; and it was almost assweet to listen to as if she were vocalizing the quick part in Chopin'sImpromptu.

  * * * * *

  One day she said, her lips trembling: "I can't make out why you're sowonderfully kind to me, Mrs. Bagot. I hope you have not forgotten whoand what I am, and what my story is. I hope you haven't forgotten thatI'm not a respectable woman?"

  "Oh, my dear child--don't ask me.... I only
know that you are you!...and I am I! and that is enough for me ... you're my poor, gentle,patient, suffering daughter, whatever else you are--more sinned againstthan sinning, I feel sure! But there.... I've misjudged you so, and beenso unjust, that I would give worlds to make you some amends ... besides,I should be just as fond of you if you'd committed a murder, I reallybelieve--you're so strange! you're irresistible! Did you ever, in allyour life, meet anybody that _wasn't_ fond of you?"

  Trilby's eyes moistened with tender pleasure at such a prettycompliment. Then, after a few minutes' thought, she said, with engagingcandor and quite simply: "No, I can't say I ever did, that I can thinkof just now. But I've forgotten such lots of people!"

  * * * * *

  One day Mrs. Bagot told Trilby that her brother-in-law, Mr. ThomasBagot, would much like to come and talk to her.

  "Was that the gentleman who came with you to the studio in Paris?"

  "Yes."

  "Why, he's a clergyman, isn't he? What does he want to come and talk to_me_ about?"

  "Ah! my dear child ..." said Mrs. Bagot, her eyes filling.

  Trilby was thoughtful for a while, and then said: "I'm going to die, Isuppose. Oh yes! oh yes! There's no mistake about that!"

  "Dear Trilby, we are all in the hands of an Almighty Merciful God!" Andthe tears rolled down Mrs. Bagot's cheeks.

  After a long pause, during which she gazed out of the window, Trilbysaid, in an abstracted kind of way, as though she were talking toherself: "Après tout, c'est pas déjà si raide, de claquer! J'en ai tantvus, qui ont passé par la! Au bout du fossé la culbute, ma foi!"

  "What are you saying to yourself in French, Trilby? Your French is sodifficult to understand!"

  "Oh, I beg your pardon! I was thinking it's not so difficult to die,after all! I've seen such lots of people do it. I've nursed them, youknow--papa and mamma and Jeannot, and Angèle Boisse's mother-in-law, anda poor casseur de pierres, Colin Maigret, who lived in the Impasse desTaupes St. Germain. He'd been run over by an omnibus in the RueVaugirard, and had to have both his legs cut off just above the knee.They none of them seemed to mind dying a bit. They weren't a bit afraid!_I'm_ not!

  "Poor people don't think much of death. Rich people shouldn't either.They should be taught when they're quite young to laugh at it anddespise it, like the Chinese. The Chinese die of laughing just as theirheads are being cut off, and cheat the executioner! It's all in theday's work, and we're all in the same boat--so who's afraid!"

  "Dying is not all, my poor child! Are you prepared to meet your Makerface to face? Have you ever thought about God, and the possible wrath tocome if you should die unrepentant?"

  "Oh, but I sha'n't! I've been repenting all my life! Besides, there'llbe no wrath for any of us--not even the worst! _Il y aura amnistiegénérale!_ Papa told me so, and he'd been a clergyman, like Mr. ThomasBagot. I often think about God. I'm very fond of Him. One _must_ havesomething perfect to look up to and be fond of--even if it's only anidea!

  "Though some people don't even believe He exists! Le père Martindidn't--but, of course, _he_ was only a chiffonnier, and doesn't count.

  "One day, though, Durien, the sculptor, who's very clever, and a verygood fellow indeed, said:

  "'Vois-tu, Trilby--I'm very much afraid He doesn't really exist, le bonDieu! most unfortunately for _me_, for I _adore_ Him! I never do a pieceof work without thinking how nice it would be if I could only please_Him_ with it!'

  "And I've often thought, myself, how heavenly it must be to be able topaint, or sculpt, or make music, or write beautiful poetry, for thatvery reason!

  "Why, once on a very hot afternoon we were sitting, a lot of us, in thecourt-yard outside la mère Martin's shop, drinking coffee with an oldInvalide called Bastide Lendormi, one of the Vieille Garde, who'd onlygot one leg and one arm and one eye, and everybody was very fond of him.Well, a model called Mimi la Salope came out of the Mont-de-piétéopposite, and Père Martin called out to her to come and sit down, andgave her a cup of coffee, and asked her to sing.

  "She sang a song of Béranger's, about Napoleon the Great, in which itsays:

  "'Parlez-nous de lui, grandmère! Grandmère, parlez-nous de lui!'

  I suppose she sang it very well, for it made old Bastide Lendormi cry;and when Père Martin _blaguè'd_ him about it, he said,

  "'C'est égal, voyez-vous! to sing like that is _to pray_!'

  "'TO SING LIKE THAT IS _TO PRAY_!'"]

  "And then I thought how lovely it would be if _I_ could only sing likeMimi la Salope, and I've thought so ever since--just to _pray_!"

  "_What!_ Trilby? if _you_ could only sing like--Oh, but never mind, Iforgot! Tell me, Trilby--do you ever pray to Him, as other people pray?"

  "Pray to Him? Well, no--not often--not in words and on my knees and withmy hands together, you know! _Thinking's_ praying, very often--don't youthink so? And so's being sorry and ashamed when one's done a mean thing,and glad when one's resisted a temptation, and grateful when it's a fineday and one's enjoying one's self without hurting any one else! What isit but praying when you try and bear up after losing all you cared tolive for? And very good praying too! There can be prayers without wordsjust as well as songs, I suppose; and Svengali used to say that songswithout words are the best!

  "And then it seems mean to be always asking for things. Besides, youdon't get them any the faster that way, and that shows!

  "La mère Martin used to be always praying. And Père Martin used alwaysto laugh at her; yet he always seemed to get the things _he_ wantedoftenest!

  "_I_ prayed once, very hard indeed! I prayed for Jeannot not to die!"

  "Well--but how do you _repent_, Trilby, if you do not humble yourself,and pray for forgiveness on your knees?"

  "Oh, well--I don't exactly know! Look here, Mrs. Bagot, I'll tell youthe lowest and meanest thing I ever did...."

  (Mrs. Bagot felt a little nervous.)

  "I'd promised to take Jeannot on Palm-Sunday to St. Philippe du Roule,to hear l'abbé Bergamot. But Durien (that's the sculptor, you know)asked me to go with him to St. Germain, where there was a fair, orsomething; and with Mathieu, who was a student in law; and a certainVictorine Letellier, who--who was Mathieu's mistress, in fact. And Iwent on Sunday morning to tell Jeannot that I couldn't take him.

  "He cried so dreadfully that I thought I'd give up the others and takehim to St. Philippe, as I'd promised. But then Durien and Mathieu andVictorine drove up and waited outside, and so I didn't take him, andwent with them, and I didn't enjoy anything all day, and was miserable.

  "They were in an open carriage with two horses; it was Mathieu's treat;and Jeannot might have ridden on the box by the coachman, without beingin anybody's way. But I was afraid they didn't want him, as they didn'tsay anything, and so I didn't dare ask--and Jeannot saw us drive away,and I _couldn't_ look back! And the worst of it is that when we werehalf-way to St. Germain, Durien said, 'What a pity you didn't bringJeannot!' and they were all sorry I hadn't.

  "It was six or seven years ago, and I really believe I've thought of italmost every day, and sometimes in the middle of the night!

  "Ah! and when Jeannot was dying! and when he was dead--the remembranceof that Palm-Sunday!

  "And if _that's_ not repenting, I don't know what is!"

  "Oh, Trilby, what nonsense! _that's_ nothing; good heavens!--putting offa small child! I'm thinking of far worse things--when you were in thequartier latin, you know--sitting to painters and sculptors.... Surely,so attractive as you are...."

  "Oh yes.... I know what you mean--it was horrid, and I was frightfullyashamed of myself; and it wasn't amusing a bit; _nothing_ was, till Imet your son and Taffy and dear Sandy McAlister! But then it wasn'tdeceiving or disappointing anybody, or hurting their feelings--it wasonly hurting myself!

  "Besides, all that sort of thing, in women, is punished severely enoughdown here, God knows! unless one's a Russian empress like Catherine theGreat, or a grande dame like lots of them, or a great g
enius like MadameRachel or George Sand!

  "'THE REMEMBRANCE OF THAT PALM-SUNDAY!'"]

  "Why, if it hadn't been for that, and sitting for the figure, I shouldhave felt myself good enough to marry your son, _although_ I was only ablanchisseuse de fin--you've said so yourself!

  "And I should have made him a good wife--of that I feel sure. He wantedto live all his life at Barbizon, and paint, you know; and didn't carefor society in the least. Anyhow, I should have been equal to such alife as that! Lots of their wives are blanchisseuses over there, orpeople of that sort; and they get on very well indeed, and nobodytroubles about it!

  "So I think I've been pretty well punished--richly as I've deserved to!"

  "Trilby, have you ever been confirmed?"

  "I forget. I fancy not!"

  "Oh dear, oh dear! And do you know about our blessed Saviour, and theAtonement and the Incarnation and the Resurrection...."

  "Oh yes--I _used_ to, at least. I used to have to learn the Catechism onSundays--mamma made me. Whatever her faults and mistakes were, poormamma was always very particular about _that_! It all seemed verycomplicated. But papa told me not to bother too much about it, but to begood. He said that God would make it all right for us somehow, in theend--all of us. And that seems sensible, _doesn't_ it?

  "He told me to be good, and not to mind what priests and clergymen tellus. He'd been a clergyman himself, and knew all about it, he said.

  "I haven't been very good--there's not much doubt about that, I'mafraid. But God knows I've repented often enough and sore enough; I donow! But I'm rather glad to die, I think; and not a bit afraid--not ascrap! I believe in poor papa, though he _was_ so unfortunate! He wasthe cleverest man I ever knew, and the best--except Taffy and the Lairdand your dear son!

  "There'll be no hell for any of us--he told me so--except what we makefor ourselves and each other down here; and that's bad enough foranything. He told me that _he_ was responsible for me--he often saidso--and that mamma was too, and his parents for _him_, and hisgrandfathers and grandmothers for _them_, and so on up to Noah and everso far beyond, and God for us all!

  "He told me always to think of other people before myself, as Taffydoes, and your son and never to tell lies or be afraid, and keep awayfrom drink, and I should be all right. But I've sometimes been allwrong, all the same; and it wasn't papa's fault, but poor mamma's andmine; and I've known it, and been miserable at the time, and after! andI'm sure to be forgiven--perfectly certain--and so will everybody else,even the wickedest that ever lived! Why, just give them sense enough inthe next world to understand all their wickedness in this, and that'llpunish them enough for anything, I think! That's simple enough, _isn't_it? Besides, there may be _no_ next world--that's on the cards too, youknow!--and that will be simpler still!

  "Not all the clergymen in all the world, not even the Pope of Rome, willever make me doubt papa, or believe in any punishment after what we'veall got to go through here! _Ce serait trop bête!_

  "So that if you don't want me to very much, and he won't think itunkind, I'd rather not talk to Mr. Thomas Bagot about it. I'd rathertalk to Taffy if I must. He's very clever, Taffy, though he doesn'toften say such clever things as your son does, or paint nearly so well;and I'm sure he'll think papa was right."

  And as a matter of fact the good Taffy, in his opinion on this solemnsubject, was found to be at one with the late Reverend Patrick MichaelO'Ferrall--and so was the Laird--and so (to his mother's shocked andpained surprise) was Little Billee.

  And so were Sir Oliver Calthorpe and Sir Jacob Wilcox and Doctor Thorneand Antony and Lorrimer and the Greek!

  And so--in after-years, when grief had well pierced and torn and riddledher through and through, and time and age had healed the wounds, andnothing remained but the consciousness of great inward scars ofrecollection to remind her how deep and jagged and wide the wounds hadonce been--did Mrs. Bagot herself!

  * * * * *

  Late on one memorable Saturday afternoon, just as it was getting dusk inCharlotte Street, Trilby, in her pretty blue dressing-gown, lay on thesofa by the fire--her head well propped, her knees drawn up--lookingvery placid and content.

  She had spent the early part of the day dictating her will to theconscientious Taffy.

  It was a simple document, although she was not without many valuabletrinkets to leave: quite a fortune! Souvenirs from many men and womenshe had charmed by her singing, from royalties downward.

  She had been looking them over with the faithful Marta, to whom she hadalways thought they belonged. It was explained to her that they weregifts of Svengali's; since she did not remember when and where and bywhom they were presented to her, except a few that Svengali had givenher himself, with many passionate expressions of his love, which seemsto have been deep and constant and sincere; none the less so, perhaps,that she could never return it!

  She had left the bulk of these to the faithful Marta.

  But to each of the trois Angliches she had bequeathed a beautiful ring,which was to be worn by their brides if they ever married, and thebrides didn't object.

  To Mrs. Bagot she left a pearl necklace; to Miss Bagot her gold coronetof stars; and pretty (and most costly) gifts to each of the threedoctors who had attended her and been so assiduous in their care; andwho, as she was told, would make no charge for attending on MadameSvengali. And studs and scarf-pins to Antony, Lorrimer, the Greek,Dodor, and Zouzou; and to Carnegie a little German-silver vinaigrettewhich had once belonged to Lord Witlow; and pretty souvenirs to theVinards, Angèle Boisse, Durien, and others.

  And she left a magnificent gold watch and chain to Gecko, with a mostaffectionate letter and a hundred pounds--which was all she had in moneyof her own.

  She had taken great interest in discussing with Taffy the particularkind of trinket which would best suit the idiosyncrasy of eachparticular legatee, and derived great comfort from the business-like andsympathetic conscientiousness with which the good Taffy entered upon allthese minutiæ--he was so solemn and serious about it, and took suchpains. She little guessed how his dumb but deeply feeling heart washarrowed!

  This document had been duly signed and witnessed and intrusted to hiscare; and Trilby lay tranquil and happy, and with a sense that nothingremained for her but to enjoy the fleeting hour, and make the most ofeach precious moment as it went by.

  She was quite without pain of either mind or body, and surrounded by thepeople she adored--Taffy, the Laird, and Little Billee, and Mrs. Bagot,and Marta, who sat knitting in a corner with her black mittens on, andher brass spectacles.

  She listened to the chat and joined in it, laughing as usual; "love inher eyes sat playing," as she looked from one to another, for she lovedthem all beyond expression. "Love on her lips was straying, and warblingin her breath," whenever she spoke; and her weakened voice was stilllarger, fuller, softer than any other voice in the room, in theworld--of another kind, from another sphere.

  A cart drove up, there was a ring at the door, and presently a woodenpacking-case was brought into the room.

  At Trilby's request it was opened, and found to contain a largephotograph, framed and glazed, of Svengali, in the military uniform ofhis own Hungarian band, and looking straight out of the picture,straight at you. He was standing by his desk with his left hand turningover a leaf of music, and waving his bâton with his right. It was asplendid photograph, by a Viennese photographer, and a most speakinglikeness; and Svengali looked truly fine--all made up of importance andauthority, and his big black eyes were full of stern command.

  FOR GECKO]

  Marta trembled as she looked. It was handed to Trilby, who exclaimedin surprise. She had never seen it. She had no photograph of him, andhad never possessed one.

  No message of any kind, no letter of explanation, accompanied thisunexpected present, which, from the postmarks on the case, seemed tohave travelled all over Europe to London, out of some remote province ineastern Russia--out of the mysterious East! The poisonousEast--b
irthplace and home of an ill wind that blows nobody good.

  Trilby laid it against her legs as on a lectern, and lay gazing at itwith close attention for a long time, making a casual remark now andthen, as, "He was very handsome, I think"; or, "That uniform becomes himvery well. Why has he got it on, I wonder?"

  "OUT OF THE MYSTERIOUS EAST"]

  The others went on talking, and Mrs. Bagot made coffee.

  Presently Mrs. Bagot took a cup of coffee to Trilby, and found her stillstaring intently at the portrait, but with her eyes dilated, and quite astrange light in them.

  "Trilby, Trilby, your coffee! What is the matter, Trilby?"

  Trilby was smiling, with fixed eyes, and made no answer.

  The others got up and gathered round her in some alarm. Marta seemedterror-stricken, and wished to snatch the photograph away, but wasprevented from doing so; one didn't know what the consequences might be.

  Taffy rang the bell, and sent a servant for Dr. Thorne, who lived closeby, in Fitzroy Square.

  Presently Trilby began to speak, quite softly, in French: "Encore unefois? bon! je veux bien! avec la voix blanche alors, n'est-ce pas? etpuis foncer au milieu. Et pas trop vite en commençant! Battez bien lamesure, Svengali--que je puisse bien voir--car il fait déjà nuit! c'estça! Allons, Gecko--donne-moi le ton!"

  Then she smiled, and seemed to beat time softly by moving her head alittle from side to side, her eyes intent on Svengali's in the portrait,and suddenly she began to sing Chopin's Impromptu in A flat.

  She hardly seemed to breathe as the notes came pouring out, withoutwords--mere vocalizing. It was as if breath were unnecessary for solittle voice as she was using, though there was enough of it to fill theroom--to fill the house--to drown her small audience in holy, heavenlysweetness.

  She was a consummate mistress of her art. How that could be seen! Andalso how splendid had been her training! It all seemed as easy to her asopening and shutting her eyes, and yet how utterly impossible to anybodyelse!

  Between wonder, enchantment, and alarm they were frozen to statues--allexcept Marta, who ran out of the room, crying: "Gott im Himmel! wiederzurück! wieder zurück!"

  She sang it just as she had sung it at the Salle des Bashibazoucks, onlyit sounded still more ineffably seductive, as she was using lessvoice--using the essence of her voice, in fact--the pure spirit, thevery cream of it.

  There can be little doubt that these four watchers by that enchantedcouch were listening to not only the most divinely beautiful, but alsothe most astounding feat of musical utterance ever heard out of a humanthroat.

  The usual effect was produced. Tears were streaming down the cheeks ofMrs. Bagot and Little Billee. Tears were in the Laird's eyes, a tear onone of Taffy's whiskers--tears of sheer delight.

  When she came back to the quick movement again, after the adagio, hervoice grew louder and shriller, and sweet with a sweetness not of thisearth; and went on increasing in volume as she quickened the time,nearing the end; and then came the dying away into all but nothing--amere melodic breath; and then the little soft chromatic ascendingrocket, up to E in alt, the last parting caress (which Svengali hadintroduced as a finale, for it does not exist in the piano score).

  When it was over, she said: "Ça y est-il, cette fois, Svengali? Ah! tantmieux, à la fin! c'est pas malheureux! Et maintenant, mon ami, _je suisfatiguée--bon soir_!"

  Her head fell back on the pillow, and she lay fast asleep.

  Mrs. Bagot took the portrait away gently. Little Billee knelt down andheld Trilby's hand in his and felt for her pulse, and could not find it.

  He said, "Trilby! Trilby!" and put his ear to her mouth to hear herbreathe. Her breath was inaudible.

  But soon she folded her hands across her breast, and uttered a littleshort sigh, and in a weak voice said: "_Svengali.... Svengali....Svengali!..._"

  They remained in silence round her for several minutes, terror-stricken.

  The doctor came; he put his hand to her heart, his ear to her lips. Heturned up one of her eyelids and looked at her eye. And then, his voicequivering with strong emotion, he stood up and said, "Madame Svengali'strials and sufferings are all over!"

  "Oh, good God! is she _dead_?" cried Mrs. Bagot.

  "Yes, Mrs. Bagot. She has been dead several minutes--perhaps a quarterof an hour."

  VINGT ANS APRÈS

  PORTHOS-ATHOS, _alias_ Taffy Wynne, is sitting to breakfast (oppositehis wife) at a little table in the court-yard of that huge caravanseraion the Boulevard des Capucines, Paris, where he had sat more than twentyyears ago with the Laird and Little Billee; where, in fact, he hadpulled Svengali's nose.

  Little is changed in the aspect of the place: the same cosmopolitecompany, with more of the American element, perhaps; the same arrivalsand departures in railway omnibuses, cabs, hired carriages; and, airinghis calves on the marble steps, stood just such another colossal andbeautiful old man in black cloth coat and knee-breeches and silkstockings as of yore, with probably the very same pinchbeck chain. Wheredo they breed these magnificent old Frenchmen? In Germany, perhaps,"where all the good big waiters come from!"

  And also the same fine weather. It is always fine weather in thecourt-yard of the Grand Hôtel. As the Laird would say, they manage thesethings better there!

  Taffy wears a short beard, which is turning gray. His kind blue eye isno longer choleric, but mild and friendly--as frank as ever; and full ofhumorous patience. He has grown stouter; he is very big indeed, in allthree dimensions, but the symmetry and the gainliness of the athletebelong to him still in movement and repose; and his clothes fit himbeautifully, though they are not new, and show careful beating andbrushing and ironing, and even a faint suspicion of all butimperceptible fine-drawing here and there.

  What a magnificent old man _he_ will make some day, should the GrandHôtel ever run short of them! He looks as if he could be trusted down tothe ground--in all things, little or big; as if his word were as good ashis bond, and even better; his wink as good as his word, his nod as goodas his wink; and, in truth, as he looks, so he is.

  "'SVENGALI!... SVENGALI!... SVENGALI!...'"]

  The most cynical disbeliever in "the grand old name of gentleman," andits virtues as a noun of definition, would almost be justified in quitedogmatically asserting at sight, and without even being introduced,that, at all events, Taffy is a "gentleman," inside and out, up anddown--from the crown of his head (which is getting rather bald) to thesole of his foot (by no means a small one, or a lightly shod--_ex pedeHerculem_)!

  Indeed, this is always the first thing people say of Taffy--and thelast. It means, perhaps, that he may be a trifle dull. Well, one can'tbe everything!

  Porthos was a trifle dull--and so was Athos, I think; and likewise hisson, the faithful Viscount of Bragelonne--_bon chien chasse de race_!And so was Wilfred of Ivanhoe, the disinherited; and Edgar, the Lord ofRavenswood! and so, for that matter, was Colonel Newcome, of immortalmemory!

  Yet who does not love them--who would not wish to be like them, forbetter, for worse!

  Taffy's wife is unlike Taffy in many ways; but (fortunately for both)very like him in some. She is a little woman, very well shaped, verydark, with black, wavy hair, and very small hands and feet; a verygraceful, handsome, and vivacious person by no means dull; full,indeed, of quick perceptions and intuitions; deeply interested in allthat is going on about and around her, and with always lots to say aboutit, but not too much.

  She distinctly belongs to the rare, and ever-blessed, and most preciousrace of charmers.

  She had fallen in love with the stalwart Taffy more than a quarter of acentury ago in the Place St. Anatole des Arts, where he and she and hermother had tended the sick-couch of Little Billee--but she had nevertold her love. _Tout vient à point, pour qui sait attendre!_

  "TOUT VIENT À POINT, POUR QUI SAIT ATTENDRE!"]

  That is a capital proverb, and sometimes even a true one. Blanche Bagothad found it to be both!

  * * * * *
br />   One terrible night, never to be forgotten, Taffy lay fast asleep in bed,at his rooms in Jermyn Street, for he was very tired; grief tires morethan anything, and brings a deeper slumber.

  That day he had followed Trilby to her last home in Kensal Green, withLittle Billee, Mrs. Bagot, the Laird, Antony, the Greek, and Durien (whohad come over from Paris on purpose) as chief mourners; and very manyother people, noble, famous, or otherwise, English and foreign; asplendid and most representative gathering, as was duly chronicled inall the newspapers here and abroad; a fitting ceremony to close thebrief but splendid career of the greatest pleasure-giver of our time.

  He was awakened by a tremendous ringing at the street-door bell, as ifthe house were on fire; and then there was a hurried scrambling up inthe dark, a tumbling over stairs and kicking against banisters, andLittle Billee had burst into his room, calling out: "Oh! Taffy, Taffy!I'm g-going mad--I'm g-going m-mad! I'm d-d-done for...."

  "All right, old fellow--just wait till I strike a light!"

  "Oh, Taffy! I haven't slept for four nights--not a wink! She d-d-diedwith Sv--Sv--Sv ... damn it, I can't get it out! that ruffian's name onher lips!... it was just as if he were calling her from the t-t-tomb!She recovered her senses the very minute she saw his photograph--she wasso f-fond of him she f-forgot everybody else! She's gone straight tohim, after all--in some other life!... to slave for him, and sing forhim, and help him to make better music than ever! Oh, T--T--oh--oh!Taffy--oh! oh! oh! catch hold! c-c-catch...." And Little Billee had allbut fallen on the floor in a fit.

  And all the old miserable business of five years before had begun overagain!

  There has been too much sickness in this story, so I will tell as littleas possible of poor Little Billee's long illness, his slow and onlypartial recovery, the paralysis of his powers as a painter, his quickdecline, his early death, his manly, calm, and most beautifulsurrender--the wedding of the moth with the star, of the night with themorrow!

  "I, PETE COELESTES...."]

  For all but blameless as his short life had been, and so full ofsplendid promise and performance, nothing ever became him better thanthe way he left it. It was as if he were starting on some distant holyquest, like some gallant knight of old--"A Bagot to the Rescue!" Itshook the infallibility of a certain vicar down to its very foundations,and made him think more deeply about things than he had ever thoughtyet. It gave him pause!... and so wrung his heart that when, at thelast, he stooped to kiss his poor young dead friend's pure whiteforehead, he dropped a bigger tear on it than Little Billee (once sogiven to the dropping of big tears) had ever dropped in his life.

  But it is all too sad to write about.

  It was by Little Billee's bedside, in Devonshire, that Taffy had grownto love Blanche Bagot, and not very many weeks after it was all overthat Taffy had asked her to be his wife; and in a year they weremarried, and a very happy marriage it turned out--the one thing thatpoor Mrs. Bagot still looks upon as a compensation for all the griefsand troubles of her life.

  During the first year or two Blanche had perhaps been the most ardentlyloving of this well-assorted pair. That beautiful look of love surprised(which makes all women's eyes look the same) came into hers whenever shelooked at Taffy, and filled his heart with tender compunction, and aqueer sense of his own unworthiness.

  Then a boy was born to them, and that look fell on the boy, and the goodTaffy caught it as it passed him by, and he felt a helpless, absurdjealousy, that was none the less painful for being so ridiculous! andthen that look fell on another boy and yet another, so that it wasthrough these boys that she looked at their father. Then _his_ eyescaught the look, and kept it for their own use; and he grew never tolook at his wife without it; and as no daughter came, she retained forlife the monopoly of that most sweet and expressive regard.

  They are not very rich. He is a far better sportsman than he will everbe a painter; and if he doesn't sell his pictures, it is not becausethey are too good for the public taste: indeed, he has no illusions onthat score himself, even if his wife has! He is quite the leastconceited art-duffer I ever met--and I have met many far worse duffersthan Taffy.

  Would only that I might kill off his cousin Sir Oscar, and Sir Oscar'sfive sons (the Wynnes are good at sons), and his seventeen grandsons,and the fourteen cousins (and their numerous male progeny), that standbetween Taffy and the baronetcy, and whatever property goes with it, sothat he might be Sir Taffy, and dear Blanche Bagot (that was) might becalled "my lady"! This Shakespearian holocaust would scarcely cost me apang!

  It is a great temptation, when you have duly slain your first hero, toenrich hero number two beyond the dreams of avarice, and provide himwith a title and a castle and park, as well as a handsome wife and anice family! But truth is inexorable--and, besides, they are just ashappy as they are.

  They are well off enough, anyhow, to spend a week in Paris at last, andeven to stop at the Grand Hôtel! now that two of their sons are atHarrow (where their father was before them), and the third is safe at apreparatory school at Elstree, Herts.

  It is their first outing since the honeymoon, and the Laird should havecome with them.

  But the good Laird of Cockpen (who is now a famous Royal Academician) ispreparing for a honeymoon of his own. He has gone to Scotland to bemarried himself--to wed a fair and clever country-woman of just asuitable age, for he has known her ever since she was a bright littlelassie in short frocks, and he a promising A.R.A. (the pride of hisnative Dundee)--a marriage of reason, and well-seasoned affection, andmutual esteem--and therefore sure to turn out a happy one! and inanother fortnight or so the pair of them will very possibly be sittingto breakfast opposite each other at that very corner table in thecourt-yard of the Grand Hôtel! and she will laugh at everything hesays--and they will live happily ever after.

  So much for hero number three--D'Artagnan! Here's to you, SandyMcAlister, canniest, genialest, and most humorous of Scots! mostdelicate, and dainty, and fanciful of British painters! "I trink yourhealth, mit your family's--may you lif long--and brosper!"

  * * * * *

  So Taffy and his wife have come for their second honeymoon, theirIndian-summer honeymoon, alone; and are well content that it should beso. Two's always company for such a pair--the amusing one and theamusable!--and they are making the most of it!

  They have been all over the quartier latin, and revisited thewell-remembered spots; and even been allowed to enter the old studio,through the kindness of the concierge (who is no longer Madame Vinard).It is tenanted by two American painters, who are coldly civil on beingthus disturbed in the middle of their work.

  The studio is very spick and span, and most respectable. Trilby's foot,and the poem, and the sheet of plate-glass have been improved away, anda bookshelf put in their place. The new concierge (who has only beenthere a year) knows nothing of Trilby, and of the Vinards, only thatthey are rich and prosperous, and live somewhere in the south of France,and that Monsieur Vinard is mayor of his commune. _Que le bon Dieu lesbénisse! c'étaient de bien braves gens._

  Then Mr. and Mrs. Taffy have also been driven (in an open calèche withtwo horses) through the Bois de Boulogne to St. Cloud; and toVersailles, where they lunched at the Hôtel des Réservoirs--_parlez-moide ça_! and to St. Germain, and to Meudon (where they lunched at la logedu garde champêtre--a new one); they have visited the Salon, the Louvre,the porcelain manufactory at Sèvres, the Gobelins, the Hôtel Cluny, theInvalides, with Napoleon's tomb, and seen half a dozen churches,including Notre Dame and the Sainte Chapelle; and dined with the Dodorsat their charming villa near Asnières, and with the Zouzous at thesplendid Hôtel de la Rochemartel, and with the Duriens in the ParcMonceau (Dodor's food was best and Zouzou's worst; and at Durien's thecompany and talk were so good that one forgot to notice the food--andthat was a pity). And the young Dodors are all right--and so are theyoung Duriens. As for the young Zouzous, there aren't any--and that's arelief.

  And they've been to the Variétés and seen M
adame Chaumont, and to theFrançais and seen Sarah Bernhardt and Côquelin and Delaunay, and to theOpéra and heard Monsieur Lassalle.

  And to-day being their last day, they are going to laze and flane aboutthe boulevards, and buy things, and lunch anywhere, "sur le pouce," anddo the Bois once more and see tout Paris, and dine early at Durand's, orBignon's (or else the Café des Ambassadeurs), and finish up thewell-spent day at the "Mouches d'Espagne"--the new theatre in theBoulevard Poissonnière--to see Madame Cantharidi in "Petits Bonheurs deContrebande," which they are told is immensely droll and quiteproper--funny without being vulgar! Dodor was their informant--he hadtaken Madame Dodor to see it three or four times.

  Madame Cantharidi, as everybody knows, is a very clever but extremelyplain old woman with a cracked voice--of spotless reputation, and theirreproachable mother of a grown-up family whom she has brought up inperfection. They have never been allowed to see their mother (andgrandmother) act--not even the sons. Their excellent father (who adoresboth them and her) has drawn the line at that!

  In private life she is "quite the lady," but on the stage--well, go andsee her, and you will understand how she comes to be the idol of theParisian public. For she is the true and liberal dispenser to them ofthat modern "esprit gaulois" which would make the good Rabelais turnuneasily in his grave and blush there like a Benedictine Sister.

  And truly she deserves the reverential love and gratitude of her chersParisiens! She amused them all through the Empire; during the _annéeterrible_ she was their only stay and comfort, and has been their chiefdelight ever since, and is now.

  When they come back from _La Revanche_, may Madame Cantharidi be stillat her post, "Les mouches d'Espagne," to welcome the returning heroes,and exult and crow with them in her funny cracked old voice; or, haply,even console them once more, as the case may be.

  "PETITS BONHEURS DE CONTREBANDE"]

  "Victors or vanquished, they will laugh the same!"

  Mrs. Taffy is a poor French scholar. One must know French very wellindeed (and many other things besides) to seize the subtle points ofMadame Cantharidi's play (and by-play)!

  But Madame Cantharidi has so droll a face and voice, and such verydroll, odd movements that Mrs. Taffy goes into fits of laughter as soonas the quaint little old lady comes on the stage. So heartily does shelaugh that a good Parisian bourgeois turns round and remarks to hiswife: "V'là une jolie p'tite Anglaise qui n'est pas bégueule, an moins!Et l' gros bœuf avec les yeux bleus en boules de loto--c'est sonmari, sans doute! il n'a pas l'air trop content par exemple, celui-là!"

  The fact is that the good Taffy (who knows French very well indeed) isquite scandalized, and very angry with Dodor for sending them there; andas soon as the first act is finished he means, without any fuss, to takehis wife away.

  As he sits patiently, too indignant to laugh at what is really funny inthe piece (much of it is vulgar _without_ being funny), he finds himselfwatching a little white-haired man in the orchestra, a fiddler, theshape of whose back seems somehow familiar, as he plays an _obbligato_accompaniment to a very broadly comic song of Madame Cantharidi's. Heplays beautifully--like a master--and the loud applause is as much forhim as for the vocalist.

  Presently this fiddler turns his head so that his profile can be seen,and Taffy recognizes him.

  After five minutes' thought, Taffy takes a leaf out of his pocket-bookand writes (in perfectly grammatical French):

  "DEAR GECKO,--You have not forgotten Taffy Wynne, I hope; and Litrebili, and Litrebili's sister, who is now Mrs. Taffy Wynne. We leave Paris to-morrow, and would like very much to see you once more. Will you, after the play, come and sup with us at the Café Anglais? If so, look up and make 'yes' with the head, and enchant

  "Your well-devoted TAFFY WYNNE."

  He gives this, folded, to an attendant--for "le premier violon--celuiqui a des cheveux blancs."

  Presently he sees Gecko receive the note and read it and ponder for awhile.

  Then Gecko looks round the theatre, and Taffy waves his handkerchief andcatches the eye of the premier violon, who "makes 'yes' with the head."

  And then, the first act over, Mr. and Mrs. Wynne leave the theatre; Mr.explaining why, and Mrs. very ready to go, as she was beginning to feelstrangely uncomfortable without quite realizing as yet what was amisswith the lively Madame Cantharidi.

  They went to the Café Anglais and bespoke a nice little room on theentresol overlooking the boulevard, and ordered a nice little supper;salmi of something very good, mayonnaise of lobster, and one or twoother dishes better still--and chambertin of the best. Taffy wasparticular about these things on a holiday, and regardless of expense.Porthos was very hospitable, and liked good food and plenty of it; andAthos dearly loved good wine!

  And then they went and sat at a little round table outside the Café dela Paix on the boulevard, near the Grand Opéra, where it is always verygay, and studied Paris life, and nursed their appetites tillsupper-time.

  At half-past eleven Gecko made his appearance--very meek and humble. Helooked old--ten years older than he really was--much bowed down, and asif he had roughed it all his life, and had found living a desperatelong, hard grind.

  He kissed Mrs. Taffy's hand, and seemed half inclined to kiss Taffy'stoo, and was almost tearful in his pleasure at meeting them again, andhis gratitude at being asked to sup with them. He had soft, clinging,caressing manners, like a nice dog's, that made you his friend at once.He was obviously genuine and sincere, and quite pathetically simple, ashe always had been.

  At first he could scarcely eat for nervous excitement; but Taffy's fineexample and Mrs. Taffy's genial, easy-going cordiality (and a couple ofglasses of chambertin) soon put him at his ease and woke up his dormantappetite; which was a very large one, poor fellow!

  He was told all about Little Billee's death, and deeply moved to hearthe cause which had brought it about, and then they talked of Trilby.

  ENTER GECKO]

  He pulled her watch out of his waistcoat-pocket and reverently kissedit, exclaiming: "Ah! c'était un ange! un ange du Paradis! when I tellyou I lived with them for five years! Oh! her kindness, Dio, dio Maria!It was 'Gecko this!' and 'Gecko that!' and 'Poor Gecko, your toothache,how it worries me!' and 'Gecko, how tired and pale you look--youdistress me so, looking like that! Shall I mix you a maitrank?' And'Gecko, you love artichokes à la Barigoule; they remind you of Paris--Ihave heard you say so. Well, I have found out where to get artichokes,and I know how to do them à la Barigoule, and you shall have them fordinner to-day and to-morrow and all the week after!' and we did!

  "Ach! dear kind one--what did I really care for artichokes à laBarigoule?...

  "And it was always like that--always--and to Svengali and old Marta justthe same! and she was never well--never! toujours souffrante!

  "And it was she who supported us all--in luxury and splendor sometimes!"

  "And _what_ an artist!" said Taffy.

  "Ah, yes! but all that was Svengali, you know. Svengali was the greatestartist I ever met! Monsieur, Svengali was a demon, a magician! I used tothink him a god! He found me playing in the streets for copper coins,and took me by the hand, and was my only friend, and taught me all Iever knew--and yet he could not play my instrument!

  "And now he is dead, I have forgotten how to play it myself! ThatEnglish jail! it demoralized me, ruined me forever! ach! quel enfer, nomde Dieu (pardon, madame)! I am just good enough to play the _obbligato_at the Mouches d'Espagne, when the old Cantharidi sings,

  "'V'là mon mari qui r'garde Prends garde--ne m'chatouille plus!'

  "It does not want much of an _obbligato_, hein, a song so noble and sobeautiful as that!

  "And that song, monsieur, all Paris is singing it now. And that is theParis that went mad when Trilby sang the 'Nussbaum' of Schumann at theSalle des Bashibazoucks. You heard her? Well!"

  And here poor Gecko tried to laugh a little sardonic laugh in falsetto,like Svengali's, full of scorn and bitterness--and very ne
arlysucceeded.

  "But what made you strike him with--with that knife, you know?"

  "Ah, monsieur, it had been coming on for a long time. He used to workTrilby too hard; it was killing her--it killed her at last! And then atthe end he was unkind to her and scolded her and called hernames--horrid names--and then one day in London he struck her. He struckher on the fingers with his bâton, and she fell down on her knees andcried ...

  "Monsieur, I would have defended Trilby against a locomotive goinggrande vitesse! against my own father--against the Emperor ofAustria--against the Pope! and I am a good Catholic, monsieur! I wouldhave gone to the scaffold for her, and to the devil after!"

  And he piously crossed himself.

  "But, Svengali--wasn't _he_ very fond of her?"

  "Oh yes, monsieur! quant à ça, passionately! But she did not love him ashe wished to be loved. She loved Litrebili, monsieur! Litrebili, thebrother of madame. And I suppose that Svengali grew angry and jealous atlast. He changed as soon as he came to Paris. Perhaps Paris reminded himof Litrebili--and reminded Trilby, too!"

  "But how on earth did Svengali ever manage to teach her how to singlike that? She had no ear for music whatever when _we_ knew her!"

  Gecko was silent for a while, and Taffy filled his glass, and gave him acigar, and lit one himself.

  "Monsieur, no--that is true. She had not much ear. But she had such avoice as had never been heard. Svengali knew that. He had found it outlong ago. Litolff had found it out, too. One day Svengali heard Litolfftell Meyerbeer that the most beautiful female voice in Europe belongedto an English grisette who sat as a model to sculptors in the quartierlatin, but that unfortunately she was quite tone-deaf, and couldn't singone single note in tune. Imagine how Svengali chuckled! I see it fromhere!

  "Well, we both taught her together--for three years--morning, noon, andnight--six--eight hours a day. It used to split me the heart to see herworked like that! We took her voice note by note--there was no end toher notes, each more beautiful than the other--velvet and gold,beautiful flowers, pearls, diamonds, rubies--drops of dew and honey;peaches, oranges, and lemons! en veux-tu en voilà!--all the perfumes andspices of the Garden of Eden! Svengali with his little flexibleflageolet, I with my violin--that is how we taught her to make thesounds--and then how to use them. She was a phénomène, monsieur! Shecould keep on one note and make it go through all the colors in therainbow--according to the way Svengali looked at her. It would make youlaugh--it would make you cry--but, cry or laugh, it was the sweetest,the most touching, the most beautiful note you ever heard--except allher others! and each had as many overtones as the bells in the Carillonde Notre Dame. She could run up and down the scales, chromatic scales,quicker and better and smoother than Svengali on the piano, and more intune than any piano! and her shake--ach! twin stars, monsieur! She wasthe greatest contralto, the greatest soprano the world has ever known!the like of her has never been! the like of her will never be again! andyet she only sang in public for two years.

  "'WE TOOK HER VOICE NOTE BY NOTE'"]

  "Ach! those breaks and runs and sudden leaps from darkness into lightand back again--from earth to heaven!... those slurs and swoops andslides à la Paganini from one note to another, like a swallowflying!... or a gull! Do you remember them? how they drove you mad? Letany other singer in the world try to imitate them--they would make yousick! That was Svengali ... he was a magician!

  "And how she looked, singing! do you remember? her hands behind her--herdear, sweet, slender foot on a little stool--her thick hair lying downall along her back! And that good smile like the Madonna's so soft andbright and kind! _Ach! Bel ucel di Dio!_ it was to make you weep forlove, merely to see her (_c'était à vous faire pleurer d'amour, rien quede la voir_)! That was Trilby! Nightingale and bird-of-paradise in one!

  "Enfin she could do anything--utter any sound she liked, when onceSvengali had shown her how--and he was the greatest master that everlived! and when once she knew a thing, she knew it. _Et voilà!_"

  "How strange," said Taffy, "that she should have suddenly gone out ofher senses that night at Drury Lane, and so completely forgotten it all!I suppose she saw Svengali die in the box opposite, and that drove hermad!"

  And then Taffy told the little fiddler about Trilby's death-song, like aswan's, and Svengali's photograph. But Gecko had heard it all fromMarta, who was now dead.

  Gecko sat and smoked and pondered for a while, and looked from one tothe other. Then he pulled himself together with an effort, so to speak,and said, "Monsieur, she never went mad--not for one moment!"

  "What! Do you mean to say she _deceived_ us all?"

  "Non, monsieur! She could never deceive anybody, and never would. _Shehad forgotten--voilà tout!_"

  "But hang it all, my friend, one doesn't _forget_ such a--"

  "Monsieur, listen! She is dead. And Svengali is dead--and Marta also.And I have a good little malady that will kill me soon, _Gott seidank_--and without much pain.

  "I will tell you a secret.

  "_There were two Trilbys._ There was the Trilby you knew, who could notsing one single note in tune. She was an angel of paradise. She is now!But she had no more idea of singing than I have of winning asteeple-chase at the croix de Berny. She could no more sing than afiddle can play itself! She could never tell one tune from another--onenote from the next. Do you remember how she tried to sing 'Ben Bolt'that day when she first came to the studio in the Place St. Anatole desArts? It was droll, _hein? à se boucher les oreilles_! Well, that wasTrilby, your Trilby! that was my Trilby too--and I loved her as oneloves an only love, an only sister, an only child--a gentle martyr onearth, a blessed saint in heaven! And that Trilby was enough for _me_!

  "And that was the Trilby that loved your brother, madame--oh! but withall the love that was in her! He did not know what he had lost, yourbrother! Her love, it was immense, like her voice, and just as full ofcelestial sweetness and sympathy! She told me everything! _ce pauvreLitrebili, ce qu'il a perdu_!

  "But all at once--pr-r-r-out! presto! augenblick!... with one wave ofhis hand over her--with one look of his eye--with a word--Svengali couldturn her into the other Trilby, _his_ Trilby, and make her do whateverhe liked ... you might have run a red-hot needle into her and she wouldnot have felt it....

  "He had but to say 'Dors!' and she suddenly became an unconscious Trilbyof marble, who could produce wonderful sounds--just the sounds hewanted, and nothing else--and think his thoughts and wish hiswishes--and love him at his bidding with a strange unreal factitiouslove ... just his own love for himself turned inside out--_àl'envers_--and reflected back on him, as from a mirror ... _un écho, unsimulacre, quoi! pas autre chose!_.... It was not worth having! I wasnot even jealous!

  "Well, that was the Trilby he taught how to sing--and--and I helped him,God of heaven forgive me! That Trilby was just a singing-machine--anorgan to play upon--an instrument of music--a Stradivarius--a flexibleflageolet of flesh and blood--a voice, and nothing more--just theunconscious voice that Svengali sang with--for it takes two to sing likela Svengali, monsieur--the one who has got the voice, and the one whoknows what to do with it.... So that when you heard her sing the'Nussbaum,' the 'Impromptu,' you heard Svengali singing with her voice,just as you hear Joachim play a chaconne of Bach with his fiddle!...Herr Joachim's fiddle ... what does it know of Sebastian Bach? and asfor chaconnes ... _il s'en moque pas mal, ce fameux violon!_ ...

  "And _our_ Trilby ... what did she know of Schumann, Chopin?--nothing atall! She mocked herself not badly of Nussbaums and impromptus ... theywould make her yawn to demantibulate her jaws!... When Svengali's Trilbywas being taught to sing ... when Svengali's Trilby was singing--orseemed to _you_ as if she were singing--_our_ Trilby had ceased to exist... _our_ Trilby was fast asleep ... in fact, _our_ Trilby was_dead_....

  THE NIGHTINGALE'S FIRST SONG]

  "Ah, monsieur ... that Trilby of Svengali's! I have heard her sing tokings and queens in royal palaces!... as no woman has ever sung beforeor since.... I have
seen emperors and grand-dukes kiss her hand,monsieur--and their wives and daughters kiss her lips, and weep....

  "I have seen the horses taken out of her sledge and the pick of thenobility drag her home to the hotel ... with torchlights and chorusesand shoutings of glory and long life to her!... and serenades all night,under her window!... _she_ never knew! she heard nothing--feltnothing--saw nothing! and she bowed to them, right and left, like aqueen!

  "I have played the fiddle for her while she sang in the streets, atfairs and festas and Kermessen ... and seen the people go mad to hearher ... and once, at Prague, Svengali fell down in a fit from sheerexcitement! and then, suddenly, _our_ Trilby woke up and wondered whatit was all about ... and we took him home and put him to bed and lefthim with Marta--and Trilby and I went together arm in arm all over thetown to fetch a doctor and buy things for supper--and that was thehappiest hour in all my life!

  "Ach! what an existence! what travels! what triumphs! what adventures!Things to fill a book--a dozen books--Those five happy years--with thosetwo Trilbys! what recollections!... I think of nothing else, night orday ... even as I play the fiddle for old Cantharidi. Ach!... To thinkhow often I have played the fiddle for la Svengali ... to have done thatis to have lived ... and then to come home to Trilby ... _our_ Trilby... the _real_ Trilby!... Got sei dank! Ich habe _geliebt und gelebet!geliebt und gelebet! geliebt und gelebet!_ Cristo di Dio.... Sweetsister in heaven.... Ô Dieu de Misère, ayez pitié de nous...."

  * * * * *

  His eyes were red, and his voice was high and shrill and tremulous andfull of tears; these remembrances were too much for him; and perhapsalso the chambertin! He put his elbows on the table and hid his face inhis hands and wept, muttering to himself in his own language (Whateverthat might have been--Polish, probably) as if he were praying.

  "'ICH HABE _GELIEBT UND GELEBET_!'"]

  Taffy and his wife got up and leaned on the window-bar and looked outon the deserted boulevards, where an army of scavengers, noiseless andtaciturn, was cleansing the asphalt roadway. The night above was dark,but "star-dials hinted of morn," and a fresh breeze had sprung up,making the leaves dance and rustle on the sycamore-trees along theBoulevard--a nice little breeze; just the sort of little breeze to doParis good. A four-wheel cab came by at a foot pace, the driver humminga tune; Taffy hailed him; he said, "V'là, m'sieur!" and drew up.

  Taffy rang the bell, and asked for the bill, and paid it. Gecko hadapparently fallen asleep. Taffy gently woke him up, and told him howlate it was. The poor little man seemed dazed and rather tipsy, andlooked older than ever; sixty, seventy--any age you like. Taffy helpedhim on with his great-coat, and, taking him by the arm, led himdown-stairs, giving him his card, and telling him how glad he was tohave seen him, and that he would write to him from England--a promisewhich was kept, one may be sure.

  Gecko uncovered his fuzzy white head, and took Mrs. Taffy's hand andkissed it, and thanked her warmly for her "si bon et sympathiqueaccueil."

  Then Taffy all but lifted him into the cab, the jolly cabman saying:

  "Ah! bon--connais bien, celui là; vous savez--c'est lui qui joue duviolon aux Mouches d'Espagne! Il a soupé, l'bourgeois; n'est-ce pas,m'sieur? 'petits bonheurs de contrebande,' hein?... ayez pas peur! onvous aura soin de lui! il joue joliment bien, m'sieur; n'est-ce pas?"

  Taffy shook Gecko's hand, and asked,

  "Où restez-vous, Gecko?"

  "Quarante-huit, Rue des Pousse-cailloux, au cinquième."

  "How strange!" said Taffy to his wife--"how touching! why, that's whereTrilby used to live--the very number! the very floor!"

  "Oui, oui," said Gecko, waking up; "c'est l'ancienne mansarde àTrilby--j'y suis depuis douze ans--_j'y suis, j'y reste_...."

  And he laughed feebly at his mild little joke.

  Taffy told the address to the cabman, and gave him five francs.

  "Merci, m'sieur! C'est de l'aut' côté de l'eau--près de la Sorbonne,s'pas? On vous aura soin du bourgeois; soyez tranquille--ayez pas peur!quarante-huit; on y va! Bonsoir, monsieur et dame!" And he clacked hiswhip and rattled away, singing:

  "V'là mon mari qui r'garde-- Prends garde! Ne m'chatouill' plus!"

  Mr. and Mrs. Wynne walked back to the hotel, which was not far. She hungon to his big arm and crept close to him, and shivered a little. It wasquite chilly. Their footsteps were very audible in the stillness;"pit-pat, flopety-clop," otherwise they were both silent. They weretired, yawny, sleepy, and very sad; and each was thinking (and knew theother was thinking) that a week in Paris was just enough--and how niceit would be, in just a few hours more, to hear the rooks cawing roundtheir own quiet little English country home--where three jolly boyswould soon be coming for the holidays.

  And there we will leave them to their useful, hum-drum, happy domesticexistence--than which there is no better that I know of, at their timeof life--and no better time of life than theirs!

  "_Où peut-on être mieux qu'au sein de ta famille?_"

  That blessed harbor of refuge well within our reach, and having reallycut our wisdom teeth at last, and learned the ropes, and left offhankering after the moon--we can do with so little down here....

  A little work, a little play To keep us going--and so, good-day!

  A little warmth, a little light Of love's bestowing--and so, good-night!

  A little fun, to match the sorrow Of each day's growing--and so, good-morrow!

  A little trust that when we die We reap our sowing! And so--good-bye!

  BY GEORGE DU MAURIER

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  * * * * *

  The following typographical errors have been corrected by the etexttranscriber:

  Stendahl and George Sand=>Stendhal and George Sand

  déjà debout après heir soir?=>déjà debout après hier soir?

  Madame Boisse's, in the Rue des Cloitres Ste. Pétronille.=>MadameBoisse's, in the Rue des Cloîtres Ste. Pétronille.

  But the mere sight of a boxing-glove make him sick=>But the mere sightof a boxing-glove made him sick

  excuted a series of cancan steps=>executed a series of cancan steps

  "A--a--its the _Origin of Species_, by Charles Darwin.=>"A--a--it's the_Origin of Species_, by Charles Darwin.

  Pavilon de Flore=>Pavillon de Flore

  Quelle nouvelles apportez=>Quelles nouvelles apportez

  the hum of lively talk was great, and "la Sevengali" was in everymouth=>the hum of lively talk was great, and "la Svengali" was in everymouth

  beautiful blue barouch with C springs=>beautiful blue barouche with Csprings

  Then M. Carrell came every day to chat with his favorite pupil=>Then M.Carrel came every day to chat with his favorite pupil

  Trilbiness=>Trilbyness

  Tireliard=>Tire-Liard

  * * * * *

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