She finished her song amid an embarrassing silence. The audience didn’t quite know whether it were meant for fun or seriously. One wondered if she were not paying out Svengali for his impertinent performance of “Messieurs les étudiants.” If so, it was a capital piece of impromptu tit-for-tat admirably acted, and a very ugly gleam yellowed the tawny black of Svengali’s big eyes. He was so fond of making fun of others that he particularly resented being made fun of himself—couldn’t endure that anyone should ever have the laugh of him.
At length Little Billee said: “Thank you so much. It is a capital song.”
“Yes,” said Miss O’Ferrall. “It’s the only song I know, unfortunately. My father used to sing it, just like that, when he felt jolly after hot rum and water. It used to make people cry; he used to cry over it himself. I never do. Some people think I can’t sing a bit. All I can say is that I’ve often had to sing it six or seven times running in lots of studios. I vary it, you know—not the words, but the tune. You must remember that I’ve only taken to it lately. Do you know Litolff? Well, he’s a great composer, and he came to Durien’s the other day, and I sang ‘Ben Bolt,’ and what do you think he said? Why, he said Madame Alboni couldn’t go nearly so high or so low as I did, and that her voice wasn’t half so strong. He gave me his word of honor. He said I breathed as natural and straight as a baby, and all I want is to get my voice a little more under control. That’s what he said.”
“Qu’est-ce qu’elle dit?” asked Svengali. And she said it all over again to him in French—quite French French—of the most colloquial kind. Her accent was not that of the Comédie Française, nor yet that of the Faubourg St. Germain, nor yet that of the pavement. It was quaint and expressive—“funny without being vulgar.”
“Barpleu! he was right, Litolff,” said Svengali. “I assure you, matemoiselle, that I have never heard a voice that can equal yours; you have a talent quite exceptional.”
She blushed with pleasure, and the others thought him a “beastly cad” for poking fun at the poor girl in such a way. And they thought Monsieur Litolff another.
She then got up and shook the crumbs off her coat, and slipped her feet into Durien’s slippers, saying, in English: “Well, I’ve got to go back. Life ain’t all beer and skittles, and more’s the pity; but what’s the odds, so long as you’re happy?”
On her way out she stopped before Taffy’s picture—a chiffonnier with his lantern bending over a dust heap. For Taffy was, or thought himself, a passionate realist in those days. He has changed, and now paints nothing but King Arthurs and Guineveres and Lancelots and Elaines and floating Ladies of Shalott.
“That chiffonnier’s basket isn’t hitched high enough,” she remarked. “How could he tap his pick against the rim and make the rag fall into it if it’s hitched only halfway up his back? And he’s got the wrong sabots, and the wrong lantern; it’s all wrong.”
“Dear me!” said Taffy, turning very red; “you seem to know a lot about it. It’s a pity you don’t paint, yourself.”
“Ah! now you’re cross!” said Miss O’Ferrall. “Oh, maïe, aïe!”
She went to the door and paused, looking round benignly. “What nice teeth you’ve all three got. That’s because you’re Englishmen, I suppose, and clean them twice a day. I do too. Trilby O’Ferrall, that’s my name, 48 Rue des Pousse-Cailloux!—pose pour l’ensemble, quand ça l’amuse! va-t-en ville, et fait tout ce qui concerne son état! Don’t forget. Thanks all, and goodbye.”
“En v’là une orichinale,” said Svengali.
“I think she’s lovely,” said Little Billee, the young and tender. “Oh, heavens, what angel’s feet! It makes me sick to think she sits for the figure. I’m sure she’s quite a lady.”
And in five minutes or so, with the point of an old compass, he scratched in white on the dark red wall a three-quarter profile outline of Trilby’s left foot, which was perhaps the more perfect poem of the two.
Slight as it was, this little piece of impromptu etching, in its sense of beauty, in its quick seizing of a peculiar individuality, its subtle rendering of a strongly received impression, was already the work of a master. It was Trilby’s foot, and nobody else’s, nor could have been, and nobody else but Little Billee could have drawn it in just that inspired way.
“Qu’est-ce que c’est, ‘Ben Bolt’?” inquired Gecko.
Upon which Little Billee was made by Taffy to sit down to the piano and sing it. He sang it very nicely with his pleasant little throaty English baritone.
It was solely in order that Little Billee should have opportunities of practising this graceful accomplishment of his, for his own and his friends’ delectation, that the piano had been sent over from London, at great cost to Taffy and the Laird. It had belonged to Taffy’s mother, who was dead.
Before he had finished the second verse, Svengali exclaimed: “Mais c’est tout-à-fait chentil! Allons, Gecko, chouez-nous ça!”
And he put his big hands on the piano, over Little Billee’s, pushed him off the music-stool with his great gaunt body, and, sitting on it himself, he played a masterly prelude. It was
