“À dix-huit ans, pensez donc!
“And that good Monsieur Carrel; he is dead, you know! Ah, messieurs savaient ça? Yes, he died at Dieppe, his natal town, during the winter, from the consequences of an indigestion—que voulez-vous! He always had the stomach so feeble! … Ah! the beautiful interment, messieurs! Five thousand people, in spite of the rain! Car il pleuvait averse! And M. le Maire and his adjunct walking behind the hearse, and the gendarmerie and the douaniers, and a bataillon of the douzième chasseurs-à-pied, with their music, and all the sapper-pumpers, en grande tenue with their beautiful brass helmets! All the town was there, following: so there was nobody left to see the procession go by! q’c’était beau! Mon Dieu, q’c’était beau! c’que j’ai pleuré, d’voir ça! n’est-ce-pas, Vinard?”
“Dame, oui, ma biche! j’crois ben! It might have been Monsieur le Maire himself that one was interring in person!”
“Ah, ça! voyons, Vinard; thou’rt not going to compare the Maire of Dieppe to a painter like Monsieur Carrel?”
“Certainly not, ma biche! But still, M. Carrel was a great man all the same, in his way. Besides, I wasn’t there—nor thou either, as to that!”
“Mon Dieu! comme il est idiot, ce Vinard—of a stupidity to cut with a knife! Why, thou might’st almost be a Mayor thyself, sacred imbecile that thou art!”
And an animated discussion arose between husband and wife as to the respective merits of a country mayor on one side and a famous painter and member of the Institute on the other, during which les trois Angliches were left out in the cold. When Madame Vinard had sufficiently routed her husband, which did not take very long, she turned to them again, and told them that she had started a magasin de bric-à-brac, “vous verres ça!”
Yes, the studio had been to let for three months. Would they like to see it? Here were the keys. They would, of course, prefer to see it by themselves, alone; “je comprends ça! et vous verrez ce que vous verrez!” Then they must come and drink once more again the drop, and inspect her magasin de bric-à-brac.
So they went up, all three, and let themselves into the old place where they had been so happy—and one of them for a while so miserable!
It was changed indeed.
Bare of all furniture, for one thing; shabby and unswept, with a pathetic air of dilapidation, spoliation, desecration, and a musty, shut-up smell; the window so dirty you could hardly see the new houses opposite; the floor a disgrace!
All over the walls were caricatures in charcoal and white chalk, with more or less incomprehensible legends; very vulgar and trivial and coarse, some of them, and pointless for trois Angliches.
But among these (touching to relate) they found, under a square of plate-glass that had been fixed on the wall by means of an oak frame, Little Billee’s old black-and-white-and-red chalk sketch of Trilby’s left foot, as fresh as if it had been done only yesterday! Over it was written: “Souvenir de la Grande Trilby, par W. B. (Litrebili).” And beneath, carefully engrossed on imperishable parchment, and pasted on the glass, the following stanzas:
“Pauvre Trilby—la belle et bonne et chère!
Je suis son pied. Devine qui voudra
Quel tendre ami, la chérissant naguère,
Encadra d’elle (et d’un amour sincère)
Ce souvenir charmant qu’un caprice inspira—
Qu’un souffle emportera!
“J’étais jumeau: qu’est devenu mon frère?
Hélas! Hélas! L’Amour nous égara.
L’Éternité nous unira, j’espère;
Et nous ferons comme autrefois la paire
Au fond d’un lit bien chaste où nul ne troublera
Trilby—qui dormira.
“Ô tendre ami, sans nous qu’allez-vous faire?
La porte est close où Trilby demeura.
Le Paradis est loin … et sur la terre
(Qui nous fut douce et lui sera légère)
Pour trouver nos pareils, si bien qu’on cherchera—
Beau chercher l’on aura!”
Taffy drew a long breath into his manly bosom, and kept it there as he read this characteristic French doggerel (for so he chose to call this touching little symphony in ère and ra). His huge frame thrilled with tenderness and pity and fond remembrance, and he said to himself (letting out his breath): “Dear, dear Trilby! Ah! if you had only cared for me, I wouldn’t have let you give me up—not for anyone on earth. You were the mate for me!”
And that, as the reader has guessed long ago, was big Taffy’s “history.”
The Laird was also deeply touched, and could not speak. Had he been in love with Trilby, too? Had he ever been in love with anyone?
He couldn’t say. But he thought of Trilby’s sweetness and unselfishness, her gayety, her innocent kissings and caressings, her drollery and frolicsome grace, her way of filling whatever place she was in with her presence, the charming sight and the genial sound of her; and felt that no girl, no woman, no lady he had ever seen yet was a match for this poor waif and stray, this long-legged, cancan-dancing, quartier-latin grisette, blanchisseuse de fin, “and Heaven knows what besides!”
“Hang it all!” he mentally ejaculated, “I wish to goodness I’d married her myself!”
Little Billee said nothing either. He felt unhappier than he had ever once felt for five long years—to think that he could gaze on such a memento as this, a thing so strongly personal to himself, with dry eyes and a quiet pulse! and he unemotionally, dispassionately, wished himself dead and buried for at least the thousand and first time!
All three possessed casts of Trilby’s hands and feet and photographs of herself. But nothing so charmingly suggestive of Trilby as this little masterpiece of a true artist, this happy fluke of a happy moment. It was Trilbyness itself, as the Laird thought, and should not
