Madame Passefil was not jocose. She was much impressed by the aristocratic splendor of Taffy, the romantic melancholy and refinement of Little Billee, and their quiet and dignified politeness. She always spoke of Dodor as Monsieur de Lafarce, though the rest of the family (and one or two friends who had been invited) always called him Monsieur Théodore, and he was officially known as Monsieur Rigolot.
Whenever Madame Passefil addressed him or spoke of him in this aristocratic manner (which happened very often), Dodor would wink at his friends, with his tongue in his cheek. It seemed to amuse him beyond measure.
Mademoiselle Ernestine was evidently too much in love to say anything, and seldom took her eyes off Monsieur Théodore, whom she had never seen in evening dress before. It must be owned that he looked very nice—more ducal than even Zouzou—and to be Madame de Lafarce en perspective, and the future owner of such a brilliant husband as Dodor, was enough to turn a stronger little bourgeois head than Mademoiselle Ernestine’s.
She was not beautiful, but healthy, well grown, well brought up, and presumably of a sweet, kind, and amiable disposition—an ingénue fresh from her convent—innocent as a child, no doubt; and it was felt that Dodor had done better for himself (and for his race) than Monsieur le Duc. Little Dodors need have no fear.
After dinner the ladies and gentlemen left the dining-room together, and sat in a pretty salon overlooking the boulevard, where cigarettes were allowed, and there was music. Mademoiselle Ernestine laboriously played “Les Cloches du Monastère” (by Monsieur Lefébure-Wély, if I’m not mistaken). It’s the most bourgeois piece of music I know.
Then Dodor, with his sweet high voice, so strangely pathetic and true, sang goody-goody little French songs of innocence (of which he seemed to have an endless repertoire) to his future wife’s conscientious accompaniment—to the immense delight, also, of all his future family, who were almost in tears—and to the great amusement of the Laird, at whom he winked in the most pathetic parts, putting his forefinger to the side of his nose, like Noah Claypole in Oliver Twist.
The wonder of the hour, la Svengali, was discussed, of course; it was unavoidable. But our friends did not think it necessary to reveal that she was “la grande Trilby.” That would soon transpire by itself.
And, indeed, before the month was a week older the papers were full of nothing else.
Madame Svengali—“la grande Trilby”—was the only daughter of the honorable and reverend Sir Lord O’Ferrall.
She had run away from the primeval forests and lonely marshes of le Dublin, to lead a free-and-easy life among the artists of the quartier latin 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 de la Souricière St. Denis. (He made a fortune.)
Monsieur Ingres had painted her left foot on the wall of a studio in the Place St. Anatole des Arts; and an eccentric Scotch milord (le Comte de Pencock) had bought the house containing the flat containing the studio containing the wall on which it was painted, had had the house pulled down, and the wall framed and glazed and sent to his castle of Édimbourg.
(This, unfortunately, was in excess of the truth. It was found impossible to execute the Laird’s wish, on account of the material the wall was made of. So the Lord Count of Pencock—such was Madame Vinard’s version of Sandy’s nickname—had to forego his purchase.)
Next morning our friends were in readiness to leave Paris; even the Laird 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 had anyone else in those early days.)
They had just finished breakfast, and were sitting in the courtyard of the hotel, which was crowded, as usual.
Little Billee went into the hotel post-office to despatch a note to his mother. Sitting sideways there at a small table and reading letters was Svengali—of all people in the world. But for these two and a couple of clerks the room was empty.
Svengali looked up; they were quite close together.
Little Billee, in his nervousness, began to shake, and half put out his hand, and drew it back again, seeing the look of hate on Svengali’s face.
Svengali jumped up, put his letters together, and passing by Little Billee on his way to the door, called him verfluchter Schweinhund, and deliberately spat in his face.
Little Billee was paralyzed for a second or two; then he ran after Svengali, and caught him just at the top of the marble stairs, and kicked 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’t reach high enough, for Svengali was well over six feet.
There was a crowd round them in a minute, including the beautiful old man in the court suit and gold chain, who called out:
“Vite! vite! un commissaire de police!”—a cry that was echoed all over the place.
Taffy saw the row, and shouted, “Bravo, little un!” and jumping up from his 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—not a word, I swear!”
Svengali had not
