Taffy, who had dog-skin gloves on, put out his right hand, and deftly seized Svengali’s nose between his fore and middle fingers and nearly pulled it off, and swung his head two or three times backward and forward by it, and then from side to side, Svengali holding on to his wrist; and then, letting him go, gave him a sounding openhanded smack on 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 hear things that didn’t exist.
Svengali gasped worse than Little Billee, and couldn’t speak for a while. Then he said,
“Lâche—grand lâche! che fous enferrai mes témoins!”
“At your orders!” said Taffy, in beautiful French, and drew out his card-case, and gave him his card in quite the orthodox French manner, adding: “I shall be here till tomorrow at twelve—but that is my London address, in case I don’t hear from you before I leave. I’m sorry, but you really mustn’t spit, you know—it’s not done. I will come to you whenever you send for me—even if I have to come from the end of the world.”
“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 who seemed quite delighted at the row—and indeed it was really pleasant to note with what a smooth, flowing, rhythmical spontaneity the good Taffy could always improvise these swift little acts of summary retributive justice: no hurry or scurry or flurry whatever—not an inharmonious gesture, not an infelicitous line—the very poetry of violence, and its only excuse!
Whatever it was worth, this was Taffy’s special gift, and it never failed him at a pinch.
When the commissaire de police arrived, all was over. Svengali had gone away in a cab, and Taffy put himself at the disposition of the commissaire.
They went into the post-office and discussed it all with the old military gentleman, and the majordomo in velvet, and the two clerks who had seen the original insult. And all that was required of Taffy and his friends for the present was “their names, prenames, titles, qualities, age, address, nationality, occupation,” etc.
“C’est une affaire qui s’arrangera autrement, et autre part!” had said the military gentleman—monsieur le général Comte de la Tour-aux-Loups.
So it blew over quite simply; and all that day a fierce unholy joy burned in Taffy’s choleric blue eye.
Not, indeed, that he had any wish to injure Trilby’s husband, or meant to do him any grievous bodily harm, whatever happened. But he was glad to have given Svengali a lesson in manners.
That Svengali should injure him never entered into his calculations for a moment. Besides, he didn’t believe Svengali would show fight; and in this he was not mistaken.
But he had, for hours, the feel of that long, thick, shapely Hebrew nose being kneaded between his gloved knuckles, and a pleasing sense of the effectiveness of the tweak he had given it. So he went about chewing the cud of that heavenly remembrance all day, till reflection brought remorse, and he felt sorry; for he was really the mildest-mannered man that ever broke a head!
Only the sight of Little Billee’s blood (which had been made to flow by such an unequal antagonist) had roused the old Adam.
No message came from Svengali to ask for the names and addresses of Taffy’s seconds; so Dodor and Zouzou (not to mention Mister the general Count of the Tooraloorals, as the Laird called him) were left undisturbed; and our three musketeers went back to London clean of blood, whole of limb, and heartily sick of Paris.
Little Billee stayed with his mother and sister in Devonshire till Christmas, Taffy staying at the village inn.
It was Taffy who told Mrs. Bagot about la Svengali’s all but certain identity with Trilby, after Little Billee had gone to bed, tired and worn out, the night of their arrival.
“Good heavens!” said poor Mrs. Bagot. “Why, that’s the new singing woman who’s coming over here! There’s an article about her in today’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 no doubts in the matter. On the other hand, McAlister declares it isn’t.”
“Oh, what trouble! So that’s why poor Willy looks so ill and miserable! It’s all come back again. Could she sing at all then, when you 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 a beautiful 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 not in love with her yourself. How dreadful these sirens are, wrecking the peace 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—I can’t deny that! You must try and forgive me, Mr. Wynne—although I can’t forgive her!—that dreadful illness of poor Willy’s—that bitter time in Paris. …”
And Mrs. Bagot began to cry, and Taffy forgave. “Oh, Mr. Wynne—let us still 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’s infatuation will only increase. What shall I do?
“Well—she’s another man’s wife, you see. So Willy’s infatuation is bound to burn itself out as soon as he fully recognizes that important fact. Besides, she cut him dead in the Champs Élysées—and
