One could hear Monsieur J⸺ in a hoarse, anxious whisper saying,
“Mais chantez donc, madame—pour l’amour de Dieu, commencez donc—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’ils font, ces diables de musiciens!”
“Mais, mon Dieu, madame—qu’est-ce que vous avez donc?” cried Monsieur J⸺.
“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 wonder and suspense.
She looked all round, and down at herself, and fingered her dress. Then she looked up to the chandelier with a tender, sentimental smile, and began:
“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 an uproar—shouts from the gallery—shouts of laughter, hoots, hisses, catcalls, cockcrows.
She stopped and glared like a brave lioness, and called out:
“Qu’est-ce que vous avez donc, tous! tas de vieilles pommes cuites que vous 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?—what have you brought me here for?—what have I done, I should like to know?”
And in asking these questions the depth and splendor of her voice were so extraordinary—its tone so pathetically feminine, yet so full of hurt and indignant command, that the tumult was stilled for a moment.
It was the voice of some being from another world—some insulted daughter of a race more puissant and nobler than ours; a voice that seemed 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 to sing—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 only sang because I was asked to sing—that gentleman asked me—that French gentleman 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’ll know 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 old way—as she used to sing it in the quartier latin—the most lamentably grotesque performance ever heard out of a human throat!
“Svengali! Svengali!” shrieked poor Monsieur J⸺, gesticulating towards the box where Svengali was sitting, quite impassible, gazing at Monsieur J⸺, and smiling a ghastly, sardonic smile, a rictus of hate and 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 at Svengali, 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 the gallery—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 Madame Svengali away; she seemed quite passive. That terrible figure of Svengali still sat, immovable, watching his wife’s retreat—still smiling 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 two or three other men, one of them in evening dress. He quickly drew the curtains to; then, a minute or two after, he reappeared on the platform, bowing and scraping to the audience, as pale as death, and called for silence, the gentleman in evening dress by his side; and this person explained that a very dreadful thing had happened—that Monsieur Svengali had suddenly died in that box—of apoplexy or heart-disease; that his wife had seen it from her place on the stage, and had apparently gone out of her senses, which accounted for her extraordinary behavior.
He added that the money would be returned at the doors, and begged the audience to disperse quietly.
Taffy, with his two friends behind him, forced his way to a stage door he knew. The Laird had no longer any doubts on the score of Trilby’s identity—this Trilby, at all events!
Taffy knocked and thumped till the door was opened, and gave his card to the man who opened it, stating that he and his friends were old friends of 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 to Monsieur J⸺ immediately; and was so authoritative and big, and looked such a swell, that the man was cowed, and led him.
They passed an open door, through which they had a glimpse of a prostrate form on a table—a man partially undressed, and some men bending over him, doctors probably.
That was the last they saw of Svengali.
Then they were taken to another door, and Monsieur J⸺ came out, and Taffy explained who they were, and they were admitted.
La Svengali was there, sitting in an armchair by the fire, with several of the band standing round gesticulating, and talking German or Polish or Yiddish. Gecko, on his knees, was alternately chafing her hands and feet. 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 an age since we met?”
Then she caught sight of the Laird, and kissed him; and then she
