She looked at him for a long while in great surprise, and then shook hands with him.
“How pale you are! and so changed—you’ve got a mustache! What’s the matter? Why are you all dressed in black, with white cravats, as if you were going to a ball? Where’s Svengali? I should like to go home!”
“Where—what do you call—home, I mean—where is it?” asked Taffy.
“C’est à l’hôtel de Normandie, dans le Haymarket. On va vous y conduire, madame!” said Monsieur J⸺.
“Oui—c’est ça!” said Trilby—“Hôtel de Normandie—mais Svengali—où est-ce qu’il est?”
“Hélas! madame—il est très malade!”
“Malade? Qu’est-ce qu’il a? How funny you look, with your mustache, Little Billee! dear, dear Little Billee! so pale, so very pale! Are you ill too? Oh, I hope not! How glad I am to see you again—you can’t tell! though I promised your mother I wouldn’t—never, never! Where are we now, dear Little Billee?”
Monsieur J⸺ seemed to have lost his head. He was constantly running in and out of the room, distracted. The bandsmen began to talk and try to explain, in incomprehensible French, to Taffy. Gecko seemed to have disappeared. It was a bewildering business—noises from outside, the tramp and bustle and shouts of the departing crowd, people running in and out and asking for Monsieur J⸺, policemen, firemen, and whatnot!
Then Little Billee, who had been exerting the most heroic self-control, suggested that Trilby should come to his house in Fitzroy Square, first of all, and be taken out of all this—and the idea struck Taffy as a happy one—and it was proposed to Monsieur J⸺, who saw that our three friends were old friends of Madame Svengali’s, and people to be trusted; and he was only too glad to be relieved of her, and gave his consent.
Little Billee and Taffy drove to Fitzroy Square to prepare Little Billee’s landlady, who was much put out at first at having such a novel and unexpected charge imposed on her. It was all explained to her that it must be so. That Madame Svengali, the greatest singer in Europe and an old friend of her tenant’s, had suddenly gone out of her mind from grief at the tragic death of her husband, and that for this night at least the unhappy lady must sleep under that roof—indeed, in Little Billee’s own bed, and that he would sleep at a hotel; and that a nurse would be provided at once—it might be only for that one night; and that the lady was as quiet as a lamb, and would probably recover her faculties after a night’s rest. A doctor was sent for from close by; and soon Trilby appeared, with the Laird, and her appearance and her magnificent sables impressed Mrs. Godwin, the landlady—brought her figuratively on her knees. Then Taffy, the Laird, and Little Billee departed again and dispersed—to procure a nurse for the night, to find Gecko, to fetch some of Trilby’s belongings from the Hôtel de Normandie, and her maid.
The maid (the old German Jewess and Svengali’s relative), distracted by the news of her master’s death, had gone to the theatre. Gecko was in the hands of the police. Things had got to a terrible pass. But our three friends did their best, and were up most of the night.
So much for la Svengali’s début in London.
The present scribe was not present on that memorable occasion, and has written this inadequate and most incomplete description partly from hearsay and private information, partly from the reports in the contemporary newspapers.
Should any surviving eyewitness of that lamentable fiasco read these pages, and see any gross inaccuracy in this bald account of it, the P.S. will feel deeply obliged to the same for any corrections or additions, and these will be duly acted upon and gratefully acknowledged in all subsequent editions; which will be numerous, no doubt, on account of the great interest still felt in “la Svengali,” even by those who never saw or heard her (and they are many), and also because the present scribe is better qualified (by his opportunities) for the compiling of this brief biographical sketch than any person now living, with the exception, of course, of “Taffy” and “the Laird,” to whose kindness, even more than to his own personal recollections, he owes whatever it may contain of serious historical value.
Next morning they all three went to Fitzroy Square. Little Billee had slept at Taffy’s rooms in Jermyn Street.
Trilby seemed quite pathetically glad to see them again. She was dressed simply and plainly—in black; her trunks had been sent from the hotel.
The hospital nurse was with her; the doctor had just left. He had said that she was suffering from some great nervous shock—a pretty safe diagnosis!
Her wits had apparently not come back, and she seemed in no way to realize her position.
“Ah! what it is to see you again, all three! It makes one feel glad to be alive! I’ve thought of many things, but never of this—never! Three nice clean Englishmen, all speaking English—and such dear old friends! Ah! j’aime tant ça—c’est le ciel! I wonder I’ve got a word of English left!”
Her voice was so soft and sweet and low that these ingenuous remarks sounded like a beautiful song. And she “made the soft eyes” at them all three, one after another, in her old way; and the soft eyes quickly filled with tears.
She seemed ill and weak and worn out, and insisted on keeping the Laird’s hand in hers.
“What’s the matter with Svengali? He must be dead!”
They all three looked at each other, perplexed.
“Ah! he’s dead! I can see it in your faces. He’d got heart-disease. I’m sorry! oh, very sorry indeed! He was always very kind, poor Svengali!”
“Yes. He’s dead,” said Taffy.
“And Gecko—dear little Gecko—is he dead too? I saw him last night—he warmed my hands and feet: where were we?”
“No. Gecko’s not dead. But he’s had to be locked up for a
