But Madame Cantharidi has so droll a face and voice, and such very droll, odd movements that Mrs. Taffy goes into fits of laughter as soon as the quaint little old lady comes on the stage. So heartily does she laugh that a good Parisian bourgeois turns round and remarks to his wife: “V’là une jolie p’tite Anglaise qui n’est pas bégueule, an moins! Et l’ gros bœuf avec les yeux bleus en boules de loto—c’est son mari, sans doute! il n’a pas l’air trop content par exemple, celui-là!”
The fact is that the good Taffy (who knows French very well indeed) is quite scandalized, and very angry with Dodor for sending them there; and as soon as the first act is finished he means, without any fuss, to take his wife away.
As he sits patiently, too indignant to laugh at what is really funny in the piece (much of it is vulgar without being funny), he finds himself watching a little white-haired man in the orchestra, a fiddler, the shape of whose back seems somehow familiar, as he plays an obbligato accompaniment to a very broadly comic song of Madame Cantharidi’s. He plays beautifully—like a master—and the loud applause is as much for him as for the vocalist.
Presently this fiddler turns his head so that his profile can be seen, and Taffy recognizes him.
After five minutes’ thought, Taffy takes a leaf out of his pocketbook and writes (in perfectly grammatical French):
“Dear Gecko—You have not forgotten Taffy Wynne, I hope; and Litrebili, and Litrebili’s sister, who is now Mrs. Taffy Wynne. We leave Paris tomorrow, and would like very much to see you once more. Will you, after the play, come and sup with us at the Café Anglais? If so, look up and make ‘yes’ with the head, and enchant
“Your well-devoted Taffy Wynne.”
He gives this, folded, to an attendant—for le premier violon—celui qui a des cheveux blancs.
Presently he sees Gecko receive the note and read it and ponder for a while.
Then Gecko looks round the theatre, and Taffy waves his handkerchief and catches the eye of the premier violon, who “makes ‘yes’ with the head.”
And then, the first act over, Mr. and Mrs. Wynne leave the theatre; Mr. explaining why, and Mrs. very ready to go, as she was beginning to feel strangely uncomfortable without quite realizing as yet what was amiss with the lively Madame Cantharidi.
They went to the Café Anglais and bespoke a nice little room on the entresol overlooking the boulevard, and ordered a nice little supper; salmi of something very good, mayonnaise of lobster, and one or two other dishes better still—and chambertin of the best. Taffy was particular about these things on a holiday, and regardless of expense. Porthos was very hospitable, and liked good food and plenty of it; and Athos dearly loved good wine!
And then they went and sat at a little round table outside the Café de la Paix on the boulevard, near the Grand Opéra, where it is always very gay, and studied Paris life, and nursed their appetites till suppertime.
At half-past eleven Gecko made his appearance—very meek and humble. He looked old—ten years older than he really was—much bowed down, and as if he had roughed it all his life, and had found living a desperate long, hard grind.
He kissed Mrs. Taffy’s hand, and seemed half inclined to kiss Taffy’s too, and was almost tearful in his pleasure at meeting them again, and his gratitude at being asked to sup with them. He had soft, clinging, caressing manners, like a nice dog’s, that made you his friend at once. He was obviously genuine and sincere, and quite pathetically simple, as he always had been.
At first he could scarcely eat for nervous excitement; but Taffy’s fine example and Mrs. Taffy’s genial, easygoing cordiality (and a couple of glasses of chambertin) soon put him at his ease and woke up his dormant appetite; which was a very large one, poor fellow!
He was told all about Little Billee’s death, and deeply moved to hear the cause which had brought it about, and then they talked of Trilby.
He pulled her watch out of his waistcoat-pocket and reverently kissed it, exclaiming: “Ah! c’était un ange! un ange du Paradis! when I tell you I lived with them for five years! Oh! her kindness, Dio, dio Maria! It was ‘Gecko this!’ and ‘Gecko that!’ and ‘Poor Gecko, your toothache, how it worries me!’ and ‘Gecko, how tired and pale you look—you distress me so, looking like that! Shall I mix you a maitrank?’ And ‘Gecko, you love artichokes à la Barigoule; they remind you of Paris—I have heard you say so. Well, I have found out where to get artichokes, and I know how to do them à la Barigoule, and you shall have them for dinner today and tomorrow and all the week after!’ and we did!
“Ach! dear kind one—what did I really care for artichokes à la Barigoule? …
“And it was always like that—always—and to Svengali and old Marta just the same! and she was never well—never! toujours souffrante!
“And it was she who supported us all—in luxury and splendor sometimes!”
“And what an artist!” said Taffy.
“Ah, yes! but all that was Svengali, you know. Svengali was the greatest artist I ever met! Monsieur, Svengali was a demon, a magician! I used to think him a god! He found me playing in the streets for copper coins, and took me by the hand, and was my only friend, and taught me all I ever knew—and yet he could not play my instrument!
“And now he is dead, I have forgotten how to play it myself! That English jail! it demoralized me, ruined me forever! ach! quel enfer, nom de Dieu (pardon, madame)! I am
