ghoulish pantomime, as though he were taking stock of the different
bones in her skeleton with greedy but discriminating approval. And when
he came down to the feet, he was almost droll in the intensity of his
terrible realism. But Trilby did not appreciate this exquisite fooling,
and felt cold all over.
He seemed to her a dread, powerful demon, who, but for Taffy (who alone
could hold him in check), oppressed and weighed on her like an
incubus--and she dreamed of him oftener than she dreamed of Taffy, the
Laird, or even Little Billee!
* * * * *
Thus pleasantly and smoothly, and without much change or adventure,
things went on till Christmastime.
Little Billee seldom spoke of Trilby, or Trilby of him. Work went on
every morning at the studio in the Place St. Anatole des Arts, and
pictures were begun and finished--little pictures that didn't take long
to paint--the Laird's Spanish bull-fighting scenes, in which the bull
never appeared, and which he sent to his native Dundee and sold there;
Taffy's tragic little dramas of life in the slums of Paris--starvings,
drownings--suicides by charcoal and poison--which he sent everywhere,
but did not sell.
[Illustration: "AN INCUBUS"]
Little Billee was painting all this time at Carrel's studio--his private
one--and seemed preoccupied and happy when they all met at mealtime, and
less talkative even than usual.
He had always been the least talkative of the three; more prone to
listen, and no doubt to think the more.
In the afternoon people came and went as usual, and boxed and fenced and
did gymnastic feats, and felt Taffy's biceps, which by this time
equalled Mr. Sandow's!
Some of these people were very pleasant and remarkable, and have become
famous since then in England, France, America--or have died, or married,
and come to grief or glory in other ways. It is the Ballad of the
Bouillabaisse all over again!
It might be worth while my trying to sketch some of the more noteworthy,
now that my story is slowing for a while--like a French train when the
engine-driver sees a long curved tunnel in front of him, as I do--and no
light at the other end!
My humble attempts at characterization might be useful as "mémoires pour
servir" to future biographers. Besides, there are other reasons, as the
reader will soon discover.
There was Durien, for instance--Trilby's especial French adorer, "pour
le bon motif!" a son of the people, a splendid sculptor, a very fine
character in every way--so perfect, indeed, that there is less to say
about him than any of the others--modest, earnest, simple, frugal,
chaste, and of untiring industry; living for his art, and perhaps also a
little for Trilby, whom he would have been only too glad to marry. He
was Pygmalion; she was his Galatea--a Galatea whose marble heart would
never beat for _him_!
Durien's house is now the finest in the Parc Monceau; his wife and
daughters are the best-dressed women in Paris, and he one of the
happiest of men; but he will never quite forget poor Galatea:
"La belle aux pieds d'albâtre--aux deux talons de rose!"
* * * * *
Then there was Vincent, a Yankee medical student, who could both work
and play.
He is now one of the greatest oculists in the world, and Europeans cross
the Atlantic to consult him. He can still play, and when he crosses the
Atlantic himself for that purpose he has to travel incognito like a
royalty, lest his play should be marred by work. And his daughters are
so beautiful and accomplished that British dukes have sighed after them
in vain. Indeed, these fair young ladies spend their autumn holiday in
refusing the British aristocracy. We are told so in the society papers,
and I can quite believe it. Love is not always blind; and if he is,
Vincent is the man to cure him.
In those days he prescribed for us all round, and punched and
stethoscoped us, and looked at our tongues for love, and told us what to
eat, drink, and avoid, and even where to go for it.
For instance: late one night Little Billee woke up in a cold sweat, and
thought himself a dying man--he had felt seedy all day and taken no
food; so he dressed and dragged himself to Vincent's hotel, and woke him
up, and said, "Oh, Vincent, Vincent! I'm a dying man!" and all but
fainted on his bed. Vincent felt him all over with the greatest care,
and asked him many questions. Then, looking at his watch, he delivered
himself thus: "Humph! 3.30! rather late--but still--look here, Little
Billee--do you know the Halle, on the other side of the water, where
they sell vegetables?"
"Oh yes! yes! What vegetable shall I--"
"Listen! On the north side are two restaurants, Bordier and Baratte.
They remain open all night. Now go straight off to one of those tuck
shops, and tuck in as big a supper as you possibly can. Some people
prefer Baratte. I prefer Bordier myself. Perhaps you'd better try
Bordier first and Baratte after. At all events, lose no time; so off you
go!"
Thus he saved Little Billee from an early grave.
* * * * *
Then there was the Greek, a boy of only sixteen, but six feet high, and
looking ten years older than he was, and able to smoke even stronger
tobacco than Taffy himself, and color pipes divinely; he was a great
favorite in the Place St. Anatole, for his _bonhomie_, his niceness, his
warm geniality. He was the capitalist of this select circle (and nobly
lavish of his capital). He went by the name of Poluphloisboiospaleapologos
Petrilopetrolicoconose--for so he was christened by the Laird--because
his real name was thought much too long and much too lovely for the
quartier latin, and reminded one of the Isles of Greece--where burning
Sappho loved and sang.
What was he learning in the Latin quarter? French? He spoke French like
a native! Nobody knows. But when his Paris friends transferred their
bohemia to London, where were they ever made happier and more at home
than in his lordly parental abode--or fed with nicer things?
[Illustration: THE CAPITALIST AND THE SWELL]
That abode is now his, and lordlier than ever, as becomes the dwelling
of a millionaire and city magnate; and its gray-bearded owner is as
genial, as jolly, and as hospitable as in the old Paris days, but he no
longer colors pipes.
* * * * *
Then there was Carnegie, fresh from Balliol, redolent of the 'varsity.
He intended himself then for the diplomatic service, and came to Paris
to learn French as it is spoke; and spent most of his time with his
fashionable English friends on the right side of the river, and the rest
with Taffy, the Laird, and Little Billee on the left. Perhaps that is
why he has not become an ambassador. He is now only a rural dean, and
speaks the worst French I know, and speaks it wherever and whenever he
can.
It serves him right, I think.
He was fond of lords, and knew some (at least, he gave one that
impression), and often talked of them, and dressed so beautifully that
even Little Billee was abashed in his presence. Only Taffy, in his
threadbare out-at-elbow shooting-jacket and cricket cap, and the Laird,
in his tattered straw hat and Taffy's old overcoat down to his heels,
dared to walk arm in arm with him--nay, insisted on doing so--as they
listened to the band in the Luxembourg Gardens.
And his whiskers were even longer and thicker and more golden than
Taffy's own. But the mere sight of a boxing-glove made him sick.
* * * * *
Then there was the yellow-haired Antony, a Swiss--the idle apprentice,
le "roi des truands," as we called him--to whom everything was
forgiven, as to François Villon, _à cause de ses gentillesses_ surely,
for all his reprehensible pranks, the gentlest and most lovable creature
that ever lived in bohemia, or out of it.
Always in debt, like Svengali--for he had no more notion of the value of
money than a humming-bird, and gave away in reckless generosity to
friends what in strictness belonged to his endless creditors--like
Svengali, humorous, witty, and a most exquisite and original artist, and
also somewhat eccentric in his attire (though scrupulously clean), so
that people would stare at him as he walked along--a thing that always
gave him dire offence! But unlike Svengali, full of delicacy,
refinement, and distinction of mind and manner--void of any
self-conceit--and, in spite of the irregularities of his life, the very
soul of truth and honor, as gentle as he was chivalrous and brave--the
warmest, stanchest, sincerest, most unselfish friend in the world; and,
as long as his purse was full, the best and drollest boon companion in
the world--but that was not forever!
When the money was gone, then would Antony hie him to some beggarly
attic in some lost Parisian slum, and write his own epitaph in lovely
French or German verse--or even English (for he was an astounding
linguist); and, telling himself that he was forsaken by family, friends,
and mistress alike, look out of his casement over the Paris chimney-pots
for the last time, and listen once more to "the harmonies of nature," as
he called it--and "aspire towards the infinite," and bewail "the cruel
deceptions of his life"--and finally lay himself down to die of sheer
starvation.
And as he lay and waited for his release that was so long in coming, he
would beguile the weary hours by mumbling a crust "watered with his own
salt tears," and decorating his epitaph with fanciful designs of the
most exquisite humor, pathos, and beauty--these illustrated epitaphs of
the young Antony, of which there exists a goodly number, are now
priceless, as all collectors know all over the world.
Fainter and fainter would he grow--and finally, on the third day or
thereabouts, a remittance would reach him from some long-suffering
sister or aunt in far Lausanne--or else the fickle mistress or faithless
friend (who had been looking for him all over Paris) would discover his
hiding-place, the beautiful epitaph would be walked off in triumph to le
père Marcas in the Rue du Ghette and sold for twenty, fifty, a hundred
francs--and then _Vogue la galére!_ And back again to bohemia, dear
bohemia and all its joys, as long as the money lasted ... _e poi, da
capo!_
And now that his name is a household word in two hemispheres, and he
himself an honor and a glory to the land he has adopted as his own, he
loves to remember all this and look back from the lofty pinnacle on
which he sits perched up aloft to the impecunious days of his idle
apprenticeship--_le bon temps où l'on était si malheureux!_
And with all that Quixotic dignity of his, so famous is he as a wit that
when he jokes (and he is always joking) people laugh first, and then ask
what he was joking about. And you can even make your own mild funniments
raise a roar by merely prefacing them "as Antony once said!"
The present scribe has often done so.
And if by a happy fluke you should some day hit upon a really good thing
of your own--good enough to be quoted--be sure it will come back to you
after many days prefaced "as Antony once said."
And these jokes are so good-natured that you almost resent their being
made at anybody's expense but your own--never from Antony
"The aimless jest that striking has caused pain,
The idle word that he'd wish back again!"
Indeed, in spite of his success, I don't suppose he ever made an enemy
in his life.
And here, let me add (lest there be any doubt as to his identity), that
he is now tall and stout and strikingly handsome, though rather
bald--and such an aristocrat in bearing, aspect, and manner that you
would take him for a blue-blooded descendant of the crusaders instead of
the son of a respectable burgher in Lausanne.
* * * * *
Then there was Lorrimer, the industrious apprentice, who is now also
well-pinnacled on high; himself a pillar of the Royal Academy--probably,
if he lives long enough, its future president--the duly knighted or
baroneted Lord Mayor of "all the plastic arts" (except one or two
perhaps, here and there, that are not altogether without some
importance).
May this not be for many, many years! Lorrimer himself would be the
first to say so!
Tall, thin, red-haired, and well-favored, he was a most eager, earnest,
and painstaking young enthusiast, of precocious culture, who read
improving books, and did not share in the amusements of the quartier
latin, but spent his evenings at home with Handel, Michael Angelo, and
Dante, on the respectable side of the river. Also, he went into good
society sometimes, with a dress-coat on, and a white tie, and his hair
parted in the middle!
But in spite of these blemishes on his otherwise exemplary record as an
art student, he was the most delightful companion--the most
affectionate, helpful, and sympathetic of friends. May he live long and
prosper!
Enthusiast as he was, he could only worship one god at a time. It was
either Michael Angelo, Phidias, Paul Veronese, Tintoret, Raphael, or
Titian--never a modern--moderns didn't exist! And so thoroughgoing was
he in his worship, and so persistent in voicing it, that he made those
immortals quite unpopular in the Place St. Anatole des Arts. We grew to
dread their very names. Each of them would last him a couple of months
or so; then he would give us a month's holiday, and take up another.
Antony did not think much of Lorrimer in those days, nor Lorrimer of
him, for all they were such good friends. And neither of them thought
much of Little Billee, whose pinnacle (of pure unadulterated fame) is
now the highest of all--the highest probably that can be for a mere
painter of pictures!
And what is so nice about Lorrimer, now that he is a graybeard, an
academician, an accomplished man of the world and society, is that he
admires Antony's genius more than he can say--and reads Mr. Rudyard
Kipling's delightful stories as well as Dante's "Inferno"--and can
listen with delight to the lovely songs of Signor Tosti, who has not
precisely founded himself on Handel--can even scream with laughter at a
comic song--even a nigger melody--so, at least, that it but be sung in
well-bred and distinguished company--for Lorrimer is no bohemian.
"Shoo, fly! don'tcher bother me!
For I belong to the Comp'ny G!"
Both these famous men are happily (and most beautifully)
married--grandfathers, for all I know--and "move in the very best
society" (Lorrimer always, I'm told; Antony now and then); "la haute,"
as it used to be called in French bohemia--meaning dukes and lords and
even royalties, I suppose, and those who love them and whom they love.
That _is_ the best society, isn't it? At all events, we are assured it
used to be; but that must have been before the present scribe (a meek
and somewhat innocent outsider) had been privileged to see it with his
own little eye.
And when they happen to meet there (Antony and Lorrimer, I mean), I
don't expect they rush very wildly into each other's arms, or talk very
fluently about old times. Nor do I suppose their wives are very
intimate. None of our wives are. Not even Taffy's and the Laird's.
Oh, Orestes! Oh, Pylades!
Oh, ye impecunious, unpinnacled young inseparables of eighteen,
nineteen, twenty, even twenty-five, who share each other's thoughts and
purses, and wear each other's clothes, and swear each other's oaths,
and smoke each other's pipes, and respect each other's lights o' love,
and keep each other's secrets, and tell each other's jokes, and pawn
each other's watches and merrymake together on the proceeds, and sit all
night by each other's bedsides in sickness, and comfort each other in
sorrow and disappointment with silent, manly sympathy--"wait till you
get to forty year!"
Wait even till each or either of you gets himself a little pinnacle of
his own--be it ever so humble!
Nay, wait till either or each of you gets himself a wife!
History goes on repeating itself, and so do novels, and this is a
platitude, and there's nothing new under the sun.
May too cecee (as the idiomatic Laird would say, in the language he
adores)--may too cecee ay nee eecee nee láh!
* * * * *
Then there was Dodor, the handsome young dragon de la garde--a full
private, if you please, with a beardless face, and damask-rosy cheeks,
and a small waist, and narrow feet like a lady's, and who, strange to
say, spoke English just like an Englishman.
And his friend Gontran, _alias_ l'Zouzou--a corporal in the Zouaves.
Both of these worthies had met Taffy in the Crimea, and frequented the
studios in the quartier latin, where they adored (and were adored by)
the grisettes and models, especially Trilby.
Both of them were distinguished for being the worst subjects (_les plus
mauvais sujets_) of their respective regiments; yet both were special
favorites not only with their fellow-rankers, but with those in command,
from their colonels downward.
Both were in the habit of being promoted to the rank of corporal or
brigadier, and degraded to the rank of private next day for general
misconduct, the result of a too exuberant delight in their promotion.
Neither of them knew fear, envy, malice, temper, or low spirits; ever
said or did an ill-natured thing; ever even thought one; ever had an
enemy but himself. Both had the best or the worst manners going,
according to their company, whose manners they reflected; they were true
chameleons!
Both were always ready to share their last ten-sou piece (not that they
ever seemed to have one) with each other or anybody else, or anybody
else's last ten-sou piece with you; to offer you a friend's cigar; to
invite you to dine with any friend they had; to fight with you, or for
you, at a moment's notice. And they made up for all the anxiety,
tribulation, shame, and sorrow they caused at home by the endless fun
and amusement they gave to all outside.
It was a pretty dance they led; but our three friends of the Place St.
Anatole (who hadn't got to pay the pipers) loved them both, especially
Dodor.
One fine Sunday afternoon Little Billee found himself studying life and
character in that most delightful and festive scene la Fête de St.
Cloud, and met Dodor and l'Zouzou there, who hailed him with delight,
saying:
"Nous allons joliment jubiler, nom d'une pipe!" and insisted on his
joining in their amusements and paying for them--roundabouts, swings,
the giant, the dwarf, the strong man, the fat woman--to whom they made
love and were taken too seriously, and turned out--the menagerie of wild
beasts, whom they teased and aggravated till the police had to
interfere. Also _al fresco_ dances, where their cancan step was of the
wildest and most unbridled character, till a sous-officier or a gendarme
came in sight, and then they danced quite mincingly and demurely, _en
maître d'école_, as they called it, to the huge delight of an immense
and ever-increasing crowd, and the disgust of all truly respectable men.
They also insisted on Little Billee's walking between them, arm in arm,
and talking to them in English whenever they saw coming towards them a
respectable English family with daughters. It was the dragoon's delight
to get himself stared at by fair daughters of Albion for speaking as
good English as themselves--a rare accomplishment in a French
trooper--and Zouzou's happiness to be thought English too, though the
only English he knew was the phrase "I will not! I will not!" which he
had picked up in the Crimea, and repeated over and over again when he
came within ear-shot of a pretty English girl.
Little Billee was not happy in these circumstances. He was no snob. But
he was a respectably brought-up young Briton of the higher middle class,
and it was not quite pleasant for him to be seen (by fair countrywomen
of his own) walking arm in arm on a Sunday afternoon with a couple of
French private soldiers, and uncommonly rowdy ones at that.
[Illustration: "'I WILL NOT! I WILL NOT!'"]
Later, they came back to Paris together on the top of an omnibus,
among a very proletarian crowd, and there the two facetious warriors
immediately made themselves pleasant all round and became very popular,
especially with the women and children; but not, I regret to say,
through the propriety, refinement, and discretion of their behavior.
Little Billee resolved that he would not go a-pleasuring with them any
more.
However, they stuck to him through thick and thin, and insisted on
escorting him all the way back to the quartier latin, by the Pont de la
Concorde and the Rue de Lille in the Faubourg St. Germain.
Little Billee loved the Faubourg St. Germain, especially the Rue de
Lille. He was fond of gazing at the magnificent old mansions, the
"hôtels" of the old French noblesse, or rather the outside walls
thereof, the grand sculptured portals with the armorial bearings and the
splendid old historic names above them--Hôtel de This, Hôtel de That,
Rohan-Chabot, Montmorency, La Rochefoucauld-Liancourt, La Tour
d'Auvergne.
He would forget himself in romantic dreams of past and forgotten French
chivalry which these glorious names called up; for he knew a little of
French history, loving to read Froissart and Saint-Simon and the genial
Brantôme.
Halting opposite one of the finest and oldest of all these gateways, his
especial favorite, labelled "Hôtel de la Rochemartel" in letters of
faded gold over a ducal coronet and a huge escutcheon of stone, he began
to descant upon its architectural beauties and noble proportions to
l'Zouzou.
"_Parbleu!_" said l'Zouzou, "_connu_, _farceur!_ why, I was _born_
there, on the 6th of March, 1834, at 5.30 in the morning. Lucky day for
France--_hein_?"
"Born there? what do you mean--in the porter's lodge?"
At this juncture the two great gates rolled back, a liveried Suisse
appeared, and an open carriage and pair came out, and in it were two
elderly ladies and a younger one.
[Illustration: DODOR IN HIS GLORY]
To Little Billee's indignation, the two incorrigible warriors made the
military salute, and the three ladies bowed stiffly and gravely.
And then (to Little Billee's horror this time) one of them happened to
look back, and Zouzou actually kissed his hand to her.
"Do you _know_ that lady?" asked Little Billee, very sternly.
"_Parbleu! si je la connais!_ Why, it's my mother! Isn't she nice? She's
rather cross with me just now."
"Your _mother_! Why, what do you mean? What on earth would your mother
be doing in that big carriage and at that big house?"
"_Parbleu, farceur!_ She lives there!"
"_Lives_ there! Why, who and what is she, your mother?"
"The Duchesse de la Rochemartel, _parbleu!_ and that's my sister; and
that's my aunt, Princess de Chevagné-Bauffremont! She's the '_patronne_'
of that _chic_ equipage. She's a millionaire, my aunt Chevagné!"
"Well, I never! What's _your_ name, then?"
"Oh, _my_ name! Hang it--let me see!
Well--Gontran-Xavier--François--Marie--Joseph d'Amaury--Brissac de
Roncesvaulx de la Rochemartel-Boisségur, at your service!"
"Quite correct!" said Dodor; "_l'enfant dit vrai!_"
"Well--I--never! And what's _your_ name, Dodor?"
"Oh! I'm only a humble individual, and answer to the one-horse name of
Théodore Rigolot de Lafarce. But Zouzou's an awful swell, you know--his
brother's the Duke!"
[Illustration: HÔTEL DE LA ROCHEMARTEL]
Little Billee was no snob. But he was a respectably brought-up young
Briton of the higher middle class, and these revelations, which he could
not but believe, astounded him so that he could hardly speak. Much as he
flattered himself that he scorned the bloated aristocracy, titles are
titles--even French titles!--and when it comes to dukes and princesses
who live in houses like the Hôtel de la Rochemartel ...!
It's enough to take a respectably brought-up young Briton's breath away!
When he saw Taffy that evening, he exclaimed: "I say, Zouzou's mother's
a duchess!"
"Yes--the Duchesse de la Rochemartel-Boisségur."
"You never told me!"
"You never asked me. It's one of the greatest names in France. They're
very poor, I believe."
"Poor! You should see the house they live in!"
"I've been there, to dinner; and the dinner wasn't very good. They let a
great part of it, and live mostly in the country. The Duke is Zouzou's
brother; very unlike Zouzou; he's consumptive and unmarried, and the
most respectable man in Paris. Zouzou will be the Duke some day."
"And Dodor--he's a swell, too, I suppose--he says he's _de_ something or
other!"