Christmas was drawing near.
There were days when the whole Quartier Latin would veil its
iniquities under fogs almost worthy of the Thames Valley between
London Bridge and Westminster, and out of the studio window the
prospect was a dreary blank. No Morgue! no towers of Notre Dame! not
even the chimney-pots over the way--not even the little mediaeval toy
turret at the corner of the Rue Vieille des Mauvais Ladres, Little
Billee's delight!
The stove had to be crammed till its sides grew a dull deep red,
before one's fingers could hold a brush or squeeze a bladder; one had
to box or fence at nine in the morning, that one might recover from
the cold bath and get warm for the rest of the day!
Taffy and the Laird grew pensive and dreamy, childlike and bland; and
when they talked, it was generally about Christmas at home in merry
England and the distant land of cakes, and how good it was to be there
at such a time--hunting, shooting, curling, and endless carouse!
It was Ho! for the jolly West Riding, and Hey! for the bonnets of
Bonnie Dundee, till they grew quite homesick, and wanted to start by
the very next train.
They didn't do anything so foolish. They wrote over to friends in
London for the biggest turkey, the biggest plum-pudding, that could be
got for love or money, with mince-pies, and holly and mistletoe, and
sturdy, short, thick English sausages, half a Stilton cheese, and a
sirloin of beef--two sirloins, in case one should not be enough.
For they meant to have a Homeric feast in the studio on Christmas
Day--Taffy, the Laird, and Little Billee--and invite all the
delightful chums I have been trying to describe; and that is just why
I tried to describe them--Durien, Vincent, Antony, Lorrimer, Carnegie,
Petrolicoconose, l'Zouzou, and Dodor!
The cooking and waiting should be done by Trilby, her friend Angele
Boisse, M. et Mme. Vinard, and such little Vinards as could be trusted
with glass and crockery and mince-pies; and if that was not enough,
they would also cook themselves and wait upon each other.
When dinner should be over, supper was to follow, with scarcely any
interval to speak of; and to partake of this, other guests should be
bidden--Svengali and Gecko, and perhaps one or two more. No ladies!
For as the unsusceptible Laird expressed it, in the language of a
gillie he had once met at a servants' dance in a Highland
country-house, "Them wimmen spiles the ball!"
Elaborate cards of invitation were sent out, in the designing and
ornamentation of which the Laird and Taffy exhausted all their fancy
(Little Billee had no time).
Wines and spirits and English beers were procured at great cost from
M. E. Delevigne's, in the Rue St. Honore, and liqueurs of every
description--chartreuse, curacoa, ratafia de cassis, and anisette; no
expense was spared.
Also truffled galantines of turkey, tongues, hams, rillettes de Tours,
pates de foie gras, "fromage d'Italie" (which has nothing to do with
cheese), saucissons d'Arles et de Lyon, with and without garlic, cold
jellies, peppery and salt--everything that French charcutiers and
their wives can make out of French pigs, or any other animal whatever,
beast, bird, or fowl (even cats and rats), for the supper; and sweet
jellies and cakes, and sweetmeats, and confections of all kinds, from
the famous pastry-cook at the corner of the Rue Castiglione.
Mouths went watering all day long in joyful anticipation. They water
somewhat sadly now at the mere remembrance of these delicious
things--the mere immediate sight or scent of which in these degenerate
latter days would no longer avail to promote any such delectable
secretion. Helas! ahime! ach weh! ay de mi! eheu! [Greek: oimot]--in
point of fact, _alas_!
That is the very exclamation I wanted.
Christmas eve came round. The pieces of resistance and plum-pudding
and mince-pies had not yet arrived from London--but there was plenty
of time.
_Les trois Angliches_ dined at le Pere Trin's, as usual, and played
billiards and dominoes at the Cafe du Luxembourg, and possessed their
souls in patience till it was time to go and hear the midnight mass at
the Madeleine, where Roucouly, the great baritone of the Opera
Comique, was retained to sing Adam's famous Noel.
The whole Quarter seemed alive with the reveillon. It was a clear
frosty night, with a splendid moon just past the full, and most
exhilarating was the walk along the quays on the Rive Gauche, over the
Pont de la Concorde and across the Place thereof, and up the thronged
Rue de la Madeleine to the massive Parthenaic place of worship that
always has such a pagan, worldly look of smug and prosperous
modernity.
They struggled manfully, and found standing and kneeling room among
that fervent crowd, and heard the impressive service with mixed
feelings, as became true Britons of very advanced liberal and
religious opinions; not with the unmixed contempt of the proper
British Orthodox (who were there in full force, one may be sure).
But their susceptible hearts soon melted at the beautiful music, and
in mere sensuous _attendrissement_ they were quickly in unison with
all the rest.
For as the clock struck twelve, out pealed the organ, and up rose the
finest voice in France:
"Minuit, Chretiens! c'est l'heure solennelle
Ou l'Homme-Dieu descendit parmi nous!"
And a wave of religious emotion rolled over Little Billee and
submerged him; swept him off his little legs, swept him out of his
little self, drowned him in a great seething surge of love--love of
his kind, love of love, love of life, love of death, love of all that
is and ever was and ever will be--a very large order indeed, even for
Little Billee.
And it seemed to him that he stretched out his arms for love to one
figure especially beloved beyond all the rest--one figure erect on
high, with arms outstretched to him, in more than common fellowship of
need: not the sorrowful Figure crowned with thorns, for it was in the
likeness of a woman; but never that of the Virgin Mother of our Lord.
It was Trilby, Trilby, Trilby! a poor fallen sinner and waif, all but
lost amid the scum of the most corrupt city on earth. Trilby, weak and
mortal like himself, and in woeful want of pardon! and in her gray
dove-like eyes he saw the shining of so great a love that he was
abashed; for well he knew that all that love was his, and would be his
forever, come what would or could.
"Peuple, debout! Chante ta delivrance!
_Noel! Noel! Voici le Redempteur!_"
So sang and rang and pealed and echoed the big deep metallic baritone
bass--above the organ, above the incense, above everything else in the
world--till the very universe seemed to shake with the rolling thunder
of that great message of love and forgiveness!
Thus at least felt Little Billee, whose way it was to magnify and
exaggerate all things under the subtle stimulus of sound, and the
singing human voice had especially strange power to penetrate into his
inmost depths--even the voice of man!
And what voice but the deepest and gravest and grandest there is, can
give worthy utterance to such a message as that,--the epitome, the
abstract, the very essence of all collective humanity's wisdom at its
best!
"DREAMING TRUE"