Trilby Part 49

And they've been to the Varietes and seen Madame Chaumont, and to the Francais and seen Sarah Bernhardt and Coquelin and Delaunay, and to the Opera and heard Monsieur La.s.salle.

And to-day being their last day, they are going to laze and flane about the boulevards, and buy things, and lunch anywhere, "sur le pouce," and do the Bois once more and see tout Paris, and dine early at Durand's, or Bignon's (or else the Cafe des Amba.s.sadeurs), and finish up the well-spent day at the "Mouches d'Espagne"--the new theatre in the Boulevard Poissonniere--to see Madame Cantharidi in "Pet.i.ts Bonheurs de Contrebande," which they are told is immensely droll and quite proper--funny without being vulgar! Dodor was their informant--he had taken Madame Dodor to see it three or four times.

Madame Cantharidi, as everybody knows, is a very clever but extremely plain old woman with a cracked voice--of spotless reputation, and the irreproachable mother of a grown-up family whom she has brought up in perfection. They have never been allowed to see their mother (and grandmother) act--not even the sons. Their excellent father (who adores both them and her) has drawn the line at that!

In private life she is "quite the lady," but on the stage--well, go and see her, and you will understand how she comes to be the idol of the Parisian public. For she is the true and liberal dispenser to them of that modern "esprit gaulois" which would make the good Rabelais turn uneasily in his grave and blush there like a Benedictine Sister.

And truly she deserves the reverential love and grat.i.tude of her chers Parisiens! She amused them all through the Empire; during the _annee terrible_ she was their only stay and comfort, and has been their chief delight ever since, and is now.

When they come back from _La Revanche_, may Madame Cantharidi be still at her post, "Les mouches d'Espagne," to welcome the returning heroes, and exult and crow with them in her funny cracked old voice; or, haply, even console them once more, as the case may be.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "PEt.i.tS BONHEURS DE CONTREBANDE"]

"Victors or vanquished, they will laugh the same!"

Mrs. Taffy is a poor French scholar. One must know French very well indeed (and many other things besides) to seize the subtle points of Madame Cantharidi's play (and by-play)!

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'la une jolie p't.i.te Anglaise qui n'est pas begueule, an moins!

Et l' gros buf 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-la!"

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 pocket-book 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 to-morrow, and would like very much to see you once more. Will you, after the play, come and sup with us at the Cafe 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 Cafe 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 Cafe de la Paix on the boulevard, near the Grand Opera, where it is always very gay, and studied Paris life, and nursed their appet.i.tes till supper-time.

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 grat.i.tude 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, easy-going cordiality (and a couple of gla.s.ses of chambertin) soon put him at his ease and woke up his dormant appet.i.te; 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.

[Ill.u.s.tration: ENTER GECKO]

He pulled her watch out of his waistcoat-pocket and reverently kissed it, exclaiming: "Ah! c'etait 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 a 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 a la Barigoule, and you shall have them for dinner to-day and to-morrow and all the week after!' and we did!

"Ach! dear kind one--what did I really care for artichokes a 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 G.o.d! 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 just good enough to play the _obbligato_ at the Mouches d'Espagne, when the old Cantharidi sings,

"'V'la mon mari qui r'garde Prends garde--ne m'chatouille plus!'

"It does not want much of an _obbligato_, hein, a song so n.o.ble and so beautiful as that!

"And that song, monsieur, all Paris is singing it now. And that is the Paris that went mad when Trilby sang the 'Nussbaum' of Schumann at the Salle des Bashibazoucks. You heard her? Well!"

And here poor Gecko tried to laugh a little sardonic laugh in falsetto, like Svengali's, full of scorn and bitterness--and very nearly succeeded.

"But what made you strike him with--with that knife, you know?"

"Ah, monsieur, it had been coming on for a long time. He used to work Trilby too hard; it was killing her--it killed her at last! And then at the end he was unkind to her and scolded her and called her names--horrid names--and then one day in London he struck her. He struck her on the fingers with his baton, and she fell down on her knees and cried ...

"Monsieur, I would have defended Trilby against a locomotive going grande vitesse! against my own father--against the Emperor of Austria--against the Pope! and I am a good Catholic, monsieur! I would have gone to the scaffold for her, and to the devil after!"

And he piously crossed himself.

"But, Svengali--wasn't _he_ very fond of her?"

"Oh yes, monsieur! quant a ca, pa.s.sionately! But she did not love him as he wished to be loved. She loved Litrebili, monsieur! Litrebili, the brother of madame. And I suppose that Svengali grew angry and jealous at last. He changed as soon as he came to Paris. Perhaps Paris reminded him of Litrebili--and reminded Trilby, too!"

"But how on earth did Svengali ever manage to teach her how to sing like that? She had no ear for music whatever when _we_ knew her!"

Gecko was silent for a while, and Taffy filled his gla.s.s, and gave him a cigar, and lit one himself.

"Monsieur, no--that is true. She had not much ear. But she had such a voice as had never been heard. Svengali knew that. He had found it out long ago. Litolff had found it out, too. One day Svengali heard Litolff tell Meyerbeer that the most beautiful female voice in Europe belonged to an English grisette who sat as a model to sculptors in the quartier latin, but that unfortunately she was quite tone-deaf, and couldn't sing one single note in tune. Imagine how Svengali chuckled! I see it from here!

"Well, we both taught her together--for three years--morning, noon, and night--six--eight hours a day. It used to split me the heart to see her worked like that! We took her voice note by note--there was no end to her notes, each more beautiful than the other--velvet and gold, beautiful flowers, pearls, diamonds, rubies--drops of dew and honey; peaches, oranges, and lemons! en veux-tu en voila!--all the perfumes and spices of the Garden of Eden! Svengali with his little flexible flageolet, I with my violin--that is how we taught her to make the sounds--and then how to use them. She was a phenomene, monsieur! She could keep on one note and make it go through all the colors in the rainbow--according to the way Svengali looked at her. It would make you laugh--it would make you cry--but, cry or laugh, it was the sweetest, the most touching, the most beautiful note you ever heard--except all her others! and each had as many overtones as the bells in the Carillon de Notre Dame. She could run up and down the scales, chromatic scales, quicker and better and smoother than Svengali on the piano, and more in tune than any piano! and her shake--ach! twin stars, monsieur! She was the greatest contralto, the greatest soprano the world has ever known!