LITMIR.BIZ

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and Stendhal and George Sand; and the good Dumas! and Edgar Allan Poe's, and the glory that was Greece and the grandeur that was Rome...

      Good, honest, innocent, artless prattle—not of the wisest, perhaps, nor redolent of the very highest culture (which, by the way, can mar as well as make), nor leading to any very practical result; but quite pathetically sweet from the sincerity and fervour of its convictions, a profound belief in their importance, and a proud trust in their life-long immutability.

      Oh, happy days and happy nights, sacred to art and friendship! oh, happy times of careless impecuniosity, and youth and hope and health and strength and freedom—with all Paris for a playground, and its dear old unregenerate Latin Quarter for a workshop, and a home!

      And, up to then, no kill-joy complications of love!

      No, decidedly no! Little Billee had never known such happiness as this—never even dreamed of its possibility.

      A day or two after this, our opening day, but in the afternoon, when the fencing and boxing had begun and the trapeze was in full swing, Trilby's 'Milk below!' was sounded at the door, and she appeared— clothed this time and in her right mind, as it seemed: a tall, straight, flat-backed, square-shouldered, deep-chested, full-bosomed young grisette, in a snowy frilled cap, a neat black gown and white apron, pretty faded, well-darned brown stockings, and well-worn, soft, gray, square-toed slippers of list, without heels and originally shapeless; but which her feet, uncompromising and inexorable as boot-trees, had ennobled into everlasting classic shapeliness, and stamped with an unforgettable individuality, as does a beautiful hand its well-worn glove—a fact Little Billee was not slow to perceive, with a curious conscious thrill that was only half æsthetic.

      Then he looked into her freckled face, and met the kind and tender mirthfulness of her gaze and the plucky frankness of her fine wide smile with a thrill that was not aesthetic at all (nor the reverse), but all of the heart. And in one of his quick flashes of intuitive insight he divined far down beneath the shining surface of those eyes (which seemed for a moment to reflect only a little image of himself against the sky beyond the big north window) a well of sweetness; and floating somewhere in the midst of it the very heart of compassion, generosity, and warm sisterly love; and under that—alas! at the bottom of all—a thin slimy layer of sorrow and shame. And just as long as it takes for a tear to rise and gather and choke itself back again, this sudden revelation shook his nervous little frame with a pang of pity and the knightly wish to help. But he had no time to indulge in such soft emotions. Trilby was met on her entrance by friendly greetings on all sides.

      'Tiens! c'est la grande Trilby!' exclaimed Jules Guinot through his fencing-mask. 'Comment! t'es déjà debout après hier soir? Avons-nous assez rigolé chez Mathieu, hein? Crénom d'un nom, quelle noce! V'là une crémaillère qui peut se vanter d'être diantrement bien pendue, j'espère! Et la petite santé, c'matin?'

      'Hé, hé! mon vieux,' answered Trilby. 'Ça boulotte, apparemment! Et toi? et Victorine? Comment qu'à s'porte a c't'heure? Elle avait un fier coup d'chasselas! c'est-y jobard, hein? de s'fich 'paf comme ça d'vant l'monde! Tiens, v'là, Gontran!? ça marche-t-y, Gontran, Zouzou d'mon coeur?'

      'Comme sur des roulettes, ma biche!' said Gontran, alias l'Zouzou—a corporal in the Zouaves. 'Mais tu t'es done mise chiffonniere, a present? T'as fait banque-route?'

      (For Trilby had a chiffonnier's basket strapped on her back, and carried a pick and lantern.)

      'Mais-z-oui, mon bon!' she said. 'Dame! pas d'veine hier soir! t'as bien vu! Dans la dêche jusqu'aux omoplates, mon pauvre caporal-sous-off! nom d'un canon—faut bien vivre, s' pas?'

      Little Billee's heart-sluices had closed during this interchange of courtesies. He felt it to be of a very slangy kind, because he couldn't understand a word of it, and he hated slang. All he could make out was the free use of the tu and the toi, and he knew enough French to know that this implied a great familiarity, which he misunderstood.

      So that Jules Guinot's polite inquiries whether Trilby were none the worse after Mathieu's house-warming (which was so jolly), Trilby's kind solicitude about the health of Victorine, who had very foolishly taken a drop too much on that occasion, Trilby's mock regrets that her own bad luck at cards had made it necessary that she should retrieve her fallen fortunes by rag-picking—all these innocent, playful little amenities (which I have tried to write down just as they were spoken) were couched in a language that was as Greek to him—and he felt out of it, jealous and indignant.

      'Good-afternoon to you, Mr. Taffy,' said Trilby, in English. 'I've brought you these objects of art and virtu to make the peace with you. They're the real thing, you know. I borrowed 'em from le père Martin, chiffonnier en gros et en détail, grand officier de la Légion d'Honneur, membre de l'Institut et cetera, treize his Rue du Puits d'Amour, rez-de-chaussée au fond de la cour à gauche, vis-à vis le mont-de-piété! He's one of my intimate friends, and—'

      'You don't mean to say you're the intimate friend of a rag-picker?' exclaimed the good Taffy.

      'Oh yes! Pourquoi pas? I never brag; besides, there ain't any beastly pride about le pere Martin,' said Trilby, with a wink. 'You'd soon find that out if you were an intimate friend of his. This is how it's put on. Do you see? If you'll put it on I'll fasten it for you, and show you how to hold the lantern and handle the pick. You may come to it yourself some day, you know. Il ne faut jurer de rien! Pere Martin will pose for you in person, if you like. He's generally disengaged in the afternoon. He's poor but honest, you know, and very nice and clean; quite the gentleman. He likes artists, especially English—they pay. His wife sells bric-a-brac and old masters: Rembrandts from two francs fifty upwards. They've got a little grandson—a love of a child. I'm his godmother. You know French, I suppose?'

      'Oh yes,' said Taffy, much abashed. I'm very much obliged to you— very much indeed—a—I—a—'

      Y a pas d' quoi!' said Trilby, divesting herself of her basket and putting it, with the pick and lantern, in a corner. 'Et maintenant le temps d'absorber une fine de fin sec et je m'la brise. On m'attend a l'Ambassade d'Autriche. Et pui, zut! Allez toujours, mes enfants. En avant la boxe!'

      She sat herself down cross-legged on the model-throne, and made herself a cigarette, and watched the fencing and boxing Little Billee brought her a chair, which she refused; so he sat down on it himself by her side, and talked to her, just as he would have talked to any young lady at home—about the weather, about Verdi's new opera (which she had never heard), the impressive-ness of Notre Dame, and Victor Hugo's beautiful romance (which she had never read), the mysterious charm of Leonardo da Vinci's Lisa Gioconda's smile (which she had never seen)—by all of which she was no doubt rather tickled and a little embarrassed, perhaps also a little touched.

      Taffy brought her a cup of coffee, and conversed with her in polite formal French very well and carefully pronounced; and the Laird tried to do likewise. His French was of that honest English kind that breaks up the stiffness of even an English party; and his jolly manners were such as to put an end to all shyness and constraint, and make self-consciousness impossible.

      Others dropped in from neighbouring studios—the usual cosmopolite crew. It was a perpetual come-and-go in this particular studio between four and six in the afternoon.

      There were ladies too, en cheveux, in caps and bonnets, some of whom knew Trilby, and thee'd and thou'd with familiar and friendly affection, while others mademoiselle'd her with distant politeness, and were mademoiselle'd and madame'd back again. 'Absolument comme à l'Ambassade d'Autriche,' as Trilby observed to the Laird, with a British wink that was by no means ambassadorial.

      Then Svengali came and made some of his grandest music, which was as completely thrown away on Trilby as fireworks on a blind beggar, for all she held her tongue so piously.

      Fencing and boxing and trapezing seemed to be more in her line; and indeed, to a tone-deaf person, Taffy lunging his full spread with a foil, in all the splendour of his long, lithe, youthful strength, was a far gainlier sight than Svengali at the keyboard flashing his languid bold eyes with a sickly smile, from one listener to another, as if to say: 'N'est-ce pas que che suis peau? N'est-ce pas que ch'ai tu chénie?

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