Trilby · Part 3 (4/4)

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!”

“Yes⁠—Rigolot de Lafarce. I’ve no doubt he descends from the Crusaders, too; the name seems to favor it, anyhow; and such lots of them do in this country. His mother was English, and bore the worthy name of Brown. He was at school in England; that’s why he speaks English so well⁠—and behaves so badly, perhaps! He’s got a very beautiful sister, married to a man in the 60th Rifles⁠—Jack Reeve, a son of Lord Reevely’s; a selfish sort of chap. I don’t suppose he gets on very well with his brother-in-law. Poor Dodor! His sister’s about the only living thing he cares for⁠—except Zouzou.”

I wonder if the bland and genial Monsieur Théodore⁠—notre Sieur Théodore⁠—now junior partner in the great haberdashery firm of “Passefil et Rigolot,” on the Boulevard des Capucines, and a pillar of the English chapel in the Rue Marbœuf, is very hard on his employés and employées if they are a little late at their counters on a Monday morning?

I wonder if that stuck-up, stingy, stodgy, communard-shooting, churchgoing, timeserving, place-hunting, pious-eyed, pompous old prig, martinet, and philistine, Monsieur le Maréchal-Duc de la Rochemartel-Boisségur, ever tells Madame la Maréchale-Duchesse (née Hunks, of Chicago) how once upon a time Dodor and he⁠—

We will tell no tales out of school.

The present scribe is no snob. He is a respectably brought-up old Briton of the higher middle-class⁠—at least, he flatters himself so. And he writes for just such old philistines as himself, who date from a time when titles were not thought so cheap as today. Alas! all reverence for all that is high and time-honored and beautiful seems at a discount.

So he has kept his blackguard ducal Zouave for the bouquet of this little show⁠—the final bonne bouche in his bohemian menu⁠—that he may make it palatable to those who only look upon the good old quartier latin (now no more to speak of) as a very low, common, vulgar quarter indeed, deservedly swept away, where misters the students (shocking bounders and cads) had nothing better to do, day and night, than mount up to a horrid place called the thatched house⁠—la chaumière⁠—

“Pour y danser le cancan

Ou le Robert Macaire⁠—

Toujours⁠—toujours⁠—toujours⁠—

La nuit comme le jour⁠ ⁠…

Et youp! youp! youp!

Tra la la la la⁠ ⁠… la la la!”

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 medieval 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 Angèle 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. Delevingne’s, in the Rue St. Honoré, and liqueurs of every description⁠—chartreuse, curaçoa, ratafia de cassis, and anisette; no expense was spared.

Also, truffled galantines of turkey, tongues, hams, rillettes de Tours, pâtés 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 pastrycook 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. Hélas! ahimè! ach weh! ay de mi! eheu! οἴμοι⁠—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 père Trin’s, as usual, and played billiards and dominos at the Café 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 Opéra Comique, was retained to sing Adam’s famous Noël.

The whole quartier seemed alive with the réveillon. 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, Chrétiens! c’est l’heure solennelle

Où 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 dovelike 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 délivrance!

Noël! Noël! Voici le Rédempteur!”

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!

Little Billee reached the Hôtel Corneille that night in a very exalted frame of mind indeed, the loftiest, lowliest mood of all.

Now see what sport we are of trivial, base, ignoble earthly things!

Sitting on the doorstep and smoking two cigars at once he found Ribot, one of his fellow-lodgers, whose room was just under his own. Ribot was so tipsy that he could not ring. But he could still sing, and did so at the top of his voice. It was not the Noël of Adam that he sang. He had not spent his réveillon in any church.

With the help of a sleepy waiter, Little Billee got the bacchanalian into his room and lit his candle for him, and, disengaging himself from his maudlin embraces, left him to wallow in solitude.

As he lay awake in his bed, trying to recall the deep and high emotions of the evening, he heard the tipsy hog below tumbling about his room and still trying to sing his senseless ditty:

“Allons, Glycère!

Rougis mon verre

Du jus divin dont mon cœur est toujours jaloux⁠ ⁠…

Et puis à table,

Bacchante aimable!

Enivrons-nous (hic) Les g‑glougloux sont des rendezvous!”⁠ ⁠…

Then the song ceased for a while, and soon there were other sounds, as on a Channel steamer. Glougloux indeed!

Then the fear arose in Little Billee’s mind lest the drunken beast should set fire to his bedroom curtains. All heavenly visions were chased away for the night.⁠ ⁠…

Our hero, half-crazed with fear, disgust, and irritation, lay wide awake, his nostrils on the watch for the smell of burning chintz or muslin, and wondered how an educated man⁠—for Ribot was a law-student⁠—could ever make such a filthy beast of himself as that! It was a scandal⁠—a disgrace; it was not to be borne; there should be no forgiveness for such as Ribot⁠—not even on Christmas Day! He would complain to Madame Paul, the patronne; he would have Ribot turned out into the street; he would leave the hotel himself the very next morning! At last he fell asleep, thinking of all he would do; and thus, ridiculously and ignominiously for Little Billee, ended the réveillon.

Next morning he complained to Madame Paul; and though he did not give her warning, nor even insist on the expulsion of Ribot (who, as he heard with a hard heart, was bien malade ce matin), he expressed himself very severely on the conduct of that gentleman, and on the dangers from fire that might arise from a tipsy man being trusted alone in a small bedroom with chintz curtains and a lighted candle. If it hadn’t been for himself, he told her, Ribot would have slept on the doorstep, and serve him right! He was really grand in his virtuous indignation, in spite of his imperfect French; and Madame Paul was deeply contrite for her peccant lodger, and profuse in her apologies; and Little Billee began his twenty-first Christmas Day like a Pharisee, thanking his star that he was not as Ribot!