The maid (the old German Jewess and Svengali's relative), distracted by the news of her master's death, had gone to the theatre. Gecko was in the hands of the police. Things had got to a terrible pa.s.s. But our three friends did their best, and were up most of the night.

So much for la Svengali's debut in London.

The present scribe was not present on that memorable occasion, and has written this inadequate and most incomplete description partly from hearsay and private information, partly from the reports in the contemporary newspapers.

Should any surviving eye-witness of that lamentable fiasco read these pages, and see any gross inaccuracy in this bald account of it, the P.

S. will feel deeply obliged to the same for any corrections or additions, and these will be duly acted upon and gratefully acknowledged in all subsequent editions; which will be numerous, no doubt, on account of the great interest still felt in "la Svengali," even by those who never saw or heard her (and they are many), and also because the present scribe is better qualified (by his opportunities) for the compiling of this brief biographical sketch than any person now living, with the exception, of course, of "Taffy" and "the Laird," to whose kindness, even more than to his own personal recollections, he owes whatever it may contain of serious historical value.

Next morning they all three went to Fitzroy Square. Little Billee had slept at Taffy's rooms in Jermyn Street.

Trilby seemed quite pathetically glad to see them again. She was dressed simply and plainly--in black; her trunks had been sent from the hotel.

The hospital nurse was with her; the doctor had just left. He had said that she was suffering from some great nervous shock--a pretty safe diagnosis!

Her wits had apparently not come back, and she seemed in no way to realize her position.

"Ah! what it is to see you again, all three! It makes one feel glad to be alive! I've thought of many things, but never of this--never! Three nice clean Englishmen, all speaking English--and _such_ dear old friends! Ah! j'aime tant ca--c'est le ciel! I wonder I've got a word of English left!"

[Ill.u.s.tration: "'THREE NICE CLEAN ENGLISHMEN'"]

Her voice was so soft and sweet and low that these ingenuous remarks sounded like a beautiful song. And she "made the soft eyes" at them all three, one after another, in her old way; and the soft eyes quickly filled with tears.

She seemed ill and weak and worn out, and insisted on keeping the Laird's hand in hers.

"What's the matter with Svengali? He must be dead!"

They all three looked at each other, perplexed.

"Ah! he's dead! I can see it in your faces. He'd got heart-disease. I'm sorry! oh, very sorry indeed! He was always very kind, poor Svengali!"

"Yes. He's dead," said Taffy.

"And Gecko--dear little Gecko--is he dead too? I saw him last night--he warmed my hands and feet: where were we?"

"No. Gecko's not dead. But he's had to be locked up for a little while.

He struck Svengali, you know. You saw it all."

"I? No! I never saw it. But I _dreamt_ something like it! Gecko with a knife, and people holding him, and Svengali bleeding on the ground. That was just before Svengali's illness. He'd cut himself in the neck, you know--with a rusty nail, he told me. I wonder how!... But it was wrong of Gecko to strike him. They were such friends. Why did he?"

"Well--it was because Svengali struck you with his conductor's wand when you were rehearsing. Struck you on the fingers and made you cry! don't you remember?"

"Struck _me_! _rehearsing?_--made me _cry_! what _are_ you talking about, dear Taffy? Svengali never _struck_ me! he was kindness itself!

always! and what should _I_ rehea.r.s.e?"

"Well, the songs you were to sing at the theatre in the evening."

"Sing at the theatre! _I_ never sang at any theatre--except last night, if that big place was a theatre! and they didn't seem to like it! I'll take precious good care never to sing in a theatre again! How they howled! and there was Svengali in the box opposite, laughing at me. Why was I taken there? and why did that funny little Frenchman in the white waistcoat ask me to sing? I know very well I can't sing well enough to sing in a place like that! What a fool I was! It all seems like a bad dream! What was it all about? _Was_ it a dream, I wonder!"

"Well--but don't you remember singing at Paris, in the Salle des Bashibazoucks--and at Vienna--St. Petersburg--lots of places?"

"What nonsense, dear--you're thinking of some one else! _I_ never sang anywhere! I've been to Vienna and St. Petersburg--but I never _sang_ there--good heavens!"

Then there was a pause, and our three friends looked at her helplessly.

Little Billee said: "Tell me, Trilby--what made you cut me dead when I bowed to you in the Place de la Concorde, and you were riding with Svengali in that swell carriage?"

"_I_ never rode in a swell carriage with Svengali! omnibuses were more in _our_ line! You're dreaming, dear Little Billee--you're taking me for somebody else; and as for my cutting _you_--why, I'd sooner cut myself--into little pieces!"

"_Where_ were you staying with Svengali in Paris?"

"I really forget. _Were_ we in Paris? Oh yes, of course. Hotel Bertrand, Place Notre Dame des Victoires."

"How long have you been going about with Svengali?"

"Oh, months, years--I forget. I was very ill. He cured me."

"Ill! What was the matter?"

"Oh! I was mad with grief, and pain in my eyes, and wanted to kill myself, when I lost my dear little Jeannot, at Vibraye. I fancied I hadn't been careful enough with him. I was crazed! Don't you remember writing to me there, Taffy--through Angele Boisse? Such a sweet letter you wrote! I know it by heart! And you too, Sandy"; and she kissed him.

"I wonder where they are, your letters?--I've got nothing of my own in the world--not even your dear letters--nor little Billee's--such lots of them!

[Ill.u.s.tration: "PNA PEDE CLAUDO"]

"Well, Svengali used to write to me too--and then he got my address from Angele....

"When Jeannot died, I felt I must kill myself or get away from Vibraye--get away from the people there--so when he was buried I cut my hair short and got a workman's cap and blouse and trousers and walked all the way to Paris without saying anything to anybody. I didn't want anybody to know; I wanted to escape from Svengali, who wrote that he was coming there to fetch me. I wanted to hide in Paris. When I got there at last it was two o'clock in the morning, and I was in dreadful pain--and I'd lost all my money--thirty francs--through a hole in my trousers-pocket. Besides, I had a row with a carter in the Halle. He thought I was a man, and hit me and gave me a black eye, just because I patted his horse and fed it with a carrot I'd been trying to eat myself.

He was tipsy, I think. Well, I looked over the bridge at the river--just by the Morgue--and wanted to jump in. But the Morgue sickened me, so I hadn't the pluck. Svengali used to be always talking about the Morgue, and my going there some day. He used to say he'd come and look at me there, and the idea made me so sick I couldn't. I got bewildered, and quite stupid.

"Then I went to Angele's, in the Rue des Cloitres Ste. Petronille, and waited about; but I hadn't the courage to ring, so I went to the Place St. Anatole des Arts, and looked up at the old studio window, and thought how comfortable it was in there, with the big settee near the stove, and all that, and felt inclined to ring up Madame Vinard; and then I remembered Little Billee was ill there, and his mother and sister were with him. Angele had written me, you know. Poor Little Billee!

There he was, very ill!

"So I walked about the place, and up and down the Rue des Mauvais Ladres. Then I went down the Rue de Seine to the river again, and again I hadn't the pluck to jump in. Besides, there was a sergent de ville who followed and watched me. And the fun of it was that I knew him quite well, and he didn't know me a bit. It was Celestin Beaumollet, who got so tipsy on Christmas night. Don't you remember? The tall one, who was pitted with the small-pox.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "THE OLD STUDIO"]

"Then I walked about till near daylight. Then I could stand it no longer, and went to Svengali's, in the Rue Tire-Liard, but he'd moved to the Rue des Saints Peres; and I went there and found him. I didn't want to a bit, but I couldn't help myself. It was fate, I suppose! He was very kind, and cured me almost directly, and got me coffee and bread-and-b.u.t.ter--the best I ever tasted--and a warm bath from Bidet Freres, in the Rue Savonarole. It was heavenly! And I slept for two days and two nights! And then he told me how fond he was of me, and how he would always cure me, and take care of me, and marry me, if I would go away with him. He said he would devote his whole life to me, and took a small room for me, next to his.

"I stayed with him there a week, never going out or seeing any one, mostly asleep. I'd caught a chill.

"He played in two concerts and made a lot of money; and then we went away to Germany together; and no one was a bit the wiser."

"And _did_ he marry you?"

"Well--no. He couldn't, poor fellow! He'd already got a wife living; and three children, which he declared were not his. They live in Elberfeld in Prussia; she keeps a small sweet-stuff shop there. He behaved very badly to them. But it was not through me! He'd deserted them long before; but he used to send them plenty of money when he'd got any; I made him, for I was very sorry for her. He was always talking about her, and what she said and what she did; and imitating her saying her prayers and eating pickled cuc.u.mber with one hand and drinking schnapps with the other, so as not to lose any time; till he made me die of laughing. He could be very funny, Svengali, though he _was_ German, poor dear! And then Gecko joined us, and Marta."

"Who's Marta?"