Part 7 (1/2)
”Now I'll go to Durien's and sit. How can I thank you, monsieur? You have taken all my pain away.”
”Yes, matemoiselle. I have got it myself; it is in my elbows. But I love it, because it comes from you. Every time you have pain you shall come to me, 12 Rue Tire-Liard, au sixieme au-dessus de l'entresol, and I will cure you and take your pain myself--”
”Oh, you are too good!” and in her high spirits she turned round on her heel and uttered her portentous war-cry, ”Milk below!” The very rafters rang with it, and the piano gave out a solemn response.
”What is that you say, matemoiselle?”
”Oh! it's what the milkmen say in England.”
”It is a wonderful cry, matemoiselle--wunderschon! It comes straight through the heart; it has its roots in the stomach, and blossoms into music on the lips like the voice of Madame Alboni--voce sulle labbre! It is good production--c'est un cri du cur!”
Trilby blushed with pride and pleasure.
”Yes, matemoiselle! I only know one person in the whole world who can produce the voice so well as you! I give you my word of honor.”
”Who is it, monsieur--yourself?”
”Ach, no, matemoiselle; I have not that privilege. I have unfortunately no voice to produce.... It is a waiter at the Cafe de la Rotonde, in the Palais Royal; when you call for coffee, he says 'Boum!' in ba.s.so profondo. Tiefstimme--F. moll below the line--it is phenomenal! It is like a cannon--a cannon also has very good production, matemoiselle.
They pay him for it a thousand francs a year, because he brings many customers to the Cafe de la Rotonde, where the coffee isn't very good.
When he dies they will search all France for another, and then all Germany, where the good big waiters come from--and the cannons--but they will not find him, and the Cafe de la Rotonde will be bankrupt--unless you will consent to take his place. Will you permit that I shall look into your mouth, matemoiselle?”
She opened her mouth wide, and he looked into it.
”Himmel! the roof of your mouth is like the dome of the Pantheon; there is room in it for 'toutes les gloires de la France,' and a little to spare! The entrance to your throat is like the middle porch of St.
Sulpice when the doors are open for the faithful on All-Saints' day; and not one tooth is missing--thirty-two British teeth as white as milk and as big as knuckle-bones! and your little tongue is scooped out like the leaf of a pink peony, and the bridge of your nose is like the belly of a Stradivarius--what a sounding-board! and inside your beautiful big chest the lungs are made of leather! and your breath, it embalms--like the breath of a beautiful white heifer fed on the b.u.t.tercups, and daisies of the Vaterland! and you have a quick, soft, susceptible heart, a heart of gold, matemoiselle--all that sees itself in your face!
[Ill.u.s.tration: ”'HIMMEL! THE ROOF OF YOUR MOUTH'”]
”'Votre cur est un luth suspendu!
Aussitot qu'on le touche, il resonne....'
What a pity you have not also the musical organization!”
”Oh, but I _have_, monsieur; you heard me sing 'Ben Bolt,' didn't you?
What makes you say that?”
Svengali was confused for a moment. Then he said: ”When I play the 'Rosemonde' of Schubert, matemoiselle, you look another way and smoke a cigarette.... You look at the big Taffy, at the Little Billee, at the pictures on the walls, or out of window, at the sky, the chimney-pots of Notre Dame de Paris; you do not look at Svengali!--Svengali, who looks at you with all his eyes, and plays you the 'Rosemonde' of Schubert!”
”Oh, mae, ae!” exclaimed Trilby; ”you _do_ use lovely language!”
”But never mind, matemoiselle; when your pain arrives, then shall you come once more to Svengali, and he shall take it away from you, and keep it himself for a soufenir of you when you are gone. And when you have it no more, he shall play you the 'Rosemonde' of Schubert, all alone for you; and then, 'Messieurs les etutiants, montez a la chaumiere!' ...
because it is gayer! _And you shall see nothing, hear nothing, think of nothing but Svengali, Svengali, Svengali!_”
Here he felt his peroration to be so happy and effective that he thought it well to go at once and make a good exit. So he bent over Trilby's shapely freckled hand and kissed it, and bowed himself out of the room, without even borrowing his five-franc piece.
”He's a rum 'un, ain't he?” said Trilby. ”He reminds me of a big hungry spider, and makes me feel like a fly! But he's cured my pain! he's cured my pain! Ah! you don't know what my pain is when it comes!”
”I wouldn't have much to do with him, all the same!” said the Laird.