Part 41 (1/2)
”Comment diable voulez-vous que je chante avec tout ce train qu'ils font, ces diables de musiciens!”
”Mais, mon Dieu, madame--qu'est-ce que vous avez donc?” cried Monsieur J----.
[Ill.u.s.tration: ”'OH, DON'T YOU REMEMBER SWEET ALICE, BEN BOLT?'”]
”J'ai que j'aime mieux chanter sans toute cette satanee musique, parbleu! J'aime mieux chanter toute seule!”
”Sans musique, alors--mais chantez--chantez!”
The band was stopped--the house was in a state of indescribable wonder and suspense.
She looked all round, and down at herself, and fingered her dress. Then she looked up to the chandelier with a tender, sentimental smile, and began:
”Oh, don't you remember sweet Alice, Ben Bolt?
Sweet Alice with hair so brown, Who wept with delight when you gave her a smile--”
She had not got further than this when the whole house was in an uproar--shouts from the gallery--shouts of laughter, hoots, hisses, catcalls, c.o.c.k-crows.
She stopped and glared like a brave lioness, and called out:
”Qu'est-ce que vous avez donc, tous! tas de vieilles pommes cuites que vous etes! Est-ce qu'on a peur de vous?” and then, suddenly:
”Why, you're all English, aren't you?--what's all the row about?--what have you brought me here for?--what have _I_ done, I should like to know?”
And in asking these questions the depth and splendor of her voice were so extraordinary--its tone so pathetically feminine, yet so full of hurt and indignant command, that the tumult was stilled for a moment.
It was the voice of some being from another world--some insulted daughter of a race more puissant and n.o.bler than ours; a voice that seemed as if it could never utter a false note.
Then came a voice from the G.o.ds in answer:
”Oh, ye're Henglish, har yer? Why don't yer sing as yer _hought_ to sing--yer've got _voice_ enough, any'ow! why don't yer sing in _tune_?”
”Sing in _tune_!” cried Trilby. ”I didn't want to sing at all--I only sang because I was asked to sing--that gentleman asked me--that French gentleman with the white waistcoat! I won't sing another note!”
”Oh, yer won't, won't yer! then let us 'ave our money back, or we'll know what for!”
And again the din broke out, and the uproar was frightful.
Monsieur J---- screamed out across the theatre: ”Svengali! Svengali!
qu'est-ce qu'elle a donc, votre femme?... Elle est devenue folle!”
Indeed she had tried to sing ”Ben Bolt,” but had sung it in her old way--as she used to sing it in the quartier latin--the most lamentably grotesque performance ever heard out of a human throat!
”Svengali! Svengali!” shrieked poor Monsieur J----, gesticulating towards the box where Svengali was sitting, quite impa.s.sible, gazing at Monsieur J----, and smiling a ghastly, sardonic smile, a rictus of hate and triumphant revenge--as if he were saying,
”I've got the laugh of you _all_, this time!”
Taffy, the Laird, Little Billee, the whole house, were now staring at Svengali, and his wife was forgotten.