"Fous afez du chacrin, matemoiselle?" asked he.
She told him that she had neuralgia in her eyes, a thing she was subject to; that the pain was maddening, and generally lasted twenty-four hours.
"Perhaps I can cure you; come in here with me."
The Laird's ablutions (if he had indulged in any that morning) were evidently over for the day. He was breakfasting on a roll and butter, and coffee of his own brewing. He was deeply distressed at the sight of poor Trilby's sufferings, and offered whiskey and coffee and gingernuts, which she would not touch.
Svengali told her to sit down on the divan, and sat opposite to her, and bade her look him well in the white of the eyes.
"Recartez-moi pien tans le planc tes yeux."
Then he made little passes and counterpasses on her forehead and temples and down her cheek and neck. Soon her eyes closed and her face grew placid. After a while, a quarter of an hour perhaps, he asked her if she suffered still.
"Oh! presque plus du tout, monsieur – c'est le ciel."
In a few minutes more he asked the Laird if he knew German.
"Just enough to understand," said the Laird (who had spent a year in Düsseldorf), and Svengali said to him in German: "See, she sleeps not, but she shall not open her eyes. Ask her."
"Are you asleep, Miss Trilby?" asked the Laird.
"No."
"Then open your eyes and look at me."
She strained her eyes, but could not, and said so.
Then Svengali said, again in German, "She shall not open her mouth. Ask her."
"Why couldn't you open your eyes. Miss Trilby?" She strained to open her mouth and speak, but in vain. "She shall not rise from the divan. Ask her." But Trilby was spellbound, and could not move.
"I will now set her free," said Svengali.
And, lo! she got up and waved her arms, and cried, "Vive la Prusse! me v'là guérie!" and in her gratitude she kissed Svengali's hand; and he leered, and showed his big brown teeth and the yellow whites at the top of his big black eyes, and drew his breath with a hiss.
"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 sixième 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 – wunderschön! 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 cœur!"
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 Café de la Rotonde, in the Palais Royal; when you call for coffee, he says 'Boum!' in basso 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 Café 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 Café 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 Panthéon; 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 buttercups, 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!
"'Votre cœur est un luth suspendu!
Aussitôt qu'on le touche, il résonne…'
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, maïe, aïe!" 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 étutiants, montez à la chaumière!' … 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. "I'd sooner have any pain than have it cured in that unnatural way, and by such a man as that! He's a bad fellow, Svengali – I'm sure of it! He mesmerized you; that's what it is – mesmerism! I've often heard of it, but never seen it done before. They get you into their power, and just make you do any blessed thing they please – lie, murder, steal – anything! and kill yourself into the bargain when they've done with you! It's just too terrible to think of!"
So spake the Laird, earnestly, solemnly, surprised out of his usual self, and most painfully impressed – and his own impressiveness grew upon him and impressed him still more. He loomed quite prophetic.
Cold shivers went down Trilby's back as she listened. She had a singularly impressionable nature, as was shown by her quick and ready susceptibility to Svengali's hypnotic influence. And all that day, as she posed for Durien (to whom she did not mention her adventure), she was haunted by the memory of Svengali's big eyes and the touch of his soft, dirty finger-tips on her face; and her fear and her repulsion grew together.
And "Svengali, Svengali, Svengali!" went ringing in her head and ears till it became an obsession, a dirge, a knell, an unendurable