Trilby | Page 2

art, he had sold out; and here
he was in Paris, hard at work, as we see.
He was good-looking, with straight features; but I regret to say that,
besides his heavy plunger's moustache, he wore an immense pair of
drooping auburn whiskers, of the kind that used to be called Piccadilly
weepers,--and were afterwards affected by Mr. Sothern in Lord
Dundreary. It was a fashion to do so then for such of our gilded youth
as could afford the time (and the hair); the bigger and fairer the
whiskers, the more beautiful was thought the youth! It seems incredible
in these days, when even Her Majesty's Household Brigade go about
with smooth cheeks and lips, like priests or play-actors.
'What's become of all the gold used to hang and brush their bosoms...?'
Another inmate of this blissful abode--Sandy, the Laird of Cockpen, as
he was called--sat in similarly simple attire at his easel, painting at a
lifelike little picture of a Spanish toreador serenading a lady of high
degree (in broad daylight). He had never been to Spain, but he had a
complete toreador's kit--a bargain which he had picked up for a mere
song in the Boulevard du Temple--and he had hired the guitar. His pipe
was in his mouth--reversed; for it had gone out, and the ashes were
spilled all over his trousers where holes were often burned In this way.

Quite gratuitously, and with a pleasing Scotch accent, he began to
declaim:
"A street there is in Paris famous
For which no rhyme our language yields;
Roo Nerve day Petty Shong its name is--
The New Street of the Little Fields..."
And then, in his keen appreciation of the immortal stanza, he chuckled
audibly, with a face so blithe and merry and well pleased that it did one
good to look at him.
He also had entered life by another door. His parents (good, pious
people in Dundee) had intended that he should be a solicitor, as his
father and grandfather had been before him. And here he was in Paris
famous, painting toreadors, and spouting the 'Ballad of the
Bouillabaisse,' as he would often do out of sheer lightness of heart--
much oftener, indeed, than he would say his prayers.
Kneeling on the divan, with his elbow on the window-sill, was a third
and much younger youth. The third he was 'Little Billee.' He had pulled
down the green baize blind, and was looking over the roofs and
chimney-pots of Paris and all about with all his eyes, munching the
while a roll and a savoury saveloy, in which there was evidence of
much garlic. He ate with great relish, for he was very hungry; he had
been all the morning at Carrel's studio, drawing from the life.
Little Billee was small and slender, about twenty or twenty-one, and
had a straight white forehead veined with blue, large dark blue eyes,
delicate, regular features, and coal-black hair. He was also very
graceful and well built, with very small hands and feet, and much better
dressed than his friends, who went out of their way to outdo the
denizens of the Quartier Latin in careless eccentricity of garb, and
succeeded. And in his winning and handsome face there was just a faint
suggestion of some possible very remote Jewish ancestor--just a tinge

of that strong, sturdy, irrepressible, indomitable, indelible blood which
is of such priceless value in diluted homeopathic doses, like the dry
white Spanish wine called montijo, which is not meant to be taken pure;
but without a judicious admixture of which no sherry can go round the
world and keep its flavour intact; or like the famous bulldog strain,
which is not beautiful in itself, and yet just for lacking a little of the
same no greyhound can ever hope to be a champion. So, at least, I have
been told by wine-merchants and dog- fanciers--the most veracious
persons that' can be. Fortunately for the world, and especially for
ourselves, most of us have in our veins at least a minim of that precious
fluid, whether we know it or show it or not. Tant pis pour les autres!
As Little Billee munched he also gazed at the busy place below--the
Place St. Anatole des Arts--at the old houses opposite, some of which
were being pulled down, no doubt lest they should fall of their own
sweet will. In the gaps between he would see discoloured, old, cracked,
dingy walls, with mysterious windows and rusty iron balconies of great
antiquity--sights that set him dreaming dreams of mediaeval French
love and wickedness and crime, bygone mysteries of Paris!
One gap went right through the block, and gave him a glimpse of the
river, the 'Cite,' and the ominous old Morgue; a little to the right rose
the