And then (to Little Billee's horror this time) one of them happened to look back, and Zouzou actually kissed his hand to her.

"Do you _know_ that lady?" asked Little Billee, very sternly.

"_Parbleu! si je la connais!_ Why, it's my mother! Isn't she nice? She's rather cross with me just now."

"Your _mother_! Why, what do you mean? What on earth would your mother be doing in that big carriage and at that big house?"

"_Parbleu, farceur!_ She lives there!"

"_Lives_ there! Why, who and what is she, your mother?"

"The d.u.c.h.esse de la Rochemartel, _parbleu!_ and that's my sister; and that's my aunt, Princess de Chevagne-Bauffremont! She's the '_patronne_'

of that _chic_ equipage. She's a millionaire, my aunt Chevagne!"

"Well, I never! What's _your_ name, then?"

"Oh, _my_ name! Hang it--let me see!

Well--Gontran-Xavier--Francois--Marie--Joseph d'Amaury--Brissac de Roncesvaulx de la Rochemartel-Boissegur, at your service!"

"Quite correct!" said Dodor; "_l'enfant dit vrai!_"

"Well--I--never! And what's _your_ name, Dodor?"

"Oh! I'm only a humble individual, and answer to the one-horse name of Theodore Rigolot de Lafarce. But Zouzou's an awful swell, you know--his brother's the Duke!"

[Ill.u.s.tration: HoTEL DE LA ROCHEMARTEL]

Little Billee was no sn.o.b. But he was a respectably brought-up young Briton of the higher middle cla.s.s, and these revelations, which he could not but believe, astounded him so that he could hardly speak. Much as he flattered himself that he scorned the bloated aristocracy, t.i.tles are t.i.tles--even French t.i.tles!--and when it comes to dukes and princesses who live in houses like the Hotel de la Rochemartel ...!

It's enough to take a respectably brought-up young Briton's breath away!

When he saw Taffy that evening, he exclaimed: "I say, Zouzou's mother's a d.u.c.h.ess!"

"Yes--the d.u.c.h.esse de la Rochemartel-Boissegur."

"You never told me!"

"You never asked me. It's one of the greatest names in France. They're very poor, I believe."

"Poor! You should see the house they live in!"

"I've been there, to dinner; and the dinner wasn't very good. They let a great part of it, and live mostly in the country. The Duke is Zouzou's brother; very unlike Zouzou; he's consumptive and unmarried, and the most respectable man in Paris. Zouzou will be the Duke some day."

"And Dodor--he's a swell, too, I suppose--he says he's _de_ something or other!"

"Yes--Rigolot de Lafarce. I've no doubt he descends from the Crusaders, too; the name seems to favor it, anyhow; and such lots of them do in this country. His mother was English, and bore the worthy name of Brown.

He was at school in England; that's why he speaks English so well--and behaves so badly, perhaps! He's got a very beautiful sister, married to a man in the 60th Rifles--Jack Reeve, a son of Lord Reevely's; a selfish sort of chap. I don't suppose he gets on very well with his brother-in-law. Poor Dodor! His sister's about the only living thing he cares for--except Zouzou."

I wonder if the bland and genial Monsieur Theodore--"notre Sieur Theodore"--now junior partner in the great haberdashery firm of "Pa.s.sefil et Rigolot," on the Boulevard des Capucines, and a pillar of the English chapel in the Rue Marbuf, is very hard on his employes and employees if they are a little late at their counters on a Monday morning?

I wonder if that stuck-up, stingy, stodgy, communard-shooting, church-going, time-serving, place-hunting, pious-eyed, pompous old prig, martinet, and philistine, Monsieur le Marechal-Duc de la Rochemartel-Boissegur, ever tells Madame la Marechale-d.u.c.h.esse (_nee_ Hunks, of Chicago) how once upon a time Dodor and he--

We will tell no tales out of school.

The present scribe is no sn.o.b. He is a respectably brought-up old Briton of the higher middle-cla.s.s--at least, he flatters himself so. And he writes for just such old philistines as himself, who date from a time when t.i.tles were not thought so cheap as to-day. Alas! all reverence for all that is high and time-honored and beautiful seems at a discount.

So he has kept his blackguard ducal Zouave for the bouquet of this little show--the final _bonne bouche_ in his bohemian _menu_--that he may make it palatable to those who only look upon the good old quartier latin (now no more to speak of) as a very low, common, vulgar quarter indeed, deservedly swept away, where misters the students (shocking bounders and cads) had nothing better to do, day and night, than mount up to a horrid place called the thatched house--_la chaumiere_--

"Pour y danser le cancan Ou le Robert Macaire-- Toujours--toujours--toujours-- La nuit comme le jour ...

Et youp! youp! youp!

Tra la la la la ... la la la!"

Christmas was drawing near.

There were days when the whole quartier latin would veil its iniquities under fogs almost worthy of the Thames Valley between London Bridge and Westminster, and out of the studio window the prospect was a dreary blank. No morgue! no towers of Notre Dame! not even the chimney-pots over the way--not even the little mediaeval toy turret at the corner of the Rue Vieille des Mauvais Ladres, Little Billee's delight!

The stove had to be crammed till its sides grew a dull deep red before one's fingers could hold a brush or squeeze a bladder; one had to box or fence at nine in the morning, that one might recover from the cold bath, and get warm for the rest of the day!

Taffy and the Laird grew pensive and dreamy, childlike and bland; and when they talked it was generally about Christmas at home in merry England and the distant land of cakes, and how good it was to be there at such a time--hunting, shooting, curling, and endless carouse!

It was Ho! for the jolly West Riding, and Hey! for the bonnets of Bonnie Dundee, till they grew quite homesick, and wanted to start by the very next train.

They didn't do anything so foolish. They wrote over to friends in London for the biggest turkey, the biggest plum-pudding, that could be got for love or money, with mince-pies, and holly and mistletoe, and st.u.r.dy, short, thick English sausages, half a Stilton cheese, and a sirloin of beef--two sirloins, in case one should not be enough.

For they meant to have a Homeric feast in the studio on Christmas Day--Taffy, the Laird, and Little Billee--and invite all the delightful chums I have been trying to describe; and that is just why I tried to describe them--Durien, Vincent, Antony, Lorrimer, Carnegie, Petrolicoconose, l'Zouzou, and Dodor!

The cooking and waiting should be done by Trilby, her friend Angele Boisse, M. et Mme. Vinard, and such little Vinards as could be trusted with gla.s.s and crockery and mince-pies; and if that was not enough, they would also cook themselves and wait upon each other.

When dinner should be over, supper was to follow with scarcely any interval to speak of; and to partake of this other guests should be bidden--Svengali and Gecko, and perhaps one or two more. No ladies!

For, as the unsusceptible Laird expressed it, in the language of a gillie he had once met at a servants' dance in a Highland country-house, "Them wimmen spiles the ball!"

Elaborate cards of invitation were sent out, in the designing and ornamentation of which the Laird and Taffy exhausted all their fancy (Little Billee had no time).

Wines and spirits and English beers were procured at great cost from M.

E. Delevingne's, in the Rue St. Honore, and liqueurs of every description--chartreuse, curacoa, ratafia de ca.s.sis, and anisette; no expense was spared.

Also, truffled galantines of turkey, tongues, hams, rillettes de Tours, pates de foie gras, "fromage d'Italie" (which has nothing to do with cheese), saucissons d'Arles et de Lyon, with and without garlic, cold jellies peppery and salt--everything that French charcutiers and their wives can make out of French pigs, or any other animal whatever, beast, bird, or fowl (even cats and rats), for the supper; and sweet jellies, and cakes, and sweetmeats, and confections of all kinds, from the famous pastry-cook at the corner of the Rue Castiglione.

Mouths went watering all day long in joyful antic.i.p.ation. They water somewhat sadly now at the mere remembrance of these delicious things--the mere immediate sight or scent of which in these degenerate latter days would no longer avail to promote any such delectable secretion. Helas! ahime! ach weh! ay de mi! eheu! ????--in point of fact, _alas_!