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 nobler than ours; a voice that seemed as if it could never utter a false note.
Then came a voice from the gods 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 impassible, gazing at Monsieur J——, and smiling a ghastly, sardonic smile, a rictus of hate and triumphant revenge—as if he were saying,