It was possible. Already, a few days before, the Jim Crows who hovered round her had talked about it, in covert words, in the hope of making things worse. There must be some truth in it. There was so much news going from mouth to mouth: Lillian, Edith and Polly were the rage in Chicago.... That poor boy-violinist: at Budapest, the stuffed seat to his trousers had slipped from its place and allowed the dog’s teeth to reach the living flesh; he had had to spend a week in bed with poultices.... Harrasford was contemplating a theatrical trust on the Continent, planning a model music-hall in Paris.... There were Jimmy’s successes, his ambitions.... Amid all this news, to which Lily listened, sometimes absent-mindedly, sometimes with interest, among these adventures dating from everywhere—names which she greeted like old acquaintances, with a little nod: “Denver? Yes, I know; a big flat stage. Mexico? I remember!”—among all those tales, Lily pricked her ears when she heard the name of Ave Maria coupled with Trampy’s. She had a vague recollection of Ave Maria’s flight, after her departure from Mexico; was it with Trampy? Were they really married then? Oh, if it were only true! God above, grant that it were true!
Lily, haunted by this idea of a divorce which would set her free, had rummaged in Trampy’s trunk, among his programs and posters. It was full of letters, photographs of girls in outrageous hats, in tucked-up skirts, in tights, with inscriptions. All this dated back to before the marriage, a collection of treasures which he had not had the courage to destroy. She had hoped to find some proof, some clue; but no, there was nothing serious in it. Lily did not give up, for all that; on the contrary. After the visit to Jimmy, which made Trampy so meanly jealous, she lost no opportunity of inquiring. But Martello himself, the father, never had news of his daughter. He hadn’t heard for ever so long; and it was to no avail that Lily asked about Ave Maria, the one who ran away with a man, a great artiste; she always received the same reply:
“Ave Maria? Don’t know the name. Ave Maria? Haven’t seen her since ...”
But Jimmy, always; Jimmy here, Jimmy there; they talked about him all the time: his ideas; something new he had invented; something no one had ever seen: much cleverer than “Bridging the Abyss,” it seemed; but nobody knew what.
“I know!” said Lily, with a well-informed air and very proud of knowing Jimmy and of letting people think ...
“Do you know Jimmy?”
“Ever since I was that high,” answered Lily. “He used to hold me on his knees.”
“And what is his new trick?”
“I’m not allowed to tell. He asked me not to say.”
Everybody praised her for her discretion. The sympathy with which she was surrounded increased.