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The King In Yellow

R >> Robert W. Chambers >> The King In Yellow




"I don't," said Clifford, very red.

"You do, and it becomes you," she retorted with a faint smile. Then again,
very quietly, "I am in your power, but I know I am in the power of a
friend. I have come to acknowledge it to you here,--and it is because of
that that I am here to beg of you--a--a favour."

Clifford opened his eyes, but said nothing.

"I am in--great distress of mind. It is Monsieur Hastings."

"Well?" said Clifford, in some astonishment.

"I want to ask you," she continued in a low voice, "I want to ask you
to--to--in case you should speak of me before him,--not to say,--not to
say,--"

"I shall not speak of you to him," he said quietly.

"Can--can you prevent others?"

"I might if I was present. May I ask why?"

"That is not fair," she murmured; "you know how--how he considers me,--as
he considers every woman. You know how different he is from you and the
rest. I have never seen a man,--such a man as Monsieur Hastings."

He let his cigarette go out unnoticed.

"I am almost afraid of him--afraid he should know--what we all are in the
Quarter. Oh, I do not wish him to know! I do not wish him to--to turn from
me--to cease from speaking to me as he does! You--you and the rest cannot
know what it has been to me. I could not believe him,--I could not believe
he was so good and--and noble. I do not wish him to know--so soon. He will
find out--sooner or later, he will find out for himself, and then he will
turn away from me. Why!" she cried passionately, "why should he turn from
me and not from _you_?"

Clifford, much embarrassed, eyed his cigarette.

The girl rose, very white. "He is your friend--you have a right to warn
him."

"He is my friend," he said at length.

They looked at each other in silence.

Then she cried, "By all that I hold to me most sacred, you need not warn
him!"

"I shall trust your word," he said pleasantly.




V

The month passed quickly for Hastings, and left few definite impressions
after it. It did leave some, however. One was a painful impression of
meeting Mr. Bladen on the Boulevard des Capucines in company with a very
pronounced young person whose laugh dismayed him, and when at last he
escaped from the café where Mr. Bladen had hauled him to join them in a
_bock_ he felt as if the whole boulevard was looking at him, and judging
him by his company. Later, an instinctive conviction regarding the young
person with Mr. Bladen sent the hot blood into his cheek, and he returned
to the pension in such a miserable state of mind that Miss Byng was
alarmed and advised him to conquer his homesickness at once.

Another impression was equally vivid. One Saturday morning, feeling
lonely, his wanderings about the city brought him to the Gare St. Lazare.
It was early for breakfast, but he entered the Hôtel Terminus and took a
table near the window. As he wheeled about to give his order, a man
passing rapidly along the aisle collided with his head, and looking up to
receive the expected apology, he was met instead by a slap on the shoulder
and a hearty, "What the deuce are you doing here, old chap?" It was
Rowden, who seized him and told him to come along. So, mildly protesting,
he was ushered into a private dining-room where Clifford, rather red,
jumped up from the table and welcomed him with a startled air which was
softened by the unaffected glee of Rowden and the extreme courtesy of
Elliott. The latter presented him to three bewitching girls who welcomed
him so charmingly and seconded Rowden in his demand that Hastings should
make one of the party, that he consented at once. While Elliott briefly
outlined the projected excursion to La Roche, Hastings delightedly ate his
omelet, and returned the smiles of encouragement from Cécile and Colette
and Jacqueline. Meantime Clifford in a bland whisper was telling Rowden
what an ass he was. Poor Rowden looked miserable until Elliott, divining
how affairs were turning, frowned on Clifford and found a moment to let
Rowden know that they were all going to make the best of it.

"You shut up," he observed to Clifford, "it's fate, and that settles it."

"It's Rowden, and that settles it," murmured Clifford, concealing a grin.
For after all he was not Hastings' wet nurse. So it came about that the
train which left the Gare St. Lazare at 9.15 a.m. stopped a moment in its
career towards Havre and deposited at the red-roofed station of La Roche a
merry party, armed with sunshades, trout-rods, and one cane, carried by
the non-combatant, Hastings. Then, when they had established their camp in
a grove of sycamores which bordered the little river Ept, Clifford, the
acknowledged master of all that pertained to sportsmanship, took command.

"You, Rowden," he said, "divide your flies with Elliott and keep an eye on
him or else he'll be trying to put on a float and sinker. Prevent him by
force from grubbing about for worms."

Elliott protested, but was forced to smile in the general laugh.

"You make me ill," he asserted; "do you think this is my first trout?"

"I shall be delighted to see your first trout," said Clifford, and dodging
a fly hook, hurled with intent to hit, proceeded to sort and equip three
slender rods destined to bring joy and fish to Cécil, Colette, and
Jacqueline. With perfect gravity he ornamented each line with four split
shot, a small hook, and a brilliant quill float.

"_I_ shall never touch the worms," announced Cécile with a shudder.

Jacqueline and Colette hastened to sustain her, and Hastings pleasantly
offered to act in the capacity of general baiter and taker-off of fish.
But Cécile, doubtless fascinated by the gaudy flies in Clifford's book,
decided to accept lessons from him in the true art, and presently
disappeared up the Ept with Clifford in tow.

Elliott looked doubtfully at Colette.

"I prefer gudgeons," said that damsel with decision, "and you and Monsieur
Rowden may go away when you please; may they not, Jacqueline?"

"Certainly," responded Jacqueline.

Elliott, undecided, examined his rod and reel.

"You've got your reel on wrong side up," observed Rowden.

Elliott wavered, and stole a glance at Colette.

"I--I--have almost decided to--er--not to flip the flies about just now,"
he began. "There's the pole that Cécile left--"

"Don't call it a pole," corrected Rowden.

"_Rod_, then," continued Elliott, and started off in the wake of the two
girls, but was promptly collared by Rowden.

"No, you don't! Fancy a man fishing with a float and sinker when he has a
fly rod in his hand! You come along!"

Where the placid little Ept flows down between its thickets to the Seine,
a grassy bank shadows the haunt of the gudgeon, and on this bank sat
Colette and Jacqueline and chattered and laughed and watched the swerving
of the scarlet quills, while Hastings, his hat over his eyes, his head on
a bank of moss, listened to their soft voices and gallantly unhooked the
small and indignant gudgeon when a flash of a rod and a half-suppressed
scream announced a catch. The sunlight filtered through the leafy thickets
awaking to song the forest birds. Magpies in spotless black and white
flirted past, alighting near by with a hop and bound and twitch of the
tail. Blue and white jays with rosy breasts shrieked through the trees,
and a low-sailing hawk wheeled among the fields of ripening wheat, putting
to flight flocks of twittering hedge birds.

Across the Seine a gull dropped on the water like a plume. The air was
pure and still. Scarcely a leaf moved. Sounds from a distant farm came
faintly, the shrill cock-crow and dull baying. Now and then a steam-tug
with big raking smoke-pipe, bearing the name "Guêpe 27," ploughed up the
river dragging its interminable train of barges, or a sailboat dropped
down with the current toward sleepy Rouen.

A faint fresh odour of earth and water hung in the air, and through the
sunlight, orange-tipped butterflies danced above the marsh grass, soft
velvety butterflies flapped through the mossy woods.

Hastings was thinking of Valentine. It was two o'clock when Elliott
strolled back, and frankly admitting that he had eluded Rowden, sat down
beside Colette and prepared to doze with satisfaction.

"Where are your trout?" said Colette severely.

"They still live," murmured Elliott, and went fast asleep.

Rowden returned shortly after, and casting a scornful glance at the
slumbering one, displayed three crimson-flecked trout.

"And that," smiled Hastings lazily, "that is the holy end to which the
faithful plod,--the slaughter of these small fish with a bit of silk and
feather."

Rowden disdained to answer him. Colette caught another gudgeon and awoke
Elliott, who protested and gazed about for the lunch baskets, as Clifford
and Cécile came up demanding instant refreshment. Cécile's skirts were
soaked, and her gloves torn, but she was happy, and Clifford, dragging out
a two-pound trout, stood still to receive the applause of the company.

"Where the deuce did you get that?" demanded Elliott.

Cécile, wet and enthusiastic, recounted the battle, and then Clifford
eulogized her powers with the fly, and, in proof, produced from his creel
a defunct chub, which, he observed, just missed being a trout.

They were all very happy at luncheon, and Hastings was voted "charming."
He enjoyed it immensely,--only it seemed to him at moments that flirtation
went further in France than in Millbrook, Connecticut, and he thought that
Cécile might be a little less enthusiastic about Clifford, that perhaps it
would be quite as well if Jacqueline sat further away from Rowden, and
that possibly Colette could have, for a moment at least, taken her eyes
from Elliott's face. Still he enjoyed it--except when his thoughts drifted
to Valentine, and then he felt that he was very far away from her. La
Roche is at least an hour and a half from Paris. It is also true that he
felt a happiness, a quick heart-beat when, at eight o'clock that night the
train which bore them from La Roche rolled into the Gare St. Lazare and he
was once more in the city of Valentine.

"Good-night," they said, pressing around him. "You must come with us next
time!"

He promised, and watched them, two by two, drift into the darkening city,
and stood so long that, when again he raised his eyes, the vast Boulevard
was twinkling with gas-jets through which the electric lights stared like
moons.




VI

It was with another quick heart-beat that he awoke next morning, for his
first thought was of Valentine.

The sun already gilded the towers of Notre Dame, the clatter of workmen's
sabots awoke sharp echoes in the street below, and across the way a
blackbird in a pink almond tree was going into an ecstasy of trills.

He determined to awake Clifford for a brisk walk in the country, hoping
later to beguile that gentleman into the American church for his soul's
sake. He found Alfred the gimlet-eyed washing the asphalt walk which led
to the studio.

"Monsieur Elliott?" he replied to the perfunctory inquiry, "_je ne sais
pas_."

"And Monsieur Clifford," began Hastings, somewhat astonished.

"Monsieur Clifford," said the concierge with fine irony, "will be pleased
to see you, as he retired early; in fact he has just come in."

Hastings hesitated while the concierge pronounced a fine eulogy on people
who never stayed out all night and then came battering at the lodge gate
during hours which even a gendarme held sacred to sleep. He also
discoursed eloquently upon the beauties of temperance, and took an
ostentatious draught from the fountain in the court.

"I do not think I will come in," said Hastings.

"Pardon, monsieur," growled the concierge, "perhaps it would be well to
see Monsieur Clifford. He possibly needs aid. Me he drives forth with
hair-brushes and boots. It is a mercy if he has not set fire to something
with his candle."

Hastings hesitated for an instant, but swallowing his dislike of such a
mission, walked slowly through the ivy-covered alley and across the inner
garden to the studio. He knocked. Perfect silence. Then he knocked again,
and this time something struck the door from within with a crash.

"That," said the concierge, "was a boot." He fitted his duplicate key into
the lock and ushered Hastings in. Clifford, in disordered evening dress,
sat on the rug in the middle of the room. He held in his hand a shoe, and
did not appear astonished to see Hastings.

"Good-morning, do you use Pears' soap?" he inquired with a vague wave of
his hand and a vaguer smile.

Hastings' heart sank. "For Heaven's sake," he said, "Clifford, go to bed."

"Not while that--that Alfred pokes his shaggy head in here an' I have a
shoe left."

Hastings blew out the candle, picked up Clifford's hat and cane, and said,
with an emotion he could not conceal, "This is terrible,
Clifford,--I--never knew you did this sort of thing."

"Well, I do," said Clifford.

"Where is Elliott?"

"Ole chap," returned Clifford, becoming maudlin, "Providence which
feeds--feeds--er--sparrows an' that sort of thing watcheth over the
intemperate wanderer--"

"Where is Elliott?"

But Clifford only wagged his head and waved his arm about. "He's out
there,--somewhere about." Then suddenly feeling a desire to see his
missing chum, lifted up his voice and howled for him.

Hastings, thoroughly shocked, sat down on the lounge without a word.
Presently, after shedding several scalding tears, Clifford brightened up
and rose with great precaution.

"Ole chap," he observed, "do you want to see er--er miracle? Well, here
goes. I'm goin' to begin."

He paused, beaming at vacancy.

"Er miracle," he repeated.

Hastings supposed he was alluding to the miracle of his keeping his
balance, and said nothing.

"I'm goin' to bed," he announced, "poor ole Clifford's goin' to bed, an'
that's er miracle!"

And he did with a nice calculation of distance and equilibrium which would
have rung enthusiastic yells of applause from Elliott had he been there to
assist _en connaisseur_. But he was not. He had not yet reached the
studio. He was on his way, however, and smiled with magnificent
condescension on Hastings, who, half an hour later, found him reclining
upon a bench in the Luxembourg. He permitted himself to be aroused, dusted
and escorted to the gate. Here, however, he refused all further
assistance, and bestowing a patronizing bow upon Hastings, steered a
tolerably true course for the rue Vavin.

Hastings watched him out of sight, and then slowly retraced his steps
toward the fountain. At first he felt gloomy and depressed, but gradually
the clear air of the morning lifted the pressure from his heart, and he
sat down on the marble seat under the shadow of the winged god.

The air was fresh and sweet with perfume from the orange flowers.
Everywhere pigeons were bathing, dashing the water over their iris-hued
breasts, flashing in and out of the spray or nestling almost to the neck
along the polished basin. The sparrows, too, were abroad in force, soaking
their dust-coloured feathers in the limpid pool and chirping with might
and main. Under the sycamores which surrounded the duck-pond opposite the
fountain of Marie de Medici, the water-fowl cropped the herbage, or
waddled in rows down the bank to embark on some solemn aimless cruise.

Butterflies, somewhat lame from a chilly night's repose under the lilac
leaves, crawled over and over the white phlox, or took a rheumatic flight
toward some sun-warmed shrub. The bees were already busy among the
heliotrope, and one or two grey flies with brick-coloured eyes sat in a
spot of sunlight beside the marble seat, or chased each other about, only
to return again to the spot of sunshine and rub their fore-legs, exulting.

The sentries paced briskly before the painted boxes, pausing at times to
look toward the guard-house for their relief.

They came at last, with a shuffle of feet and click of bayonets, the word
was passed, the relief fell out, and away they went, crunch, crunch,
across the gravel.

A mellow chime floated from the clock-tower of the palace, the deep bell
of St. Sulpice echoed the stroke. Hastings sat dreaming in the shadow of
the god, and while he mused somebody came and sat down beside him. At
first he did not raise his head. It was only when she spoke that he sprang
up.

"You! At this hour?"

"I was restless, I could not sleep." Then in a low, happy voice--"And
_you!_ at this hour?"

"I--I slept, but the sun awoke me."

"_I_ could not sleep," she said, and her eyes seemed, for a moment,
touched with an indefinable shadow. Then, smiling, "I am so glad--I seemed
to know you were coming. Don't laugh, I believe in dreams."

"Did you really dream of,--of my being here?"

"I think I was awake when I dreamed it," she admitted. Then for a time
they were mute, acknowledging by silence the happiness of being together.
And after all their silence was eloquent, for faint smiles, and glances
born of their thoughts, crossed and recrossed, until lips moved and words
were formed, which seemed almost superfluous. What they said was not very
profound. Perhaps the most valuable jewel that fell from Hastings' lips
bore direct reference to breakfast.

"I have not yet had my chocolate," she confessed, "but what a material man
you are."

"Valentine," he said impulsively, "I wish,--I do wish that you
would,--just for this once,--give me the whole day,--just for this once."

"Oh dear," she smiled, "not only material, but selfish!"

"Not selfish, hungry," he said, looking at her.

"A cannibal too; oh dear!"

"Will you, Valentine?"

"But my chocolate--"

"Take it with me."

"But _déjeuner_--"

"Together, at St. Cloud."

"But I can't--"

"Together,--all day,--all day long; will you, Valentine?"

She was silent.

"Only for this once."

Again that indefinable shadow fell across her eyes, and when it was gone
she sighed. "Yes,--together, only for this once."

"All day?" he said, doubting his happiness.

"All day," she smiled; "and oh, I am so hungry!"

He laughed, enchanted.

"What a material young lady it is."

On the Boulevard St. Michel there is a Crémerie painted white and blue
outside, and neat and clean as a whistle inside. The auburn-haired young
woman who speaks French like a native, and rejoices in the name of Murphy,
smiled at them as they entered, and tossing a fresh napkin over the zinc
_tête-à-tête_ table, whisked before them two cups of chocolate and a
basket full of crisp, fresh croissons.

The primrose-coloured pats of butter, each stamped with a shamrock in
relief, seemed saturated with the fragrance of Normandy pastures.

"How delicious!" they said in the same breath, and then laughed at the
coincidence.

"With but a single thought," he began.

"How absurd!" she cried with cheeks all rosy. "I'm thinking I'd like a
croisson."

"So am I," he replied triumphant, "that proves it."

Then they had a quarrel; she accusing him of behaviour unworthy of a child
in arms, and he denying it, and bringing counter charges, until
Mademoiselle Murphy laughed in sympathy, and the last croisson was eaten
under a flag of truce. Then they rose, and she took his arm with a bright
nod to Mile. Murphy, who cried them a merry: "_Bonjour, madame! bonjour,
monsieur_!" and watched them hail a passing cab and drive away. "_Dieu!
qu'il est beau_," she sighed, adding after a moment, "Do they be married,
I dunno,--_ma foi ils ont bien l'air_."

The cab swung around the rue de Medici, turned into the rue de Vaugirard,
followed it to where it crosses the rue de Rennes, and taking that noisy
thoroughfare, drew up before the Gare Montparnasse. They were just in time
for a train and scampered up the stairway and out to the cars as the last
note from the starting-gong rang through the arched station. The guard
slammed the door of their compartment, a whistle sounded, answered by a
screech from the locomotive, and the long train glided from the station,
faster, faster, and sped out into the morning sunshine. The summer wind
blew in their faces from the open window, and sent the soft hair dancing
on the girl's forehead.

"We have the compartment to ourselves," said Hastings.

She leaned against the cushioned window-seat, her eyes bright and wide
open, her lips parted. The wind lifted her hat, and fluttered the ribbons
under her chin. With a quick movement she untied them, and, drawing a long
hat-pin from her hat, laid it down on the seat beside her. The train was
flying.

The colour surged in her cheeks, and, with each quick-drawn breath, her
breath rose and fell under the cluster of lilies at her throat. Trees,
houses, ponds, danced past, cut by a mist of telegraph poles.

"Faster! faster!" she cried.

His eyes never left her, but hers, wide open, and blue as the summer sky,
seemed fixed on something far ahead,--something which came no nearer, but
fled before them as they fled.

Was it the horizon, cut now by the grim fortress on the hill, now by the
cross of a country chapel? Was it the summer moon, ghost-like, slipping
through the vaguer blue above?

"Faster! faster!" she cried.

Her parted lips burned scarlet.

The car shook and shivered, and the fields streamed by like an emerald
torrent. He caught the excitement, and his faced glowed.

"Oh," she cried, and with an unconscious movement caught his hand, drawing
him to the window beside her. "Look! lean out with me!"

He only saw her lips move; her voice was drowned in the roar of a trestle,
but his hand closed in hers and he clung to the sill. The wind whistled in
their ears. "Not so far out, Valentine, take care!" he gasped.

Below, through the ties of the trestle, a broad river flashed into view
and out again, as the train thundered along a tunnel, and away once more
through the freshest of green fields. The wind roared about them. The girl
was leaning far out from the window, and he caught her by the waist,
crying, "Not too far!" but she only murmured, "Faster! faster! away out of
the city, out of the land, faster, faster! away out of the world!"

"What are you saying all to yourself?" he said, but his voice was broken,
and the wind whirled it back into his throat.

She heard him, and, turning from the window looked down at his arm about
her. Then she raised her eyes to his. The car shook and the windows
rattled. They were dashing through a forest now, and the sun swept the
dewy branches with running flashes of fire. He looked into her troubled
eyes; he drew her to him and kissed the half-parted lips, and she cried
out, a bitter, hopeless cry, "Not that--not that!"

But he held her close and strong, whispering words of honest love and
passion, and when she sobbed--"Not that--not that--I have promised! You
must--you must know--I am--not--worthy--" In the purity of his own heart
her words were, to him, meaningless then, meaningless for ever after.
Presently her voice ceased, and her head rested on his breast. He leaned
against the window, his ears swept by the furious wind, his heart in a
joyous tumult. The forest was passed, and the sun slipped from behind the
trees, flooding the earth again with brightness. She raised her eyes and
looked out into the world from the window. Then she began to speak, but
her voice was faint, and he bent his head close to hers and listened. "I
cannot turn from you; I am too weak. You were long ago my master--master
of my heart and soul. I have broken my word to one who trusted me, but I
have told you all;--what matters the rest?" He smiled at her innocence and
she worshipped his. She spoke again: "Take me or cast me away;--what
matters it? Now with a word you can kill me, and it might be easier to die
than to look upon happiness as great as mine."

He took her in his arms, "Hush, what are you saying? Look,--look out at
the sunlight, the meadows and the streams. We shall be very happy in so
bright a world."

She turned to the sunlight. From the window, the world below seemed very
fair to her.

Trembling with happiness, she sighed: "Is this the world? Then I have
never known it"

"Nor have I, God forgive me," he murmured.

Perhaps it was our gentle Lady of the Fields who forgave them both.




RUE BARRÉE

"For let Philosopher and Doctor preach
Of what they will and what they will not,--each
Is but one link in an eternal chain
That none can slip nor break nor over-reach."

"Crimson nor yellow roses nor
The savour of the mounting sea
Are worth the perfume I adore
That clings to thee.
The languid-headed lilies tire,
The changeless waters weary me;
I ache with passionate desire
Of thine and thee.
There are but these things in the world--
Thy mouth of fire,
Thy breasts, thy hands, thy hair upcurled
And my desire."


I

One morning at Julian's, a student said to Selby, "That is Foxhall
Clifford," pointing with his brushes at a young man who sat before an
easel, doing nothing.

Selby, shy and nervous, walked over and began: "My name is Selby,--I have
just arrived in Paris, and bring a letter of introduction--" His voice was
lost in the crash of a falling easel, the owner of which promptly
assaulted his neighbour, and for a time the noise of battle rolled through
the studios of MM. Boulanger and Lefebvre, presently subsiding into a
scuffle on the stairs outside. Selby, apprehensive as to his own reception
in the studio, looked at Clifford, who sat serenely watching the fight.

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