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The King In Yellow

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




"It's a little noisy here," said Clifford, "but you will like the fellows
when you know them." His unaffected manner delighted Selby. Then with a
simplicity that won his heart, he presented him to half a dozen students
of as many nationalities. Some were cordial, all were polite. Even the
majestic creature who held the position of Massier, unbent enough to say:
"My friend, when a man speaks French as well as you do, and is also a
friend of Monsieur Clifford, he will have no trouble in this studio. You
expect, of course, to fill the stove until the next new man comes?"

"Of course."

"And you don't mind chaff?"

"No," replied Selby, who hated it.

Clifford, much amused, put on his hat, saying, "You must expect lots of it
at first."

Selby placed his own hat on his head and followed him to the door.

As they passed the model stand there was a furious cry of "Chapeau!
Chapeau!" and a student sprang from his easel menacing Selby, who reddened
but looked at Clifford.

"Take off your hat for them," said the latter, laughing.

A little embarrassed, he turned and saluted the studio.

"Et moi?" cried the model.

"You are charming," replied Selby, astonished at his own audacity, but the
studio rose as one man, shouting: "He has done well! he's all right!"
while the model, laughing, kissed her hand to him and cried: "À demain
beau jeune homme!"

All that week Selby worked at the studio unmolested. The French students
christened him "l'Enfant Prodigue," which was freely translated, "The
Prodigious Infant," "The Kid," "Kid Selby," and "Kidby." But the disease
soon ran its course from "Kidby" to "Kidney," and then naturally to
"Tidbits," where it was arrested by Clifford's authority and ultimately
relapsed to "Kid."

Wednesday came, and with it M. Boulanger. For three hours the students
writhed under his biting sarcasms,--among the others Clifford, who was
informed that he knew even less about a work of art than he did about the
art of work. Selby was more fortunate. The professor examined his drawing
in silence, looked at him sharply, and passed on with a non-committal
gesture. He presently departed arm in arm with Bouguereau, to the relief
of Clifford, who was then at liberty to jam his hat on his head and
depart.

The next day he did not appear, and Selby, who had counted on seeing him
at the studio, a thing which he learned later it was vanity to count on,
wandered back to the Latin Quarter alone.

Paris was still strange and new to him. He was vaguely troubled by its
splendour. No tender memories stirred his American bosom at the Place du
Châtelet, nor even by Notre Dame. The Palais de Justice with its clock and
turrets and stalking sentinels in blue and vermilion, the Place St. Michel
with its jumble of omnibuses and ugly water-spitting griffins, the hill of
the Boulevard St. Michel, the tooting trams, the policemen dawdling two by
two, and the table-lined terraces of the Café Vacehett were nothing to
him, as yet, nor did he even know, when he stepped from the stones of the
Place St. Michel to the asphalt of the Boulevard, that he had crossed the
frontier and entered the student zone,--the famous Latin Quarter.

A cabman hailed him as "bourgeois," and urged the superiority of driving
over walking. A gamin, with an appearance of great concern, requested the
latest telegraphic news from London, and then, standing on his head,
invited Selby to feats of strength. A pretty girl gave him a glance from a
pair of violet eyes. He did not see her, but she, catching her own
reflection in a window, wondered at the colour burning in her cheeks.
Turning to resume her course, she met Foxhall Clifford, and hurried on.
Clifford, open-mouthed, followed her with his eyes; then he looked after
Selby, who had turned into the Boulevard St. Germain toward the rue de
Seine. Then he examined himself in the shop window. The result seemed to
be unsatisfactory.

"I'm not a beauty," he mused, "but neither am I a hobgoblin. What does she
mean by blushing at Selby? I never before saw her look at a fellow in my
life,--neither has any one in the Quarter. Anyway, I can swear she never
looks at me, and goodness knows I have done all that respectful adoration
can do."

He sighed, and murmuring a prophecy concerning the salvation of his
immortal soul swung into that graceful lounge which at all times
characterized Clifford. With no apparent exertion, he overtook Selby at
the corner, and together they crossed the sunlit Boulevard and sat down
under the awning of the Café du Cercle. Clifford bowed to everybody on the
terrace, saying, "You shall meet them all later, but now let me present
you to two of the sights of Paris, Mr. Richard Elliott and Mr. Stanley
Rowden."

The "sights" looked amiable, and took vermouth.

"You cut the studio to-day," said Elliott, suddenly turning on Clifford,
who avoided his eyes.

"To commune with nature?" observed Rowden.

"What's her name this time?" asked Elliott, and Rowden answered promptly,
"Name, Yvette; nationality, Breton--"

"Wrong," replied Clifford blandly, "it's Rue Barrée."

The subject changed instantly, and Selby listened in surprise to names
which were new to him, and eulogies on the latest Prix de Rome winner. He
was delighted to hear opinions boldly expressed and points honestly
debated, although the vehicle was mostly slang, both English and French.
He longed for the time when he too should be plunged into the strife for
fame.

The bells of St. Sulpice struck the hour, and the Palace of the Luxembourg
answered chime on chime. With a glance at the sun, dipping low in the
golden dust behind the Palais Bourbon, they rose, and turning to the east,
crossed the Boulevard St. Germain and sauntered toward the École de
Médecine. At the corner a girl passed them, walking hurriedly. Clifford
smirked, Elliot and Rowden were agitated, but they all bowed, and, without
raising her eyes, she returned their salute. But Selby, who had lagged
behind, fascinated by some gay shop window, looked up to meet two of the
bluest eyes he had ever seen. The eyes were dropped in an instant, and the
young fellow hastened to overtake the others.

"By Jove," he said, "do you fellows know I have just seen the prettiest
girl--" An exclamation broke from the trio, gloomy, foreboding, like the
chorus in a Greek play.

"Rue Barrée!"

"What!" cried Selby, bewildered.

The only answer was a vague gesture from Clifford.

Two hours later, during dinner, Clifford turned to Selby and said, "You
want to ask me something; I can tell by the way you fidget about."

"Yes, I do," he said, innocently enough; "it's about that girl. Who is
she?"

In Rowden's smile there was pity, in Elliott's bitterness.

"Her name," said Clifford solemnly, "is unknown to any one, at least," he
added with much conscientiousness, "as far as I can learn. Every fellow in
the Quarter bows to her and she returns the salute gravely, but no man has
ever been known to obtain more than that. Her profession, judging from her
music-roll, is that of a pianist. Her residence is in a small and humble
street which is kept in a perpetual process of repair by the city
authorities, and from the black letters painted on the barrier which
defends the street from traffic, she has taken the name by which we know
her,--Rue Barrée. Mr. Rowden, in his imperfect knowledge of the French
tongue, called our attention to it as Roo Barry--"

"I didn't," said Rowden hotly.

"And Roo Barry, or Rue Barrée, is to-day an object of adoration to every
rapin in the Quarter--"

"We are not rapins," corrected Elliott.

"_I_ am not," returned Clifford, "and I beg to call to your attention,
Selby, that these two gentlemen have at various and apparently unfortunate
moments, offered to lay down life and limb at the feet of Rue Barrée. The
lady possesses a chilling smile which she uses on such occasions and,"
here he became gloomily impressive, "I have been forced to believe that
neither the scholarly grace of my friend Elliott nor the buxom beauty of
my friend Rowden have touched that heart of ice."

Elliott and Rowden, boiling with indignation, cried out, "And you!"

"I," said Clifford blandly, "do fear to tread where you rush in."




II

Twenty-four hours later Selby had completely forgotten Rue Barrée. During
the week he worked with might and main at the studio, and Saturday night
found him so tired that he went to bed before dinner and had a nightmare
about a river of yellow ochre in which he was drowning. Sunday morning,
apropos of nothing at all, he thought of Rue Barrée, and ten seconds
afterwards he saw her. It was at the flower-market on the marble bridge.
She was examining a pot of pansies. The gardener had evidently thrown
heart and soul into the transaction, but Rue Barrée shook her head.

It is a question whether Selby would have stopped then and there to
inspect a cabbage-rose had not Clifford unwound for him the yarn of the
previous Tuesday. It is possible that his curiosity was piqued, for with
the exception of a hen-turkey, a boy of nineteen is the most openly
curious biped alive. From twenty until death he tries to conceal it. But,
to be fair to Selby, it is also true that the market was attractive. Under
a cloudless sky the flowers were packed and heaped along the marble bridge
to the parapet. The air was soft, the sun spun a shadowy lacework among
the palms and glowed in the hearts of a thousand roses. Spring had
come,--was in full tide. The watering carts and sprinklers spread
freshness over the Boulevard, the sparrows had become vulgarly obtrusive,
and the credulous Seine angler anxiously followed his gaudy quill floating
among the soapsuds of the lavoirs. The white-spiked chestnuts clad in
tender green vibrated with the hum of bees. Shoddy butterflies flaunted
their winter rags among the heliotrope. There was a smell of fresh earth
in the air, an echo of the woodland brook in the ripple of the Seine, and
swallows soared and skimmed among the anchored river craft. Somewhere in a
window a caged bird was singing its heart out to the sky.

Selby looked at the cabbage-rose and then at the sky. Something in the
song of the caged bird may have moved him, or perhaps it was that
dangerous sweetness in the air of May.

At first he was hardly conscious that he had stopped then he was scarcely
conscious why he had stopped, then he thought he would move on, then he
thought he wouldn't, then he looked at Rue Barrée.

The gardener said, "Mademoiselle, this is undoubtedly a fine pot of
pansies."

Rue Barrée shook her head.

The gardener smiled. She evidently did not want the pansies. She had
bought many pots of pansies there, two or three every spring, and never
argued. What did she want then? The pansies were evidently a feeler toward
a more important transaction. The gardener rubbed his hands and gazed
about him.

"These tulips are magnificent," he observed, "and these hyacinths--" He
fell into a trance at the mere sight of the scented thickets.

"That," murmured Rue, pointing to a splendid rose-bush with her furled
parasol, but in spite of her, her voice trembled a little. Selby noticed
it, more shame to him that he was listening, and the gardener noticed it,
and, burying his nose in the roses, scented a bargain. Still, to do him
justice, he did not add a centime to the honest value of the plant, for
after all, Rue was probably poor, and any one could see she was charming.

"Fifty francs, Mademoiselle."

The gardener's tone was grave. Rue felt that argument would be wasted.
They both stood silent for a moment. The gardener did not eulogize his
prize,--the rose-tree was gorgeous and any one could see it.

"I will take the pansies," said the girl, and drew two francs from a worn
purse. Then she looked up. A tear-drop stood in the way refracting the
light like a diamond, but as it rolled into a little corner by her nose a
vision of Selby replaced it, and when a brush of the handkerchief had
cleared the startled blue eyes, Selby himself appeared, very much
embarrassed. He instantly looked up into the sky, apparently devoured with
a thirst for astronomical research, and as he continued his investigations
for fully five minutes, the gardener looked up too, and so did a
policeman. Then Selby looked at the tips of his boots, the gardener looked
at him and the policeman slouched on. Rue Barrée had been gone some time.

"What," said the gardener, "may I offer Monsieur?"

Selby never knew why, but he suddenly began to buy flowers. The gardener
was electrified. Never before had he sold so many flowers, never at such
satisfying prices, and never, never with such absolute unanimity of
opinion with a customer. But he missed the bargaining, the arguing, the
calling of Heaven to witness. The transaction lacked spice.

"These tulips are magnificent!"

"They are!" cried Selby warmly.

"But alas, they are dear."

"I will take them."

"Dieu!" murmured the gardener in a perspiration, "he's madder than most
Englishmen."

"This cactus--"

"Is gorgeous!"

"Alas--"

"Send it with the rest."

The gardener braced himself against the river wall.

"That splendid rose-bush," he began faintly.

"That is a beauty. I believe it is fifty francs--"

He stopped, very red. The gardener relished his confusion. Then a sudden
cool self-possession took the place of his momentary confusion and he held
the gardener with his eye, and bullied him.

"I'll take that bush. Why did not the young lady buy it?"

"Mademoiselle is not wealthy."

"How do you know?"

"_Dame_, I sell her many pansies; pansies are not expensive."

"Those are the pansies she bought?"

"These, Monsieur, the blue and gold."

"Then you intend to send them to her?"

"At mid-day after the market."

"Take this rose-bush with them, and"--here he glared at the
gardener--"don't you dare say from whom they came." The gardener's eyes
were like saucers, but Selby, calm and victorious, said: "Send the others
to the Hôtel du Sénat, 7 rue de Tournon. I will leave directions with the
concierge."

Then he buttoned his glove with much dignity and stalked off, but when
well around the corner and hidden from the gardener's view, the conviction
that he was an idiot came home to him in a furious blush. Ten minutes
later he sat in his room in the Hôtel du Sénat repeating with an imbecile
smile: "What an ass I am, what an ass!"

An hour later found him in the same chair, in the same position, his hat
and gloves still on, his stick in his hand, but he was silent, apparently
lost in contemplation of his boot toes, and his smile was less imbecile
and even a bit retrospective.




III

About five o'clock that afternoon, the little sad-eyed woman who fills the
position of concierge at the Hôtel du Sénat held up her hands in amazement
to see a wagon-load of flower-bearing shrubs draw up before the doorway.
She called Joseph, the intemperate garçon, who, while calculating the
value of the flowers in _petits verres_, gloomily disclaimed any knowledge
as to their destination.

"_Voyons_," said the little concierge, "_cherchons la femme_!"

"You?" he suggested.

The little woman stood a moment pensive and then sighed. Joseph caressed
his nose, a nose which for gaudiness could vie with any floral display.

Then the gardener came in, hat in hand, and a few minutes later Selby
stood in the middle of his room, his coat off, his shirt-sleeves rolled
up. The chamber originally contained, besides the furniture, about two
square feet of walking room, and now this was occupied by a cactus. The
bed groaned under crates of pansies, lilies and heliotrope, the lounge was
covered with hyacinths and tulips, and the washstand supported a species
of young tree warranted to bear flowers at some time or other.

Clifford came in a little later, fell over a box of sweet peas, swore a
little, apologized, and then, as the full splendour of the floral _fête_
burst upon him, sat down in astonishment upon a geranium. The geranium was
a wreck, but Selby said, "Don't mind," and glared at the cactus.

"Are you going to give a ball?" demanded Clifford.

"N--no,--I'm very fond of flowers," said Selby, but the statement lacked
enthusiasm.

"I should imagine so." Then, after a silence, "That's a fine cactus."

Selby contemplated the cactus, touched it with the air of a connoisseur,
and pricked his thumb.

Clifford poked a pansy with his stick. Then Joseph came in with the bill,
announcing the sum total in a loud voice, partly to impress Clifford,
partly to intimidate Selby into disgorging a _pourboire_ which he would
share, if he chose, with the gardener. Clifford tried to pretend that he
had not heard, while Selby paid bill and tribute without a murmur. Then he
lounged back into the room with an attempt at indifference which failed
entirely when he tore his trousers on the cactus.

Clifford made some commonplace remark, lighted a cigarette and looked out
of the window to give Selby a chance. Selby tried to take it, but getting
as far as--"Yes, spring is here at last," froze solid. He looked at the
back of Clifford's head. It expressed volumes. Those little perked-up ears
seemed tingling with suppressed glee. He made a desperate effort to master
the situation, and jumped up to reach for some Russian cigarettes as an
incentive to conversation, but was foiled by the cactus, to whom again he
fell a prey. The last straw was added.

"Damn the cactus." This observation was wrung from Selby against his
will,--against his own instinct of self-preservation, but the thorns on
the cactus were long and sharp, and at their repeated prick his pent-up
wrath escaped. It was too late now; it was done, and Clifford had wheeled
around.

"See here, Selby, why the deuce did you buy those flowers?"

"I'm fond of them," said Selby.

"What are you going to do with them? You can't sleep here."

"I could, if you'd help me take the pansies off the bed."

"Where can you put them?"

"Couldn't I give them to the concierge?"

As soon as he said it he regretted it. What in Heaven's name would
Clifford think of him! He had heard the amount of the bill. Would he
believe that he had invested in these luxuries as a timid declaration to
his concierge? And would the Latin Quarter comment upon it in their own
brutal fashion? He dreaded ridicule and he knew Clifford's reputation.

Then somebody knocked.

Selby looked at Clifford with a hunted expression which touched that young
man's heart. It was a confession and at the same time a supplication.
Clifford jumped up, threaded his way through the floral labyrinth, and
putting an eye to the crack of the door, said, "Who the devil is it?"

This graceful style of reception is indigenous to the Quarter.

"It's Elliott," he said, looking back, "and Rowden too, and their
bulldogs." Then he addressed them through the crack.

"Sit down on the stairs; Selby and I are coming out directly."

Discretion is a virtue. The Latin Quarter possesses few, and discretion
seldom figures on the list. They sat down and began to whistle.

Presently Rowden called out, "I smell flowers. They feast within!"

"You ought to know Selby better than that," growled Clifford behind the
door, while the other hurriedly exchanged his torn trousers for others.

"_We_ know Selby," said Elliott with emphasis.

"Yes," said Rowden, "he gives receptions with floral decorations and
invites Clifford, while we sit on the stairs."

"Yes, while the youth and beauty of the Quarter revel," suggested Rowden;
then, with sudden misgiving; "Is Odette there?"

"See here," demanded Elliott, "is Colette there?"

Then he raised his voice in a plaintive howl, "Are you there, Colette,
while I'm kicking my heels on these tiles?"

"Clifford is capable of anything," said Rowden; "his nature is soured
since Rue Barrée sat on him."

Elliott raised his voice: "I say, you fellows, we saw some flowers carried
into Rue Barrée's house at noon."

"Posies and roses," specified Rowden.

"Probably for her," added Elliott, caressing his bulldog.

Clifford turned with sudden suspicion upon Selby. The latter hummed a
tune, selected a pair of gloves and, choosing a dozen cigarettes, placed
them in a case. Then walking over to the cactus, he deliberately detached
a blossom, drew it through his buttonhole, and picking up hat and stick,
smiled upon Clifford, at which the latter was mightily troubled.




IV

Monday morning at Julian's, students fought for places; students with
prior claims drove away others who had been anxiously squatting on coveted
tabourets since the door was opened in hopes of appropriating them at
roll-call; students squabbled over palettes, brushes, portfolios, or rent
the air with demands for Ciceri and bread. The former, a dirty ex-model,
who had in palmier days posed as Judas, now dispensed stale bread at one
sou and made enough to keep himself in cigarettes. Monsieur Julian walked
in, smiled a fatherly smile and walked out. His disappearance was followed
by the apparition of the clerk, a foxy creature who flitted through the
battling hordes in search of prey.

Three men who had not paid dues were caught and summoned. A fourth was
scented, followed, outflanked, his retreat towards the door cut off, and
finally captured behind the stove. About that time, the revolution
assuming an acute form, howls rose for "Jules!"

Jules came, umpired two fights with a sad resignation in his big brown
eyes, shook hands with everybody and melted away in the throng, leaving an
atmosphere of peace and good-will. The lions sat down with the lambs, the
massiers marked the best places for themselves and friends, and, mounting
the model stands, opened the roll-calls.

The word was passed, "They begin with C this week."

They did.

"Clisson!"

Clisson jumped like a flash and marked his name on the floor in chalk
before a front seat.

"Caron!"

Caron galloped away to secure his place. Bang! went an easel. "_Nom de
Dieu_!" in French,--"Where in h--l are you goin'!" in English. Crash! a
paintbox fell with brushes and all on board. "_Dieu de Dieu de_--" spat! A
blow, a short rush, a clinch and scuffle, and the voice of the massier,
stern and reproachful:

"Cochon!"

Then the roll-call was resumed.

"Clifford!"

The massier paused and looked up, one finger between the leaves of the
ledger.

"Clifford!"

Clifford was not there. He was about three miles away in a direct line and
every instant increased the distance. Not that he was walking fast,--on
the contrary, he was strolling with that leisurely gait peculiar to
himself. Elliott was beside him and two bulldogs covered the rear. Elliott
was reading the "Gil Blas," from which he seemed to extract amusement, but
deeming boisterous mirth unsuitable to Clifford's state of mind, subdued
his amusement to a series of discreet smiles. The latter, moodily aware of
this, said nothing, but leading the way into the Luxembourg Gardens
installed himself upon a bench by the northern terrace and surveyed the
landscape with disfavour. Elliott, according to the Luxembourg
regulations, tied the two dogs and then, with an interrogative glance
toward his friend, resumed the "Gil Blas" and the discreet smiles.

The day was perfect. The sun hung over Notre Dame, setting the city in a
glitter. The tender foliage of the chestnuts cast a shadow over the
terrace and flecked the paths and walks with tracery so blue that Clifford
might here have found encouragement for his violent "impressions" had he
but looked; but as usual in this period of his career, his thoughts were
anywhere except in his profession. Around about, the sparrows quarrelled
and chattered their courtship songs, the big rosy pigeons sailed from tree
to tree, the flies whirled in the sunbeams and the flowers exhaled a
thousand perfumes which stirred Clifford with languorous wistfulness.
Under this influence he spoke.

"Elliott, you are a true friend--"

"You make me ill," replied the latter, folding his paper. "It's just as I
thought,--you are tagging after some new petticoat again. And," he
continued wrathfully, "if this is what you've kept me away from Julian's
for,--if it's to fill me up with the perfections of some little idiot--"

"Not idiot," remonstrated Clifford gently.

"See here," cried Elliott, "have you the nerve to try to tell me that you
are in love again?"

"Again?"

"Yes, again and again and again and--by George have you?"

"This," observed Clifford sadly, "is serious."

For a moment Elliott would have laid hands on him, then he laughed from
sheer helplessness. "Oh, go on, go on; let's see, there's Clémence and
Marie Tellec and Cosette and Fifine, Colette, Marie Verdier--"

"All of whom are charming, most charming, but I never was serious--"

"So help me, Moses," said Elliott, solemnly, "each and every one of those
named have separately and in turn torn your heart with anguish and have
also made me lose my place at Julian's in this same manner; each and every
one, separately and in turn. Do you deny it?"

"What you say may be founded on facts--in a way--but give me the credit of
being faithful to one at a time--"

"Until the next came along."

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