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The King In Yellow

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




"THE IMPERIAL DYNASTY OF AMERICA."

One by one I studied the well-worn pages, worn only by my own handling,
and although I knew all by heart, from the beginning, "When from Carcosa,
the Hyades, Hastur, and Aldebaran," to "Castaigne, Louis de Calvados,
born December 19th, 1877," I read it with an eager, rapt attention,
pausing to repeat parts of it aloud, and dwelling especially on "Hildred
de Calvados, only son of Hildred Castaigne and Edythe Landes Castaigne,
first in succession," etc., etc.

When I finished, Mr. Wilde nodded and coughed.

"Speaking of your legitimate ambition," he said, "how do Constance and
Louis get along?"

"She loves him," I replied simply.

The cat on his knee suddenly turned and struck at his eyes, and he flung
her off and climbed on to the chair opposite me.

"And Dr. Archer! But that's a matter you can settle any time you wish,"
he added.

"Yes," I replied, "Dr. Archer can wait, but it is time I saw my cousin
Louis."

"It is time," he repeated. Then he took another ledger from the table and
ran over the leaves rapidly. "We are now in communication with ten
thousand men," he muttered. "We can count on one hundred thousand within
the first twenty-eight hours, and in forty-eight hours the state will
rise _en masse_. The country follows the state, and the portion that
will not, I mean California and the Northwest, might better never have
been inhabited. I shall not send them the Yellow Sign."

The blood rushed to my head, but I only answered, "A new broom sweeps
clean."

"The ambition of Caesar and of Napoleon pales before that which could not
rest until it had seized the minds of men and controlled even their
unborn thoughts," said Mr. Wilde.

"You are speaking of the King in Yellow," I groaned, with a shudder.

"He is a king whom emperors have served."

"I am content to serve him," I replied.

Mr. Wilde sat rubbing his ears with his crippled hand. "Perhaps Constance
does not love him," he suggested.

I started to reply, but a sudden burst of military music from the street
below drowned my voice. The twentieth dragoon regiment, formerly in
garrison at Mount St. Vincent, was returning from the manoeuvres in
Westchester County, to its new barracks on East Washington Square. It was
my cousin's regiment. They were a fine lot of fellows, in their pale
blue, tight-fitting jackets, jaunty busbys and white riding breeches with
the double yellow stripe, into which their limbs seemed moulded. Every
other squadron was armed with lances, from the metal points of which
fluttered yellow and white pennons. The band passed, playing the
regimental march, then came the colonel and staff, the horses crowding
and trampling, while their heads bobbed in unison, and the pennons
fluttered from their lance points. The troopers, who rode with the
beautiful English seat, looked brown as berries from their bloodless
campaign among the farms of Westchester, and the music of their sabres
against the stirrups, and the jingle of spurs and carbines was delightful
to me. I saw Louis riding with his squadron. He was as handsome an
officer as I have ever seen. Mr. Wilde, who had mounted a chair by the
window, saw him too, but said nothing. Louis turned and looked straight
at Hawberk's shop as he passed, and I could see the flush on his brown
cheeks. I think Constance must have been at the window. When the last
troopers had clattered by, and the last pennons vanished into South Fifth
Avenue, Mr. Wilde clambered out of his chair and dragged the chest away
from the door.

"Yes," he said, "it is time that you saw your cousin Louis."

He unlocked the door and I picked up my hat and stick and stepped into
the corridor. The stairs were dark. Groping about, I set my foot on
something soft, which snarled and spit, and I aimed a murderous blow at
the cat, but my cane shivered to splinters against the balustrade, and
the beast scurried back into Mr. Wilde's room.

Passing Hawberk's door again I saw him still at work on the armour, but
I did not stop, and stepping out into Bleecker Street, I followed it to
Wooster, skirted the grounds of the Lethal Chamber, and crossing
Washington Park went straight to my rooms in the Benedick. Here I lunched
comfortably, read the _Herald_ and the _Meteor_, and finally went
to the steel safe in my bedroom and set the time combination. The
three and three-quarter minutes which it is necessary to wait, while the
time lock is opening, are to me golden moments. From the instant I set
the combination to the moment when I grasp the knobs and swing back
the solid steel doors, I live in an ecstasy of expectation. Those moments
must be like moments passed in Paradise. I know what I am to find at
the end of the time limit. I know what the massive safe holds secure for
me, for me alone, and the exquisite pleasure of waiting is hardly enhanced
when the safe opens and I lift, from its velvet crown, a diadem of purest
gold, blazing with diamonds. I do this every day, and yet the joy of
waiting and at last touching again the diadem, only seems to increase as
the days pass. It is a diadem fit for a King among kings, an Emperor
among emperors. The King in Yellow might scorn it, but it shall be worn
by his royal servant.

I held it in my arms until the alarm in the safe rang harshly, and then
tenderly, proudly, I replaced it and shut the steel doors. I walked
slowly back into my study, which faces Washington Square, and leaned on
the window sill. The afternoon sun poured into my windows, and a gentle
breeze stirred the branches of the elms and maples in the park, now
covered with buds and tender foliage. A flock of pigeons circled about
the tower of the Memorial Church; sometimes alighting on the purple tiled
roof, sometimes wheeling downward to the lotos fountain in front of the
marble arch. The gardeners were busy with the flower beds around the
fountain, and the freshly turned earth smelled sweet and spicy. A lawn
mower, drawn by a fat white horse, clinked across the green sward, and
watering-carts poured showers of spray over the asphalt drives. Around
the statue of Peter Stuyvesant, which in 1897 had replaced the
monstrosity supposed to represent Garibaldi, children played in the
spring sunshine, and nurse girls wheeled elaborate baby carriages with a
reckless disregard for the pasty-faced occupants, which could probably be
explained by the presence of half a dozen trim dragoon troopers languidly
lolling on the benches. Through the trees, the Washington Memorial Arch
glistened like silver in the sunshine, and beyond, on the eastern
extremity of the square the grey stone barracks of the dragoons, and the
white granite artillery stables were alive with colour and motion.

I looked at the Lethal Chamber on the corner of the square opposite. A
few curious people still lingered about the gilded iron railing, but
inside the grounds the paths were deserted. I watched the fountains
ripple and sparkle; the sparrows had already found this new bathing nook,
and the basins were covered with the dusty-feathered little things. Two
or three white peacocks picked their way across the lawns, and a drab
coloured pigeon sat so motionless on the arm of one of the "Fates," that
it seemed to be a part of the sculptured stone.

As I was turning carelessly away, a slight commotion in the group of
curious loiterers around the gates attracted my attention. A young man
had entered, and was advancing with nervous strides along the gravel path
which leads to the bronze doors of the Lethal Chamber. He paused a moment
before the "Fates," and as he raised his head to those three mysterious
faces, the pigeon rose from its sculptured perch, circled about for a
moment and wheeled to the east. The young man pressed his hand to his
face, and then with an undefinable gesture sprang up the marble steps,
the bronze doors closed behind him, and half an hour later the loiterers
slouched away, and the frightened pigeon returned to its perch in the
arms of Fate.

I put on my hat and went out into the park for a little walk before
dinner. As I crossed the central driveway a group of officers passed, and
one of them called out, "Hello, Hildred," and came back to shake hands
with me. It was my cousin Louis, who stood smiling and tapping his
spurred heels with his riding-whip.

"Just back from Westchester," he said; "been doing the bucolic; milk and
curds, you know, dairy-maids in sunbonnets, who say 'haeow' and 'I don't
think' when you tell them they are pretty. I'm nearly dead for a square
meal at Delmonico's. What's the news?"

"There is none," I replied pleasantly. "I saw your regiment coming in this
morning."

"Did you? I didn't see you. Where were you?"

"In Mr. Wilde's window."

"Oh, hell!" he began impatiently, "that man is stark mad! I don't
understand why you--"

He saw how annoyed I felt by this outburst, and begged my pardon.

"Really, old chap," he said, "I don't mean to run down a man you like,
but for the life of me I can't see what the deuce you find in common with
Mr. Wilde. He's not well bred, to put it generously; he is hideously
deformed; his head is the head of a criminally insane person. You know
yourself he's been in an asylum--"

"So have I," I interrupted calmly.

Louis looked startled and confused for a moment, but recovered and
slapped me heartily on the shoulder. "You were completely cured," he
began; but I stopped him again.

"I suppose you mean that I was simply acknowledged never to have been
insane."

"Of course that--that's what I meant," he laughed.

I disliked his laugh because I knew it was forced, but I nodded gaily and
asked him where he was going. Louis looked after his brother officers who
had now almost reached Broadway.

"We had intended to sample a Brunswick cocktail, but to tell you the
truth I was anxious for an excuse to go and see Hawberk instead. Come
along, I'll make you my excuse."

We found old Hawberk, neatly attired in a fresh spring suit, standing at
the door of his shop and sniffing the air.

"I had just decided to take Constance for a little stroll before dinner,"
he replied to the impetuous volley of questions from Louis. "We thought
of walking on the park terrace along the North River."

At that moment Constance appeared and grew pale and rosy by turns as
Louis bent over her small gloved fingers. I tried to excuse myself,
alleging an engagement uptown, but Louis and Constance would not listen,
and I saw I was expected to remain and engage old Hawberk's attention.
After all it would be just as well if I kept my eye on Louis, I thought,
and when they hailed a Spring Street horse-car, I got in after them and
took my seat beside the armourer.

The beautiful line of parks and granite terraces overlooking the wharves
along the North River, which were built in 1910 and finished in the
autumn of 1917, had become one of the most popular promenades in the
metropolis. They extended from the battery to 190th Street, overlooking
the noble river and affording a fine view of the Jersey shore and the
Highlands opposite. Cafés and restaurants were scattered here and there
among the trees, and twice a week military bands from the garrison played
in the kiosques on the parapets.

We sat down in the sunshine on the bench at the foot of the equestrian
statue of General Sheridan. Constance tipped her sunshade to shield her
eyes, and she and Louis began a murmuring conversation which was
impossible to catch. Old Hawberk, leaning on his ivory headed cane,
lighted an excellent cigar, the mate to which I politely refused, and
smiled at vacancy. The sun hung low above the Staten Island woods, and
the bay was dyed with golden hues reflected from the sun-warmed sails of
the shipping in the harbour.

Brigs, schooners, yachts, clumsy ferry-boats, their decks swarming with
people, railroad transports carrying lines of brown, blue and white
freight cars, stately sound steamers, déclassé tramp steamers, coasters,
dredgers, scows, and everywhere pervading the entire bay impudent little
tugs puffing and whistling officiously;--these were the craft which
churned the sunlight waters as far as the eye could reach. In calm
contrast to the hurry of sailing vessel and steamer a silent fleet of
white warships lay motionless in midstream.

Constance's merry laugh aroused me from my reverie.

"What _are_ you staring at?" she inquired.

"Nothing--the fleet," I smiled.

Then Louis told us what the vessels were, pointing out each by its
relative position to the old Red Fort on Governor's Island.

"That little cigar shaped thing is a torpedo boat," he explained; "there
are four more lying close together. They are the _Tarpon_, the _Falcon_,
the _Sea Fox_, and the _Octopus_. The gun-boats just above are the
_Princeton_, the _Champlain_, the _Still Water_ and the _Erie_. Next to
them lie the cruisers _Faragut_ and _Los Angeles_, and above them the
battle ships _California_, and _Dakota_, and the _Washington_ which is
the flag ship. Those two squatty looking chunks of metal which are
anchored there off Castle William are the double turreted monitors
_Terrible_ and _Magnificent_; behind them lies the ram, _Osceola_."

Constance looked at him with deep approval in her beautiful eyes. "What
loads of things you know for a soldier," she said, and we all joined in
the laugh which followed.

Presently Louis rose with a nod to us and offered his arm to Constance,
and they strolled away along the river wall. Hawberk watched them for a
moment and then turned to me.

"Mr. Wilde was right," he said. "I have found the missing tassets and
left cuissard of the 'Prince's Emblazoned,' in a vile old junk garret in
Pell Street."

"998?" I inquired, with a smile.

"Yes."

"Mr. Wilde is a very intelligent man," I observed.

"I want to give him the credit of this most important discovery,"
continued Hawberk. "And I intend it shall be known that he is entitled
to the fame of it."

"He won't thank you for that," I answered sharply; "please say nothing
about it."

"Do you know what it is worth?" said Hawberk.

"No, fifty dollars, perhaps."

"It is valued at five hundred, but the owner of the 'Prince's Emblazoned'
will give two thousand dollars to the person who completes his suit; that
reward also belongs to Mr. Wilde."

"He doesn't want it! He refuses it!" I answered angrily. "What do you
know about Mr. Wilde? He doesn't need the money. He is rich--or will
be--richer than any living man except myself. What will we care for money
then--what will we care, he and I, when--when--"

"When what?" demanded Hawberk, astonished.

"You will see," I replied, on my guard again.

He looked at me narrowly, much as Doctor Archer used to, and I knew he
thought I was mentally unsound. Perhaps it was fortunate for him that he
did not use the word lunatic just then.

"No," I replied to his unspoken thought, "I am not mentally weak; my mind
is as healthy as Mr. Wilde's. I do not care to explain just yet what I
have on hand, but it is an investment which will pay more than mere gold,
silver and precious stones. It will secure the happiness and prosperity
of a continent--yes, a hemisphere!"

"Oh," said Hawberk.

"And eventually," I continued more quietly, "it will secure the happiness
of the whole world."

"And incidentally your own happiness and prosperity as well as Mr.
Wilde's?"

"Exactly," I smiled. But I could have throttled him for taking that tone.

He looked at me in silence for a while and then said very gently, "Why
don't you give up your books and studies, Mr. Castaigne, and take a tramp
among the mountains somewhere or other? You used to be fond of fishing.
Take a cast or two at the trout in the Rangelys."

"I don't care for fishing any more," I answered, without a shade of
annoyance in my voice.

"You used to be fond of everything," he continued; "athletics, yachting,
shooting, riding--"

"I have never cared to ride since my fall," I said quietly.

"Ah, yes, your fall," he repeated, looking away from me.

I thought this nonsense had gone far enough, so I brought the
conversation back to Mr. Wilde; but he was scanning my face again in a
manner highly offensive to me.

"Mr. Wilde," he repeated, "do you know what he did this afternoon? He
came downstairs and nailed a sign over the hall door next to mine; it
read:

"MR. WILDE,
REPAIRER OF REPUTATIONS.
Third Bell.

"Do you know what a Repairer of Reputations can be?"

"I do," I replied, suppressing the rage within.

"Oh," he said again.

Louis and Constance came strolling by and stopped to ask if we would join
them. Hawberk looked at his watch. At the same moment a puff of smoke
shot from the casemates of Castle William, and the boom of the sunset gun
rolled across the water and was re-echoed from the Highlands opposite.
The flag came running down from the flag-pole, the bugles sounded on the
white decks of the warships, and the first electric light sparkled out
from the Jersey shore.

As I turned into the city with Hawberk I heard Constance murmur something
to Louis which I did not understand; but Louis whispered "My darling," in
reply; and again, walking ahead with Hawberk through the square I heard a
murmur of "sweetheart," and "my own Constance," and I knew the time had
nearly arrived when I should speak of important matters with my cousin
Louis.




III

One morning early in May I stood before the steel safe in my bedroom,
trying on the golden jewelled crown. The diamonds flashed fire as I
turned to the mirror, and the heavy beaten gold burned like a halo about
my head. I remembered Camilla's agonized scream and the awful words
echoing through the dim streets of Carcosa. They were the last lines in
the first act, and I dared not think of what followed--dared not, even
in the spring sunshine, there in my own room, surrounded with familiar
objects, reassured by the bustle from the street and the voices of the
servants in the hallway outside. For those poisoned words had dropped
slowly into my heart, as death-sweat drops upon a bed-sheet and is
absorbed. Trembling, I put the diadem from my head and wiped my forehead,
but I thought of Hastur and of my own rightful ambition, and I remembered
Mr. Wilde as I had last left him, his face all torn and bloody from the
claws of that devil's creature, and what he said--ah, what he said. The
alarm bell in the safe began to whirr harshly, and I knew my time was up;
but I would not heed it, and replacing the flashing circlet upon my head
I turned defiantly to the mirror. I stood for a long time absorbed in the
changing expression of my own eyes. The mirror reflected a face which was
like my own, but whiter, and so thin that I hardly recognized it And all
the time I kept repeating between my clenched teeth, "The day has come!
the day has come!" while the alarm in the safe whirred and clamoured, and
the diamonds sparkled and flamed above my brow. I heard a door open but
did not heed it. It was only when I saw two faces in the mirror:--it was
only when another face rose over my shoulder, and two other eyes met
mine. I wheeled like a flash and seized a long knife from my
dressing-table, and my cousin sprang back very pale, crying: "Hildred!
for God's sake!" then as my hand fell, he said: "It is I, Louis, don't
you know me?" I stood silent. I could not have spoken for my life. He
walked up to me and took the knife from my hand.

"What is all this?" he inquired, in a gentle voice. "Are you ill?"

"No," I replied. But I doubt if he heard me.

"Come, come, old fellow," he cried, "take off that brass crown and toddle
into the study. Are you going to a masquerade? What's all this theatrical
tinsel anyway?"

I was glad he thought the crown was made of brass and paste, yet I didn't
like him any the better for thinking so. I let him take it from my hand,
knowing it was best to humour him. He tossed the splendid diadem in the
air, and catching it, turned to me smiling.

"It's dear at fifty cents," he said. "What's it for?"

I did not answer, but took the circlet from his hands, and placing it in
the safe shut the massive steel door. The alarm ceased its infernal din
at once. He watched me curiously, but did not seem to notice the sudden
ceasing of the alarm. He did, however, speak of the safe as a biscuit
box. Fearing lest he might examine the combination I led the way into my
study. Louis threw himself on the sofa and flicked at flies with his
eternal riding-whip. He wore his fatigue uniform with the braided jacket
and jaunty cap, and I noticed that his riding-boots were all splashed
with red mud.

"Where have you been?" I inquired.

"Jumping mud creeks in Jersey," he said. "I haven't had time to change
yet; I was rather in a hurry to see you. Haven't you got a glass of
something? I'm dead tired; been in the saddle twenty-four hours."

I gave him some brandy from my medicinal store, which he drank with a
grimace.

"Damned bad stuff," he observed. "I'll give you an address where they
sell brandy that is brandy."

"It's good enough for my needs," I said indifferently. "I use it to rub
my chest with." He stared and flicked at another fly.

"See here, old fellow," he began, "I've got something to suggest to you.
It's four years now that you've shut yourself up here like an owl, never
going anywhere, never taking any healthy exercise, never doing a damn
thing but poring over those books up there on the mantelpiece."

He glanced along the row of shelves. "Napoleon, Napoleon, Napoleon!" he
read. "For heaven's sake, have you nothing but Napoleons there?"

"I wish they were bound in gold," I said. "But wait, yes, there is
another book, _The King in Yellow_." I looked him steadily in the
eye.

"Have you never read it?" I asked.

"I? No, thank God! I don't want to be driven crazy."

I saw he regretted his speech as soon as he had uttered it. There is only
one word which I loathe more than I do lunatic and that word is crazy.
But I controlled myself and asked him why he thought _The King in
Yellow_ dangerous.

"Oh, I don't know," he said, hastily. "I only remember the excitement it
created and the denunciations from pulpit and Press. I believe the author
shot himself after bringing forth this monstrosity, didn't he?"

"I understand he is still alive," I answered.

"That's probably true," he muttered; "bullets couldn't kill a fiend like
that."

"It is a book of great truths," I said.

"Yes," he replied, "of 'truths' which send men frantic and blast their
lives. I don't care if the thing is, as they say, the very supreme
essence of art. It's a crime to have written it, and I for one shall
never open its pages."

"Is that what you have come to tell me?" I asked.

"No," he said, "I came to tell you that I am going to be married."

I believe for a moment my heart ceased to beat, but I kept my eyes on his
face.

"Yes," he continued, smiling happily, "married to the sweetest girl on
earth."

"Constance Hawberk," I said mechanically.

"How did you know?" he cried, astonished. "I didn't know it myself until
that evening last April, when we strolled down to the embankment before
dinner."

"When is it to be?" I asked.

"It was to have been next September, but an hour ago a despatch came
ordering our regiment to the Presidio, San Francisco. We leave at noon
to-morrow. To-morrow," he repeated. "Just think, Hildred, to-morrow I
shall be the happiest fellow that ever drew breath in this jolly world,
for Constance will go with me."

I offered him my hand in congratulation, and he seized and shook it like
the good-natured fool he was--or pretended to be.

"I am going to get my squadron as a wedding present," he rattled on.
"Captain and Mrs. Louis Castaigne, eh, Hildred?"

Then he told me where it was to be and who were to be there, and made me
promise to come and be best man. I set my teeth and listened to his
boyish chatter without showing what I felt, but--

I was getting to the limit of my endurance, and when he jumped up, and,
switching his spurs till they jingled, said he must go, I did not detain
him.

"There's one thing I want to ask of you," I said quietly.

"Out with it, it's promised," he laughed.

"I want you to meet me for a quarter of an hour's talk to-night."

"Of course, if you wish," he said, somewhat puzzled. "Where?"

"Anywhere, in the park there."

"What time, Hildred?"

"Midnight."

"What in the name of--" he began, but checked himself and laughingly
assented. I watched him go down the stairs and hurry away, his sabre
banging at every stride. He turned into Bleecker Street, and I knew he
was going to see Constance. I gave him ten minutes to disappear and then
followed in his footsteps, taking with me the jewelled crown and the
silken robe embroidered with the Yellow Sign. When I turned into Bleecker
Street, and entered the doorway which bore the sign--

MR. WILDE,
REPAIRER OF REPUTATIONS.
Third Bell.

I saw old Hawberk moving about in his shop, and imagined I heard
Constance's voice in the parlour; but I avoided them both and hurried up
the trembling stairways to Mr. Wilde's apartment. I knocked and entered
without ceremony. Mr. Wilde lay groaning on the floor, his face covered
with blood, his clothes torn to shreds. Drops of blood were scattered
about over the carpet, which had also been ripped and frayed in the
evidently recent struggle.

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