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The King In Yellow

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




Then the falconer Raoul bowed in his stirrups and replied: "If it be the
pleasure of Mademoiselle, I shall keep the hawk."

"It is my wish," she answered. "Falconry I know, but you have yet to give
me many a lesson in _Autourserie_, my poor Raoul. Sieur Piriou Louis
mount!"

The huntsman sprang into an archway and in an instant returned, mounted
upon a strong black horse, followed by a piqueur also mounted.

"Ah!" she cried joyously, "speed Glemarec René! speed! speed all! Sound
thy horn, Sieur Piriou!"

The silvery music of the hunting-horn filled the courtyard, the hounds
sprang through the gateway and galloping hoof-beats plunged out of the
paved court; loud on the drawbridge, suddenly muffled, then lost in the
heather and bracken of the moors. Distant and more distant sounded the
horn, until it became so faint that the sudden carol of a soaring lark
drowned it in my ears. I heard the voice below responding to some call
from within the house.

"I do not regret the chase, I will go another time Courtesy to the
stranger, Pelagie, remember!"

And a feeble voice came quavering from within the house,
"_Courtoisie_"

I stripped, and rubbed myself from head to foot in the huge earthen basin
of icy water which stood upon the stone floor at the foot of my bed. Then
I looked about for my clothes. They were gone, but on a settle near the
door lay a heap of garments which I inspected with astonishment. As my
clothes had vanished, I was compelled to attire myself in the costume
which had evidently been placed there for me to wear while my own clothes
dried. Everything was there, cap, shoes, and hunting doublet of silvery
grey homespun; but the close-fitting costume and seamless shoes belonged
to another century, and I remembered the strange costumes of the three
falconers in the court-yard. I was sure that it was not the modern dress
of any portion of France or Brittany; but not until I was dressed and
stood before a mirror between the windows did I realize that I was
clothed much more like a young huntsman of the middle ages than like a
Breton of that day. I hesitated and picked up the cap. Should I go down
and present myself in that strange guise? There seemed to be no help for
it, my own clothes were gone and there was no bell in the ancient chamber
to call a servant; so I contented myself with removing a short hawk's
feather from the cap, and, opening the door, went downstairs.

By the fireplace in the large room at the foot of the stairs an old
Breton woman sat spinning with a distaff. She looked up at me when I
appeared, and, smiling frankly, wished me health in the Breton language,
to which I laughingly replied in French. At the same moment my hostess
appeared and returned my salutation with a grace and dignity that sent a
thrill to my heart. Her lovely head with its dark curly hair was crowned
with a head-dress which set all doubts as to the epoch of my own costume
at rest. Her slender figure was exquisitely set off in the homespun
hunting-gown edged with silver, and on her gauntlet-covered wrist she
bore one of her petted hawks. With perfect simplicity she took my hand
and led me into the garden in the court, and seating herself before a
table invited me very sweetly to sit beside her. Then she asked me in her
soft quaint accent how I had passed the night, and whether I was very
much inconvenienced by wearing the clothes which old Pelagie had put
there for me while I slept. I looked at my own clothes and shoes, drying
in the sun by the garden-wall, and hated them. What horrors they were
compared with the graceful costume which I now wore! I told her this
laughing, but she agreed with me very seriously.

"We will throw them away," she said in a quiet voice. In my astonishment
I attempted to explain that I not only could not think of accepting
clothes from anybody, although for all I knew it might be the custom of
hospitality in that part of the country, but that I should cut an
impossible figure if I returned to France clothed as I was then.

She laughed and tossed her pretty head, saying something in old French
which I did not understand, and then Pelagie trotted out with a tray on
which stood two bowls of milk, a loaf of white bread, fruit, a platter of
honey-comb, and a flagon of deep red wine. "You see I have not yet broken
my fast because I wished you to eat with me. But I am very hungry," she
smiled.

"I would rather die than forget one word of what you have said!" I
blurted out, while my cheeks burned. "She will think me mad," I added to
myself, but she turned to me with sparkling eyes.

"Ah!" she murmured. "Then Monsieur knows all that there is of chivalry--"

She crossed herself and broke bread. I sat and watched her white hands,
not daring to raise my eyes to hers.

"Will you not eat?" she asked. "Why do you look so troubled?"

Ah, why? I knew it now. I knew I would give my life to touch with my lips
those rosy palms--I understood now that from the moment when I looked
into her dark eyes there on the moor last night I had loved her. My great
and sudden passion held me speechless.

"Are you ill at ease?" she asked again.

Then, like a man who pronounces his own doom, I answered in a low voice:
"Yes, I am ill at ease for love of you." And as she did not stir nor
answer, the same power moved my lips in spite of me and I said, "I, who
am unworthy of the lightest of your thoughts, I who abuse hospitality and
repay your gentle courtesy with bold presumption, I love you."

She leaned her head upon her hands, and answered softly, "I love you.
Your words are very dear to me. I love you."

"Then I shall win you."

"Win me," she replied.

But all the time I had been sitting silent, my face turned toward her.
She, also silent, her sweet face resting on her upturned palm, sat facing
me, and as her eyes looked into mine I knew that neither she nor I had
spoken human speech; but I knew that her soul had answered mine, and I
drew myself up feeling youth and joyous love coursing through every vein.
She, with a bright colour in her lovely face, seemed as one awakened from
a dream, and her eyes sought mine with a questioning glance which made me
tremble with delight. We broke our fast, speaking of ourselves. I told
her my name and she told me hers, the Demoiselle Jeanne d'Ys.

She spoke of her father and mother's death, and how the nineteen of her
years had been passed in the little fortified farm alone with her nurse
Pelagie, Glemarec René the piqueur, and the four falconers, Raoul,
Gaston, Hastur, and the Sieur Piriou Louis, who had served her father.
She had never been outside the moorland--never even had seen a human soul
before, except the falconers and Pelagie. She did not know how she had
heard of Kerselec; perhaps the falconers had spoken of it. She knew the
legends of Loup Garou and Jeanne la Flamme from her nurse Pelagie. She
embroidered and spun flax. Her hawks and hounds were her only
distraction. When she had met me there on the moor she had been so
frightened that she almost dropped at the sound of my voice. She had, it
was true, seen ships at sea from the cliffs, but as far as the eye could
reach the moors over which she galloped were destitute of any sign of
human life. There was a legend which old Pelagie told, how anybody once
lost in the unexplored moorland might never return, because the moors
were enchanted. She did not know whether it was true, she never had
thought about it until she met me. She did not know whether the falconers
had even been outside, or whether they could go if they would. The books
in the house which Pelagie, the nurse, had taught her to read were
hundreds of years old.

All this she told me with a sweet seriousness seldom seen in any one but
children. My own name she found easy to pronounce, and insisted, because
my first name was Philip, I must have French blood in me. She did not
seem curious to learn anything about the outside world, and I thought
perhaps she considered it had forfeited her interest and respect from the
stories of her nurse.

We were still sitting at the table, and she was throwing grapes to the
small field birds which came fearlessly to our very feet.

I began to speak in a vague way of going, but she would not hear of it,
and before I knew it I had promised to stay a week and hunt with hawk and
hound in their company. I also obtained permission to come again from
Kerselec and visit her after my return.

"Why," she said innocently, "I do not know what I should do if you never
came back;" and I, knowing that I had no right to awaken her with the
sudden shock which the avowal of my own love would bring to her, sat
silent, hardly daring to breathe.

"You will come very often?" she asked.

"Very often," I said.

"Every day?"

"Every day."

"Oh," she sighed, "I am very happy. Come and see my hawks."

She rose and took my hand again with a childlike innocence of possession,
and we walked through the garden and fruit trees to a grassy lawn which
was bordered by a brook. Over the lawn were scattered fifteen or twenty
stumps of trees--partially imbedded in the grass--and upon all of these
except two sat falcons. They were attached to the stumps by thongs which
were in turn fastened with steel rivets to their legs just above the
talons. A little stream of pure spring water flowed in a winding course
within easy distance of each perch.

The birds set up a clamour when the girl appeared, but she went from one
to another, caressing some, taking others for an instant upon her wrist,
or stooping to adjust their jesses.

"Are they not pretty?" she said. "See, here is a falcon-gentil. We call
it 'ignoble,' because it takes the quarry in direct chase. This is a blue
falcon. In falconry we call it 'noble' because it rises over the quarry,
and wheeling, drops upon it from above. This white bird is a gerfalcon
from the north. It is also 'noble!' Here is a merlin, and this tiercelet
is a falcon-heroner."

I asked her how she had learned the old language of falconry. She did not
remember, but thought her father must have taught it to her when she was
very young.

Then she led me away and showed me the young falcons still in the nest.
"They are termed _niais_ in falconry," she explained. "A
_branchier_ is the young bird which is just able to leave the nest
and hop from branch to branch. A young bird which has not yet moulted is
called a _sors_, and a _mué_ is a hawk which has moulted in
captivity. When we catch a wild falcon which has changed its plumage we
term it a _hagard_. Raoul first taught me to dress a falcon. Shall I
teach you how it is done?"

She seated herself on the bank of the stream among the falcons and I
threw myself at her feet to listen.

Then the Demoiselle d'Ys held up one rosy-tipped finger and began very
gravely.

"First one must catch the falcon."

"I am caught," I answered.

She laughed very prettily and told me my _dressage_ would perhaps be
difficult, as I was noble.

"I am already tamed," I replied; "jessed and belled."

She laughed, delighted. "Oh, my brave falcon; then you will return at my
call?"

"I am yours," I answered gravely.

She sat silent for a moment. Then the colour heightened in her cheeks and
she held up her finger again, saying, "Listen; I wish to speak of
falconry--"

"I listen, Countess Jeanne d'Ys."

But again she fell into the reverie, and her eyes seemed fixed on
something beyond the summer clouds.

"Philip," she said at last.

"Jeanne," I whispered.

"That is all,--that is what I wished," she sighed,--"Philip and Jeanne."

She held her hand toward me and I touched it with my lips.

"Win me," she said, but this time it was the body and soul which spoke in
unison.

After a while she began again: "Let us speak of falconry."

"Begin," I replied; "we have caught the falcon."

Then Jeanne d'Ys took my hand in both of hers and told me how with
infinite patience the young falcon was taught to perch upon the wrist,
how little by little it became used to the belled jesses and the
_chaperon à cornette_.

"They must first have a good appetite," she said; "then little by little
I reduce their nourishment; which in falconry we call _pât_. When,
after many nights passed _au bloc_ as these birds are now, I prevail
upon the _hagard_ to stay quietly on the wrist, then the bird is
ready to be taught to come for its food. I fix the _pât_ to the end
of a thong, or _leurre_, and teach the bird to come to me as soon as
I begin to whirl the cord in circles about my head. At first I drop the
_pât_ when the falcon comes, and he eats the food on the ground.
After a little he will learn to seize the _leurre_ in motion as I
whirl it around my head or drag it over the ground. After this it is easy
to teach the falcon to strike at game, always remembering to _'faire
courtoisie á l'oiseau'_, that is, to allow the bird to taste the
quarry."

A squeal from one of the falcons interrupted her, and she arose to adjust
the _longe_ which had become whipped about the _bloc_, but the
bird still flapped its wings and screamed.

"What _is_ the matter?" she said. "Philip, can you see?"

I looked around and at first saw nothing to cause the commotion, which
was now heightened by the screams and flapping of all the birds. Then my
eye fell upon the flat rock beside the stream from which the girl had
risen. A grey serpent was moving slowly across the surface of the
boulder, and the eyes in its flat triangular head sparkled like jet.

"A couleuvre," she said quietly.

"It is harmless, is it not?" I asked.

She pointed to the black V-shaped figure on the neck.

"It is certain death," she said; "it is a viper."

We watched the reptile moving slowly over the smooth rock to where the
sunlight fell in a broad warm patch.

I started forward to examine it, but she clung to my arm crying, "Don't,
Philip, I am afraid."

"For me?"

"For you, Philip,--I love you."

Then I took her in my arms and kissed her on the lips, but all I could
say was: "Jeanne, Jeanne, Jeanne." And as she lay trembling on my breast,
something struck my foot in the grass below, but I did not heed it. Then
again something struck my ankle, and a sharp pain shot through me. I
looked into the sweet face of Jeanne d'Ys and kissed her, and with all my
strength lifted her in my arms and flung her from me. Then bending, I
tore the viper from my ankle and set my heel upon its head. I remember
feeling weak and numb,--I remember falling to the ground. Through my
slowly glazing eyes I saw Jeanne's white face bending close to mine, and
when the light in my eyes went out I still felt her arms about my neck,
and her soft cheek against my drawn lips.


When I opened my eyes, I looked around in terror. Jeanne was gone. I saw
the stream and the flat rock; I saw the crushed viper in the grass beside
me, but the hawks and _blocs_ had disappeared. I sprang to my feet.
The garden, the fruit trees, the drawbridge and the walled court were
gone. I stared stupidly at a heap of crumbling ruins, ivy-covered and
grey, through which great trees had pushed their way. I crept forward,
dragging my numbed foot, and as I moved, a falcon sailed from the
tree-tops among the ruins, and soaring, mounting in narrowing circles,
faded and vanished in the clouds above.

"Jeanne, Jeanne," I cried, but my voice died on my lips, and I fell on my
knees among the weeds. And as God willed it, I, not knowing, had fallen
kneeling before a crumbling shrine carved in stone for our Mother of
Sorrows. I saw the sad face of the Virgin wrought in the cold stone. I
saw the cross and thorns at her feet, and beneath it I read:

"PRAY FOR THE SOUL OF THE
DEMOISELLE JEANNE D'Ys,
WHO DIED
IN HER YOUTH FOR LOVE OF
PHILIP, A STRANGER.
A.D. 1573."

But upon the icy slab lay a woman's glove still warm and fragrant.




THE PROPHETS' PARADISE

"If but the Vine and Love Abjuring Band
Are in the Prophets' Paradise to stand,
Alack, I doubt the Prophets' Paradise,
Were empty as the hollow of one's hand."




THE STUDIO

He smiled, saying, "Seek her throughout the world."

I said, "Why tell me of the world? My world is here, between these walls
and the sheet of glass above; here among gilded flagons and dull jewelled
arms, tarnished frames and canvasses, black chests and high-backed
chairs, quaintly carved and stained in blue and gold."

"For whom do you wait?" he said, and I answered, "When she comes I shall
know her."

On my hearth a tongue of flame whispered secrets to the whitening ashes.
In the street below I heard footsteps, a voice, and a song.

"For whom then do you wait?" he said, and I answered, "I shall know her."

Footsteps, a voice, and a song in the street below, and I knew the song
but neither the steps nor the voice.

"Fool!" he cried, "the song is the same, the voice and steps have but
changed with years!"

On the hearth a tongue of flame whispered above the whitening ashes:
"Wait no more; they have passed, the steps and the voice in the street
below."

Then he smiled, saying, "For whom do you wait? Seek her throughout the
world!"

I answered, "My world is here, between these walls and the sheet of glass
above; here among gilded flagons and dull jewelled arms, tarnished frames
and canvasses, black chests and high-backed chairs, quaintly carved and
stained in blue and gold."




THE PHANTOM

The Phantom of the Past would go no further.

"If it is true," she sighed, "that you find in me a friend, let us turn
back together. You will forget, here, under the summer sky."

I held her close, pleading, caressing; I seized her, white with anger,
but she resisted.

"If it is true," she sighed, "that you find in me a friend, let us turn
back together."

The Phantom of the Past would go no further.




THE SACRIFICE

I went into a field of flowers, whose petals are whiter than snow and
whose hearts are pure gold.

Far afield a woman cried, "I have killed him I loved!" and from a jar she
poured blood upon the flowers whose petals are whiter than snow and whose
hearts are pure gold.

Far afield I followed, and on the jar I read a thousand names, while from
within the fresh blood bubbled to the brim.

"I have killed him I loved!" she cried. "The world's athirst; now let it
drink!" She passed, and far afield I watched her pouring blood upon the
flowers whose petals are whiter than snow and whose hearts are pure gold.




DESTINY

I came to the bridge which few may pass.

"Pass!" cried the keeper, but I laughed, saying, "There is time;" and he
smiled and shut the gates.

To the bridge which few may pass came young and old. All were refused.
Idly I stood and counted them, until, wearied of their noise and
lamentations, I came again to the bridge which few may pass.

Those in the throng about the gates shrieked out, "He comes too late!"
But I laughed, saying, "There is time."

"Pass!" cried the keeper as I entered; then smiled and shut the gates.




THE THRONG

There, where the throng was thickest in the street, I stood with Pierrot.
All eyes were turned on me.

"What are they laughing at?" I asked, but he grinned, dusting the chalk
from my black cloak. "I cannot see; it must be something droll, perhaps
an honest thief!"

All eyes were turned on me.

"He has robbed you of your purse!" they laughed.

"My purse!" I cried; "Pierrot--help! it is a thief!"

They laughed: "He has robbed you of your purse!"

Then Truth stepped out, holding a mirror. "If he is an honest thief,"
cried Truth, "Pierrot shall find him with this mirror!" but he only
grinned, dusting the chalk from my black cloak.

"You see," he said, "Truth is an honest thief, she brings you back your
mirror."

All eyes were turned on me.

"Arrest Truth!" I cried, forgetting it was not a mirror but a purse I
lost, standing with Pierrot, there, where the throng was thickest in the
street.




THE JESTER

"Was she fair?" I asked, but he only chuckled, listening to the bells
jingling on his cap.

"Stabbed," he tittered. "Think of the long journey, the days of peril,
the dreadful nights! Think how he wandered, for her sake, year after
year, through hostile lands, yearning for kith and kin, yearning for
her!"

"Stabbed," he tittered, listening to the bells jingling on his cap.

"Was she fair?" I asked, but he only snarled, muttering to the bells
jingling on his cap.

"She kissed him at the gate," he tittered, "but in the hall his brother's
welcome touched his heart"

"Was she fair?" I asked.

"Stabbed," he chuckled. "Think of the long journey, the days of peril,
the dreadful nights! Think how he wandered, for her sake, year after year
through hostile lands, yearning for kith and kin, yearning for her!"

"She kissed him at the gate, but in the hall his brother's welcome
touched his heart."

"Was she fair?" I asked; but he only snarled, listening to the bells
jingling in his cap.




THE GREEN ROOM

The Clown turned his powdered face to the mirror.

"If to be fair is to be beautiful," he said, "who can compare with me in
my white mask?"

"Who can compare with him in his white mask?" I asked of Death beside me.

"Who can compare with me?" said Death, "for I am paler still."

"You are very beautiful," sighed the Clown, turning his powdered face
from the mirror.




THE LOVE TEST

"If it is true that you love," said Love, "then wait no longer. Give her
these jewels which would dishonour her and so dishonour you in loving
one dishonoured. If it is true that you love," said Love, "then wait no
longer."

I took the jewels and went to her, but she trod upon them, sobbing:
"Teach me to wait--I love you!"

"Then wait, if it is true," said Love.




THE STREET OF THE FOUR WINDS

"Ferme tes yeux à demi,
Croise tes bras sur ton sein,
Et de ton coeur endormi
Chasse à jamais tout dessein."

"Je chante la nature,
Les étoiles du soir, les larmes du matin,
Les couchers de soleil à l'horizon lointain,
Le ciel qui parle au coeur d'existence future!"


I

The animal paused on the threshold, interrogative alert, ready for flight
if necessary. Severn laid down his palette, and held out a hand of
welcome. The cat remained motionless, her yellow eyes fastened upon
Severn.

"Puss," he said, in his low, pleasant voice, "come in."

The tip of her thin tail twitched uncertainly.

"Come in," he said again.

Apparently she found his voice reassuring, for she slowly settled upon all
fours, her eyes still fastened upon him, her tail tucked under her gaunt
flanks.

He rose from his easel smiling. She eyed him quietly, and when he walked
toward her she watched him bend above her without a wince; her eyes
followed his hand until it touched her head. Then she uttered a ragged
mew.

It had long been Severn's custom to converse with animals, probably
because he lived so much alone; and now he said, "What's the matter,
puss?"

Her timid eyes sought his.

"I understand," he said gently, "you shall have it at once."

Then moving quietly about he busied himself with the duties of a host,
rinsed a saucer, filled it with the rest of the milk from the bottle on
the window-sill, and kneeling down, crumbled a roll into the hollow of his
hand.

The creature rose and crept toward the saucer.

With the handle of a palette-knife he stirred the crumbs and milk together
and stepped back as she thrust her nose into the mess. He watched her in
silence. From time to time the saucer clinked upon the tiled floor as she
reached for a morsel on the rim; and at last the bread was all gone, and
her purple tongue travelled over every unlicked spot until the saucer
shone like polished marble. Then she sat up, and coolly turning her back
to him, began her ablutions.

"Keep it up," said Severn, much interested, "you need it."

She flattened one ear, but neither turned nor interrupted her toilet. As
the grime was slowly removed Severn observed that nature had intended her
for a white cat. Her fur had disappeared in patches, from disease or the
chances of war, her tail was bony and her spine sharp. But what charms she
had were becoming apparent under vigorous licking, and he waited until she
had finished before re-opening the conversation. When at last she closed
her eyes and folded her forepaws under her breast, he began again very
gently: "Puss, tell me your troubles."

At the sound of his voice she broke into a harsh rumbling which he
recognized as an attempt to purr. He bent over to rub her cheek and she
mewed again, an amiable inquiring little mew, to which he replied,
"Certainly, you are greatly improved, and when you recover your plumage
you will be a gorgeous bird." Much flattered, she stood up and marched
around and around his legs, pushing her head between them and making
pleased remarks, to which he responded with grave politeness.

"Now, what sent you here," he said--"here into the Street of the Four
Winds, and up five flights to the very door where you would be welcome?
What was it that prevented your meditated flight when I turned from my
canvas to encounter your yellow eyes? Are you a Latin Quarter cat as I am
a Latin Quarter man? And why do you wear a rose-coloured flowered garter
buckled about your neck?" The cat had climbed into his lap, and now sat
purring as he passed his hand over her thin coat.

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