<SPAN name="startofbook"></SPAN>
<hr class="full" />
<h1>THE KING IN YELLOW</h1>
<p class="cb">BY<br/>
ROBERT W. CHAMBERS<br/><br/>
Original publication date: 1895</p>
<p class="cb">THE KING IN YELLOW<br/> IS DEDICATED<br/> TO<br/> MY BROTHER</p>
<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="poetry">
<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: 0em;">Along the shore the cloud waves break,</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: 0em;">The twin suns sink beneath the lake,</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: 0em;">The shadows lengthen</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: 2em;">In Carcosa.</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"> </td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: 0em;">Strange is the night where black stars rise,</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: 0em;">And strange moons circle through the skies</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: 0em;">But stranger still is</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: 2em;">Lost Carcosa.</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"> </td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: 0em;">Songs that the Hyades shall sing,</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: 0em;">Where flap the tatters of the King,</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: 0em;">Must die unheard in</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: 2em;">Dim Carcosa.</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"> </td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: 0em;">Song of my soul, my voice is dead;</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: 0em;">Die thou, unsung, as tears unshed</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: 0em;">Shall dry and die in</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: 2em;">Lost Carcosa.</span></td></tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr><td align="right">Cassilda's Song in "The King in Yellow," Act i, Scene 2.</td></tr>
</table>
<table border="0" cellpadding="2" cellspacing="0" summary="table of contents"
style="border:2px dotted gray;margin:5% auto 5% auto;padding:3%;">
<tr><th align="center"><big>CONTENTS</big></th></tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr><td><SPAN href="#THE_REPAIRER_OF_REPUTATIONS"><b>T<small>HE</small> R<small>EPAIRER OF</small> R<small>EPUTATIONS</small></b></SPAN></td></tr>
<tr><td><SPAN href="#THE_MASK"><b>T<small>HE</small> M<small>ASK</small></b></SPAN></td></tr>
<tr><td><SPAN href="#IN_THE_COURT_OF_THE_DRAGON"><b>I<small>N</small> T<small>HE</small> C<small>OURT OF THE</small> D<small>RAGON</small></b></SPAN></td></tr>
<tr><td><SPAN href="#THE_YELLOW_SIGN"><b>T<small>HE</small> Y<small>ELLOW</small> S<small>IGN</small></b></SPAN></td></tr>
<tr><td><SPAN href="#THE_DEMOISELLE_DYS"><b>T<small>HE</small> D<small>EMOISELLE D</small>'YS</b></SPAN></td></tr>
<tr><td><SPAN href="#THE_PROPHETS_PARADISE"><b>T<small>HE</small> P<small>ROPHETS'</small> P<small>ARADISE</small></b></SPAN></td></tr>
<tr><td><SPAN href="#THE_STREET_OF_THE_FOUR_WINDS"><b>T<small>HE</small> S<small>TREET OF THE</small> F<small>OUR</small> W<small>INDS</small></b></SPAN></td></tr>
<tr><td><SPAN href="#THE_STREET_OF_THE_FIRST_SHELL"><b>T<small>HE</small> S<small>TREET OF THE</small> F<small>IRST</small> S<small>HELL</small></b></SPAN></td></tr>
<tr><td><SPAN href="#THE_STREET_OF_OUR_LADY_OF_THE_FIELDS"><b>T<small>HE</small> S<small>TREET OF</small> O<small>UR</small> L<small>ADY OF THE</small> F<small>IELDS</small></b></SPAN></td></tr>
<tr><td><SPAN href="#RUE_BARREE"><b>R<small>UE</small> B<small>ARR�E</small></b></SPAN></td></tr>
</table>
<h2><SPAN name="THE_REPAIRER_OF_REPUTATIONS" id="THE_REPAIRER_OF_REPUTATIONS"></SPAN>THE REPAIRER OF REPUTATIONS</h2>
<h3>I</h3>
<div class="blockquot"><p class="c">"Ne raillons pas les fous; leur folie dure plus longtemps que la
n�tre.... Voila toute la diff�rence."</p>
</div>
<p>Toward the end of the year 1920 the Government of the United States had
practically completed the programme, adopted during the last months of
President Winthrop's administration. The country was apparently
tranquil. Everybody knows how the Tariff and Labour questions were
settled. The war with Germany, incident on that country's seizure of the
Samoan Islands, had left no visible scars upon the republic, and the
temporary occupation of Norfolk by the invading army had been forgotten
in the joy over repeated naval victories, and the subsequent ridiculous
plight of General Von Gartenlaube's forces in the State of New Jersey.
The Cuban and Hawaiian investments had paid one hundred per cent and the
territory of Samoa was well worth its cost as a coaling station. The
country was in a superb state of defence. Every coast city had been well
supplied with land fortifications; the army under the parental eye of
the General Staff, organized according to the Prussian system, had been
increased to 300,000 men, with a territorial reserve of a million; and
six magnificent squadrons of cruisers and battle-ships patrolled the six
stations of the navigable seas, leaving a steam reserve amply fitted to
control home waters. The gentlemen from the West had at last been
constrained to acknowledge that a college for the training of diplomats
was as necessary as law schools are for the training of barristers;
consequently we were no longer represented abroad by incompetent
patriots. The nation was prosperous; Chicago, for a moment paralyzed
after a second great fire, had risen from its ruins, white and imperial,
and more beautiful than the white city which had been built for its
plaything in 1893. Everywhere good architecture was replacing bad, and
even in New York, a sudden craving for decency had swept away a great
portion of the existing horrors. Streets had been widened, properly
paved and lighted, trees had been planted, squares laid out, elevated
structures demolished and underground roads built to replace them. The
new government buildings and barracks were fine bits of architecture,
and the long system of stone quays which completely surrounded the
island had been turned into parks which proved a god-send to the
population. The subsidizing of the state theatre and state opera brought
its own reward. The United States National Academy of Design was much
like European institutions of the same kind. Nobody envied the Secretary
of Fine Arts, either his cabinet position or his portfolio. The
Secretary of Forestry and Game Preservation had a much easier time,
thanks to the new system of National Mounted Police. We had profited
well by the latest treaties with France and England; the exclusion of
foreign-born Jews as a measure of self-preservation, the settlement of
the new independent negro state of Suanee, the checking of immigration,
the new laws concerning naturalization, and the gradual centralization
of power in the executive all contributed to national calm and
prosperity. When the Government solved the Indian problem and squadrons
of Indian cavalry scouts in native costume were substituted for the
pitiable organizations tacked on to the tail of skeletonized regiments
by a former Secretary of War, the nation drew a long sigh of relief.
When, after the colossal Congress of Religions, bigotry and intolerance
were laid in their graves and kindness and charity began to draw warring
sects together, many thought the millennium had arrived, at least in the
new world which after all is a world by itself.</p>
<p>But self-preservation is the first law, and the United States had to
look on in helpless sorrow as Germany, Italy, Spain and Belgium writhed
in the throes of Anarchy, while Russia, watching from the Caucasus,
stooped and bound them one by one.</p>
<p>In the city of New York the summer of 1899 was signalized by the
dismantling of the Elevated Railroads. The summer of 1900 will live in
the memories of New York people for many a cycle; the Dodge Statue was
removed in that year. In the following winter began that agitation for
the repeal of the laws prohibiting suicide which bore its final fruit in
the month of April, 1920, when the first Government Lethal Chamber was
opened on Washington Square.</p>
<p>I had walked down that day from Dr. Archer's house on Madison Avenue,
where I had been as a mere formality. Ever since that fall from my
horse, four years before, I had been troubled at times with pains in the
back of my head and neck, but now for months they had been absent, and
the doctor sent me away that day saying there was nothing more to be
cured in me. It was hardly worth his fee to be told that; I knew it
myself. Still I did not grudge him the money. What I minded was the
mistake which he made at first. When they picked me up from the pavement
where I lay unconscious, and somebody had mercifully sent a bullet
through my horse's head, I was carried to Dr. Archer, and he,
pronouncing my brain affected, placed me in his private asylum where I
was obliged to endure treatment for insanity. At last he decided that I
was well, and I, knowing that my mind had always been as sound as his,
if not sounder, "paid my tuition" as he jokingly called it, and left. I
told him, smiling, that I would get even with him for his mistake, and
he laughed heartily, and asked me to call once in a while. I did so,
hoping for a chance to even up accounts, but he gave me none, and I told
him I would wait.</p>
<p>The fall from my horse had fortunately left no evil results; on the
contrary it had changed my whole character for the better. From a lazy
young man about town, I had become active, energetic, temperate, and
above all—oh, above all else—ambitious. There was only one thing which
troubled me, I laughed at my own uneasiness, and yet it troubled me.</p>
<p>During my convalescence I had bought and read for the first time, <i>The
King in Yellow</i>. I remember after finishing the first act that it
occurred to me that I had better stop. I started up and flung the book
into the fireplace; the volume struck the barred grate and fell open on
the hearth in the firelight. If I had not caught a glimpse of the
opening words in the second act I should never have finished it, but as
I stooped to pick it up, my eyes became riveted to the open page, and
with a cry of terror, or perhaps it was of joy so poignant that I
suffered in every nerve, I snatched the thing out of the coals and crept
shaking to my bedroom, where I read it and reread it, and wept and
laughed and trembled with a horror which at times assails me yet. This
is the thing that troubles me, for I cannot forget Carcosa where black
stars hang in the heavens; where the shadows of men's thoughts lengthen
in the afternoon, when the twin suns sink into the lake of Hali; and my
mind will bear for ever the memory of the Pallid Mask. I pray God will
curse the writer, as the writer has cursed the world with this
beautiful, stupendous creation, terrible in its simplicity, irresistible
in its truth—a world which now trembles before the King in Yellow. When
the French Government seized the translated copies which had just
arrived in Paris, London, of course, became eager to read it. It is well
known how the book spread like an infectious disease, from city to city,
from continent to continent, barred out here, confiscated there,
denounced by Press and pulpit, censured even by the most advanced of
literary anarchists. No definite principles had been violated in those
wicked pages, no doctrine promulgated, no convictions outraged. It could
not be judged by any known standard, yet, although it was acknowledged
that the supreme note of art had been struck in <i>The King in Yellow</i>,
all felt that human nature could not bear the strain, nor thrive on
words in which the essence of purest poison lurked. The very banality
and innocence of the first act only allowed the blow to fall afterward
with more awful effect.</p>
<p>It was, I remember, the 13th day of April, 1920, that the first
Government Lethal Chamber was established on the south side of
Washington Square, between Wooster Street and South Fifth Avenue. The
block which had formerly consisted of a lot of shabby old buildings,
used as caf�s and restaurants for foreigners, had been acquired by the
Government in the winter of 1898. The French and Italian caf�s and
restaurants were torn down; the whole block was enclosed by a gilded
iron railing, and converted into a lovely garden with lawns, flowers and
fountains. In the centre of the garden stood a small, white building,
severely classical in architecture, and surrounded by thickets of
flowers. Six Ionic columns supported the roof, and the single door was
of bronze. A splendid marble group of the "Fates" stood before the door,
the work of a young American sculptor, Boris Yvain, who had died in
Paris when only twenty-three years old.</p>
<p>The inauguration ceremonies were in progress as I crossed University
Place and entered the square. I threaded my way through the silent
throng of spectators, but was stopped at Fourth Street by a cordon of
police. A regiment of United States lancers were drawn up in a hollow
square round the Lethal Chamber. On a raised tribune facing Washington
Park stood the Governor of New York, and behind him were grouped the
Mayor of New York and Brooklyn, the Inspector-General of Police, the
Commandant of the state troops, Colonel Livingston, military aid to the
President of the United States, General Blount, commanding at Governor's
Island, Major-General Hamilton, commanding the garrison of New York and
Brooklyn, Admiral Buffby of the fleet in the North River,
Surgeon-General Lanceford, the staff of the National Free Hospital,
Senators Wyse and Franklin of New York, and the Commissioner of Public
Works. The tribune was surrounded by a squadron of hussars of the
National Guard.</p>
<p>The Governor was finishing his reply to the short speech of the
Surgeon-General. I heard him say: "The laws prohibiting suicide and
providing punishment for any attempt at self-destruction have been
repealed. The Government has seen fit to acknowledge the right of man to
end an existence which may have become intolerable to him, through
physical suffering or mental despair. It is believed that the community
will be benefited by the removal of such people from their midst. Since
the passage of this law, the number of suicides in the United States has
not increased. Now the Government has determined to establish a Lethal
Chamber in every city, town and village in the country, it remains to be
seen whether or not that class of human creatures from whose desponding
ranks new victims of self-destruction fall daily will accept the relief
thus provided." He paused, and turned to the white Lethal Chamber. The
silence in the street was absolute. "There a painless death awaits him
who can no longer bear the sorrows of this life. If death is welcome let
him seek it there." Then quickly turning to the military aid of the
President's household, he said, "I declare the Lethal Chamber open," and
again facing the vast crowd he cried in a clear voice: "Citizens of New
York and of the United States of America, through me the Government
declares the Lethal Chamber to be open."</p>
<p>The solemn hush was broken by a sharp cry of command, the squadron of
hussars filed after the Governor's carriage, the lancers wheeled and
formed along Fifth Avenue to wait for the commandant of the garrison,
and the mounted police followed them. I left the crowd to gape and stare
at the white marble Death Chamber, and, crossing South Fifth Avenue,
walked along the western side of that thoroughfare to Bleecker Street.
Then I turned to the right and stopped before a dingy shop which bore
the sign:</p>
<p class="c">H<small>AWBERK</small>, A<small>RMOURER</small>.</p>
<p>I glanced in at the doorway and saw Hawberk busy in his little shop at
the end of the hall. He looked up, and catching sight of me cried in his
deep, hearty voice, "Come in, Mr. Castaigne!" Constance, his daughter,
rose to meet me as I crossed the threshold, and held out her pretty
hand, but I saw the blush of disappointment on her cheeks, and knew that
it was another Castaigne she had expected, my cousin Louis. I smiled at
her confusion and complimented her on the banner she was embroidering
from a coloured plate. Old Hawberk sat riveting the worn greaves of some
ancient suit of armour, and the ting! ting! ting! of his little hammer
sounded pleasantly in the quaint shop. Presently he dropped his hammer,
and fussed about for a moment with a tiny wrench. The soft clash of the
mail sent a thrill of pleasure through me. I loved to hear the music of
steel brushing against steel, the mellow shock of the mallet on thigh
pieces, and the jingle of chain armour. That was the only reason I went
to see Hawberk. He had never interested me personally, nor did
Constance, except for the fact of her being in love with Louis. This did
occupy my attention, and sometimes even kept me awake at night. But I
knew in my heart that all would come right, and that I should arrange
their future as I expected to arrange that of my kind doctor, John
Archer. However, I should never have troubled myself about visiting them
just then, had it not been, as I say, that the music of the tinkling
hammer had for me this strong fascination. I would sit for hours,
listening and listening, and when a stray sunbeam struck the inlaid
steel, the sensation it gave me was almost too keen to endure. My eyes
would become fixed, dilating with a pleasure that stretched every nerve
almost to breaking, until some movement of the old armourer cut off the
ray of sunlight, then, still thrilling secretly, I leaned back and
listened again to the sound of the polishing rag, swish! swish! rubbing
rust from the rivets.</p>
<p>Constance worked with the embroidery over her knees, now and then
pausing to examine more closely the pattern in the coloured plate from
the Metropolitan Museum.</p>
<p>"Who is this for?" I asked.</p>
<p>Hawberk explained, that in addition to the treasures of armour in the
Metropolitan Museum of which he had been appointed armourer, he also had
charge of several collections belonging to rich amateurs. This was the
missing greave of a famous suit which a client of his had traced to a
little shop in Paris on the Quai d'Orsay. He, Hawberk, had negotiated
for and secured the greave, and now the suit was complete. He laid down
his hammer and read me the history of the suit, traced since 1450 from
owner to owner until it was acquired by Thomas Stainbridge. When his
superb collection was sold, this client of Hawberk's bought the suit,
and since then the search for the missing greave had been pushed until
it was, almost by accident, located in Paris.</p>
<p>"Did you continue the search so persistently without any certainty of
the greave being still in existence?" I demanded.</p>
<p>"Of course," he replied coolly.</p>
<p>Then for the first time I took a personal interest in Hawberk.</p>
<p>"It was worth something to you," I ventured.</p>
<p>"No," he replied, laughing, "my pleasure in finding it was my reward."</p>
<p>"Have you no ambition to be rich?" I asked, smiling.</p>
<p>"My one ambition is to be the best armourer in the world," he answered
gravely.</p>
<p>Constance asked me if I had seen the ceremonies at the Lethal Chamber.
She herself had noticed cavalry passing up Broadway that morning, and
had wished to see the inauguration, but her father wanted the banner
finished, and she had stayed at his request.</p>
<p>"Did you see your cousin, Mr. Castaigne, there?" she asked, with the
slightest tremor of her soft eyelashes.</p>
<p>"No," I replied carelessly. "Louis' regiment is manœuvring out in
Westchester County." I rose and picked up my hat and cane.</p>
<p>"Are you going upstairs to see the lunatic again?" laughed old Hawberk.
If Hawberk knew how I loathe that word "lunatic," he would never use it
in my presence. It rouses certain feelings within me which I do not care
to explain. However, I answered him quietly: "I think I shall drop in
and see Mr. Wilde for a moment or two."</p>
<p>"Poor fellow," said Constance, with a shake of the head, "it must be
hard to live alone year after year poor, crippled and almost demented.
It is very good of you, Mr. Castaigne, to visit him as often as you do."</p>
<p>"I think he is vicious," observed Hawberk, beginning again with his
hammer. I listened to the golden tinkle on the greave plates; when he
had finished I replied:</p>
<p>"No, he is not vicious, nor is he in the least demented. His mind is a
wonder chamber, from which he can extract treasures that you and I would
give years of our life to acquire."'</p>
<p>Hawberk laughed.</p>
<p>I continued a little impatiently: "He knows history as no one else could
know it. Nothing, however trivial, escapes his search, and his memory is
so absolute, so precise in details, that were it known in New York that
such a man existed, the people could not honour him enough."</p>
<p>"Nonsense," muttered Hawberk, searching on the floor for a fallen rivet.</p>
<p>"Is it nonsense," I asked, managing to suppress what I felt, "is it
nonsense when he says that the tassets and cuissards of the enamelled
suit of armour commonly known as the 'Prince's Emblazoned' can be found
among a mass of rusty theatrical properties, broken stoves and
ragpicker's refuse in a garret in Pell Street?"</p>
<p>Hawberk's hammer fell to the ground, but he picked it up and asked, with
a great deal of calm, how I knew that the tassets and left cuissard were
missing from the "Prince's Emblazoned."</p>
<p>"I did not know until Mr. Wilde mentioned it to me the other day. He
said they were in the garret of 998 Pell Street."</p>
<p>"Nonsense," he cried, but I noticed his hand trembling under his
leathern apron.</p>
<p>"Is this nonsense too?" I asked pleasantly, "is it nonsense when Mr.
Wilde continually speaks of you as the Marquis of Avonshire and of Miss
Constance—"</p>
<p>I did not finish, for Constance had started to her feet with terror
written on every feature. Hawberk looked at me and slowly smoothed his
leathern apron.</p>
<p>"That is impossible," he observed, "Mr. Wilde may know a great many
things—"</p>
<p>"About armour, for instance, and the 'Prince's Emblazoned,'" I
interposed, smiling.</p>
<p>"Yes," he continued, slowly, "about armour also—may be—but he is wrong
in regard to the Marquis of Avonshire, who, as you know, killed his
wife's traducer years ago, and went to Australia where he did not long
survive his wife."</p>
<p>"Mr. Wilde is wrong," murmured Constance. Her lips were blanched, but
her voice was sweet and calm.</p>
<p>"Let us agree, if you please, that in this one circumstance Mr. Wilde is
wrong," I said.</p>
<h3>II</h3>
<p>I climbed the three dilapidated flights of stairs, which I had so often
climbed before, and knocked at a small door at the end of the corridor.
Mr. Wilde opened the door and I walked in.</p>
<p>When he had double-locked the door and pushed a heavy chest against it,
he came and sat down beside me, peering up into my face with his little
light-coloured eyes. Half a dozen new scratches covered his nose and
cheeks, and the silver wires which supported his artificial ears had
become displaced. I thought I had never seen him so hideously
fascinating. He had no ears. The artificial ones, which now stood out at
an angle from the fine wire, were his one weakness. They were made of
wax and painted a shell pink, but the rest of his face was yellow. He
might better have revelled in the luxury of some artificial fingers for
his left hand, which was absolutely fingerless, but it seemed to cause
him no inconvenience, and he was satisfied with his wax ears. He was
very small, scarcely higher than a child of ten, but his arms were
magnificently developed, and his thighs as thick as any athlete's.
Still, the most remarkable thing about Mr. Wilde was that a man of his
marvellous intelligence and knowledge should have such a head. It was
flat and pointed, like the heads of many of those unfortunates whom
people imprison in asylums for the weak-minded. Many called him insane,
but I knew him to be as sane as I was.</p>
<p>I do not deny that he was eccentric; the mania he had for keeping that
cat and teasing her until she flew at his face like a demon, was
certainly eccentric. I never could understand why he kept the creature,
nor what pleasure he found in shutting himself up in his room with this
surly, vicious beast. I remember once, glancing up from the manuscript I
was studying by the light of some tallow dips, and seeing Mr. Wilde
squatting motionless on his high chair, his eyes fairly blazing with
excitement, while the cat, which had risen from her place before the
stove, came creeping across the floor right at him. Before I could move
she flattened her belly to the ground, crouched, trembled, and sprang
into his face. Howling and foaming they rolled over and over on the
floor, scratching and clawing, until the cat screamed and fled under the
cabinet, and Mr. Wilde turned over on his back, his limbs contracting
and curling up like the legs of a dying spider. He <i>was</i> eccentric.</p>
<p>Mr. Wilde had climbed into his high chair, and, after studying my face,
picked up a dog's-eared ledger and opened it.</p>
<p>"Henry B. Matthews," he read, "book-keeper with Whysot Whysot and
Company, dealers in church ornaments. Called April 3rd. Reputation
damaged on the race-track. Known as a welcher. Reputation to be repaired
by August 1st. Retainer Five Dollars." He turned the page and ran his
fingerless knuckles down the closely-written columns.</p>
<p>"P. Greene Dusenberry, Minister of the Gospel, Fairbeach, New Jersey.
Reputation damaged in the Bowery. To be repaired as soon as possible.
Retainer $100."</p>
<p>He coughed and added, "Called, April 6th."</p>
<p>"Then you are not in need of money, Mr. Wilde," I inquired.</p>
<p>"Listen," he coughed again.</p>
<p>"Mrs. C. Hamilton Chester, of Chester Park, New York City. Called April
7th. Reputation damaged at Dieppe, France. To be repaired by October 1st
Retainer $500.</p>
<p>"Note.—C. Hamilton Chester, Captain U.S.S. 'Avalanche', ordered home
from South Sea Squadron October 1st."</p>
<p>"Well," I said, "the profession of a Repairer of Reputations is
lucrative."</p>
<p>His colourless eyes sought mine, "I only wanted to demonstrate that I
was correct. You said it was impossible to succeed as a Repairer of
Reputations; that even if I did succeed in certain cases it would cost
me more than I would gain by it. To-day I have five hundred men in my
employ, who are poorly paid, but who pursue the work with an enthusiasm
which possibly may be born of fear. These men enter every shade and
grade of society; some even are pillars of the most exclusive social
temples; others are the prop and pride of the financial world; still
others, hold undisputed sway among the 'Fancy and the Talent.' I choose
them at my leisure from those who reply to my advertisements. It is easy
enough, they are all cowards. I could treble the number in twenty days
if I wished. So you see, those who have in their keeping the reputations
of their fellow-citizens, I have in my pay."</p>
<p>"They may turn on you," I suggested.</p>
<p>He rubbed his thumb over his cropped ears, and adjusted the wax
substitutes. "I think not," he murmured thoughtfully, "I seldom have to
apply the whip, and then only once. Besides they like their wages."</p>
<p>"How do you apply the whip?" I demanded.</p>
<p>His face for a moment was awful to look upon. His eyes dwindled to a
pair of green sparks.</p>
<p>"I invite them to come and have a little chat with me," he said in a
soft voice.</p>
<p>A knock at the door interrupted him, and his face resumed its amiable
expression.</p>
<p>"Who is it?" he inquired.</p>
<p>"Mr. Steylette," was the answer.</p>
<p>"Come to-morrow," replied Mr. Wilde.</p>
<p>"Impossible," began the other, but was silenced by a sort of bark from
Mr. Wilde.</p>
<p>"Come to-morrow," he repeated.</p>
<p>We heard somebody move away from the door and turn the corner by the
stairway.</p>
<p>"Who is that?" I asked.</p>
<p>"Arnold Steylette, Owner and Editor in Chief of the great New York
daily."</p>
<p>He drummed on the ledger with his fingerless hand adding: "I pay him
very badly, but he thinks it a good bargain."</p>
<p>"Arnold Steylette!" I repeated amazed.</p>
<p>"Yes," said Mr. Wilde, with a self-satisfied cough.</p>
<p>The cat, which had entered the room as he spoke, hesitated, looked up at
him and snarled. He climbed down from the chair and squatting on the
floor, took the creature into his arms and caressed her. The cat ceased
snarling and presently began a loud purring which seemed to increase in
timbre as he stroked her. "Where are the notes?" I asked. He pointed to
the table, and for the hundredth time I picked up the bundle of
manuscript entitled—</p>
<p class="c">"T<small>HE</small> I<small>MPERIAL</small> D<small>YNASTY OF</small> A<small>MERICA</small>."</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>When I finished, Mr. Wilde nodded and coughed.</p>
<p>"Speaking of your legitimate ambition," he said, "how do Constance and
Louis get along?"</p>
<p>"She loves him," I replied simply.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>"And Dr. Archer! But that's a matter you can settle any time you wish,"
he added.</p>
<p>"Yes," I replied, "Dr. Archer can wait, but it is time I saw my cousin
Louis."</p>
<p>"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 <i>en masse</i>. 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."</p>
<p>The blood rushed to my head, but I only answered, "A new broom sweeps
clean."</p>
<p>"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.</p>
<p>"You are speaking of the King in Yellow," I groaned, with a shudder.</p>
<p>"He is a king whom emperors have served."</p>
<p>"I am content to serve him," I replied.</p>
<p>Mr. Wilde sat rubbing his ears with his crippled hand. "Perhaps
Constance does not love him," he suggested.</p>
<p>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 manœuvres 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.</p>
<p>"Yes," he said, "it is time that you saw your cousin Louis."</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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 <i>Herald</i> and the <i>Meteor</i>, 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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>"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?"</p>
<p>"There is none," I replied pleasantly. "I saw your regiment coming in
this morning."</p>
<p>"Did you? I didn't see you. Where were you?"</p>
<p>"In Mr. Wilde's window."</p>
<p>"Oh, hell!" he began impatiently, "that man is stark mad! I don't
understand why you—"</p>
<p>He saw how annoyed I felt by this outburst, and begged my pardon.</p>
<p>"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—"</p>
<p>"So have I," I interrupted calmly.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>"I suppose you mean that I was simply acknowledged never to have been
insane."</p>
<p>"Of course that—that's what I meant," he laughed.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>We found old Hawberk, neatly attired in a fresh spring suit, standing at
the door of his shop and sniffing the air.</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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. Caf�s 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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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, d�class� 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.</p>
<p>Constance's merry laugh aroused me from my reverie.</p>
<p>"What <i>are</i> you staring at?" she inquired.</p>
<p>"Nothing—the fleet," I smiled.</p>
<p>Then Louis told us what the vessels were, pointing out each by its
relative position to the old Red Fort on Governor's Island.</p>
<p>"That little cigar shaped thing is a torpedo boat," he explained; "there
are four more lying close together. They are the <i>Tarpon</i>, the <i>Falcon</i>,
the <i>Sea Fox</i>, and the <i>Octopus</i>. The gun-boats just above are the
<i>Princeton</i>, the <i>Champlain</i>, the <i>Still Water</i> and the <i>Erie</i>. Next to
them lie the cruisers <i>Faragut</i> and <i>Los Angeles</i>, and above them the
battle ships <i>California</i>, and <i>Dakota</i>, and the <i>Washington</i> which is
the flag ship. Those two squatty looking chunks of metal which are
anchored there off Castle William are the double turreted monitors
<i>Terrible</i> and <i>Magnificent</i>; behind them lies the ram, <i>Osceola</i>."</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"998?" I inquired, with a smile.</p>
<p>"Yes."</p>
<p>"Mr. Wilde is a very intelligent man," I observed.</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"He won't thank you for that," I answered sharply; "please say nothing
about it."</p>
<p>"Do you know what it is worth?" said Hawberk.</p>
<p>"No, fifty dollars, perhaps."</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"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—"</p>
<p>"When what?" demanded Hawberk, astonished.</p>
<p>"You will see," I replied, on my guard again.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>"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!"</p>
<p>"Oh," said Hawberk.</p>
<p>"And eventually," I continued more quietly, "it will secure the
happiness of the whole world."</p>
<p>"And incidentally your own happiness and prosperity as well as Mr.
Wilde's?"</p>
<p>"Exactly," I smiled. But I could have throttled him for taking that
tone.</p>
<p>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."</p>
<p>"I don't care for fishing any more," I answered, without a shade of
annoyance in my voice.</p>
<p>"You used to be fond of everything," he continued; "athletics, yachting,
shooting, riding—"</p>
<p>"I have never cared to ride since my fall," I said quietly.</p>
<p>"Ah, yes, your fall," he repeated, looking away from me.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>"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:</p>
<p class="c">M<small>R</small>. W<small>ILDE</small>,<br/>
R<small>EPAIRER OF</small> R<small>EPUTATIONS</small>.<br/>
Third Bell.</p>
<p>"Do you know what a Repairer of Reputations can be?"</p>
<p>"I do," I replied, suppressing the rage within.</p>
<p>"Oh," he said again.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<h3>III</h3>
<p>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.</p>
<p>"What is all this?" he inquired, in a gentle voice. "Are you ill?"</p>
<p>"No," I replied. But I doubt if he heard me.</p>
<p>"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?"</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>"It's dear at fifty cents," he said. "What's it for?"</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>"Where have you been?" I inquired.</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>I gave him some brandy from my medicinal store, which he drank with a
grimace.</p>
<p>"Damned bad stuff," he observed. "I'll give you an address where they
sell brandy that is brandy."</p>
<p>"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.</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>He glanced along the row of shelves. "Napoleon, Napoleon, Napoleon!" he
read. "For heaven's sake, have you nothing but Napoleons there?"</p>
<p>"I wish they were bound in gold," I said. "But wait, yes, there is
another book, <i>The King in Yellow</i>." I looked him steadily in the eye.</p>
<p>"Have you never read it?" I asked.</p>
<p>"I? No, thank God! I don't want to be driven crazy."</p>
<p>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 <i>The King in
Yellow</i> dangerous.</p>
<p>"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?"</p>
<p>"I understand he is still alive," I answered.</p>
<p>"That's probably true," he muttered; "bullets couldn't kill a fiend like
that."</p>
<p>"It is a book of great truths," I said.</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"Is that what you have come to tell me?" I asked.</p>
<p>"No," he said, "I came to tell you that I am going to be married."</p>
<p>I believe for a moment my heart ceased to beat, but I kept my eyes on
his face.</p>
<p>"Yes," he continued, smiling happily, "married to the sweetest girl on
earth."</p>
<p>"Constance Hawberk," I said mechanically.</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"When is it to be?" I asked.</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>I offered him my hand in congratulation, and he seized and shook it like
the good-natured fool he was—or pretended to be.</p>
<p>"I am going to get my squadron as a wedding present," he rattled on.
"Captain and Mrs. Louis Castaigne, eh, Hildred?"</p>
<p>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—</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>"There's one thing I want to ask of you," I said quietly.</p>
<p>"Out with it, it's promised," he laughed.</p>
<p>"I want you to meet me for a quarter of an hour's talk to-night."</p>
<p>"Of course, if you wish," he said, somewhat puzzled. "Where?"</p>
<p>"Anywhere, in the park there."</p>
<p>"What time, Hildred?"</p>
<p>"Midnight."</p>
<p>"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—</p>
<p class="c">M<small>R</small>. W<small>ILDE</small>,<br/>
R<small>EPAIRER OF</small> R<small>EPUTATIONS</small>.<br/>
Third Bell.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>"It's that cursed cat," he said, ceasing his groans, and turning his
colourless eyes to me; "she attacked me while I was asleep. I believe
she will kill me yet."</p>
<p>This was too much, so I went into the kitchen, and, seizing a hatchet
from the pantry, started to find the infernal beast and settle her then
and there. My search was fruitless, and after a while I gave it up and
came back to find Mr. Wilde squatting on his high chair by the table. He
had washed his face and changed his clothes. The great furrows which the
cat's claws had ploughed up in his face he had filled with collodion,
and a rag hid the wound in his throat. I told him I should kill the cat
when I came across her, but he only shook his head and turned to the
open ledger before him. He read name after name of the people who had
come to him in regard to their reputation, and the sums he had amassed
were startling.</p>
<p>"I put on the screws now and then," he explained.</p>
<p>"One day or other some of these people will assassinate you," I
insisted.</p>
<p>"Do you think so?" he said, rubbing his mutilated ears.</p>
<p>It was useless to argue with him, so I took down the manuscript entitled
Imperial Dynasty of America, for the last time I should ever take it
down in Mr. Wilde's study. I read it through, thrilling and trembling
with pleasure. When I had finished Mr. Wilde took the manuscript and,
turning to the dark passage which leads from his study to his
bed-chamber, called out in a loud voice, "Vance." Then for the first
time, I noticed a man crouching there in the shadow. How I had
overlooked him during my search for the cat, I cannot imagine.</p>
<p>"Vance, come in," cried Mr. Wilde.</p>
<p>The figure rose and crept towards us, and I shall never forget the face
that he raised to mine, as the light from the window illuminated it.</p>
<p>"Vance, this is Mr. Castaigne," said Mr. Wilde. Before he had finished
speaking, the man threw himself on the ground before the table, crying
and grasping, "Oh, God! Oh, my God! Help me! Forgive me! Oh, Mr.
Castaigne, keep that man away. You cannot, you cannot mean it! You are
different—save me! I am broken down—I was in a madhouse and now—when
all was coming right—when I had forgotten the King—the King in Yellow
and—but I shall go mad again—I shall go mad—"</p>
<p>His voice died into a choking rattle, for Mr. Wilde had leapt on him and
his right hand encircled the man's throat. When Vance fell in a heap on
the floor, Mr. Wilde clambered nimbly into his chair again, and rubbing
his mangled ears with the stump of his hand, turned to me and asked me
for the ledger. I reached it down from the shelf and he opened it. After
a moment's searching among the beautifully written pages, he coughed
complacently, and pointed to the name Vance.</p>
<p>"Vance," he read aloud, "Osgood Oswald Vance." At the sound of his name,
the man on the floor raised his head and turned a convulsed face to Mr.
Wilde. His eyes were injected with blood, his lips tumefied. "Called
April 28th," continued Mr. Wilde. "Occupation, cashier in the Seaforth
National Bank; has served a term of forgery at Sing Sing, from whence he
was transferred to the Asylum for the Criminal Insane. Pardoned by the
Governor of New York, and discharged from the Asylum, January 19, 1918.
Reputation damaged at Sheepshead Bay. Rumours that he lives beyond his
income. Reputation to be repaired at once. Retainer $1,500.</p>
<p>"Note.—Has embezzled sums amounting to $30,000 since March 20, 1919,
excellent family, and secured present position through uncle's
influence. Father, President of Seaforth Bank."</p>
<p>I looked at the man on the floor.</p>
<p>"Get up, Vance," said Mr. Wilde in a gentle voice. Vance rose as if
hypnotized. "He will do as we suggest now," observed Mr. Wilde, and
opening the manuscript, he read the entire history of the Imperial
Dynasty of America. Then in a kind and soothing murmur he ran over the
important points with Vance, who stood like one stunned. His eyes were
so blank and vacant that I imagined he had become half-witted, and
remarked it to Mr. Wilde who replied that it was of no consequence
anyway. Very patiently we pointed out to Vance what his share in the
affair would be, and he seemed to understand after a while. Mr. Wilde
explained the manuscript, using several volumes on Heraldry, to
substantiate the result of his researches. He mentioned the
establishment of the Dynasty in Carcosa, the lakes which connected
Hastur, Aldebaran and the mystery of the Hyades. He spoke of Cassilda
and Camilla, and sounded the cloudy depths of Demhe, and the Lake of
Hali. "The scolloped tatters of the King in Yellow must hide Yhtill
forever," he muttered, but I do not believe Vance heard him. Then by
degrees he led Vance along the ramifications of the Imperial family, to
Uoht and Thale, from Naotalba and Phantom of Truth, to Aldones, and then
tossing aside his manuscript and notes, he began the wonderful story of
the Last King. Fascinated and thrilled I watched him. He threw up his
head, his long arms were stretched out in a magnificent gesture of pride
and power, and his eyes blazed deep in their sockets like two emeralds.
Vance listened stupefied. As for me, when at last Mr. Wilde had
finished, and pointing to me, cried, "The cousin of the King!" my head
swam with excitement.</p>
<p>Controlling myself with a superhuman effort, I explained to Vance why I
alone was worthy of the crown and why my cousin must be exiled or die. I
made him understand that my cousin must never marry, even after
renouncing all his claims, and how that least of all he should marry the
daughter of the Marquis of Avonshire and bring England into the
question. I showed him a list of thousands of names which Mr. Wilde had
drawn up; every man whose name was there had received the Yellow Sign
which no living human being dared disregard. The city, the state, the
whole land, were ready to rise and tremble before the Pallid Mask.</p>
<p>The time had come, the people should know the son of Hastur, and the
whole world bow to the black stars which hang in the sky over Carcosa.</p>
<p>Vance leaned on the table, his head buried in his hands. Mr. Wilde drew
a rough sketch on the margin of yesterday's <i>Herald</i> with a bit of lead
pencil. It was a plan of Hawberk's rooms. Then he wrote out the order
and affixed the seal, and shaking like a palsied man I signed my first
writ of execution with my name Hildred-Rex.</p>
<p>Mr. Wilde clambered to the floor and unlocking the cabinet, took a long
square box from the first shelf. This he brought to the table and
opened. A new knife lay in the tissue paper inside and I picked it up
and handed it to Vance, along with the order and the plan of Hawberk's
apartment. Then Mr. Wilde told Vance he could go; and he went, shambling
like an outcast of the slums.</p>
<p>I sat for a while watching the daylight fade behind the square tower of
the Judson Memorial Church, and finally, gathering up the manuscript and
notes, took my hat and started for the door.</p>
<p>Mr. Wilde watched me in silence. When I had stepped into the hall I
looked back. Mr. Wilde's small eyes were still fixed on me. Behind him,
the shadows gathered in the fading light. Then I closed the door behind
me and went out into the darkening streets.</p>
<p>I had eaten nothing since breakfast, but I was not hungry. A wretched,
half-starved creature, who stood looking across the street at the Lethal
Chamber, noticed me and came up to tell me a tale of misery. I gave him
money, I don't know why, and he went away without thanking me. An hour
later another outcast approached and whined his story. I had a blank bit
of paper in my pocket, on which was traced the Yellow Sign, and I handed
it to him. He looked at it stupidly for a moment, and then with an
uncertain glance at me, folded it with what seemed to me exaggerated
care and placed it in his bosom.</p>
<p>The electric lights were sparkling among the trees, and the new moon
shone in the sky above the Lethal Chamber. It was tiresome waiting in
the square; I wandered from the Marble Arch to the artillery stables and
back again to the lotos fountain. The flowers and grass exhaled a
fragrance which troubled me. The jet of the fountain played in the
moonlight, and the musical splash of falling drops reminded me of the
tinkle of chained mail in Hawberk's shop. But it was not so fascinating,
and the dull sparkle of the moonlight on the water brought no such
sensations of exquisite pleasure, as when the sunshine played over the
polished steel of a corselet on Hawberk's knee. I watched the bats
darting and turning above the water plants in the fountain basin, but
their rapid, jerky flight set my nerves on edge, and I went away again
to walk aimlessly to and fro among the trees.</p>
<p>The artillery stables were dark, but in the cavalry barracks the
officers' windows were brilliantly lighted, and the sallyport was
constantly filled with troopers in fatigue, carrying straw and harness
and baskets filled with tin dishes.</p>
<p>Twice the mounted sentry at the gates was changed while I wandered up
and down the asphalt walk. I looked at my watch. It was nearly time. The
lights in the barracks went out one by one, the barred gate was closed,
and every minute or two an officer passed in through the side wicket,
leaving a rattle of accoutrements and a jingle of spurs on the night
air. The square had become very silent. The last homeless loiterer had
been driven away by the grey-coated park policeman, the car tracks along
Wooster Street were deserted, and the only sound which broke the
stillness was the stamping of the sentry's horse and the ring of his
sabre against the saddle pommel. In the barracks, the officers' quarters
were still lighted, and military servants passed and repassed before the
bay windows. Twelve o'clock sounded from the new spire of St. Francis
Xavier, and at the last stroke of the sad-toned bell a figure passed
through the wicket beside the portcullis, returned the salute of the
sentry, and crossing the street entered the square and advanced toward
the Benedick apartment house.</p>
<p>"Louis," I called.</p>
<p>The man pivoted on his spurred heels and came straight toward me.</p>
<p>"Is that you, Hildred?"</p>
<p>"Yes, you are on time."</p>
<p>I took his offered hand, and we strolled toward the Lethal Chamber.</p>
<p>He rattled on about his wedding and the graces of Constance, and their
future prospects, calling my attention to his captain's shoulder-straps,
and the triple gold arabesque on his sleeve and fatigue cap. I believe I
listened as much to the music of his spurs and sabre as I did to his
boyish babble, and at last we stood under the elms on the Fourth Street
corner of the square opposite the Lethal Chamber. Then he laughed and
asked me what I wanted with him. I motioned him to a seat on a bench
under the electric light, and sat down beside him. He looked at me
curiously, with that same searching glance which I hate and fear so in
doctors. I felt the insult of his look, but he did not know it, and I
carefully concealed my feelings.</p>
<p>"Well, old chap," he inquired, "what can I do for you?"</p>
<p>I drew from my pocket the manuscript and notes of the Imperial Dynasty
of America, and looking him in the eye said:</p>
<p>"I will tell you. On your word as a soldier, promise me to read this
manuscript from beginning to end, without asking me a question. Promise
me to read these notes in the same way, and promise me to listen to what
I have to tell later."</p>
<p>"I promise, if you wish it," he said pleasantly. "Give me the paper,
Hildred."</p>
<p>He began to read, raising his eyebrows with a puzzled, whimsical air,
which made me tremble with suppressed anger. As he advanced his,
eyebrows contracted, and his lips seemed to form the word "rubbish."</p>
<p>Then he looked slightly bored, but apparently for my sake read, with an
attempt at interest, which presently ceased to be an effort. He started
when in the closely written pages he came to his own name, and when he
came to mine he lowered the paper, and looked sharply at me for a moment.
But he kept his word, and resumed his reading, and I let the half-formed
question die on his lips unanswered. When he came to the end and read
the signature of Mr. Wilde, he folded the paper carefully and returned
it to me. I handed him the notes, and he settled back, pushing his
fatigue cap up to his forehead, with a boyish gesture, which I
remembered so well in school. I watched his face as he read, and when he
finished I took the notes with the manuscript, and placed them in my
pocket. Then I unfolded a scroll marked with the Yellow Sign. He saw the
sign, but he did not seem to recognize it, and I called his attention to
it somewhat sharply.</p>
<p>"Well," he said, "I see it. What is it?"</p>
<p>"It is the Yellow Sign," I said angrily.</p>
<p>"Oh, that's it, is it?" said Louis, in that flattering voice, which
Doctor Archer used to employ with me, and would probably have employed
again, had I not settled his affair for him.</p>
<p>I kept my rage down and answered as steadily as possible, "Listen, you
have engaged your word?"</p>
<p>"I am listening, old chap," he replied soothingly.</p>
<p>I began to speak very calmly.</p>
<p>"Dr. Archer, having by some means become possessed of the secret of the
Imperial Succession, attempted to deprive me of my right, alleging that
because of a fall from my horse four years ago, I had become mentally
deficient. He presumed to place me under restraint in his own house in
hopes of either driving me insane or poisoning me. I have not forgotten
it. I visited him last night and the interview was final."</p>
<p>Louis turned quite pale, but did not move. I resumed triumphantly,
"There are yet three people to be interviewed in the interests of Mr.
Wilde and myself. They are my cousin Louis, Mr. Hawberk, and his
daughter Constance."</p>
<p>Louis sprang to his feet and I arose also, and flung the paper marked
with the Yellow Sign to the ground.</p>
<p>"Oh, I don't need that to tell you what I have to say," I cried, with a
laugh of triumph. "You must renounce the crown to me, do you hear, to
<i>me</i>."</p>
<p>Louis looked at me with a startled air, but recovering himself said
kindly, "Of course I renounce the—what is it I must renounce?"</p>
<p>"The crown," I said angrily.</p>
<p>"Of course," he answered, "I renounce it. Come, old chap, I'll walk back
to your rooms with you."</p>
<p>"Don't try any of your doctor's tricks on me," I cried, trembling with
fury. "Don't act as if you think I am insane."</p>
<p>"What nonsense," he replied. "Come, it's getting late, Hildred."</p>
<p>"No," I shouted, "you must listen. You cannot marry, I forbid it. Do you
hear? I forbid it. You shall renounce the crown, and in reward I grant
you exile, but if you refuse you shall die."</p>
<p>He tried to calm me, but I was roused at last, and drawing my long knife
barred his way.</p>
<p>Then I told him how they would find Dr. Archer in the cellar with his
throat open, and I laughed in his face when I thought of Vance and his
knife, and the order signed by me.</p>
<p>"Ah, you are the King," I cried, "but I shall be King. Who are you to
keep me from Empire over all the habitable earth! I was born the cousin
of a king, but I shall be King!"</p>
<p>Louis stood white and rigid before me. Suddenly a man came running up
Fourth Street, entered the gate of the Lethal Temple, traversed the path
to the bronze doors at full speed, and plunged into the death chamber
with the cry of one demented, and I laughed until I wept tears, for I
had recognized Vance, and knew that Hawberk and his daughter were no
longer in my way.</p>
<p>"Go," I cried to Louis, "you have ceased to be a menace. You will never
marry Constance now, and if you marry any one else in your exile, I will
visit you as I did my doctor last night. Mr. Wilde takes charge of you
to-morrow." Then I turned and darted into South Fifth Avenue, and with a
cry of terror Louis dropped his belt and sabre and followed me like the
wind. I heard him close behind me at the corner of Bleecker Street, and
I dashed into the doorway under Hawberk's sign. He cried, "Halt, or I
fire!" but when he saw that I flew up the stairs leaving Hawberk's shop
below, he left me, and I heard him hammering and shouting at their door
as though it were possible to arouse the dead.</p>
<p>Mr. Wilde's door was open, and I entered crying, "It is done, it is
done! Let the nations rise and look upon their King!" but I could not
find Mr. Wilde, so I went to the cabinet and took the splendid diadem
from its case. Then I drew on the white silk robe, embroidered with the
Yellow Sign, and placed the crown upon my head. At last I was King, King
by my right in Hastur, King because I knew the mystery of the Hyades,
and my mind had sounded the depths of the Lake of Hali. I was King! The
first grey pencillings of dawn would raise a tempest which would shake
two hemispheres. Then as I stood, my every nerve pitched to the highest
tension, faint with the joy and splendour of my thought, without, in the
dark passage, a man groaned.</p>
<p>I seized the tallow dip and sprang to the door. The cat passed me like a
demon, and the tallow dip went out, but my long knife flew swifter than
she, and I heard her screech, and I knew that my knife had found her.
For a moment I listened to her tumbling and thumping about in the
darkness, and then when her frenzy ceased, I lighted a lamp and raised
it over my head. Mr. Wilde lay on the floor with his throat torn open.
At first I thought he was dead, but as I looked, a green sparkle came
into his sunken eyes, his mutilated hand trembled, and then a spasm
stretched his mouth from ear to ear. For a moment my terror and despair
gave place to hope, but as I bent over him his eyeballs rolled clean
around in his head, and he died. Then while I stood, transfixed with
rage and despair, seeing my crown, my empire, every hope and every
ambition, my very life, lying prostrate there with the dead master,
<i>they</i> came, seized me from behind, and bound me until my veins stood
out like cords, and my voice failed with the paroxysms of my frenzied
screams. But I still raged, bleeding and infuriated among them, and more
than one policeman felt my sharp teeth. Then when I could no longer move
they came nearer; I saw old Hawberk, and behind him my cousin Louis'
ghastly face, and farther away, in the corner, a woman, Constance,
weeping softly.</p>
<p>"Ah! I see it now!" I shrieked. "You have seized the throne and the
empire. Woe! woe to you who are crowned with the crown of the King in
Yellow!"</p>
<p>[E<small>DITOR'S</small> N<small>OTE</small>.—Mr. Castaigne died yesterday in the Asylum for Criminal
Insane.]</p>
<h2><SPAN name="THE_MASK" id="THE_MASK"></SPAN>THE MASK</h2>
<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="">
<tr><td align="left">Camilla: You, sir, should unmask.</td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">Stranger: Indeed?</td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">Cassilda: Indeed it's time. We all have laid aside disguise but you.</td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">Stranger: I wear no mask.</td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">Camilla: (Terrified, aside to Cassilda.) No mask? No mask!</td></tr>
<tr><td align="right"><i>The King in Yellow, Act I, Scene 2</i>.</td></tr>
</table>
<h3>I</h3>
<p>Although I knew nothing of chemistry, I listened fascinated. He picked
up an Easter lily which Genevi�ve had brought that morning from Notre
Dame, and dropped it into the basin. Instantly the liquid lost its
crystalline clearness. For a second the lily was enveloped in a
milk-white foam, which disappeared, leaving the fluid opalescent.
Changing tints of orange and crimson played over the surface, and then
what seemed to be a ray of pure sunlight struck through from the bottom
where the lily was resting. At the same instant he plunged his hand into
the basin and drew out the flower. "There is no danger," he explained,
"if you choose the right moment. That golden ray is the signal."</p>
<p>He held the lily toward me, and I took it in my hand. It had turned to
stone, to the purest marble.</p>
<p>"You see," he said, "it is without a flaw. What sculptor could reproduce
it?"</p>
<p>The marble was white as snow, but in its depths the veins of the lily
were tinged with palest azure, and a faint flush lingered deep in its
heart.</p>
<p>"Don't ask me the reason of that," he smiled, noticing my wonder. "I
have no idea why the veins and heart are tinted, but they always are.
Yesterday I tried one of Genevi�ve's gold-fish,—there it is."</p>
<p>The fish looked as if sculptured in marble. But if you held it to the
light the stone was beautifully veined with a faint blue, and from
somewhere within came a rosy light like the tint which slumbers in an
opal. I looked into the basin. Once more it seemed filled with clearest
crystal.</p>
<p>"If I should touch it now?" I demanded.</p>
<p>"I don't know," he replied, "but you had better not try."</p>
<p>"There is one thing I'm curious about," I said, "and that is where the
ray of sunlight came from."</p>
<p>"It looked like a sunbeam true enough," he said. "I don't know, it
always comes when I immerse any living thing. Perhaps," he continued,
smiling, "perhaps it is the vital spark of the creature escaping to the
source from whence it came."</p>
<p>I saw he was mocking, and threatened him with a mahl-stick, but he only
laughed and changed the subject.</p>
<p>"Stay to lunch. Genevi�ve will be here directly."</p>
<p>"I saw her going to early mass," I said, "and she looked as fresh and
sweet as that lily—before you destroyed it."</p>
<p>"Do you think I destroyed it?" said Boris gravely.</p>
<p>"Destroyed, preserved, how can we tell?"</p>
<p>We sat in the corner of a studio near his unfinished group of the
"Fates." He leaned back on the sofa, twirling a sculptor's chisel and
squinting at his work.</p>
<p>"By the way," he said, "I have finished pointing up that old academic
Ariadne, and I suppose it will have to go to the Salon. It's all I have
ready this year, but after the success the 'Madonna' brought me I feel
ashamed to send a thing like that."</p>
<p>The "Madonna," an exquisite marble for which Genevi�ve had sat, had been
the sensation of last year's Salon. I looked at the Ariadne. It was a
magnificent piece of technical work, but I agreed with Boris that the
world would expect something better of him than that. Still, it was
impossible now to think of finishing in time for the Salon that splendid
terrible group half shrouded in the marble behind me. The "Fates" would
have to wait.</p>
<p>We were proud of Boris Yvain. We claimed him and he claimed us on the
strength of his having been born in America, although his father was
French and his mother was a Russian. Every one in the Beaux Arts called
him Boris. And yet there were only two of us whom he addressed in the
same familiar way—Jack Scott and myself.</p>
<p>Perhaps my being in love with Genevi�ve had something to do with his
affection for me. Not that it had ever been acknowledged between us. But
after all was settled, and she had told me with tears in her eyes that
it was Boris whom she loved, I went over to his house and congratulated
him. The perfect cordiality of that interview did not deceive either of
us, I always believed, although to one at least it was a great comfort.
I do not think he and Genevi�ve ever spoke of the matter together, but
Boris knew.</p>
<p>Genevi�ve was lovely. The Madonna-like purity of her face might have
been inspired by the Sanctus in Gounod's Mass. But I was always glad
when she changed that mood for what we called her "April Manœuvres."
She was often as variable as an April day. In the morning grave,
dignified and sweet, at noon laughing, capricious, at evening whatever
one least expected. I preferred her so rather than in that Madonna-like
tranquillity which stirred the depths of my heart. I was dreaming of
Genevi�ve when he spoke again.</p>
<p>"What do you think of my discovery, Alec?"</p>
<p>"I think it wonderful."</p>
<p>"I shall make no use of it, you know, beyond satisfying my own curiosity
so far as may be, and the secret will die with me."</p>
<p>"It would be rather a blow to sculpture, would it not? We painters lose
more than we ever gain by photography."</p>
<p>Boris nodded, playing with the edge of the chisel.</p>
<p>"This new vicious discovery would corrupt the world of art. No, I shall
never confide the secret to any one," he said slowly.</p>
<p>It would be hard to find any one less informed about such phenomena than
myself; but of course I had heard of mineral springs so saturated with
silica that the leaves and twigs which fell into them were turned to
stone after a time. I dimly comprehended the process, how the silica
replaced the vegetable matter, atom by atom, and the result was a
duplicate of the object in stone. This, I confess, had never interested
me greatly, and as for the ancient fossils thus produced, they disgusted
me. Boris, it appeared, feeling curiosity instead of repugnance, had
investigated the subject, and had accidentally stumbled on a solution
which, attacking the immersed object with a ferocity unheard of, in a
second did the work of years. This was all I could make out of the
strange story he had just been telling me. He spoke again after a long
silence.</p>
<p>"I am almost frightened when I think what I have found. Scientists would
go mad over the discovery. It was so simple too; it discovered itself.
When I think of that formula, and that new element precipitated in
metallic scales—"</p>
<p>"What new element?"</p>
<p>"Oh, I haven't thought of naming it, and I don't believe I ever shall.
There are enough precious metals now in the world to cut throats over."</p>
<p>I pricked up my ears. "Have you struck gold, Boris?"</p>
<p>"No, better;—but see here, Alec!" he laughed, starting up. "You and I
have all we need in this world. Ah! how sinister and covetous you look
already!" I laughed too, and told him I was devoured by the desire for
gold, and we had better talk of something else; so when Genevi�ve came
in shortly after, we had turned our backs on alchemy.</p>
<p>Genevi�ve was dressed in silvery grey from head to foot. The light
glinted along the soft curves of her fair hair as she turned her cheek
to Boris; then she saw me and returned my greeting. She had never before
failed to blow me a kiss from the tips of her white fingers, and I
promptly complained of the omission. She smiled and held out her hand,
which dropped almost before it had touched mine; then she said, looking
at Boris—</p>
<p>"You must ask Alec to stay for luncheon." This also was something new.
She had always asked me herself until to-day.</p>
<p>"I did," said Boris shortly.</p>
<p>"And you said yes, I hope?" She turned to me with a charming
conventional smile. I might have been an acquaintance of the day before
yesterday. I made her a low bow. "J'avais bien l'honneur, madame," but
refusing to take up our usual bantering tone, she murmured a hospitable
commonplace and disappeared. Boris and I looked at one another.</p>
<p>"I had better go home, don't you think?" I asked.</p>
<p>"Hanged if I know," he replied frankly.</p>
<p>While we were discussing the advisability of my departure Genevi�ve
reappeared in the doorway without her bonnet. She was wonderfully
beautiful, but her colour was too deep and her lovely eyes were too
bright. She came straight up to me and took my arm.</p>
<p>"Luncheon is ready. Was I cross, Alec? I thought I had a headache, but I
haven't. Come here, Boris;" and she slipped her other arm through his.
"Alec knows that after you there is no one in the world whom I like as
well as I like him, so if he sometimes feels snubbed it won't hurt him."</p>
<p>"� la bonheur!" I cried, "who says there are no thunderstorms in April?"</p>
<p>"Are you ready?" chanted Boris. "Aye ready;" and arm-in-arm we raced
into the dining-room, scandalizing the servants. After all we were not
so much to blame; Genevi�ve was eighteen, Boris was twenty-three, and I
not quite twenty-one.</p>
<h3>II</h3>
<p>Some work that I was doing about this time on the decorations for
Genevi�ve's boudoir kept me constantly at the quaint little hotel in the
Rue Sainte-C�cile. Boris and I in those days laboured hard but as we
pleased, which was fitfully, and we all three, with Jack Scott, idled a
great deal together.</p>
<p>One quiet afternoon I had been wandering alone over the house examining
curios, prying into odd corners, bringing out sweetmeats and cigars from
strange hiding-places, and at last I stopped in the bathing-room. Boris,
all over clay, stood there washing his hands.</p>
<p>The room was built of rose-coloured marble excepting the floor, which
was tessellated in rose and grey. In the centre was a square pool sunken
below the surface of the floor; steps led down into it, sculptured
pillars supported a frescoed ceiling. A delicious marble Cupid appeared
to have just alighted on his pedestal at the upper end of the room. The
whole interior was Boris' work and mine. Boris, in his working-clothes
of white canvas, scraped the traces of clay and red modelling wax from
his handsome hands, and coquetted over his shoulder with the Cupid.</p>
<p>"I see you," he insisted, "don't try to look the other way and pretend
not to see me. You know who made you, little humbug!"</p>
<p>It was always my r�le to interpret Cupid's sentiments in these
conversations, and when my turn came I responded in such a manner, that
Boris seized my arm and dragged me toward the pool, declaring he would
duck me. Next instant he dropped my arm and turned pale. "Good God!" he
said, "I forgot the pool is full of the solution!"</p>
<p>I shivered a little, and dryly advised him to remember better where he
had stored the precious liquid.</p>
<p>"In Heaven's name, why do you keep a small lake of that gruesome stuff
here of all places?" I asked.</p>
<p>"I want to experiment on something large," he replied.</p>
<p>"On me, for instance?"</p>
<p>"Ah! that came too close for jesting; but I do want to watch the action
of that solution on a more highly organized living body; there is that
big white rabbit," he said, following me into the studio.</p>
<p>Jack Scott, wearing a paint-stained jacket, came wandering in,
appropriated all the Oriental sweetmeats he could lay his hands on,
looted the cigarette case, and finally he and Boris disappeared together
to visit the Luxembourg Gallery, where a new silver bronze by Rodin and
a landscape of Monet's were claiming the exclusive attention of artistic
France. I went back to the studio, and resumed my work. It was a
Renaissance screen, which Boris wanted me to paint for Genevi�ve's
boudoir. But the small boy who was unwillingly dawdling through a series
of poses for it, to-day refused all bribes to be good. He never rested
an instant in the same position, and inside of five minutes I had as
many different outlines of the little beggar.</p>
<p>"Are you posing, or are you executing a song and dance, my friend?" I
inquired.</p>
<p>"Whichever monsieur pleases," he replied, with an angelic smile.</p>
<p>Of course I dismissed him for the day, and of course I paid him for the
full time, that being the way we spoil our models.</p>
<p>After the young imp had gone, I made a few perfunctory daubs at my work,
but was so thoroughly out of humour, that it took me the rest of the
afternoon to undo the damage I had done, so at last I scraped my
palette, stuck my brushes in a bowl of black soap, and strolled into the
smoking-room. I really believe that, excepting Genevi�ve's apartments,
no room in the house was so free from the perfume of tobacco as this
one. It was a queer chaos of odds and ends, hung with threadbare
tapestry. A sweet-toned old spinet in good repair stood by the window.
There were stands of weapons, some old and dull, others bright and
modern, festoons of Indian and Turkish armour over the mantel, two or
three good pictures, and a pipe-rack. It was here that we used to come
for new sensations in smoking. I doubt if any type of pipe ever existed
which was not represented in that rack. When we had selected one, we
immediately carried it somewhere else and smoked it; for the place was,
on the whole, more gloomy and less inviting than any in the house. But
this afternoon, the twilight was very soothing, the rugs and skins on
the floor looked brown and soft and drowsy; the big couch was piled with
cushions—I found my pipe and curled up there for an unaccustomed smoke
in the smoking-room. I had chosen one with a long flexible stem, and
lighting it fell to dreaming. After a while it went out, but I did not
stir. I dreamed on and presently fell asleep.</p>
<p>I awoke to the saddest music I had ever heard. The room was quite dark,
I had no idea what time it was. A ray of moonlight silvered one edge of
the old spinet, and the polished wood seemed to exhale the sounds as
perfume floats above a box of sandalwood. Some one rose in the darkness,
and came away weeping quietly, and I was fool enough to cry out
"Genevi�ve!"</p>
<p>She dropped at my voice, and, I had time to curse myself while I made a
light and tried to raise her from the floor. She shrank away with a
murmur of pain. She was very quiet, and asked for Boris. I carried her
to the divan, and went to look for him, but he was not in the house, and
the servants were gone to bed. Perplexed and anxious, I hurried back to
Genevi�ve. She lay where I had left her, looking very white.</p>
<p>"I can't find Boris nor any of the servants," I said.</p>
<p>"I know," she answered faintly, "Boris has gone to Ept with Mr. Scott. I
did not remember when I sent you for him just now."</p>
<p>"But he can't get back in that case before to-morrow afternoon, and—are
you hurt? Did I frighten you into falling? What an awful fool I am, but
I was only half awake."</p>
<p>"Boris thought you had gone home before dinner. Do please excuse us for
letting you stay here all this time."</p>
<p>"I have had a long nap," I laughed, "so sound that I did not know
whether I was still asleep or not when I found myself staring at a
figure that was moving toward me, and called out your name. Have you
been trying the old spinet? You must have played very softly."</p>
<p>I would tell a thousand more lies worse than that one to see the look of
relief that came into her face. She smiled adorably, and said in her
natural voice: "Alec, I tripped on that wolf's head, and I think my
ankle is sprained. Please call Marie, and then go home."</p>
<p>I did as she bade me, and left her there when the maid came in.</p>
<h3>III</h3>
<p>At noon next day when I called, I found Boris walking restlessly about
his studio.</p>
<p>"Genevi�ve is asleep just now," he told me, "the sprain is nothing, but
why should she have such a high fever? The doctor can't account for it;
or else he will not," he muttered.</p>
<p>"Genevi�ve has a fever?" I asked.</p>
<p>"I should say so, and has actually been a little light-headed at
intervals all night. The idea!—gay little Genevi�ve, without a care in
the world,—and she keeps saying her heart's broken, and she wants to
die!"</p>
<p>My own heart stood still.</p>
<p>Boris leaned against the door of his studio, looking down, his hands in
his pockets, his kind, keen eyes clouded, a new line of trouble drawn
"over the mouth's good mark, that made the smile." The maid had orders
to summon him the instant Genevi�ve opened her eyes. We waited and
waited, and Boris, growing restless, wandered about, fussing with
modelling wax and red clay. Suddenly he started for the next room. "Come
and see my rose-coloured bath full of death!" he cried.</p>
<p>"Is it death?" I asked, to humour his mood.</p>
<p>"You are not prepared to call it life, I suppose," he answered. As he
spoke he plucked a solitary gold-fish squirming and twisting out of its
globe. "We'll send this one after the other—wherever that is," he said.
There was feverish excitement in his voice. A dull weight of fever lay
on my limbs and on my brain as I followed him to the fair crystal pool
with its pink-tinted sides; and he dropped the creature in. Falling, its
scales flashed with a hot orange gleam in its angry twistings and
contortions; the moment it struck the liquid it became rigid and sank
heavily to the bottom. Then came the milky foam, the splendid hues
radiating on the surface and then the shaft of pure serene light broke
through from seemingly infinite depths. Boris plunged in his hand and
drew out an exquisite marble thing, blue-veined, rose-tinted, and
glistening with opalescent drops.</p>
<p>"Child's play," he muttered, and looked wearily, longingly at me,—as if
I could answer such questions! But Jack Scott came in and entered into
the "game," as he called it, with ardour. Nothing would do but to try
the experiment on the white rabbit then and there. I was willing that
Boris should find distraction from his cares, but I hated to see the
life go out of a warm, living creature and I declined to be present.
Picking up a book at random, I sat down in the studio to read. Alas! I
had found <i>The King in Yellow</i>. After a few moments, which seemed ages,
I was putting it away with a nervous shudder, when Boris and Jack came
in bringing their marble rabbit. At the same time the bell rang above,
and a cry came from the sick-room. Boris was gone like a flash, and the
next moment he called, "Jack, run for the doctor; bring him back with
you. Alec, come here."</p>
<p>I went and stood at her door. A frightened maid came out in haste and
ran away to fetch some remedy. Genevi�ve, sitting bolt upright, with
crimson cheeks and glittering eyes, babbled incessantly and resisted
Boris' gentle restraint. He called me to help. At my first touch she
sighed and sank back, closing her eyes, and then—then—as we still bent
above her, she opened them again, looked straight into Boris' face—poor
fever-crazed girl!—and told her secret. At the same instant our three
lives turned into new channels; the bond that held us so long together
snapped for ever and a new bond was forged in its place, for she had
spoken my name, and as the fever tortured her, her heart poured out its
load of hidden sorrow. Amazed and dumb I bowed my head, while my face
burned like a live coal, and the blood surged in my ears, stupefying me
with its clamour. Incapable of movement, incapable of speech, I listened
to her feverish words in an agony of shame and sorrow. I could not
silence her, I could not look at Boris. Then I felt an arm upon my
shoulder, and Boris turned a bloodless face to mine.</p>
<p>"It is not your fault, Alec; don't grieve so if she loves you—" but he
could not finish; and as the doctor stepped swiftly into the room,
saying—"Ah, the fever!" I seized Jack Scott and hurried him to the
street, saying, "Boris would rather be alone." We crossed the street to
our own apartments, and that night, seeing I was going to be ill too, he
went for the doctor again. The last thing I recollect with any
distinctness was hearing Jack say, "For Heaven's sake, doctor, what ails
him, to wear a face like that?" and I thought of <i>The King in Yellow</i>
and the Pallid Mask.</p>
<p>I was very ill, for the strain of two years which I had endured since
that fatal May morning when Genevi�ve murmured, "I love you, but I think
I love Boris best," told on me at last. I had never imagined that it
could become more than I could endure. Outwardly tranquil, I had
deceived myself. Although the inward battle raged night after night, and
I, lying alone in my room, cursed myself for rebellious thoughts unloyal
to Boris and unworthy of Genevi�ve, the morning always brought relief,
and I returned to Genevi�ve and to my dear Boris with a heart washed
clean by the tempests of the night.</p>
<p>Never in word or deed or thought while with them had I betrayed my
sorrow even to myself.</p>
<p>The mask of self-deception was no longer a mask for me, it was a part of
me. Night lifted it, laying bare the stifled truth below; but there was
no one to see except myself, and when the day broke the mask fell back
again of its own accord. These thoughts passed through my troubled mind
as I lay sick, but they were hopelessly entangled with visions of white
creatures, heavy as stone, crawling about in Boris' basin,—of the
wolf's head on the rug, foaming and snapping at Genevi�ve, who lay
smiling beside it. I thought, too, of the King in Yellow wrapped in the
fantastic colours of his tattered mantle, and that bitter cry of
Cassilda, "Not upon us, oh King, not upon us!" Feverishly I struggled to
put it from me, but I saw the lake of Hali, thin and blank, without a
ripple or wind to stir it, and I saw the towers of Carcosa behind the
moon. Aldebaran, the Hyades, Alar, Hastur, glided through the
cloud-rifts which fluttered and flapped as they passed like the
scolloped tatters of the King in Yellow. Among all these, one sane
thought persisted. It never wavered, no matter what else was going on in
my disordered mind, that my chief reason for existing was to meet some
requirement of Boris and Genevi�ve. What this obligation was, its
nature, was never clear; sometimes it seemed to be protection, sometimes
support, through a great crisis. Whatever it seemed to be for the time,
its weight rested only on me, and I was never so ill or so weak that I
did not respond with my whole soul. There were always crowds of faces
about me, mostly strange, but a few I recognized, Boris among them.
Afterward they told me that this could not have been, but I know that
once at least he bent over me. It was only a touch, a faint echo of his
voice, then the clouds settled back on my senses, and I lost him, but he
<i>did</i> stand there and bend over me <i>once</i> at least.</p>
<p>At last, one morning I awoke to find the sunlight falling across my bed,
and Jack Scott reading beside me. I had not strength enough to speak
aloud, neither could I think, much less remember, but I could smile
feebly, as Jack's eye met mine, and when he jumped up and asked eagerly
if I wanted anything, I could whisper, "Yes—Boris." Jack moved to the
head of my bed, and leaned down to arrange my pillow: I did not see his
face, but he answered heartily, "You must wait, Alec; you are too weak
to see even Boris."</p>
<p>I waited and I grew strong; in a few days I was able to see whom I
would, but meanwhile I had thought and remembered. From the moment when
all the past grew clear again in my mind, I never doubted what I should
do when the time came, and I felt sure that Boris would have resolved
upon the same course so far as he was concerned; as for what pertained
to me alone, I knew he would see that also as I did. I no longer asked
for any one. I never inquired why no message came from them; why during
the week I lay there, waiting and growing stronger, I never heard their
name spoken. Preoccupied with my own searchings for the right way, and
with my feeble but determined fight against despair, I simply acquiesced
in Jack's reticence, taking for granted that he was afraid to speak of
them, lest I should turn unruly and insist on seeing them. Meanwhile I
said over and over to myself, how would it be when life began again for
us all? We would take up our relations exactly as they were before
Genevi�ve fell ill. Boris and I would look into each other's eyes, and
there would be neither rancour nor cowardice nor mistrust in that
glance. I would be with them again for a little while in the dear
intimacy of their home, and then, without pretext or explanation, I
would disappear from their lives for ever. Boris would know;
Genevi�ve—the only comfort was that she would never know. It seemed, as
I thought it over, that I had found the meaning of that sense of
obligation which had persisted all through my delirium, and the only
possible answer to it. So, when I was quite ready, I beckoned Jack to me
one day, and said—</p>
<p>"Jack, I want Boris at once; and take my dearest greeting to
Genevi�ve...."</p>
<p>When at last he made me understand that they were both dead, I fell into
a wild rage that tore all my little convalescent strength to atoms. I
raved and cursed myself into a relapse, from which I crawled forth some
weeks afterward a boy of twenty-one who believed that his youth was gone
for ever. I seemed to be past the capability of further suffering, and
one day when Jack handed me a letter and the keys to Boris' house, I
took them without a tremor and asked him to tell me all. It was cruel of
me to ask him, but there was no help for it, and he leaned wearily on
his thin hands, to reopen the wound which could never entirely heal. He
began very quietly—</p>
<p>"Alec, unless you have a clue that I know nothing about, you will not be
able to explain any more than I what has happened. I suspect that you
would rather not hear these details, but you must learn them, else I
would spare you the relation. God knows I wish I could be spared the
telling. I shall use few words.</p>
<p>"That day when I left you in the doctor's care and came back to Boris, I
found him working on the 'Fates.' Genevi�ve, he said, was sleeping under
the influence of drugs. She had been quite out of her mind, he said. He
kept on working, not talking any more, and I watched him. Before long, I
saw that the third figure of the group—the one looking straight ahead,
out over the world—bore his face; not as you ever saw it, but as it
looked then and to the end. This is one thing for which I should like to
find an explanation, but I never shall.</p>
<p>"Well, he worked and I watched him in silence, and we went on that way
until nearly midnight. Then we heard the door open and shut sharply, and
a swift rush in the next room. Boris sprang through the doorway and I
followed; but we were too late. She lay at the bottom of the pool, her
hands across her breast. Then Boris shot himself through the heart."
Jack stopped speaking, drops of sweat stood under his eyes, and his thin
cheeks twitched. "I carried Boris to his room. Then I went back and let
that hellish fluid out of the pool, and turning on all the water, washed
the marble clean of every drop. When at length I dared descend the
steps, I found her lying there as white as snow. At last, when I had
decided what was best to do, I went into the laboratory, and first
emptied the solution in the basin into the waste-pipe; then I poured the
contents of every jar and bottle after it. There was wood in the
fireplace, so I built a fire, and breaking the locks of Boris' cabinet
I burnt every paper, notebook and letter that I found there. With a
mallet from the studio I smashed to pieces all the empty bottles, then
loading them into a coal-scuttle, I carried them to the cellar and threw
them over the red-hot bed of the furnace. Six times I made the journey,
and at last, not a vestige remained of anything which might again aid in
seeking for the formula which Boris had found. Then at last I dared call
the doctor. He is a good man, and together we struggled to keep it from
the public. Without him I never could have succeeded. At last we got the
servants paid and sent away into the country, where old Rosier keeps
them quiet with stories of Boris' and Genevi�ve's travels in distant
lands, from whence they will not return for years. We buried Boris in
the little cemetery of S�vres. The doctor is a good creature, and knows
when to pity a man who can bear no more. He gave his certificate of
heart disease and asked no questions of me."</p>
<p>Then, lifting his head from his hands, he said, "Open the letter, Alec;
it is for us both."</p>
<p>I tore it open. It was Boris' will dated a year before. He left
everything to Genevi�ve, and in case of her dying childless, I was to
take control of the house in the Rue Sainte-C�cile, and Jack Scott the
management at Ept. On our deaths the property reverted to his mother's
family in Russia, with the exception of the sculptured marbles executed
by himself. These he left to me.</p>
<p>The page blurred under our eyes, and Jack got up and walked to the
window. Presently he returned and sat down again. I dreaded to hear what
he was going to say, but he spoke with the same simplicity and
gentleness.</p>
<p>"Genevi�ve lies before the Madonna in the marble room. The Madonna bends
tenderly above her, and Genevi�ve smiles back into that calm face that
never would have been except for her."</p>
<p>His voice broke, but he grasped my hand, saying, "Courage, Alec." Next
morning he left for Ept to fulfil his trust.</p>
<h3>IV</h3>
<p>The same evening I took the keys and went into the house I had known so
well. Everything was in order, but the silence was terrible. Though I
went twice to the door of the marble room, I could not force myself to
enter. It was beyond my strength. I went into the smoking-room and sat
down before the spinet. A small lace handkerchief lay on the keys, and I
turned away, choking. It was plain I could not stay, so I locked every
door, every window, and the three front and back gates, and went away.
Next morning Alcide packed my valise, and leaving him in charge of my
apartments I took the Orient express for Constantinople. During the two
years that I wandered through the East, at first, in our letters, we
never mentioned Genevi�ve and Boris, but gradually their names crept in.
I recollect particularly a passage in one of Jack's letters replying to
one of mine—</p>
<p>"What you tell me of seeing Boris bending over you while you lay ill,
and feeling his touch on your face, and hearing his voice, of course
troubles me. This that you describe must have happened a fortnight after
he died. I say to myself that you were dreaming, that it was part of
your delirium, but the explanation does not satisfy me, nor would it
you."</p>
<p>Toward the end of the second year a letter came from Jack to me in India
so unlike anything that I had ever known of him that I decided to return
at once to Paris. He wrote: "I am well, and sell all my pictures as
artists do who have no need of money. I have not a care of my own, but I
am more restless than if I had. I am unable to shake off a strange
anxiety about you. It is not apprehension, it is rather a breathless
expectancy—of what, God knows! I can only say it is wearing me out.
Nights I dream always of you and Boris. I can never recall anything
afterward, but I wake in the morning with my heart beating, and all day
the excitement increases until I fall asleep at night to recall the same
experience. I am quite exhausted by it, and have determined to break up
this morbid condition. I must see you. Shall I go to Bombay, or will you
come to Paris?"</p>
<p>I telegraphed him to expect me by the next steamer.</p>
<p>When we met I thought he had changed very little; I, he insisted, looked
in splendid health. It was good to hear his voice again, and as we sat
and chatted about what life still held for us, we felt that it was
pleasant to be alive in the bright spring weather.</p>
<p>We stayed in Paris together a week, and then I went for a week to Ept
with him, but first of all we went to the cemetery at S�vres, where
Boris lay.</p>
<p>"Shall we place the 'Fates' in the little grove above him?" Jack asked,
and I answered—</p>
<p>"I think only the 'Madonna' should watch over Boris' grave." But Jack
was none the better for my home-coming. The dreams of which he could not
retain even the least definite outline continued, and he said that at
times the sense of breathless expectancy was suffocating.</p>
<p>"You see I do you harm and not good," I said. "Try a change without me."
So he started alone for a ramble among the Channel Islands, and I went
back to Paris. I had not yet entered Boris' house, now mine, since my
return, but I knew it must be done. It had been kept in order by Jack;
there were servants there, so I gave up my own apartment and went there
to live. Instead of the agitation I had feared, I found myself able to
paint there tranquilly. I visited all the rooms—all but one. I could
not bring myself to enter the marble room where Genevi�ve lay, and yet I
felt the longing growing daily to look upon her face, to kneel beside
her.</p>
<p>One April afternoon, I lay dreaming in the smoking-room, just as I had
lain two years before, and mechanically I looked among the tawny Eastern
rugs for the wolf-skin. At last I distinguished the pointed ears and
flat cruel head, and I thought of my dream where I saw Genevi�ve lying
beside it. The helmets still hung against the threadbare tapestry, among
them the old Spanish morion which I remembered Genevi�ve had once put on
when we were amusing ourselves with the ancient bits of mail. I turned
my eyes to the spinet; every yellow key seemed eloquent of her caressing
hand, and I rose, drawn by the strength of my life's passion to the
sealed door of the marble room. The heavy doors swung inward under my
trembling hands. Sunlight poured through the window, tipping with gold
the wings of Cupid, and lingered like a nimbus over the brows of the
Madonna. Her tender face bent in compassion over a marble form so
exquisitely pure that I knelt and signed myself. Genevi�ve lay in the
shadow under the Madonna, and yet, through her white arms, I saw the
pale azure vein, and beneath her softly clasped hands the folds of her
dress were tinged with rose, as if from some faint warm light within her
breast.</p>
<p>Bending, with a breaking heart, I touched the marble drapery with my
lips, then crept back into the silent house.</p>
<p>A maid came and brought me a letter, and I sat down in the little
conservatory to read it; but as I was about to break the seal, seeing
the girl lingering, I asked her what she wanted.</p>
<p>She stammered something about a white rabbit that had been caught in the
house, and asked what should be done with it. I told her to let it loose
in the walled garden behind the house, and opened my letter. It was from
Jack, but so incoherent that I thought he must have lost his reason. It
was nothing but a series of prayers to me not to leave the house until
he could get back; he could not tell me why, there were the dreams, he
said—he could explain nothing, but he was sure that I must not leave
the house in the Rue Sainte-C�cile.</p>
<p>As I finished reading I raised my eyes and saw the same maid-servant
standing in the doorway holding a glass dish in which two gold-fish were
swimming: "Put them back into the tank and tell me what you mean by
interrupting me," I said.</p>
<p>With a half-suppressed whimper she emptied water and fish into an
aquarium at the end of the conservatory, and turning to me asked my
permission to leave my service. She said people were playing tricks on
her, evidently with a design of getting her into trouble; the marble
rabbit had been stolen and a live one had been brought into the house;
the two beautiful marble fish were gone, and she had just found those
common live things flopping on the dining-room floor. I reassured her
and sent her away, saying I would look about myself. I went into the
studio; there was nothing there but my canvases and some casts, except
the marble of the Easter lily. I saw it on a table across the room. Then
I strode angrily over to it. But the flower I lifted from the table was
fresh and fragile and filled the air with perfume.</p>
<p>Then suddenly I comprehended, and sprang through the hallway to the
marble room. The doors flew open, the sunlight streamed into my face,
and through it, in a heavenly glory, the Madonna smiled, as Genevi�ve
lifted her flushed face from her marble couch and opened her sleepy
eyes.</p>
<h2><SPAN name="IN_THE_COURT_OF_THE_DRAGON" id="IN_THE_COURT_OF_THE_DRAGON"></SPAN>IN THE COURT OF THE DRAGON</h2>
<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="poetry">
<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: 0em;">"Oh, thou who burn'st in heart for those who burn</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: 0.25em;">In Hell, whose fires thyself shall feed in turn;</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: 0.25em;">How long be crying—'Mercy on them.' God!</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: 0.25em;">Why, who art thou to teach and He to learn?"</span></td></tr>
</table>
<p>In the Church of St. Barnab� vespers were over; the clergy left the
altar; the little choir-boys flocked across the chancel and settled in
the stalls. A Suisse in rich uniform marched down the south aisle,
sounding his staff at every fourth step on the stone pavement; behind
him came that eloquent preacher and good man, Monseigneur C——.</p>
<p>My chair was near the chancel rail, I now turned toward the west end of
the church. The other people between the altar and the pulpit turned
too. There was a little scraping and rustling while the congregation
seated itself again; the preacher mounted the pulpit stairs, and the
organ voluntary ceased.</p>
<p>I had always found the organ-playing at St. Barnab� highly interesting.
Learned and scientific it was, too much so for my small knowledge, but
expressing a vivid if cold intelligence. Moreover, it possessed the
French quality of taste: taste reigned supreme, self-controlled,
dignified and reticent.</p>
<p>To-day, however, from the first chord I had felt a change for the worse,
a sinister change. During vespers it had been chiefly the chancel organ
which supported the beautiful choir, but now and again, quite wantonly
as it seemed, from the west gallery where the great organ stands, a
heavy hand had struck across the church at the serene peace of those
clear voices. It was something more than harsh and dissonant, and it
betrayed no lack of skill. As it recurred again and again, it set me
thinking of what my architect's books say about the custom in early
times to consecrate the choir as soon as it was built, and that the
nave, being finished sometimes half a century later, often did not get
any blessing at all: I wondered idly if that had been the case at St.
Barnab�, and whether something not usually supposed to be at home in a
Christian church might have entered undetected and taken possession of
the west gallery. I had read of such things happening, too, but not in
works on architecture.</p>
<p>Then I remembered that St. Barnab� was not much more than a hundred
years old, and smiled at the incongruous association of mediaeval
superstitions with that cheerful little piece of eighteenth-century
rococo.</p>
<p>But now vespers were over, and there should have followed a few quiet
chords, fit to accompany meditation, while we waited for the sermon.
Instead of that, the discord at the lower end of the church broke out
with the departure of the clergy, as if now nothing could control it.</p>
<p>I belong to those children of an older and simpler generation who do not
love to seek for psychological subtleties in art; and I have ever
refused to find in music anything more than melody and harmony, but I
felt that in the labyrinth of sounds now issuing from that instrument
there was something being hunted. Up and down the pedals chased him,
while the manuals blared approval. Poor devil! whoever he was, there
seemed small hope of escape!</p>
<p>My nervous annoyance changed to anger. Who was doing this? How dare he
play like that in the midst of divine service? I glanced at the people
near me: not one appeared to be in the least disturbed. The placid brows
of the kneeling nuns, still turned towards the altar, lost none of their
devout abstraction under the pale shadow of their white head-dress. The
fashionable lady beside me was looking expectantly at Monseigneur C——.
For all her face betrayed, the organ might have been singing an Ave
Maria.</p>
<p>But now, at last, the preacher had made the sign of the cross, and
commanded silence. I turned to him gladly. Thus far I had not found the
rest I had counted on when I entered St. Barnab� that afternoon.</p>
<p>I was worn out by three nights of physical suffering and mental trouble:
the last had been the worst, and it was an exhausted body, and a mind
benumbed and yet acutely sensitive, which I had brought to my favourite
church for healing. For I had been reading <i>The King in Yellow</i>.</p>
<p>"The sun ariseth; they gather themselves together and lay them down in
their dens." Monseigneur C—— delivered his text in a calm voice,
glancing quietly over the congregation. My eyes turned, I knew not why,
toward the lower end of the church. The organist was coming from behind
his pipes, and passing along the gallery on his way out, I saw him
disappear by a small door that leads to some stairs which descend
directly to the street. He was a slender man, and his face was as white
as his coat was black. "Good riddance!" I thought, "with your wicked
music! I hope your assistant will play the closing voluntary."</p>
<p>With a feeling of relief—with a deep, calm feeling of relief, I turned
back to the mild face in the pulpit and settled myself to listen. Here,
at last, was the ease of mind I longed for.</p>
<p>"My children," said the preacher, "one truth the human soul finds
hardest of all to learn: that it has nothing to fear. It can never be
made to see that nothing can really harm it."</p>
<p>"Curious doctrine!" I thought, "for a Catholic priest. Let us see how he
will reconcile that with the Fathers."</p>
<p>"Nothing can really harm the soul," he went on, in, his coolest,
clearest tones, "because——"</p>
<p>But I never heard the rest; my eye left his face, I knew not for what
reason, and sought the lower end of the church. The same man was coming
out from behind the organ, and was passing along the gallery <i>the same
way</i>. But there had not been time for him to return, and if he had
returned, I must have seen him. I felt a faint chill, and my heart sank;
and yet, his going and coming were no affair of mine. I looked at him: I
could not look away from his black figure and his white face. When he
was exactly opposite to me, he turned and sent across the church
straight into my eyes, a look of hate, intense and deadly: I have never
seen any other like it; would to God I might never see it again! Then he
disappeared by the same door through which I had watched him depart less
than sixty seconds before.</p>
<p>I sat and tried to collect my thoughts. My first sensation was like that
of a very young child badly hurt, when it catches its breath before
crying out.</p>
<p>To suddenly find myself the object of such hatred was exquisitely
painful: and this man was an utter stranger. Why should he hate me
so?—me, whom he had never seen before? For the moment all other
sensation was merged in this one pang: even fear was subordinate to
grief, and for that moment I never doubted; but in the next I began to
reason, and a sense of the incongruous came to my aid.</p>
<p>As I have said, St. Barnab� is a modern church. It is small and well
lighted; one sees all over it almost at a glance. The organ gallery gets
a strong white light from a row of long windows in the clerestory, which
have not even coloured glass.</p>
<p>The pulpit being in the middle of the church, it followed that, when I
was turned toward it, whatever moved at the west end could not fail to
attract my eye. When the organist passed it was no wonder that I saw
him: I had simply miscalculated the interval between his first and his
second passing. He had come in that last time by the other side-door. As
for the look which had so upset me, there had been no such thing, and I
was a nervous fool.</p>
<p>I looked about. This was a likely place to harbour supernatural horrors!
That clear-cut, reasonable face of Monseigneur C——, his collected
manner and easy, graceful gestures, were they not just a little
discouraging to the notion of a gruesome mystery? I glanced above his
head, and almost laughed. That flyaway lady supporting one corner of the
pulpit canopy, which looked like a fringed damask table-cloth in a high
wind, at the first attempt of a basilisk to pose up there in the organ
loft, she would point her gold trumpet at him, and puff him out of
existence! I laughed to myself over this conceit, which, at the time, I
thought very amusing, and sat and chaffed myself and everything else,
from the old harpy outside the railing, who had made me pay ten centimes
for my chair, before she would let me in (she was more like a basilisk,
I told myself, than was my organist with the anaemic complexion): from
that grim old dame, to, yes, alas! Monseigneur C—— himself. For all
devoutness had fled. I had never yet done such a thing in my life, but
now I felt a desire to mock.</p>
<p>As for the sermon, I could not hear a word of it for the jingle in my
ears of</p>
<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="poetry">
<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: 0em;">"The skirts of St. Paul has reached.</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: 0.25em;">Having preached us those six Lent lectures,</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: 0.25em;">More unctuous than ever he preached,"</span></td></tr>
</table>
<p class="nind">keeping time to the most fantastic and irreverent thoughts.</p>
<p>It was no use to sit there any longer: I must get out of doors and shake
myself free from this hateful mood. I knew the rudeness I was
committing, but still I rose and left the church.</p>
<p>A spring sun was shining on the Rue St. Honor�, as I ran down the church
steps. On one corner stood a barrow full of yellow jonquils, pale
violets from the Riviera, dark Russian violets, and white Roman
hyacinths in a golden cloud of mimosa. The street was full of Sunday
pleasure-seekers. I swung my cane and laughed with the rest. Some one
overtook and passed me. He never turned, but there was the same deadly
malignity in his white profile that there had been in his eyes. I
watched him as long as I could see him. His lithe back expressed the
same menace; every step that carried him away from me seemed to bear him
on some errand connected with my destruction.</p>
<p>I was creeping along, my feet almost refusing to move. There began to
dawn in me a sense of responsibility for something long forgotten. It
began to seem as if I deserved that which he threatened: it reached a
long way back—a long, long way back. It had lain dormant all these
years: it was there, though, and presently it would rise and confront
me. But I would try to escape; and I stumbled as best I could into the
Rue de Rivoli, across the Place de la Concorde and on to the Quai. I
looked with sick eyes upon the sun, shining through the white foam of
the fountain, pouring over the backs of the dusky bronze river-gods, on
the far-away Arc, a structure of amethyst mist, on the countless vistas
of grey stems and bare branches faintly green. Then I saw him again
coming down one of the chestnut alleys of the Cours la Reine.</p>
<p>I left the river-side, plunged blindly across to the Champs Elys�es and
turned toward the Arc. The setting sun was sending its rays along the
green sward of the Rond-point: in the full glow he sat on a bench,
children and young mothers all about him. He was nothing but a Sunday
lounger, like the others, like myself. I said the words almost aloud,
and all the while I gazed on the malignant hatred of his face. But he
was not looking at me. I crept past and dragged my leaden feet up the
Avenue. I knew that every time I met him brought him nearer to the
accomplishment of his purpose and my fate. And still I tried to save
myself.</p>
<p>The last rays of sunset were pouring through the great Arc. I passed
under it, and met him face to face. I had left him far down the Champs
Elys�es, and yet he came in with a stream of people who were returning
from the Bois de Boulogne. He came so close that he brushed me. His
slender frame felt like iron inside its loose black covering. He showed
no signs of haste, nor of fatigue, nor of any human feeling. His whole
being expressed one thing: the will, and the power to work me evil.</p>
<p>In anguish I watched him where he went down the broad crowded Avenue,
that was all flashing with wheels and the trappings of horses and the
helmets of the Garde Republicaine.</p>
<p>He was soon lost to sight; then I turned and fled. Into the Bois, and
far out beyond it—I know not where I went, but after a long while as it
seemed to me, night had fallen, and I found myself sitting at a table
before a small caf�. I had wandered back into the Bois. It was hours now
since I had seen him. Physical fatigue and mental suffering had left me
no power to think or feel. I was tired, so tired! I longed to hide away
in my own den. I resolved to go home. But that was a long way off.</p>
<p>I live in the Court of the Dragon, a narrow passage that leads from the
Rue de Rennes to the Rue du Dragon.</p>
<p>It is an "impasse"; traversable only for foot passengers. Over the
entrance on the Rue de Rennes is a balcony, supported by an iron dragon.
Within the court tall old houses rise on either side, and close the ends
that give on the two streets. Huge gates, swung back during the day into
the walls of the deep archways, close this court, after midnight, and
one must enter then by ringing at certain small doors on the side. The
sunken pavement collects unsavoury pools. Steep stairways pitch down to
doors that open on the court. The ground floors are occupied by shops of
second-hand dealers, and by iron workers. All day long the place rings
with the clink of hammers and the clang of metal bars.</p>
<p>Unsavoury as it is below, there is cheerfulness, and comfort, and hard,
honest work above.</p>
<p>Five flights up are the ateliers of architects and painters, and the
hiding-places of middle-aged students like myself who want to live
alone. When I first came here to live I was young, and not alone.</p>
<p>I had to walk a while before any conveyance appeared, but at last, when
I had almost reached the Arc de Triomphe again, an empty cab came along
and I took it.</p>
<p>From the Arc to the Rue de Rennes is a drive of more than half an hour,
especially when one is conveyed by a tired cab horse that has been at
the mercy of Sunday f�te-makers.</p>
<p>There had been time before I passed under the Dragon's wings to meet my
enemy over and over again, but I never saw him once, and now refuge was
close at hand.</p>
<p>Before the wide gateway a small mob of children were playing. Our
concierge and his wife walked among them, with their black poodle,
keeping order; some couples were waltzing on the sidewalk. I returned
their greetings and hurried in.</p>
<p>All the inhabitants of the court had trooped out into the street. The
place was quite deserted, lighted by a few lanterns hung high up, in
which the gas burned dimly.</p>
<p>My apartment was at the top of a house, halfway down the court, reached
by a staircase that descended almost into the street, with only a bit of
passage-way intervening, I set my foot on the threshold of the open
door, the friendly old ruinous stairs rose before me, leading up to rest
and shelter. Looking back over my right shoulder, I saw <i>him,</i> ten paces
off. He must have entered the court with me.</p>
<p>He was coming straight on, neither slowly, nor swiftly, but straight on
to me. And now he was looking at me. For the first time since our eyes
encountered across the church they met now again, and I knew that the
time had come.</p>
<p>Retreating backward, down the court, I faced him. I meant to escape by
the entrance on the Rue du Dragon. His eyes told me that I never should
escape.</p>
<p>It seemed ages while we were going, I retreating, he advancing, down the
court in perfect silence; but at last I felt the shadow of the archway,
and the next step brought me within it. I had meant to turn here and
spring through into the street. But the shadow was not that of an
archway; it was that of a vault. The great doors on the Rue du Dragon
were closed. I felt this by the blackness which surrounded me, and at
the same instant I read it in his face. How his face gleamed in the
darkness, drawing swiftly nearer! The deep vaults, the huge closed
doors, their cold iron clamps were all on his side. The thing which he
had threatened had arrived: it gathered and bore down on me from the
fathomless shadows; the point from which it would strike was his
infernal eyes. Hopeless, I set my back against the barred doors and
defied him.</p>
<p><br/></p>
<p>There was a scraping of chairs on the stone floor, and a rustling as the
congregation rose. I could hear the Suisse's staff in the south aisle,
preceding Monseigneur C—— to the sacristy.</p>
<p>The kneeling nuns, roused from their devout abstraction, made their
reverence and went away. The fashionable lady, my neighbour, rose also,
with graceful reserve. As she departed her glance just flitted over my
face in disapproval.</p>
<p>Half dead, or so it seemed to me, yet intensely alive to every trifle, I
sat among the leisurely moving crowd, then rose too and went toward the
door.</p>
<p>I had slept through the sermon. Had I slept through the sermon? I looked
up and saw him passing along the gallery to his place. Only his side I
saw; the thin bent arm in its black covering looked like one of those
devilish, nameless instruments which lie in the disused torture-chambers
of mediaeval castles.</p>
<p>But I had escaped him, though his eyes had said I should not. <i>Had</i> I
escaped him? That which gave him the power over me came back out of
oblivion, where I had hoped to keep it. For I knew him now. Death and
the awful abode of lost souls, whither my weakness long ago had sent
him—they had changed him for every other eye, but not for mine. I had
recognized him almost from the first; I had never doubted what he was
come to do; and now I knew while my body sat safe in the cheerful little
church, he had been hunting my soul in the Court of the Dragon.</p>
<p>I crept to the door: the organ broke out overhead with a blare. A
dazzling light filled the church, blotting the altar from my eyes. The
people faded away, the arches, the vaulted roof vanished. I raised my
seared eyes to the fathomless glare, and I saw the black stars hanging
in the heavens: and the wet winds from the lake of Hali chilled my face.</p>
<p>And now, far away, over leagues of tossing cloud-waves, I saw the moon
dripping with spray; and beyond, the towers of Carcosa rose behind the
moon.</p>
<p>Death and the awful abode of lost souls, whither my weakness long ago
had sent him, had changed him for every other eye but mine. And now I
heard <i>his voice</i>, rising, swelling, thundering through the flaring
light, and as I fell, the radiance increasing, increasing, poured over
me in waves of flame. Then I sank into the depths, and I heard the King
in Yellow whispering to my soul: "It is a fearful thing to fall into the
hands of the living God!"</p>
<h2><SPAN name="THE_YELLOW_SIGN" id="THE_YELLOW_SIGN"></SPAN>THE YELLOW SIGN</h2>
<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="poetry">
<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: 0em;">"Let the red dawn surmise</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">What we shall do,</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: 0.25em;">When this blue starlight dies</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">And all is through."</span></td></tr>
</table>
<h3>I</h3>
<p>There are so many things which are impossible to explain! Why should
certain chords in music make me think of the brown and golden tints of
autumn foliage? Why should the Mass of Sainte C�cile bend my thoughts
wandering among caverns whose walls blaze with ragged masses of virgin
silver? What was it in the roar and turmoil of Broadway at six o'clock
that flashed before my eyes the picture of a still Breton forest where
sunlight filtered through spring foliage and Sylvia bent, half
curiously, half tenderly, over a small green lizard, murmuring: "To
think that this also is a little ward of God!"</p>
<p>When I first saw the watchman his back was toward me. I looked at him
indifferently until he went into the church. I paid no more attention to
him than I had to any other man who lounged through Washington Square
that morning, and when I shut my window and turned back into my studio I
had forgotten him. Late in the afternoon, the day being warm, I raised
the window again and leaned out to get a sniff of air. A man was
standing in the courtyard of the church, and I noticed him again with as
little interest as I had that morning. I looked across the square to
where the fountain was playing and then, with my mind filled with vague
impressions of trees, asphalt drives, and the moving groups of
nursemaids and holiday-makers, I started to walk back to my easel. As I
turned, my listless glance included the man below in the churchyard. His
face was toward me now, and with a perfectly involuntary movement I bent
to see it. At the same moment he raised his head and looked at me.
Instantly I thought of a coffin-worm. Whatever it was about the man that
repelled me I did not know, but the impression of a plump white
grave-worm was so intense and nauseating that I must have shown it in my
expression, for he turned his puffy face away with a movement which made
me think of a disturbed grub in a chestnut.</p>
<p>I went back to my easel and motioned the model to resume her pose. After
working a while I was satisfied that I was spoiling what I had done as
rapidly as possible, and I took up a palette knife and scraped the
colour out again. The flesh tones were sallow and unhealthy, and I did
not understand how I could have painted such sickly colour into a study
which before that had glowed with healthy tones.</p>
<p>I looked at Tessie. She had not changed, and the clear flush of health
dyed her neck and cheeks as I frowned.</p>
<p>"Is it something I've done?" she said.</p>
<p>"No,—I've made a mess of this arm, and for the life of me I can't see
how I came to paint such mud as that into the canvas," I replied.</p>
<p>"Don't I pose well?" she insisted.</p>
<p>"Of course, perfectly."</p>
<p>"Then it's not my fault?"</p>
<p>"No. It's my own."</p>
<p>"I am very sorry," she said.</p>
<p>I told her she could rest while I applied rag and turpentine to the
plague spot on my canvas, and she went off to smoke a cigarette and look
over the illustrations in the <i>Courrier Fran�ais</i>.</p>
<p>I did not know whether it was something in the turpentine or a defect in
the canvas, but the more I scrubbed the more that gangrene seemed to
spread. I worked like a beaver to get it out, and yet the disease
appeared to creep from limb to limb of the study before me. Alarmed, I
strove to arrest it, but now the colour on the breast changed and the
whole figure seemed to absorb the infection as a sponge soaks up water.
Vigorously I plied palette-knife, turpentine, and scraper, thinking all
the time what a <i>s�ance</i> I should hold with Duval who had sold me the
canvas; but soon I noticed that it was not the canvas which was
defective nor yet the colours of Edward. "It must be the turpentine," I
thought angrily, "or else my eyes have become so blurred and confused by
the afternoon light that I can't see straight." I called Tessie, the
model. She came and leaned over my chair blowing rings of smoke into the
air.</p>
<p>"What <i>have</i> you been doing to it?" she exclaimed</p>
<p>"Nothing," I growled, "it must be this turpentine!"</p>
<p>"What a horrible colour it is now," she continued. "Do you think my
flesh resembles green cheese?"</p>
<p>"No, I don't," I said angrily; "did you ever know me to paint like that
before?"</p>
<p>"No, indeed!"</p>
<p>"Well, then!"</p>
<p>"It must be the turpentine, or something," she admitted.</p>
<p>She slipped on a Japanese robe and walked to the window. I scraped and
rubbed until I was tired, and finally picked up my brushes and hurled
them through the canvas with a forcible expression, the tone alone of
which reached Tessie's ears.</p>
<p>Nevertheless she promptly began: "That's it! Swear and act silly and
ruin your brushes! You have been three weeks on that study, and now
look! What's the good of ripping the canvas? What creatures artists
are!"</p>
<p>I felt about as much ashamed as I usually did after such an outbreak,
and I turned the ruined canvas to the wall. Tessie helped me clean my
brushes, and then danced away to dress. From the screen she regaled me
with bits of advice concerning whole or partial loss of temper, until,
thinking, perhaps, I had been tormented sufficiently, she came out to
implore me to button her waist where she could not reach it on the
shoulder.</p>
<p>"Everything went wrong from the time you came back from the window and
talked about that horrid-looking man you saw in the churchyard," she
announced.</p>
<p>"Yes, he probably bewitched the picture," I said, yawning. I looked at
my watch.</p>
<p>"It's after six, I know," said Tessie, adjusting her hat before the
mirror.</p>
<p>"Yes," I replied, "I didn't mean to keep you so long." I leaned out of
the window but recoiled with disgust, for the young man with the pasty
face stood below in the churchyard. Tessie saw my gesture of disapproval
and leaned from the window.</p>
<p>"Is that the man you don't like?" she whispered.</p>
<p>I nodded.</p>
<p>"I can't see his face, but he does look fat and soft. Someway or other,"
she continued, turning to look at me, "he reminds me of a dream,—an
awful dream I once had. Or," she mused, looking down at her shapely
shoes, "was it a dream after all?"</p>
<p>"How should I know?" I smiled.</p>
<p>Tessie smiled in reply.</p>
<p>"You were in it," she said, "so perhaps you might know something about
it."</p>
<p>"Tessie! Tessie!" I protested, "don't you dare flatter by saying that
you dream about me!"</p>
<p>"But I did," she insisted; "shall I tell you about it?"</p>
<p>"Go ahead," I replied, lighting a cigarette.</p>
<p>Tessie leaned back on the open window-sill and began very seriously.</p>
<p>"One night last winter I was lying in bed thinking about nothing at all
in particular. I had been posing for you and I was tired out, yet it
seemed impossible for me to sleep. I heard the bells in the city ring
ten, eleven, and midnight. I must have fallen asleep about midnight
because I don't remember hearing the bells after that. It seemed to me
that I had scarcely closed my eyes when I dreamed that something
impelled me to go to the window. I rose, and raising the sash leaned
out. Twenty-fifth Street was deserted as far as I could see. I began to
be afraid; everything outside seemed so—so black and uncomfortable.
Then the sound of wheels in the distance came to my ears, and it seemed
to me as though that was what I must wait for. Very slowly the wheels
approached, and, finally, I could make out a vehicle moving along the
street. It came nearer and nearer, and when it passed beneath my window
I saw it was a hearse. Then, as I trembled with fear, the driver turned
and looked straight at me. When I awoke I was standing by the open
window shivering with cold, but the black-plumed hearse and the driver
were gone. I dreamed this dream again in March last, and again awoke
beside the open window. Last night the dream came again. You remember
how it was raining; when I awoke, standing at the open window, my
night-dress was soaked."</p>
<p>"But where did I come into the dream?" I asked.</p>
<p>"You—you were in the coffin; but you were not dead."</p>
<p>"In the coffin?"</p>
<p>"Yes."</p>
<p>"How did you know? Could you see me?"</p>
<p>"No; I only knew you were there."</p>
<p>"Had you been eating Welsh rarebits, or lobster salad?" I began,
laughing, but the girl interrupted me with a frightened cry.</p>
<p>"Hello! What's up?" I said, as she shrank into the embrasure by the
window.</p>
<p>"The—the man below in the churchyard;—he drove the hearse."</p>
<p>"Nonsense," I said, but Tessie's eyes were wide with terror. I went to
the window and looked out. The man was gone. "Come, Tessie," I urged,
"don't be foolish. You have posed too long; you are nervous."</p>
<p>"Do you think I could forget that face?" she murmured. "Three times I
saw the hearse pass below my window, and every time the driver turned
and looked up at me. Oh, his face was so white and—and soft? It looked
dead—it looked as if it had been dead a long time."</p>
<p>I induced the girl to sit down and swallow a glass of Marsala. Then I
sat down beside her, and tried to give her some advice.</p>
<p>"Look here, Tessie," I said, "you go to the country for a week or two,
and you'll have no more dreams about hearses. You pose all day, and when
night comes your nerves are upset. You can't keep this up. Then again,
instead of going to bed when your day's work is done, you run off to
picnics at Sulzer's Park, or go to the Eldorado or Coney Island, and
when you come down here next morning you are fagged out. There was no
real hearse. There was a soft-shell crab dream."</p>
<p>She smiled faintly.</p>
<p>"What about the man in the churchyard?"</p>
<p>"Oh, he's only an ordinary unhealthy, everyday creature."</p>
<p>"As true as my name is Tessie Reardon, I swear to you, Mr. Scott, that
the face of the man below in the churchyard is the face of the man who
drove the hearse!"</p>
<p>"What of it?" I said. "It's an honest trade."</p>
<p>"Then you think I <i>did</i> see the hearse?"</p>
<p>"Oh," I said diplomatically, "if you really did, it might not be
unlikely that the man below drove it. There is nothing in that."</p>
<p>Tessie rose, unrolled her scented handkerchief, and taking a bit of gum
from a knot in the hem, placed it in her mouth. Then drawing on her
gloves she offered me her hand, with a frank, "Good-night, Mr. Scott,"
and walked out.</p>
<h3>II</h3>
<p>The next morning, Thomas, the bell-boy, brought me the <i>Herald</i> and a
bit of news. The church next door had been sold. I thanked Heaven for
it, not that being a Catholic I had any repugnance for the congregation
next door, but because my nerves were shattered by a blatant exhorter,
whose every word echoed through the aisle of the church as if it had
been my own rooms, and who insisted on his r's with a nasal persistence
which revolted my every instinct. Then, too, there was a fiend in human
shape, an organist, who reeled off some of the grand old hymns with an
interpretation of his own, and I longed for the blood of a creature who
could play the doxology with an amendment of minor chords which one
hears only in a quartet of very young undergraduates. I believe the
minister was a good man, but when he bellowed: "And the Lorrrrd said
unto Moses, the Lorrrd is a man of war; the Lorrrd is his name. My wrath
shall wax hot and I will kill you with the sworrrrd!" I wondered how
many centuries of purgatory it would take to atone for such a sin.</p>
<p>"Who bought the property?" I asked Thomas.</p>
<p>"Nobody that I knows, sir. They do say the gent wot owns this 'ere
'Amilton flats was lookin' at it. 'E might be a bildin' more studios."</p>
<p>I walked to the window. The young man with the unhealthy face stood by
the churchyard gate, and at the mere sight of him the same overwhelming
repugnance took possession of me.</p>
<p>"By the way, Thomas," I said, "who is that fellow down there?"</p>
<p>Thomas sniffed. "That there worm, sir? 'Es night-watchman of the church,
sir. 'E maikes me tired a-sittin' out all night on them steps and
lookin' at you insultin' like. I'd a punched 'is 'ed, sir—beg pardon,
sir—"</p>
<p>"Go on, Thomas."</p>
<p>"One night a comin' 'ome with 'Arry, the other English boy, I sees 'im a
sittin' there on them steps. We 'ad Molly and Jen with us, sir, the two
girls on the tray service, an' 'e looks so insultin' at us that I up and
sez: 'Wat you looking hat, you fat slug?'—beg pardon, sir, but that's
'ow I sez, sir. Then 'e don't say nothin' and I sez: 'Come out and I'll
punch that puddin' 'ed.' Then I hopens the gate an' goes in, but 'e
don't say nothin', only looks insultin' like. Then I 'its 'im one, but,
ugh! 'is 'ed was that cold and mushy it ud sicken you to touch 'im."</p>
<p>"What did he do then?" I asked curiously.</p>
<p>"'Im? Nawthin'."</p>
<p>"And you, Thomas?"</p>
<p>The young fellow flushed with embarrassment and smiled uneasily.</p>
<p>"Mr. Scott, sir, I ain't no coward, an' I can't make it out at all why I
run. I was in the 5th Lawncers, sir, bugler at Tel-el-Kebir, an' was
shot by the wells."</p>
<p>"You don't mean to say you ran away?"</p>
<p>"Yes, sir; I run."</p>
<p>"Why?"</p>
<p>"That's just what I want to know, sir. I grabbed Molly an' run, an' the
rest was as frightened as I."</p>
<p>"But what were they frightened at?"</p>
<p>Thomas refused to answer for a while, but now my curiosity was aroused
about the repulsive young man below and I pressed him. Three years'
sojourn in America had not only modified Thomas' cockney dialect but had
given him the American's fear of ridicule.</p>
<p>"You won't believe me, Mr. Scott, sir?"</p>
<p>"Yes, I will."</p>
<p>"You will lawf at me, sir?"</p>
<p>"Nonsense!"</p>
<p>He hesitated. "Well, sir, it's Gawd's truth that when I 'it 'im 'e
grabbed me wrists, sir, and when I twisted 'is soft, mushy fist one of
'is fingers come off in me 'and."</p>
<p>The utter loathing and horror of Thomas' face must have been reflected
in my own, for he added:</p>
<p>"It's orful, an' now when I see 'im I just go away. 'E maikes me hill."</p>
<p>When Thomas had gone I went to the window. The man stood beside the
church-railing with both hands on the gate, but I hastily retreated to
my easel again, sickened and horrified, for I saw that the middle finger
of his right hand was missing.</p>
<p>At nine o'clock Tessie appeared and vanished behind the screen with a
merry "Good morning, Mr. Scott." When she had reappeared and taken her
pose upon the model-stand I started a new canvas, much to her delight.
She remained silent as long as I was on the drawing, but as soon as the
scrape of the charcoal ceased and I took up my fixative she began to
chatter.</p>
<p>"Oh, I had such a lovely time last night. We went to Tony Pastor's."</p>
<p>"Who are 'we'?" I demanded.</p>
<p>"Oh, Maggie, you know, Mr. Whyte's model, and Pinkie McCormick—we call
her Pinkie because she's got that beautiful red hair you artists like so
much—and Lizzie Burke."</p>
<p>I sent a shower of spray from the fixative over the canvas, and said:
"Well, go on."</p>
<p>"We saw Kelly and Baby Barnes the skirt-dancer and—and all the rest. I
made a mash."</p>
<p>"Then you have gone back on me, Tessie?"</p>
<p>She laughed and shook her head.</p>
<p>"He's Lizzie Burke's brother, Ed. He's a perfect gen'l'man."</p>
<p>I felt constrained to give her some parental advice concerning mashing,
which she took with a bright smile.</p>
<p>"Oh, I can take care of a strange mash," she said, examining her chewing
gum, "but Ed is different. Lizzie is my best friend."</p>
<p>Then she related how Ed had come back from the stocking mill in Lowell,
Massachusetts, to find her and Lizzie grown up, and what an accomplished
young man he was, and how he thought nothing of squandering
half-a-dollar for ice-cream and oysters to celebrate his entry as clerk
into the woollen department of Macy's. Before she finished I began to
paint, and she resumed the pose, smiling and chattering like a sparrow.
By noon I had the study fairly well rubbed in and Tessie came to look at
it.</p>
<p>"That's better," she said.</p>
<p>I thought so too, and ate my lunch with a satisfied feeling that all was
going well. Tessie spread her lunch on a drawing table opposite me and
we drank our claret from the same bottle and lighted our cigarettes from
the same match. I was very much attached to Tessie. I had watched her
shoot up into a slender but exquisitely formed woman from a frail,
awkward child. She had posed for me during the last three years, and
among all my models she was my favourite. It would have troubled me very
much indeed had she become "tough" or "fly," as the phrase goes, but I
never noticed any deterioration of her manner, and felt at heart that
she was all right. She and I never discussed morals at all, and I had no
intention of doing so, partly because I had none myself, and partly
because I knew she would do what she liked in spite of me. Still I did
hope she would steer clear of complications, because I wished her well,
and then also I had a selfish desire to retain the best model I had. I
knew that mashing, as she termed it, had no significance with girls like
Tessie, and that such things in America did not resemble in the least
the same things in Paris. Yet, having lived with my eyes open, I also
knew that somebody would take Tessie away some day, in one manner or
another, and though I professed to myself that marriage was nonsense, I
sincerely hoped that, in this case, there would be a priest at the end
of the vista. I am a Catholic. When I listen to high mass, when I sign
myself, I feel that everything, including myself, is more cheerful, and
when I confess, it does me good. A man who lives as much alone as I do,
must confess to somebody. Then, again, Sylvia was Catholic, and it was
reason enough for me. But I was speaking of Tessie, which is very
different. Tessie also was Catholic and much more devout than I, so,
taking it all in all, I had little fear for my pretty model until she
should fall in love. But <i>then</i> I knew that fate alone would decide her
future for her, and I prayed inwardly that fate would keep her away from
men like me and throw into her path nothing but Ed Burkes and Jimmy
McCormicks, bless her sweet face!</p>
<p>Tessie sat blowing rings of smoke up to the ceiling and tinkling the ice
in her tumbler.</p>
<p>"Do you know that I also had a dream last night?" I observed.</p>
<p>"Not about that man," she laughed.</p>
<p>"Exactly. A dream similar to yours, only much worse."</p>
<p>It was foolish and thoughtless of me to say this, but you know how
little tact the average painter has. "I must have fallen asleep about
ten o'clock," I continued, "and after a while I dreamt that I awoke. So
plainly did I hear the midnight bells, the wind in the tree-branches,
and the whistle of steamers from the bay, that even now I can scarcely
believe I was not awake. I seemed to be lying in a box which had a glass
cover. Dimly I saw the street lamps as I passed, for I must tell you,
Tessie, the box in which I reclined appeared to lie in a cushioned wagon
which jolted me over a stony pavement. After a while I became impatient
and tried to move, but the box was too narrow. My hands were crossed on
my breast, so I could not raise them to help myself. I listened and then
tried to call. My voice was gone. I could hear the trample of the horses
attached to the wagon, and even the breathing of the driver. Then
another sound broke upon my ears like the raising of a window sash. I
managed to turn my head a little, and found I could look, not only
through the glass cover of my box, but also through the glass panes in
the side of the covered vehicle. I saw houses, empty and silent, with
neither light nor life about any of them excepting one. In that house a
window was open on the first floor, and a figure all in white stood
looking down into the street. It was you."</p>
<p>Tessie had turned her face away from me and leaned on the table with her
elbow.</p>
<p>"I could see your face," I resumed, "and it seemed to me to be very
sorrowful. Then we passed on and turned into a narrow black lane.
Presently the horses stopped. I waited and waited, closing my eyes with
fear and impatience, but all was silent as the grave. After what seemed
to me hours, I began to feel uncomfortable. A sense that somebody was
close to me made me unclose my eyes. Then I saw the white face of the
hearse-driver looking at me through the coffin-lid——"</p>
<p>A sob from Tessie interrupted me. She was trembling like a leaf. I saw I
had made an ass of myself and attempted to repair the damage.</p>
<p>"Why, Tess," I said, "I only told you this to show you what influence
your story might have on another person's dreams. You don't suppose I
really lay in a coffin, do you? What are you trembling for? Don't you
see that your dream and my unreasonable dislike for that inoffensive
watchman of the church simply set my brain working as soon as I fell
asleep?"</p>
<p>She laid her head between her arms, and sobbed as if her heart would
break. What a precious triple donkey I had made of myself! But I was
about to break my record. I went over and put my arm about her.</p>
<p>"Tessie dear, forgive me," I said; "I had no business to frighten you
with such nonsense. You are too sensible a girl, too good a Catholic to
believe in dreams."</p>
<p>Her hand tightened on mine and her head fell back upon my shoulder, but
she still trembled and I petted her and comforted her.</p>
<p>"Come, Tess, open your eyes and smile."</p>
<p>Her eyes opened with a slow languid movement and met mine, but their
expression was so queer that I hastened to reassure her again.</p>
<p>"It's all humbug, Tessie; you surely are not afraid that any harm will
come to you because of that."</p>
<p>"No," she said, but her scarlet lips quivered.</p>
<p>"Then, what's the matter? Are you afraid?"</p>
<p>"Yes. Not for myself."</p>
<p>"For me, then?" I demanded gaily.</p>
<p>"For you," she murmured in a voice almost inaudible. "I—I care for
you."</p>
<p>At first I started to laugh, but when I understood her, a shock passed
through me, and I sat like one turned to stone. This was the crowning
bit of idiocy I had committed. During the moment which elapsed between
her reply and my answer I thought of a thousand responses to that
innocent confession. I could pass it by with a laugh, I could
misunderstand her and assure her as to my health, I could simply point
out that it was impossible she could love me. But my reply was quicker
than my thoughts, and I might think and think now when it was too late,
for I had kissed her on the mouth.</p>
<p>That evening I took my usual walk in Washington Park, pondering over the
occurrences of the day. I was thoroughly committed. There was no back
out now, and I stared the future straight in the face. I was not good,
not even scrupulous, but I had no idea of deceiving either myself or
Tessie. The one passion of my life lay buried in the sunlit forests of
Brittany. Was it buried for ever? Hope cried "No!" For three years I had
been listening to the voice of Hope, and for three years I had waited
for a footstep on my threshold. Had Sylvia forgotten? "No!" cried Hope.</p>
<p>I said that I was no good. That is true, but still I was not exactly a
comic opera villain. I had led an easy-going reckless life, taking what
invited me of pleasure, deploring and sometimes bitterly regretting
consequences. In one thing alone, except my painting, was I serious, and
that was something which lay hidden if not lost in the Breton forests.</p>
<p>It was too late for me to regret what had occurred during the day.
Whatever it had been, pity, a sudden tenderness for sorrow, or the more
brutal instinct of gratified vanity, it was all the same now, and unless
I wished to bruise an innocent heart, my path lay marked before me. The
fire and strength, the depth of passion of a love which I had never even
suspected, with all my imagined experience in the world, left me no
alternative but to respond or send her away. Whether because I am so
cowardly about giving pain to others, or whether it was that I have
little of the gloomy Puritan in me, I do not know, but I shrank from
disclaiming responsibility for that thoughtless kiss, and in fact had no
time to do so before the gates of her heart opened and the flood poured
forth. Others who habitually do their duty and find a sullen
satisfaction in making themselves and everybody else unhappy, might have
withstood it. I did not. I dared not. After the storm had abated I did
tell her that she might better have loved Ed Burke and worn a plain gold
ring, but she would not hear of it, and I thought perhaps as long as she
had decided to love somebody she could not marry, it had better be me.
I, at least, could treat her with an intelligent affection, and whenever
she became tired of her infatuation she could go none the worse for it.
For I was decided on that point although I knew how hard it would be. I
remembered the usual termination of Platonic liaisons, and thought how
disgusted I had been whenever I heard of one. I knew I was undertaking a
great deal for so unscrupulous a man as I was, and I dreamed the future,
but never for one moment did I doubt that she was safe with me. Had it
been anybody but Tessie I should not have bothered my head about
scruples. For it did not occur to me to sacrifice Tessie as I would have
sacrificed a woman of the world. I looked the future squarely in the
face and saw the several probable endings to the affair. She would
either tire of the whole thing, or become so unhappy that I should have
either to marry her or go away. If I married her we would be unhappy. I
with a wife unsuited to me, and she with a husband unsuitable for any
woman. For my past life could scarcely entitle me to marry. If I went
away she might either fall ill, recover, and marry some Eddie Burke, or
she might recklessly or deliberately go and do something foolish. On the
other hand, if she tired of me, then her whole life would be before her
with beautiful vistas of Eddie Burkes and marriage rings and twins and
Harlem flats and Heaven knows what. As I strolled along through the
trees by the Washington Arch, I decided that she should find a
substantial friend in me, anyway, and the future could take care of
itself. Then I went into the house and put on my evening dress, for the
little faintly-perfumed note on my dresser said, "Have a cab at the
stage door at eleven," and the note was signed "Edith Carmichel,
Metropolitan Theatre."</p>
<p>I took supper that night, or rather we took supper, Miss Carmichel and
I, at Solari's, and the dawn was just beginning to gild the cross on the
Memorial Church as I entered Washington Square after leaving Edith at
the Brunswick. There was not a soul in the park as I passed along the
trees and took the walk which leads from the Garibaldi statue to the
Hamilton Apartment House, but as I passed the churchyard I saw a figure
sitting on the stone steps. In spite of myself a chill crept over me at
the sight of the white puffy face, and I hastened to pass. Then he said
something which might have been addressed to me or might merely have
been a mutter to himself, but a sudden furious anger flamed up within me
that such a creature should address me. For an instant I felt like
wheeling about and smashing my stick over his head, but I walked on, and
entering the Hamilton went to my apartment. For some time I tossed about
the bed trying to get the sound of his voice out of my ears, but could
not. It filled my head, that muttering sound, like thick oily smoke from
a fat-rendering vat or an odour of noisome decay. And as I lay and
tossed about, the voice in my ears seemed more distinct, and I began to
understand the words he had muttered. They came to me slowly as if I had
forgotten them, and at last I could make some sense out of the sounds.
It was this:</p>
<p>"Have you found the Yellow Sign?"</p>
<p>"Have you found the Yellow Sign?"</p>
<p>"Have you found the Yellow Sign?"</p>
<p>I was furious. What did he mean by that? Then with a curse upon him and
his I rolled over and went to sleep, but when I awoke later I looked
pale and haggard, for I had dreamed the dream of the night before, and
it troubled me more than I cared to think.</p>
<p>I dressed and went down into my studio. Tessie sat by the window, but as
I came in she rose and put both arms around my neck for an innocent
kiss. She looked so sweet and dainty that I kissed her again and then
sat down before the easel.</p>
<p>"Hello! Where's the study I began yesterday?" I asked.</p>
<p>Tessie looked conscious, but did not answer. I began to hunt among the
piles of canvases, saying, "Hurry up, Tess, and get ready; we must take
advantage of the morning light."</p>
<p>When at last I gave up the search among the other canvases and turned to
look around the room for the missing study I noticed Tessie standing by
the screen with her clothes still on.</p>
<p>"What's the matter," I asked, "don't you feel well?"</p>
<p>"Yes."</p>
<p>"Then hurry."</p>
<p>"Do you want me to pose as—as I have always posed?"</p>
<p>Then I understood. Here was a new complication. I had lost, of course,
the best nude model I had ever seen. I looked at Tessie. Her face was
scarlet. Alas! Alas! We had eaten of the tree of knowledge, and Eden and
native innocence were dreams of the past—I mean for her.</p>
<p>I suppose she noticed the disappointment on my face, for she said: "I
will pose if you wish. The study is behind the screen here where I put
it."</p>
<p>"No," I said, "we will begin something new;" and I went into my wardrobe
and picked out a Moorish costume which fairly blazed with tinsel. It was
a genuine costume, and Tessie retired to the screen with it enchanted.
When she came forth again I was astonished. Her long black hair was
bound above her forehead with a circlet of turquoises, and the ends,
curled about her glittering girdle. Her feet were encased in the
embroidered pointed slippers and the skirt of her costume, curiously
wrought with arabesques in silver, fell to her ankles. The deep metallic
blue vest embroidered with silver and the short Mauresque jacket
spangled and sewn with turquoises became her wonderfully. She came up to
me and held up her face smiling. I slipped my hand into my pocket, and
drawing out a gold chain with a cross attached, dropped it over her
head.</p>
<p>"It's yours, Tessie."</p>
<p>"Mine?" she faltered.</p>
<p>"Yours. Now go and pose," Then with a radiant smile she ran behind the
screen and presently reappeared with a little box on which was written
my name.</p>
<p>"I had intended to give it to you when I went home to-night," she said,
"but I can't wait now."</p>
<p>I opened the box. On the pink cotton inside lay a clasp of black onyx,
on which was inlaid a curious symbol or letter in gold. It was neither
Arabic nor Chinese, nor, as I found afterwards, did it belong to any
human script.</p>
<p>"It's all I had to give you for a keepsake," she said timidly.</p>
<p>I was annoyed, but I told her how much I should prize it, and promised
to wear it always. She fastened it on my coat beneath the lapel.</p>
<p>"How foolish, Tess, to go and buy me such a beautiful thing as this," I
said.</p>
<p>"I did not buy it," she laughed.</p>
<p>"Where did you get it?"</p>
<p>Then she told me how she had found it one day while coming from the
Aquarium in the Battery, how she had advertised it and watched the
papers, but at last gave up all hopes of finding the owner.</p>
<p>"That was last winter," she said, "the very day I had the first horrid
dream about the hearse."</p>
<p>I remembered my dream of the previous night but said nothing, and
presently my charcoal was flying over a new canvas, and Tessie stood
motionless on the model-stand.</p>
<h3>III</h3>
<p>The day following was a disastrous one for me. While moving a framed
canvas from one easel to another my foot slipped on the polished floor,
and I fell heavily on both wrists. They were so badly sprained that it
was useless to attempt to hold a brush, and I was obliged to wander
about the studio, glaring at unfinished drawings and sketches, until
despair seized me and I sat down to smoke and twiddle my thumbs with
rage. The rain blew against the windows and rattled on the roof of the
church, driving me into a nervous fit with its interminable patter.
Tessie sat sewing by the window, and every now and then raised her head
and looked at me with such innocent compassion that I began to feel
ashamed of my irritation and looked about for something to occupy me. I
had read all the papers and all the books in the library, but for the
sake of something to do I went to the bookcases and shoved them open
with my elbow. I knew every volume by its colour and examined them all,
passing slowly around the library and whistling to keep up my spirits. I
was turning to go into the dining-room when my eye fell upon a book
bound in serpent skin, standing in a corner of the top shelf of the last
bookcase. I did not remember it, and from the floor could not decipher
the pale lettering on the back, so I went to the smoking-room and called
Tessie. She came in from the studio and climbed up to reach the book.</p>
<p>"What is it?" I asked.</p>
<p>"<i>The King in Yellow.</i>"</p>
<p>I was dumfounded. Who had placed it there? How came it in my rooms? I
had long ago decided that I should never open that book, and nothing on
earth could have persuaded me to buy it. Fearful lest curiosity might
tempt me to open it, I had never even looked at it in book-stores. If I
ever had had any curiosity to read it, the awful tragedy of young
Castaigne, whom I knew, prevented me from exploring its wicked pages. I
had always refused to listen to any description of it, and indeed,
nobody ever ventured to discuss the second part aloud, so I had
absolutely no knowledge of what those leaves might reveal. I stared at
the poisonous mottled binding as I would at a snake.</p>
<p>"Don't touch it, Tessie," I said; "come down."</p>
<p>Of course my admonition was enough to arouse her curiosity, and before I
could prevent it she took the book and, laughing, danced off into the
studio with it. I called to her, but she slipped away with a tormenting
smile at my helpless hands, and I followed her with some impatience.</p>
<p>"Tessie!" I cried, entering the library, "listen, I am serious. Put that
book away. I do not wish you to open it!" The library was empty. I went
into both drawing-rooms, then into the bedrooms, laundry, kitchen, and
finally returned to the library and began a systematic search. She had
hidden herself so well that it was half-an-hour later when I discovered
her crouching white and silent by the latticed window in the store-room
above. At the first glance I saw she had been punished for her
foolishness. <i>The King in Yellow</i> lay at her feet, but the book was open
at the second part. I looked at Tessie and saw it was too late. She had
opened <i>The King in Yellow</i>. Then I took her by the hand and led her
into the studio. She seemed dazed, and when I told her to lie down on
the sofa she obeyed me without a word. After a while she closed her eyes
and her breathing became regular and deep, but I could not determine
whether or not she slept. For a long while I sat silently beside her,
but she neither stirred nor spoke, and at last I rose, and, entering the
unused store-room, took the book in my least injured hand. It seemed
heavy as lead, but I carried it into the studio again, and sitting down
on the rug beside the sofa, opened it and read it through from beginning
to end.</p>
<p>When, faint with excess of my emotions, I dropped the volume and leaned
wearily back against the sofa, Tessie opened her eyes and looked at
me....</p>
<p><br/></p>
<p>We had been speaking for some time in a dull monotonous strain before I
realized that we were discussing <i>The King in Yellow</i>. Oh the sin of
writing such words,—words which are clear as crystal, limpid and
musical as bubbling springs, words which sparkle and glow like the
poisoned diamonds of the Medicis! Oh the wickedness, the hopeless
damnation of a soul who could fascinate and paralyze human creatures
with such words,—words understood by the ignorant and wise alike, words
which are more precious than jewels, more soothing than music, more
awful than death!</p>
<p>We talked on, unmindful of the gathering shadows, and she was begging me
to throw away the clasp of black onyx quaintly inlaid with what we now
knew to be the Yellow Sign. I never shall know why I refused, though
even at this hour, here in my bedroom as I write this confession, I
should be glad to know <i>what</i> it was that prevented me from tearing the
Yellow Sign from my breast and casting it into the fire. I am sure I
wished to do so, and yet Tessie pleaded with me in vain. Night fell and
the hours dragged on, but still we murmured to each other of the King
and the Pallid Mask, and midnight sounded from the misty spires in the
fog-wrapped city. We spoke of Hastur and of Cassilda, while outside the
fog rolled against the blank window-panes as the cloud waves roll and
break on the shores of Hali.</p>
<p>The house was very silent now, and not a sound came up from the misty
streets. Tessie lay among the cushions, her face a grey blot in the
gloom, but her hands were clasped in mine, and I knew that she knew and
read my thoughts as I read hers, for we had understood the mystery of
the Hyades and the Phantom of Truth was laid. Then as we answered each
other, swiftly, silently, thought on thought, the shadows stirred in the
gloom about us, and far in the distant streets we heard a sound. Nearer
and nearer it came, the dull crunching of wheels, nearer and yet nearer,
and now, outside before the door it ceased, and I dragged myself to the
window and saw a black-plumed hearse. The gate below opened and shut,
and I crept shaking to my door and bolted it, but I knew no bolts, no
locks, could keep that creature out who was coming for the Yellow Sign.
And now I heard him moving very softly along the hall. Now he was at the
door, and the bolts rotted at his touch. Now he had entered. With eyes
starting from my head I peered into the darkness, but when he came into
the room I did not see him. It was only when I felt him envelope me in
his cold soft grasp that I cried out and struggled with deadly fury, but
my hands were useless and he tore the onyx clasp from my coat and struck
me full in the face. Then, as I fell, I heard Tessie's soft cry and her
spirit fled: and even while falling I longed to follow her, for I knew
that the King in Yellow had opened his tattered mantle and there was
only God to cry to now.</p>
<p>I could tell more, but I cannot see what help it will be to the world.
As for me, I am past human help or hope. As I lie here, writing,
careless even whether or not I die before I finish, I can see the doctor
gathering up his powders and phials with a vague gesture to the good
priest beside me, which I understand.</p>
<p>They will be very curious to know the tragedy—they of the outside world
who write books and print millions of newspapers, but I shall write no
more, and the father confessor will seal my last words with the seal of
sanctity when his holy office is done. They of the outside world may
send their creatures into wrecked homes and death-smitten firesides, and
their newspapers will batten on blood and tears, but with me their spies
must halt before the confessional. They know that Tessie is dead and
that I am dying. They know how the people in the house, aroused by an
infernal scream, rushed into my room and found one living and two dead,
but they do not know what I shall tell them now; they do not know that
the doctor said as he pointed to a horrible decomposed heap on the
floor—the livid corpse of the watchman from the church: "I have no
theory, no explanation. That man must have been dead for months!"</p>
<p><br/></p>
<p>I think I am dying. I wish the priest would—</p>
<h2><SPAN name="THE_DEMOISELLE_DYS" id="THE_DEMOISELLE_DYS"></SPAN>THE DEMOISELLE D'YS</h2>
<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="poetry">
<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: 0em;">"Mais je croy que je</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: 0.25em;">Suis descendu on puiz</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: 0.25em;">T�n�breux onquel disoit</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: 0.25em;">Heraclytus estre Veret� cach�e."</span></td></tr>
</table>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>"There be three things which are too wonderful for me, yea, four which I
know not:</p>
<p>"The way of an eagle in the air; the way of a serpent upon a rock; the
way of a ship in the midst of the sea; and the way of a man with a
maid."</p>
</div>
<h3>I</h3>
<p>The utter desolation of the scene began to have its effect; I sat down
to face the situation and, if possible, recall to mind some landmark
which might aid me in extricating myself from my present position. If I
could only find the ocean again all would be clear, for I knew one could
see the island of Groix from the cliffs.</p>
<p>I laid down my gun, and kneeling behind a rock lighted a pipe. Then I
looked at my watch. It was nearly four o'clock. I might have wandered
far from Kerselec since daybreak.</p>
<p>Standing the day before on the cliffs below Kerselec with Goulven,
looking out over the sombre moors among which I had now lost my way,
these downs had appeared to me level as a meadow, stretching to the
horizon, and although I knew how deceptive is distance, I could not
realize that what from Kerselec seemed to be mere grassy hollows were
great valleys covered with gorse and heather, and what looked like
scattered boulders were in reality enormous cliffs of granite.</p>
<p>"It's a bad place for a stranger," old Goulven had said: "you'd better
take a guide;" and I had replied, "I shall not lose myself." Now I knew
that I had lost myself, as I sat there smoking, with the sea-wind
blowing in my face. On every side stretched the moorland, covered with
flowering gorse and heath and granite boulders. There was not a tree in
sight, much less a house. After a while, I picked up the gun, and
turning my back on the sun tramped on again.</p>
<p>There was little use in following any of the brawling streams which
every now and then crossed my path, for, instead of flowing into the
sea, they ran inland to reedy pools in the hollows of the moors. I had
followed several, but they all led me to swamps or silent little ponds
from which the snipe rose peeping and wheeled away in an ecstasy of
fright. I began to feel fatigued, and the gun galled my shoulder in spite
of the double pads. The sun sank lower and lower, shining level across
yellow gorse and the moorland pools.</p>
<p>As I walked my own gigantic shadow led me on, seeming to lengthen at
every step. The gorse scraped against my leggings, crackled beneath my
feet, showering the brown earth with blossoms, and the brake bowed and
billowed along my path. From tufts of heath rabbits scurried away
through the bracken, and among the swamp grass I heard the wild duck's
drowsy quack. Once a fox stole across my path, and again, as I stooped
to drink at a hurrying rill, a heron flapped heavily from the reeds
beside me. I turned to look at the sun. It seemed to touch the edges of
the plain. When at last I decided that it was useless to go on, and that
I must make up my mind to spend at least one night on the moors, I threw
myself down thoroughly fagged out. The evening sunlight slanted warm
across my body, but the sea-winds began to rise, and I felt a chill
strike through me from my wet shooting-boots. High overhead gulls were
wheeling and tossing like bits of white paper; from some distant marsh a
solitary curlew called. Little by little the sun sank into the plain,
and the zenith flushed with the after-glow. I watched the sky change
from palest gold to pink and then to smouldering fire. Clouds of midges
danced above me, and high in the calm air a bat dipped and soared. My
eyelids began to droop. Then as I shook off the drowsiness a sudden
crash among the bracken roused me. I raised my eyes. A great bird hung
quivering in the air above my face. For an instant I stared, incapable
of motion; then something leaped past me in the ferns and the bird rose,
wheeled, and pitched headlong into the brake.</p>
<p>I was on my feet in an instant peering through the gorse. There came the
sound of a struggle from a bunch of heather close by, and then all was
quiet. I stepped forward, my gun poised, but when I came to the heather
the gun fell under my arm again, and I stood motionless in silent
astonishment. A dead hare lay on the ground, and on the hare stood a
magnificent falcon, one talon buried in the creature's neck, the other
planted firmly on its limp flank. But what astonished me, was not the
mere sight of a falcon sitting upon its prey. I had seen that more than
once. It was that the falcon was fitted with a sort of leash about both
talons, and from the leash hung a round bit of metal like a sleigh-bell.
The bird turned its fierce yellow eyes on me, and then stooped and
struck its curved beak into the quarry. At the same instant hurried
steps sounded among the heather, and a girl sprang into the covert in
front. Without a glance at me she walked up to the falcon, and passing
her gloved hand under its breast, raised it from the quarry. Then she
deftly slipped a small hood over the bird's head, and holding it out on
her gauntlet, stooped and picked up the hare.</p>
<p>She passed a cord about the animal's legs and fastened the end of the
thong to her girdle. Then she started to retrace her steps through the
covert. As she passed me I raised my cap and she acknowledged my presence
with a scarcely perceptible inclination. I had been so astonished, so
lost in admiration of the scene before my eyes, that it had not occurred
to me that here was my salvation. But as she moved away I recollected
that unless I wanted to sleep on a windy moor that night I had better
recover my speech without delay. At my first word she hesitated, and as
I stepped before her I thought a look of fear came into her beautiful
eyes. But as I humbly explained my unpleasant plight, her face flushed
and she looked at me in wonder.</p>
<p>"Surely you did not come from Kerselec!" she repeated.</p>
<p>Her sweet voice had no trace of the Breton accent nor of any accent
which I knew, and yet there was something in it I seemed to have heard
before, something quaint and indefinable, like the theme of an old song.</p>
<p>I explained that I was an American, unacquainted with Finist�re,
shooting there for my own amusement.</p>
<p>"An American," she repeated in the same quaint musical tones. "I have
never before seen an American."</p>
<p>For a moment she stood silent, then looking at me she said. "If you
should walk all night you could not reach Kerselec now, even if you had
a guide."</p>
<p>This was pleasant news.</p>
<p>"But," I began, "if I could only find a peasant's hut where I might get
something to eat, and shelter."</p>
<p>The falcon on her wrist fluttered and shook its head. The girl smoothed
its glossy back and glanced at me.</p>
<p>"Look around," she said gently. "Can you see the end of these moors?
Look, north, south, east, west. Can you see anything but moorland and
bracken?"</p>
<p>"No," I said.</p>
<p>"The moor is wild and desolate. It is easy to enter, but sometimes they
who enter never leave it. There are no peasants' huts here."</p>
<p>"Well," I said, "if you will tell me in which direction Kerselec lies,
to-morrow it will take me no longer to go back than it has to come."</p>
<p>She looked at me again with an expression almost like pity.</p>
<p>"Ah," she said, "to come is easy and takes hours; to go is
different—and may take centuries."</p>
<p>I stared at her in amazement but decided that I had misunderstood her.
Then before I had time to speak she drew a whistle from her belt and
sounded it.</p>
<p>"Sit down and rest," she said to me; "you have come a long distance and
are tired."</p>
<p>She gathered up her pleated skirts and motioning me to follow picked her
dainty way through the gorse to a flat rock among the ferns.</p>
<p>"They will be here directly," she said, and taking a seat at one end of
the rock invited me to sit down on the other edge. The after-glow was
beginning to fade in the sky and a single star twinkled faintly through
the rosy haze. A long wavering triangle of water-fowl drifted southward
over our heads, and from the swamps around plover were calling.</p>
<p>"They are very beautiful—these moors," she said quietly.</p>
<p>"Beautiful, but cruel to strangers," I answered.</p>
<p>"Beautiful and cruel," she repeated dreamily, "beautiful and cruel."</p>
<p>"Like a woman," I said stupidly.</p>
<p>"Oh," she cried with a little catch in her breath, and looked at me. Her
dark eyes met mine, and I thought she seemed angry or frightened.</p>
<p>"Like a woman," she repeated under her breath, "How cruel to say so!"
Then after a pause, as though speaking aloud to herself, "How cruel for
him to say that!"</p>
<p>I don't know what sort of an apology I offered for my inane, though
harmless speech, but I know that she seemed so troubled about it that I
began to think I had said something very dreadful without knowing it,
and remembered with horror the pitfalls and snares which the French
language sets for foreigners. While I was trying to imagine what I might
have said, a sound of voices came across the moor, and the girl rose to
her feet.</p>
<p>"No," she said, with a trace of a smile on her pale face, "I will not
accept your apologies, monsieur, but I must prove you wrong, and that
shall be my revenge. Look. Here come Hastur and Raoul."</p>
<p>Two men loomed up in the twilight. One had a sack across his shoulders
and the other carried a hoop before him as a waiter carries a tray. The
hoop was fastened with straps to his shoulders, and around the edge of
the circlet sat three hooded falcons fitted with tinkling bells. The
girl stepped up to the falconer, and with a quick turn of her wrist
transferred her falcon to the hoop, where it quickly sidled off and
nestled among its mates, who shook their hooded heads and ruffled their
feathers till the belled jesses tinkled again. The other man stepped
forward and bowing respectfully took up the hare and dropped it into the
game-sack.</p>
<p>"These are my piqueurs," said the girl, turning to me with a gentle
dignity. "Raoul is a good fauconnier, and I shall some day make him
grand veneur. Hastur is incomparable."</p>
<p>The two silent men saluted me respectfully.</p>
<p>"Did I not tell you, monsieur, that I should prove you wrong?" she
continued. "This, then, is my revenge, that you do me the courtesy of
accepting food and shelter at my own house."</p>
<p>Before I could answer she spoke to the falconers, who started instantly
across the heath, and with a gracious gesture to me she followed. I
don't know whether I made her understand how profoundly grateful I felt,
but she seemed pleased to listen, as we walked over the dewy heather.</p>
<p>"Are you not very tired?" she asked.</p>
<p>I had clean forgotten my fatigue in her presence, and I told her so.</p>
<p>"Don't you think your gallantry is a little old-fashioned?" she said;
and when I looked confused and humbled, she added quietly, "Oh, I like
it, I like everything old-fashioned, and it is delightful to hear you
say such pretty things."</p>
<p>The moorland around us was very still now under its ghostly sheet of
mist. The plovers had ceased their calling; the crickets and all the
little creatures of the fields were silent as we passed, yet it seemed
to me as if I could hear them beginning again far behind us. Well in
advance, the two tall falconers strode across the heather, and the faint
jingling of the hawks' bells came to our ears in distant murmuring
chimes.</p>
<p>Suddenly a splendid hound dashed out of the mist in front, followed by
another and another until half-a-dozen or more were bounding and leaping
around the girl beside me. She caressed and quieted them with her gloved
hand, speaking to them in quaint terms which I remembered to have seen
in old French manuscripts.</p>
<p>Then the falcons on the circlet borne by the falconer ahead began to
beat their wings and scream, and from somewhere out of sight the notes
of a hunting-horn floated across the moor. The hounds sprang away before
us and vanished in the twilight, the falcons flapped and squealed upon
their perch, and the girl, taking up the song of the horn, began to hum.
Clear and mellow her voice sounded in the night air.</p>
<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="poetry">
<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: 0em;">"Chasseur, chasseur, chassez encore,</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: 0.25em;">Quittez Rosette et Jeanneton,</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: 0.25em;">Tonton, tonton, tontaine, tonton,</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: 0.25em;">Ou, pour, rabattre, d�s l'aurore,</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: 0.25em;">Que les Amours soient de planton,</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: 0.25em;">Tonton, tontaine, tonton."</span></td></tr>
</table>
<p>As I listened to her lovely voice a grey mass which rapidly grew more
distinct loomed up in front, and the horn rang out joyously through the
tumult of the hounds and falcons. A torch glimmered at a gate, a light
streamed through an opening door, and we stepped upon a wooden bridge
which trembled under our feet and rose creaking and straining behind us
as we passed over the moat and into a small stone court, walled on every
side. From an open doorway a man came and, bending in salutation,
presented a cup to the girl beside me. She took the cup and touched it
with her lips, then lowering it turned to me and said in a low voice, "I
bid you welcome."</p>
<p>At that moment one of the falconers came with another cup, but before
handing it to me, presented it to the girl, who tasted it. The falconer
made a gesture to receive it, but she hesitated a moment, and then,
stepping forward, offered me the cup with her own hands. I felt this to
be an act of extraordinary graciousness, but hardly knew what was
expected of me, and did not raise it to my lips at once. The girl
flushed crimson. I saw that I must act quickly.</p>
<p>"Mademoiselle," I faltered, "a stranger whom you have saved from dangers
he may never realize empties this cup to the gentlest and loveliest
hostess of France."</p>
<p>"In His name," she murmured, crossing herself as I drained the cup. Then
stepping into the doorway she turned to me with a pretty gesture and,
taking my hand in hers, led me into the house, saying again and again:
"You are very welcome, indeed you are welcome to the Ch�teau d'Ys."</p>
<h3>II</h3>
<p>I awoke next morning with the music of the horn in my ears, and leaping
out of the ancient bed, went to a curtained window where the sunlight
filtered through little deep-set panes. The horn ceased as I looked into
the court below.</p>
<p>A man who might have been brother to the two falconers of the night
before stood in the midst of a pack of hounds. A curved horn was
strapped over his back, and in his hand he held a long-lashed whip. The
dogs whined and yelped, dancing around him in anticipation; there was
the stamp of horses, too, in the walled yard.</p>
<p>"Mount!" cried a voice in Breton, and with a clatter of hoofs the two
falconers, with falcons upon their wrists, rode into the courtyard among
the hounds. Then I heard another voice which sent the blood throbbing
through my heart: "Piriou Louis, hunt the hounds well and spare neither
spur nor whip. Thou Raoul and thou Gaston, see that the <i>epervier</i> does
not prove himself <i>niais</i>, and if it be best in your judgment, <i>faites
courtoisie � l'oiseau. Jardiner un oiseau</i>, like the <i>mu�</i> there on
Hastur's wrist, is not difficult, but thou, Raoul, mayest not find it so
simple to govern that <i>hagard</i>. Twice last week he foamed <i>au vif</i> and
lost the <i>beccade</i> although he is used to the <i>leurre</i>. The bird acts
like a stupid <i>branchier</i>. <i>Pa�tre un hagard n'est pas si facile."</i></p>
<p>Was I dreaming? The old language of falconry which I had read in yellow
manuscripts—the old forgotten French of the middle ages was sounding in
my ears while the hounds bayed and the hawks' bells tinkled
accompaniment to the stamping horses. She spoke again in the sweet
forgotten language:</p>
<p>"If you would rather attach the <i>longe</i> and leave thy <i>hagard au bloc</i>,
Raoul, I shall say nothing; for it were a pity to spoil so fair a day's
sport with an ill-trained <i>sors</i>. <i>Essimer abaisser</i>,—it is possibly
the best way. <i>�a lui donnera des reins.</i> I was perhaps hasty with the
bird. It takes time to pass <i>� la fili�re</i> and the exercises <i>d'escap</i>."</p>
<p>Then the falconer Raoul bowed in his stirrups and replied: "If it be the
pleasure of Mademoiselle, I shall keep the hawk."</p>
<p>"It is my wish," she answered. "Falconry I know, but you have yet to
give me many a lesson in <i>Autourserie</i>, my poor Raoul. Sieur Piriou
Louis mount!"</p>
<p>The huntsman sprang into an archway and in an instant returned, mounted
upon a strong black horse, followed by a piqueur also mounted.</p>
<p>"Ah!" she cried joyously, "speed Glemarec Ren�! speed! speed all! Sound
thy horn, Sieur Piriou!"</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>"I do not regret the chase, I will go another time. Courtesy to the
stranger, Pelagie, remember!"</p>
<p>And a feeble voice came quavering from within the house, "<i>Courtoisie</i>"</p>
<p>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 courtyard. 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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>"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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>"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.</p>
<p>"Ah!" she murmured. "Then Monsieur knows all that there is of
chivalry—"</p>
<p>She crossed herself and broke bread. I sat and watched her white hands,
not daring to raise my eyes to hers.</p>
<p>"Will you not eat?" she asked. "Why do you look so troubled?"</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>"Are you ill at ease?" she asked again.</p>
<p>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."</p>
<p>She leaned her head upon her hands, and answered softly, "I love you.
Your words are very dear to me. I love you."</p>
<p>"Then I shall win you."</p>
<p>"Win me," she replied.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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 Ren� 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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>We were still sitting at the table, and she was throwing grapes to the
small field birds which came fearlessly to our very feet.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>"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.</p>
<p>"You will come very often?" she asked.</p>
<p>"Very often," I said.</p>
<p>"Every day?"</p>
<p>"Every day."</p>
<p>"Oh," she sighed, "I am very happy. Come and see my hawks."</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>Then she led me away and showed me the young falcons still in the nest.
"They are termed <i>niais</i> in falconry," she explained. "A <i>branchier</i> 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 <i>sors</i>,
and a <i>mu�</i> is a hawk which has moulted in captivity. When we catch a
wild falcon which has changed its plumage we term it a <i>hagard</i>. Raoul
first taught me to dress a falcon. Shall I teach you how it is done?"</p>
<p>She seated herself on the bank of the stream among the falcons and I
threw myself at her feet to listen.</p>
<p>Then the Demoiselle d'Ys held up one rosy-tipped finger and began very
gravely.</p>
<p>"First one must catch the falcon."</p>
<p>"I am caught," I answered.</p>
<p>She laughed very prettily and told me my <i>dressage</i> would perhaps be
difficult, as I was noble.</p>
<p>"I am already tamed," I replied; "jessed and belled."</p>
<p>She laughed, delighted. "Oh, my brave falcon; then you will return at my
call?"</p>
<p>"I am yours," I answered gravely.</p>
<p>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—"</p>
<p>"I listen, Countess Jeanne d'Ys."</p>
<p>But again she fell into the reverie, and her eyes seemed fixed on
something beyond the summer clouds.</p>
<p>"Philip," she said at last.</p>
<p>"Jeanne," I whispered.</p>
<p>"That is all,—that is what I wished," she sighed,—"Philip and Jeanne."</p>
<p>She held her hand toward me and I touched it with my lips.</p>
<p>"Win me," she said, but this time it was the body and soul which spoke
in unison.</p>
<p>After a while she began again: "Let us speak of falconry."</p>
<p>"Begin," I replied; "we have caught the falcon."</p>
<p>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
<i>chaperon � cornette</i>.</p>
<p>"They must first have a good appetite," she said; "then little by little
I reduce their nourishment; which in falconry we call <i>p�t</i>. When, after
many nights passed <i>au bloc</i> as these birds are now, I prevail upon the
<i>hagard</i> to stay quietly on the wrist, then the bird is ready to be
taught to come for its food. I fix the <i>p�t</i> to the end of a thong, or
<i>leurre</i>, 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 <i>p�t</i> when the
falcon comes, and he eats the food on the ground. After a little he will
learn to seize the <i>leurre</i> 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 <i>'faire courtoisie � l'oiseau'</i>,
that is, to allow the bird to taste the quarry."</p>
<p>A squeal from one of the falcons interrupted her, and she arose to
adjust the <i>longe</i> which had become whipped about the <i>bloc</i>, but the
bird still flapped its wings and screamed.</p>
<p>"What <i>is</i> the matter?" she said. "Philip, can you see?"</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>"A couleuvre," she said quietly.</p>
<p>"It is harmless, is it not?" I asked.</p>
<p>She pointed to the black V-shaped figure on the neck.</p>
<p>"It is certain death," she said; "it is a viper."</p>
<p>We watched the reptile moving slowly over the smooth rock to where the
sunlight fell in a broad warm patch.</p>
<p>I started forward to examine it, but she clung to my arm crying, "Don't,
Philip, I am afraid."</p>
<p>"For me?"</p>
<p>"For you, Philip,—I love you."</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p><br/></p>
<p>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 <i>blocs</i> 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.</p>
<p>"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:</p>
<p class="c">"P<small>RAY FOR THE SOUL OF THE</small><br/>
D<small>EMOISELLE</small> J<small>EANNE D</small>'Ys,<br/>
<small>WHO DIED<br/>
IN HER YOUTH FOR LOVE OF</small><br/>
P<small>HILIP, A</small> S<small>TRANGER</small>.<br/>
A.D. 1573."</p>
<p>But upon the icy slab lay a woman's glove still warm and fragrant.</p>
<h2><SPAN name="THE_PROPHETS_PARADISE" id="THE_PROPHETS_PARADISE"></SPAN>THE PROPHETS' PARADISE</h2>
<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="poetry">
<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: 0em;">"If but the Vine and Love Abjuring Band</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: 0.25em;">Are in the Prophets' Paradise to stand,</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: 0.25em;">Alack, I doubt the Prophets' Paradise,</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: 0.25em;">Were empty as the hollow of one's hand."</span></td></tr>
</table>
<h3>THE STUDIO</h3>
<p>He smiled, saying, "Seek her throughout the world."</p>
<p>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."</p>
<p>"For whom do you wait?" he said, and I answered, "When she comes I shall
know her."</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>"For whom then do you wait?" he said, and I answered, "I shall know
her."</p>
<p>Footsteps, a voice, and a song in the street below, and I knew the song
but neither the steps nor the voice.</p>
<p>"Fool!" he cried, "the song is the same, the voice and steps have but
changed with years!"</p>
<p>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."</p>
<p>Then he smiled, saying, "For whom do you wait? Seek her throughout the
world!"</p>
<p>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."</p>
<h3>THE PHANTOM</h3>
<p>The Phantom of the Past would go no further.</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>I held her close, pleading, caressing; I seized her, white with anger,
but she resisted.</p>
<p>"If it is true," she sighed, "that you find in me a friend, let us turn
back together."</p>
<p>The Phantom of the Past would go no further.</p>
<h3>THE SACRIFICE</h3>
<p>I went into a field of flowers, whose petals are whiter than snow and
whose hearts are pure gold.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>Far afield I followed, and on the jar I read a thousand names, while
from within the fresh blood bubbled to the brim.</p>
<p>"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.</p>
<h3>DESTINY</h3>
<p>I came to the bridge which few may pass.</p>
<p>"Pass!" cried the keeper, but I laughed, saying, "There is time;" and he
smiled and shut the gates.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>Those in the throng about the gates shrieked out, "He comes too late!"
But I laughed, saying, "There is time."</p>
<p>"Pass!" cried the keeper as I entered; then smiled and shut the gates.</p>
<h3>THE THRONG</h3>
<p>There, where the throng was thickest in the street, I stood with
Pierrot. All eyes were turned on me.</p>
<p>"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!"</p>
<p>All eyes were turned on me.</p>
<p>"He has robbed you of your purse!" they laughed.</p>
<p>"My purse!" I cried; "Pierrot—help! it is a thief!"</p>
<p>They laughed: "He has robbed you of your purse!"</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>"You see," he said, "Truth is an honest thief, she brings you back your
mirror."</p>
<p>All eyes were turned on me.</p>
<p>"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.</p>
<h3>THE JESTER</h3>
<p>"Was she fair?" I asked, but he only chuckled, listening to the bells
jingling on his cap.</p>
<p>"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!"</p>
<p>"Stabbed," he tittered, listening to the bells jingling on his cap.</p>
<p>"Was she fair?" I asked, but he only snarled, muttering to the bells
jingling on his cap.</p>
<p>"She kissed him at the gate," he tittered, "but in the hall his
brother's welcome touched his heart."</p>
<p>"Was she fair?" I asked.</p>
<p>"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!"</p>
<p>"She kissed him at the gate, but in the hall his brother's welcome
touched his heart."</p>
<p>"Was she fair?" I asked; but he only snarled, listening to the bells
jingling in his cap.</p>
<h3>THE GREEN ROOM</h3>
<p>The Clown turned his powdered face to the mirror.</p>
<p>"If to be fair is to be beautiful," he said, "who can compare with me in
my white mask?"</p>
<p>"Who can compare with him in his white mask?" I asked of Death beside
me.</p>
<p>"Who can compare with me?" said Death, "for I am paler still."</p>
<p>"You are very beautiful," sighed the Clown, turning his powdered face
from the mirror.</p>
<h3>THE LOVE TEST</h3>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>I took the jewels and went to her, but she trod upon them, sobbing:
"Teach me to wait—I love you!"</p>
<p>"Then wait, if it is true," said Love.</p>
<h2><SPAN name="THE_STREET_OF_THE_FOUR_WINDS" id="THE_STREET_OF_THE_FOUR_WINDS"></SPAN>THE STREET OF THE FOUR WINDS</h2>
<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="poetry">
<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: 0em;">"Ferme tes yeux � demi,</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: 0.25em;">Croise tes bras sur ton sein,</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: 0.25em;">Et de ton cœur endormi</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: 0.25em;">Chasse � jamais tout dessein."</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"> </td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: 0em;">"Je chante la nature,</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: 0.25em;">Les �toiles du soir, les larmes du matin,</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: 0.25em;">Les couchers de soleil � l'horizon lointain,</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: 0.25em;">Le ciel qui parle au cœur d'existence future!"</span></td></tr>
</table>
<h3>I</h3>
<p>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.</p>
<p>"Puss," he said, in his low, pleasant voice, "come in."</p>
<p>The tip of her thin tail twitched uncertainly.</p>
<p>"Come in," he said again.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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?"</p>
<p>Her timid eyes sought his.</p>
<p>"I understand," he said gently, "you shall have it at once."</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>The creature rose and crept toward the saucer.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>"Keep it up," said Severn, much interested, "you need it."</p>
<p>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."</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>"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.</p>
<p>"Excuse me," he continued in lazy soothing tones, harmonizing with her
purring, "if I seem indelicate, but I cannot help musing on this
rose-coloured garter, flowered so quaintly and fastened with a silver
clasp. For the clasp is silver; I can see the mint mark on the edge, as
is prescribed by the law of the French Republic. Now, why is this garter
woven of rose silk and delicately embroidered,—why is this silken
garter with its silver clasp about your famished throat? Am I indiscreet
when I inquire if its owner is your owner? Is she some aged dame living
in memory of youthful vanities, fond, doting on you, decorating you with
her intimate personal attire? The circumference of the garter would
suggest this, for your neck is thin, and the garter fits you. But then
again I notice—I notice most things—that the garter is capable of
being much enlarged. These small silver-rimmed eyelets, of which I count
five, are proof of that. And now I observe that the fifth eyelet is worn
out, as though the tongue of the clasp were accustomed to lie there.
That seems to argue a well-rounded form."</p>
<p>The cat curled her toes in contentment. The street was very still
outside.</p>
<p>He murmured on: "Why should your mistress decorate you with an article
most necessary to her at all times? Anyway, at most times. How did she
come to slip this bit of silk and silver about your neck? Was it the
caprice of a moment,—when you, before you had lost your pristine
plumpness, marched singing into her bedroom to bid her good-morning? Of
course, and she sat up among the pillows, her coiled hair tumbling to
her shoulders, as you sprang upon the bed purring: 'Good-day, my lady.'
Oh, it is very easy to understand," he yawned, resting his head on the
back of the chair. The cat still purred, tightening and relaxing her
padded claws over his knee.</p>
<p>"Shall I tell you all about her, cat? She is very beautiful—your
mistress," he murmured drowsily, "and her hair is heavy as burnished
gold. I could paint her,—not on canvas—for I should need shades and
tones and hues and dyes more splendid than the iris of a splendid
rainbow. I could only paint her with closed eyes, for in dreams alone
can such colours as I need be found. For her eyes, I must have azure
from skies untroubled by a cloud—the skies of dreamland. For her lips,
roses from the palaces of slumberland, and for her brow, snow-drifts
from mountains which tower in fantastic pinnacles to the moons;—oh,
much higher than our moon here,—the crystal moons of dreamland. She
is—very—beautiful, your mistress."</p>
<p>The words died on his lips and his eyelids drooped.</p>
<p>The cat, too, was asleep, her cheek turned up upon her wasted flank, her
paws relaxed and limp.</p>
<h3>II</h3>
<p>"It is fortunate," said Severn, sitting up and stretching, "that we have
tided over the dinner hour, for I have nothing to offer you for supper
but what may be purchased with one silver franc."</p>
<p>The cat on his knee rose, arched her back, yawned, and looked up at him.</p>
<p>"What shall it be? A roast chicken with salad? No? Possibly you prefer
beef? Of course,—and I shall try an egg and some white bread. Now for
the wines. Milk for you? Good. I shall take a little water, fresh from
the wood," with a motion toward the bucket in the sink.</p>
<p>He put on his hat and left the room. The cat followed to the door, and
after he had closed it behind him, she settled down, smelling at the
cracks, and cocking one ear at every creak from the crazy old building.</p>
<p>The door below opened and shut. The cat looked serious, for a moment
doubtful, and her ears flattened in nervous expectation. Presently she
rose with a jerk of her tail and started on a noiseless tour of the
studio. She sneezed at a pot of turpentine, hastily retreating to the
table, which she presently mounted, and having satisfied her curiosity
concerning a roll of red modelling wax, returned to the door and sat
down with her eyes on the crack over the threshold. Then she lifted her
voice in a thin plaint.</p>
<p>When Severn returned he looked grave, but the cat, joyous and
demonstrative, marched around him, rubbing her gaunt body against his
legs, driving her head enthusiastically into his hand, and purring until
her voice mounted to a squeal.</p>
<p>He placed a bit of meat, wrapped in brown paper, upon the table, and
with a penknife cut it into shreds. The milk he took from a bottle which
had served for medicine, and poured it into the saucer on the hearth.</p>
<p>The cat crouched before it, purring and lapping at the same time.</p>
<p>He cooked his egg and ate it with a slice of bread, watching her busy
with the shredded meat, and when he had finished, and had filled and
emptied a cup of water from the bucket in the sink, he sat down, taking
her into his lap, where she at once curled up and began her toilet. He
began to speak again, touching her caressingly at times by way of
emphasis.</p>
<p>"Cat, I have found out where your mistress lives. It is not very far
away;—it is here, under this same leaky roof, but in the north wing
which I had supposed was uninhabited. My janitor tells me this. By
chance, he is almost sober this evening. The butcher on the rue de
Seine, where I bought your meat, knows you, and old Cabane the baker
identified you with needless sarcasm. They tell me hard tales of your
mistress which I shall not believe. They say she is idle and vain and
pleasure-loving; they say she is hare-brained and reckless. The little
sculptor on the ground floor, who was buying rolls from old Cabane,
spoke to me to-night for the first time, although we have always bowed
to each other. He said she was very good and very beautiful. He has only
seen her once, and does not know her name. I thanked him;—I don't know
why I thanked him so warmly. Cabane said, 'Into this cursed Street of
the Four Winds, the four winds blow all things evil.' The sculptor
looked confused, but when he went out with his rolls, he said to me, 'I
am sure, Monsieur, that she is as good as she is beautiful.'"</p>
<p>The cat had finished her toilet, and now, springing softly to the floor,
went to the door and sniffed. He knelt beside her, and unclasping the
garter held it for a moment in his hands. After a while he said: "There
is a name engraved upon the silver clasp beneath the buckle. It is a
pretty name, Sylvia Elven. Sylvia is a woman's name, Elven is the name
of a town. In Paris, in this quarter, above all, in this Street of the
Four Winds, names are worn and put away as the fashions change with the
seasons. I know the little town of Elven, for there I met Fate face to
face and Fate was unkind. But do you know that in Elven Fate had another
name, and that name was Sylvia?"</p>
<p>He replaced the garter and stood up looking down at the cat crouched
before the closed door.</p>
<p>"The name of Elven has a charm for me. It tells me of meadows and clear
rivers. The name of Sylvia troubles me like perfume from dead flowers."</p>
<p>The cat mewed.</p>
<p>"Yes, yes," he said soothingly, "I will take you back. Your Sylvia is
not my Sylvia; the world is wide and Elven is not unknown. Yet in the
darkness and filth of poorer Paris, in the sad shadows of this ancient
house, these names are very pleasant to me."</p>
<p>He lifted her in his arms and strode through the silent corridors to the
stairs. Down five flights and into the moonlit court, past the little
sculptor's den, and then again in at the gate of the north wing and up
the worm-eaten stairs he passed, until he came to a closed door. When he
had stood knocking for a long time, something moved behind the door; it
opened and he went in. The room was dark. As he crossed the threshold,
the cat sprang from his arms into the shadows. He listened but heard
nothing. The silence was oppressive and he struck a match. At his elbow
stood a table and on the table a candle in a gilded candlestick. This he
lighted, then looked around. The chamber was vast, the hangings heavy
with embroidery. Over the fireplace towered a carved mantel, grey with
the ashes of dead fires. In a recess by the deep-set windows stood a
bed, from which the bedclothes, soft and fine as lace, trailed to the
polished floor. He lifted the candle above his head. A handkerchief lay
at his feet. It was faintly perfumed. He turned toward the windows. In
front of them was a <i>canap�</i> and over it were flung, pell-mell, a gown
of silk, a heap of lace-like garments, white and delicate as spiders'
meshes, long, crumpled gloves, and, on the floor beneath, the stockings,
the little pointed shoes, and one garter of rosy silk, quaintly flowered
and fitted with a silver clasp. Wondering, he stepped forward and drew
the heavy curtains from the bed. For a moment the candle flared in his
hand; then his eyes met two other eyes, wide open, smiling, and the
candle-flame flashed over hair heavy as gold.</p>
<p>She was pale, but not as white as he; her eyes were untroubled as a
child's; but he stared, trembling from head to foot, while the candle
flickered in his hand.</p>
<p>At last he whispered: "Sylvia, it is I."</p>
<p>Again he said, "It is I."</p>
<p>Then, knowing that she was dead, he kissed her on the mouth. And through
the long watches of the night the cat purred on his knee, tightening and
relaxing her padded claws, until the sky paled above the Street of the
Four Winds.</p>
<h2><SPAN name="THE_STREET_OF_THE_FIRST_SHELL" id="THE_STREET_OF_THE_FIRST_SHELL"></SPAN>THE STREET OF THE FIRST SHELL</h2>
<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="poetry">
<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: 0em;">"Be of Good Cheer, the Sullen Month will die,</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: 0.25em;">And a young Moon requite us by and by:</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: 0.25em;">Look how the Old one, meagre, bent, and wan</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: 0.25em;">With age and Fast, is fainting from the sky."</span></td></tr>
</table>
<p>The room was already dark. The high roofs opposite cut off what little
remained of the December daylight. The girl drew her chair nearer the
window, and choosing a large needle, threaded it, knotting the thread
over her fingers. Then she smoothed the baby garment across her knees,
and bending, bit off the thread and drew the smaller needle from where
it rested in the hem. When she had brushed away the stray threads and
bits of lace, she laid it again over her knees caressingly. Then she
slipped the threaded needle from her corsage and passed it through a
button, but as the button spun down the thread, her hand faltered, the
thread snapped, and the button rolled across the floor. She raised her
head. Her eyes were fixed on a strip of waning light above the chimneys.
From somewhere in the city came sounds like the distant beating of
drums, and beyond, far beyond, a vague muttering, now growing, swelling,
rumbling in the distance like the pounding of surf upon the rocks, now
like the surf again, receding, growling, menacing. The cold had become
intense, a bitter piercing cold which strained and snapped at joist and
beam and turned the slush of yesterday to flint. From the street below
every sound broke sharp and metallic—the clatter of sabots, the rattle
of shutters or the rare sound of a human voice. The air was heavy,
weighted with the black cold as with a pall. To breathe was painful, to
move an effort.</p>
<p>In the desolate sky there was something that wearied, in the brooding
clouds, something that saddened. It penetrated the freezing city cut by
the freezing river, the splendid city with its towers and domes, its
quays and bridges and its thousand spires. It entered the squares, it
seized the avenues and the palaces, stole across bridges and crept among
the narrow streets of the Latin Quarter, grey under the grey of the
December sky. Sadness, utter sadness. A fine icy sleet was falling,
powdering the pavement with a tiny crystalline dust. It sifted against
the window-panes and drifted in heaps along the sill. The light at the
window had nearly failed, and the girl bent low over her work. Presently
she raised her head, brushing the curls from her eyes.</p>
<p>"Jack?"</p>
<p>"Dearest?"</p>
<p>"Don't forget to clean your palette."</p>
<p>He said, "All right," and picking up the palette, sat down upon the
floor in front of the stove. His head and shoulders were in the shadow,
but the firelight fell across his knees and glimmered red on the blade
of the palette-knife. Full in the firelight beside him stood a
colour-box. On the lid was carved,</p>
<table border="0" cellpadding="2" cellspacing="0" summary="poetry"
style="border:1px solid black;padding:2%;margin:3% auto 3% auto;">
<tr><td align="center">J. TRENT.</td></tr>
<tr><td align="center"> </td></tr>
<tr><td align="center"> �cole des Beaux Arts. </td></tr>
<tr><td align="center"> </td></tr>
<tr><td align="center">1870.</td></tr>
</table>
<p>This inscription was ornamented with an American and a French flag.</p>
<p>The sleet blew against the window-panes, covering them with stars and
diamonds, then, melting from the warmer air within, ran down and froze
again in fern-like traceries.</p>
<p>A dog whined and the patter of small paws sounded on the zinc behind the
stove.</p>
<p>"Jack, dear, do you think Hercules is hungry?"</p>
<p>The patter of paws was redoubled behind the stove.</p>
<p>"He's whining," she continued nervously, "and if it isn't because he's
hungry it is because—"</p>
<p>Her voice faltered. A loud humming filled the air, the windows vibrated.</p>
<p>"Oh, Jack," she cried, "another—" but her voice was drowned in the
scream of a shell tearing through the clouds overhead.</p>
<p>"That is the nearest yet," she murmured.</p>
<p>"Oh, no," he answered cheerfully, "it probably fell way over by
Montmartre," and as she did not answer, he said again with exaggerated
unconcern, "They wouldn't take the trouble to fire at the Latin Quarter;
anyway they haven't a battery that can hurt it."</p>
<p>After a while she spoke up brightly: "Jack, dear, when are you going to
take me to see Monsieur West's statues?"</p>
<p>"I will bet," he said, throwing down his palette and walking over to the
window beside her, "that Colette has been here to-day."</p>
<p>"Why?" she asked, opening her eyes very wide. Then, "Oh, it's too
bad!—really, men are tiresome when they think they know everything! And
I warn you that if Monsieur West is vain enough to imagine that
Colette—"</p>
<p>From the north another shell came whistling and quavering through the
sky, passing above them with long-drawn screech which left the windows
singing.</p>
<p>"That," he blurted out, "was too near for comfort."</p>
<p>They were silent for a while, then he spoke again gaily: "Go on, Sylvia,
and wither poor West;" but she only sighed, "Oh, dear, I can never seem
to get used to the shells."</p>
<p>He sat down on the arm of the chair beside her.</p>
<p>Her scissors fell jingling to the floor; she tossed the unfinished frock
after them, and putting both arms about his neck drew him down into her
lap.</p>
<p>"Don't go out to-night, Jack."</p>
<p>He kissed her uplifted face; "You know I must; don't make it hard for
me."</p>
<p>"But when I hear the shells and—and know you are out in the city—"</p>
<p>"But they all fall in Montmartre—"</p>
<p>"They may all fall in the Beaux Arts; you said yourself that two struck
the Quai d'Orsay—"</p>
<p>"Mere accident—"</p>
<p>"Jack, have pity on me! Take me with you!"</p>
<p>"And who will there be to get dinner?"</p>
<p>She rose and flung herself on the bed.</p>
<p>"Oh, I can't get used to it, and I know you must go, but I beg you not
to be late to dinner. If you knew what I suffer! I—I—cannot help it,
and you must be patient with me, dear."</p>
<p>He said, "It is as safe there as it is in our own house."</p>
<p>She watched him fill for her the alcohol lamp, and when he had lighted
it and had taken his hat to go, she jumped up and clung to him in
silence. After a moment he said: "Now, Sylvia, remember my courage is
sustained by yours. Come, I must go!" She did not move, and he repeated:
"I must go." Then she stepped back and he thought she was going to speak
and waited, but she only looked at him, and, a little impatiently, he
kissed her again, saying: "Don't worry, dearest."</p>
<p>When he had reached the last flight of stairs on his way to the street a
woman hobbled out of the house-keeper's lodge waving a letter and
calling: "Monsieur Jack! Monsieur Jack! this was left by Monsieur
Fallowby!"</p>
<p>He took the letter, and leaning on the threshold of the lodge, read it:</p>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>"Dear Jack,</p>
<p>"I believe Braith is dead broke and I'm sure Fallowby is. Braith swears
he isn't, and Fallowby swears he is, so you can draw your own
conclusions. I've got a scheme for a dinner, and if it works, I will let
you fellows in.</p>
<p class="r">"Yours faithfully, <br/>
"W<small>EST</small>.</p>
<p>"P.S.—Fallowby has shaken Hartman and his gang, thank the Lord! There
is something rotten there,—or it may be he's only a miser.</p>
<p>"P.P.S.—I'm more desperately in love than ever, but I'm sure she does
not care a straw for me."</p>
</div>
<p>"All right," said Trent, with a smile, to the concierge; "but tell me,
how is Papa Cottard?"</p>
<p>The old woman shook her head and pointed to the curtained bed in the
lodge.</p>
<p>"P�re Cottard!" he cried cheerily, "how goes the wound to-day?"</p>
<p>He walked over to the bed and drew the curtains. An old man was lying
among the tumbled sheets.</p>
<p>"Better?" smiled Trent.</p>
<p>"Better," repeated the man wearily; and, after a pause, "Have you any
news, Monsieur Jack?"</p>
<p>"I haven't been out to-day. I will bring you any rumour I may hear,
though goodness knows I've got enough of rumours," he muttered to
himself. Then aloud: "Cheer up; you're looking better."</p>
<p>"And the sortie?"</p>
<p>"Oh, the sortie, that's for this week. General Trochu sent orders last
night."</p>
<p>"It will be terrible."</p>
<p>"It will be sickening," thought Trent as he went out into the street and
turned the corner toward the rue de Seine; "slaughter, slaughter, phew!
I'm glad I'm not going."</p>
<p>The street was almost deserted. A few women muffled in tattered military
capes crept along the frozen pavement, and a wretchedly clad gamin
hovered over the sewer-hole on the corner of the Boulevard. A rope
around his waist held his rags together. From the rope hung a rat, still
warm and bleeding.</p>
<p>"There's another in there," he yelled at Trent; "I hit him but he got
away."</p>
<p>Trent crossed the street and asked: "How much?"</p>
<p>"Two francs for a quarter of a fat one; that's what they give at the St.
Germain Market."</p>
<p>A violent fit of coughing interrupted him, but he wiped his face with
the palm of his hand and looked cunningly at Trent.</p>
<p>"Last week you could buy a rat for six francs, but," and here he swore
vilely, "the rats have quit the rue de Seine and they kill them now over
by the new hospital. I'll let you have this for seven francs; I can sell
it for ten in the Isle St. Louis."</p>
<p>"You lie," said Trent, "and let me tell you that if you try to swindle
anybody in this quarter the people will make short work of you and your
rats."</p>
<p>He stood a moment eyeing the gamin, who pretended to snivel. Then he
tossed him a franc, laughing. The child caught it, and thrusting it into
his mouth wheeled about to the sewer-hole. For a second he crouched,
motionless, alert, his eyes on the bars of the drain, then leaping
forward he hurled a stone into the gutter, and Trent left him to finish
a fierce grey rat that writhed squealing at the mouth of the sewer.</p>
<p>"Suppose Braith should come to that," he thought; "poor little chap;"
and hurrying, he turned in the dirty passage des Beaux Arts and entered
the third house to the left.</p>
<p>"Monsieur is at home," quavered the old concierge.</p>
<p>Home? A garret absolutely bare, save for the iron bedstead in the corner
and the iron basin and pitcher on the floor.</p>
<p>West appeared at the door, winking with much mystery, and motioned Trent
to enter. Braith, who was painting in bed to keep warm, looked up,
laughed, and shook hands.</p>
<p>"Any news?"</p>
<p>The perfunctory question was answered as usual by: "Nothing but the
cannon."</p>
<p>Trent sat down on the bed.</p>
<p>"Where on earth did you get that?" he demanded, pointing to a
half-finished chicken nestling in a wash-basin.</p>
<p>West grinned.</p>
<p>"Are you millionaires, you two? Out with it."</p>
<p>Braith, looking a little ashamed, began, "Oh, it's one of West's
exploits," but was cut short by West, who said he would tell the story
himself.</p>
<p>"You see, before the siege, I had a letter of introduction to a '<i>type</i>'
here, a fat banker, German-American variety. You know the species, I
see. Well, of course I forgot to present the letter, but this morning,
judging it to be a favourable opportunity, I called on him.</p>
<p>"The villain lives in comfort;—fires, my boy!—fires in the ante-rooms!
The Buttons finally condescends to carry my letter and card up, leaving
me standing in the hallway, which I did not like, so I entered the first
room I saw and nearly fainted at the sight of a banquet on a table by
the fire. Down comes Buttons, very insolent. No, oh, no, his master, 'is
not at home, and in fact is too busy to receive letters of introduction
just now; the siege, and many business difficulties—'</p>
<p>"I deliver a kick to Buttons, pick up this chicken from the table, toss
my card on to the empty plate, and addressing Buttons as a species of
Prussian pig, march out with the honours of war."</p>
<p>Trent shook his head.</p>
<p>"I forgot to say that Hartman often dines there, and I draw my own
conclusions," continued West. "Now about this chicken, half of it is for
Braith and myself, and half for Colette, but of course you will help me
eat my part because I'm not hungry."</p>
<p>"Neither am I," began Braith, but Trent, with a smile at the pinched
faces before him, shook his head saying, "What nonsense! You know I'm
never hungry!"</p>
<p>West hesitated, reddened, and then slicing off Braith's portion, but not
eating any himself, said good-night, and hurried away to number 470 rue
Serpente, where lived a pretty girl named Colette, orphan after Sedan,
and Heaven alone knew where she got the roses in her cheeks, for the
siege came hard on the poor.</p>
<p>"That chicken will delight her, but I really believe she's in love with
West," said Trent. Then walking over to the bed: "See here, old man, no
dodging, you know, how much have you left?"</p>
<p>The other hesitated and flushed.</p>
<p>"Come, old chap," insisted Trent.</p>
<p>Braith drew a purse from beneath his bolster, and handed it to his
friend with a simplicity that touched him.</p>
<p>"Seven sons," he counted; "you make me tired! Why on earth don't you
come to me? I take it d——d ill, Braith! How many times must I go over
the same thing and explain to you that because I have money it is my
duty to share it, and your duty and the duty of every American to share
it with me? You can't get a cent, the city's blockaded, and the American
Minister has his hands full with all the German riff-raff and deuce
knows what! Why don't you act sensibly?"</p>
<p>"I—I will, Trent, but it's an obligation that perhaps I can never even
in part repay, I'm poor and—"</p>
<p>"Of course you'll pay me! If I were a usurer I would take your talent
for security. When you are rich and famous—"</p>
<p>"Don't, Trent—"</p>
<p>"All right, only no more monkey business."</p>
<p>He slipped a dozen gold pieces into the purse, and tucking it again
under the mattress smiled at Braith.</p>
<p>"How old are you?" he demanded.</p>
<p>"Sixteen."</p>
<p>Trent laid his hand lightly on his friend's shoulder. "I'm twenty-two,
and I have the rights of a grandfather as far as you are concerned.
You'll do as I say until you're twenty-one."</p>
<p>"The si�ge will be over then, I hope," said Braith, trying to laugh, but
the prayer in their hearts: "How long, O Lord, how long!" was answered
by the swift scream of a shell soaring among the storm-clouds of that
December night.</p>
<h3>II</h3>
<p>West, standing in the doorway of a house in the rue Serpentine, was
speaking angrily. He said he didn't care whether Hartman liked it or
not; he was telling him, not arguing with him.</p>
<p>"You call yourself an American!" he sneered; "Berlin and hell are full
of that kind of American. You come loafing about Colette with your
pockets stuffed with white bread and beef, and a bottle of wine at
thirty francs and you can't really afford to give a dollar to the
American Ambulance and Public Assistance, which Braith does, and he's
half starved!"</p>
<p>Hartman retreated to the curbstone, but West followed him, his face like
a thunder-cloud. "Don't you dare to call yourself a countryman of mine,"
he growled,—"no,—nor an artist either! Artists don't worm themselves
into the service of the Public Defence where they do nothing but feed
like rats on the people's food! And I'll tell you now," he continued
dropping his voice, for Hartman had started as though stung, "you might
better keep away from that Alsatian Brasserie and the smug-faced thieves
who haunt it. You know what they do with suspects!"</p>
<p>"You lie, you hound!" screamed Hartman, and flung the bottle in his hand
straight at West's face. West had him by the throat in a second, and
forcing him against the dead wall shook him wickedly.</p>
<p>"Now you listen to me," he muttered, through his clenched teeth. "You
are already a suspect and—I swear—I believe you are a paid spy! It
isn't my business to detect such vermin, and I don't intend to denounce
you, but understand this! Colette don't like you and I can't stand you,
and if I catch you in this street again I'll make it somewhat
unpleasant. Get out, you sleek Prussian!"</p>
<p>Hartman had managed to drag a knife from his pocket, but West tore it
from him and hurled him into the gutter. A gamin who had seen this burst
into a peal of laughter, which rattled harshly in the silent street.
Then everywhere windows were raised and rows of haggard faces appeared
demanding to know why people should laugh in the starving city.</p>
<p>"Is it a victory?" murmured one.</p>
<p>"Look at that," cried West as Hartman picked himself up from the
pavement, "look! you miser! look at those faces!" But Hartman gave <i>him</i>
a look which he never forgot, and walked away without a word. Trent, who
suddenly appeared at the corner, glanced curiously at West, who merely
nodded toward his door saying, "Come in; Fallowby's upstairs."</p>
<p>"What are you doing with that knife?" demanded Fallowby, as he and Trent
entered the studio.</p>
<p>West looked at his wounded hand, which still clutched the knife, but
saying, "Cut myself by accident," tossed it into a corner and washed the
blood from his fingers.</p>
<p>Fallowby, fat and lazy, watched him without comment, but Trent, half
divining how things had turned, walked over to Fallowby smiling.</p>
<p>"I've a bone to pick with you!" he said.</p>
<p>"Where is it? I'm hungry," replied Fallowby with affected eagerness, but
Trent, frowning, told him to listen.</p>
<p>"How much did I advance you a week ago?"</p>
<p>"Three hundred and eighty francs," replied the other, with a squirm of
contrition.</p>
<p>"Where is it?"</p>
<p>Fallowby began a series of intricate explanations, which were soon cut
short by Trent.</p>
<p>"I know; you blew it in;—you always blow it in. I don't care a rap what
you did before the siege: I know you are rich and have a right to
dispose of your money as you wish to, and I also know that, generally
speaking, it is none of my business. But <i>now</i> it is my business, as I
have to supply the funds until you get some more, which you won't until
the siege is ended one way or another. I wish to share what I have, but
I won't see it thrown out of the window. Oh, yes, of course I know you
will reimburse me, but that isn't the question; and, anyway, it's the
opinion of your friends, old man, that you will not be worse off for a
little abstinence from fleshly pleasures. You are positively a freak in
this famine-cursed city of skeletons!"</p>
<p>"I <i>am</i> rather stout," he admitted.</p>
<p>"Is it true you are out of money?" demanded Trent.</p>
<p>"Yes, I am," sighed the other.</p>
<p>"That roast sucking pig on the rue St. Honor�,—is it there yet?"
continued Trent.</p>
<p>"Wh—at?" stammered the feeble one.</p>
<p>"Ah—I thought so! I caught you in ecstasy before that sucking pig at
least a dozen times!"</p>
<p>Then laughing, he presented Fallowby with a roll of twenty franc pieces
saying: "If these go for luxuries you must live on your own flesh," and
went over to aid West, who sat beside the wash-basin binding up his
hand.</p>
<p>West suffered him to tie the knot, and then said: "You remember,
yesterday, when I left you and Braith to take the chicken to Colette."</p>
<p>"Chicken! Good heavens!" moaned Fallowby.</p>
<p>"Chicken," repeated West, enjoying Fallowby's grief;—"I—that is, I
must explain that things are changed. Colette and I—are to be
married—"</p>
<p>"What—what about the chicken?" groaned Fallowby.</p>
<p>"Shut up!" laughed Trent, and slipping his arm through West's, walked to
the stairway.</p>
<p>"The poor little thing," said West, "just think, not a splinter of
firewood for a week and wouldn't tell me because she thought I needed it
for my clay figure. Whew! When I heard it I smashed that smirking clay
nymph to pieces, and the rest can freeze and be hanged!" After a moment
he added timidly: "Won't you call on your way down and say <i>bon soir</i>?
It's No. 17."</p>
<p>"Yes," said Trent, and he went out softly closing the door behind.</p>
<p>He stopped on the third landing, lighted a match, scanned the numbers
over the row of dingy doors, and knocked at No. 17.</p>
<p>"C'est toi Georges?" The door opened.</p>
<p>"Oh, pardon, Monsieur Jack, I thought it was Monsieur West," then
blushing furiously, "Oh, I see you have heard! Oh, thank you so much for
your wishes, and I'm sure we love each other very much,—and I'm dying
to see Sylvia and tell her and—"</p>
<p>"And what?" laughed Trent.</p>
<p>"I am very happy," she sighed.</p>
<p>"He's pure gold," returned Trent, and then gaily: "I want you and George
to come and dine with us to-night. It's a little treat,—you see
to-morrow is Sylvia's <i>f�te</i>. She will be nineteen. I have written to
Thorne, and the Guernalecs will come with their cousin Odile. Fallowby
has engaged not to bring anybody but himself."</p>
<p>The girl accepted shyly, charging him with loads of loving messages to
Sylvia, and he said good-night.</p>
<p>He started up the street, walking swiftly, for it was bitter cold, and
cutting across the rue de la Lune he entered the rue de Seine. The early
winter night had fallen, almost without warning, but the sky was clear
and myriads of stars glittered in the heavens. The bombardment had
become furious—a steady rolling thunder from the Prussian cannon
punctuated by the heavy shocks from Mont Val�rien.</p>
<p>The shells streamed across the sky leaving trails like shooting stars,
and now, as he turned to look back, rockets blue and red flared above
the horizon from the Fort of Issy, and the Fortress of the North flamed
like a bonfire.</p>
<p>"Good news!" a man shouted over by the Boulevard St. Germain. As if by
magic the streets were filled with people,—shivering, chattering people
with shrunken eyes.</p>
<p>"Jacques!" cried one. "The Army of the Loire!"</p>
<p>"Eh! <i>mon vieux</i>, it has come then at last! I told thee! I told thee!
To-morrow—to-night—who knows?"</p>
<p>"Is it true? Is it a sortie?"</p>
<p>Some one said: "Oh, God—a sortie—and my son?" Another cried: "To the
Seine? They say one can see the signals of the Army of the Loire from
the Pont Neuf."</p>
<p>There was a child standing near Trent who kept repeating: "Mamma, Mamma,
then to-morrow we may eat white bread?" and beside him, an old man
swaying, stumbling, his shrivelled hands crushed to his breast,
muttering as if insane.</p>
<p>"Could it be true? Who has heard the news? The shoemaker on the rue de
Buci had it from a Mobile who had heard a Franctireur repeat it to a
captain of the National Guard."</p>
<p>Trent followed the throng surging through the rue de Seine to the river.</p>
<p>Rocket after rocket clove the sky, and now, from Montmartre, the cannon
clanged, and the batteries on Montparnasse joined in with a crash. The
bridge was packed with people.</p>
<p>Trent asked: "Who has seen the signals of the Army of the Loire?"</p>
<p>"We are waiting for them," was the reply.</p>
<p>He looked toward the north. Suddenly the huge silhouette of the Arc de
Triomphe sprang into black relief against the flash of a cannon. The
boom of the gun rolled along the quay and the old bridge vibrated.</p>
<p>Again over by the Point du Jour a flash and heavy explosion shook the
bridge, and then the whole eastern bastion of the fortifications blazed
and crackled, sending a red flame into the sky.</p>
<p>"Has any one seen the signals yet?" he asked again.</p>
<p>"We are waiting," was the reply.</p>
<p>"Yes, waiting," murmured a man behind him, "waiting, sick, starved,
freezing, but waiting. Is it a sortie? They go gladly. Is it to starve?
They starve. They have no time to think of surrender. Are they
heroes,—these Parisians? Answer me, Trent!"</p>
<p>The American Ambulance surgeon turned about and scanned the parapets of
the bridge.</p>
<p>"Any news, Doctor," asked Trent mechanically.</p>
<p>"News?" said the doctor; "I don't know any;—I haven't time to know any.
What are these people after?"</p>
<p>"They say that the Army of the Loire has signalled Mont Val�rien."</p>
<p>"Poor devils." The doctor glanced about him for an instant, and then:
"I'm so harried and worried that I don't know what to do. After the last
sortie we had the work of fifty ambulances on our poor little corps.
To-morrow there's another sortie, and I wish you fellows could come over
to headquarters. We may need volunteers. How is madame?" he added
abruptly.</p>
<p>"Well," replied Trent, "but she seems to grow more nervous every day. I
ought to be with her now."</p>
<p>"Take care of her," said the doctor, then with a sharp look at the
people: "I can't stop now—good-night!" and he hurried away muttering,
"Poor devils!"</p>
<p>Trent leaned over the parapet and blinked at the black river surging
through the arches. Dark objects, carried swiftly on the breast of the
current, struck with a grinding tearing noise against the stone piers,
spun around for an instant, and hurried away into the darkness. The ice
from the Marne.</p>
<p>As he stood staring into the water, a hand was laid on his shoulder.
"Hello, Southwark!" he cried, turning around; "this is a queer place for
you!"</p>
<p>"Trent, I have something to tell you. Don't stay here,—don't believe in
the Army of the Loire:" and the <i>attach�</i> of the American Legation
slipped his arm through Trent's and drew him toward the Louvre.</p>
<p>"Then it's another lie!" said Trent bitterly.</p>
<p>"Worse—we know at the Legation—I can't speak of it. But that's not
what I have to say. Something happened this afternoon. The Alsatian
Brasserie was visited and an American named Hartman has been arrested.
Do you know him?"</p>
<p>"I know a German who calls himself an American;—his name is Hartman."</p>
<p>"Well, he was arrested about two hours ago. They mean to shoot him."</p>
<p>"What!"</p>
<p>"Of course we at the Legation can't allow them to shoot him off-hand,
but the evidence seems conclusive."</p>
<p>"Is he a spy?"</p>
<p>"Well, the papers seized in his rooms are pretty damning proofs, and
besides he was caught, they say, swindling the Public Food Committee. He
drew rations for fifty, how, I don't know. He claims to be an American
artist here, and we have been obliged to take notice of it at the
Legation. It's a nasty affair."</p>
<p>"To cheat the people at such a time is worse than robbing the poor-box,"
cried Trent angrily. "Let them shoot him!"</p>
<p>"He's an American citizen."</p>
<p>"Yes, oh yes," said the other with bitterness. "American citizenship is
a precious privilege when every goggle-eyed German—" His anger choked
him.</p>
<p>Southwark shook hands with him warmly. "It can't be helped, we must own
the carrion. I am afraid you may be called upon to identify him as an
American artist," he said with a ghost of a smile on his deep-lined
face; and walked away through the Cours la Reine.</p>
<p>Trent swore silently for a moment and then drew out his watch. Seven
o'clock. "Sylvia will be anxious," he thought, and hurried back to the
river. The crowd still huddled shivering on the bridge, a sombre pitiful
congregation, peering out into the night for the signals of the Army of
the Loire: and their hearts beat time to the pounding of the guns, their
eyes lighted with each flash from the bastions, and hope rose with the
drifting rockets.</p>
<p>A black cloud hung over the fortifications. From horizon to horizon the
cannon smoke stretched in wavering bands, now capping the spires and
domes with cloud, now blowing in streamers and shreds along the streets,
now descending from the housetops, enveloping quays, bridges, and river,
in a sulphurous mist. And through the smoke pall the lightning of the
cannon played, while from time to time a rift above showed a fathomless
black vault set with stars.</p>
<p>He turned again into the rue de Seine, that sad abandoned street, with
its rows of closed shutters and desolate ranks of unlighted lamps. He
was a little nervous and wished once or twice for a revolver, but the
slinking forms which passed him in the darkness were too weak with
hunger to be dangerous, he thought, and he passed on unmolested to his
doorway. But there somebody sprang at his throat. Over and over the icy
pavement he rolled with his assailant, tearing at the noose about his
neck, and then with a wrench sprang to his feet.</p>
<p>"Get up," he cried to the other.</p>
<p>Slowly and with great deliberation, a small gamin picked himself out of
the gutter and surveyed Trent with disgust.</p>
<p>"That's a nice clean trick," said Trent; "a whelp of your age! You'll
finish against a dead wall! Give me that cord!"</p>
<p>The urchin handed him the noose without a word.</p>
<p>Trent struck a match and looked at his assailant. It was the rat-killer
of the day before.</p>
<p>"H'm! I thought so," he muttered.</p>
<p>"Tiens, c'est toi?" said the gamin tranquilly.</p>
<p>The impudence, the overpowering audacity of the ragamuffin took Trent's
breath away.</p>
<p>"Do you know, you young strangler," he gasped, "that they shoot thieves
of your age?"</p>
<p>The child turned a passionless face to Trent. "Shoot, then."</p>
<p>That was too much, and he turned on his heel and entered his hotel.</p>
<p>Groping up the unlighted stairway, he at last reached his own landing
and felt about in the darkness for the door. From his studio came the
sound of voices, West's hearty laugh and Fallowby's chuckle, and at last
he found the knob and, pushing back the door, stood a moment confused by
the light.</p>
<p>"Hello, Jack!" cried West, "you're a pleasant creature, inviting people
to dine and letting them wait. Here's Fallowby weeping with hunger—"</p>
<p>"Shut up," observed the latter, "perhaps he's been out to buy a turkey."</p>
<p>"He's been out garroting, look at his noose!" laughed Guernalec.</p>
<p>"So now we know where you get your cash!" added West; "vive le coup du
P�re Fran�ois!"</p>
<p>Trent shook hands with everybody and laughed at Sylvia's pale face.</p>
<p>"I didn't mean to be late; I stopped on the bridge a moment to watch the
bombardment. Were you anxious, Sylvia?"</p>
<p>She smiled and murmured, "Oh, no!" but her hand dropped into his and
tightened convulsively.</p>
<p>"To the table!" shouted Fallowby, and uttered a joyous whoop.</p>
<p>"Take it easy," observed Thorne, with a remnant of manners; "you are not
the host, you know."</p>
<p>Marie Guernalec, who had been chattering with Colette, jumped up and
took Thorne's arm and Monsieur Guernalec drew Odile's arm through his.</p>
<p>Trent, bowing gravely, offered his own arm to Colette, West took in
Sylvia, and Fallowby hovered anxiously in the rear.</p>
<p>"You march around the table three times singing the Marseillaise,"
explained Sylvia, "and Monsieur Fallowby pounds on the table and beats
time."</p>
<p>Fallowby suggested that they could sing after dinner, but his protest
was drowned in the ringing chorus—</p>
<p clas="c">"Aux armes!<br/>
Formez vos bataillons!"</p>
<p class="nind">Around the room they marched singing,</p>
<p class="c">"Marchons! Marchons!"</p>
<p class="nind">with all their might, while Fallowby with very bad grace, hammered on
the table, consoling himself a little with the hope that the exercise
would increase his appetite. Hercules, the black and tan, fled under the
bed, from which retreat he yapped and whined until dragged out by
Guernalec and placed in Odile's lap.</p>
<p>"And now," said Trent gravely, when everybody was seated, "listen!" and
he read the menu.</p>
<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="poetry"
style="margin:2% auto 2% auto;">
<tr><td align="center">Beef Soup � la Si�ge de Paris.</td></tr>
<tr><td align="center">—</td></tr>
<tr><td align="center">Fish.</td></tr>
<tr><td align="center">Sardines � la p�re Lachaise.</td></tr>
<tr><td align="center">(White Wine).</td></tr>
<tr><td align="center">—</td></tr>
<tr><td align="center">R�ti (Red Wine).</td></tr>
<tr><td align="center">Fresh Beef � la sortie.</td></tr>
<tr><td align="center">—</td></tr>
<tr><td align="center">Vegetables.</td></tr>
<tr><td align="center">Canned Beans � la chasse-pot,</td></tr>
<tr><td align="center">Canned Peas Gravelotte,</td></tr>
<tr><td align="center">Potatoes Irlandaises,</td></tr>
<tr><td align="center">Miscellaneous.</td></tr>
<tr><td align="center">—</td></tr>
<tr><td align="center">Cold Corned Beef � la Thieis,</td></tr>
<tr><td align="center">Stewed Prunes � la Garibaldi.</td></tr>
<tr><td align="center">—</td></tr>
<tr><td align="center">Dessert.</td></tr>
<tr><td align="center">Dried prunes—White bread,</td></tr>
<tr><td align="center">Currant Jelly,</td></tr>
<tr><td align="center">Tea—Caf�,</td></tr>
<tr><td align="center">Liqueurs,</td></tr>
<tr><td align="center">Pipes and Cigarettes.</td></tr>
</table>
<p>Fallowby applauded frantically, and Sylvia served the soup.</p>
<p>"Isn't it delicious?" sighed Odile.</p>
<p>Marie Guernalec sipped her soup in rapture.</p>
<p>"Not at all like horse, and I don't care what they say, horse doesn't
taste like beef," whispered Colette to West. Fallowby, who had finished,
began to caress his chin and eye the tureen.</p>
<p>"Have some more, old chap?" inquired Trent.</p>
<p>"Monsieur Fallowby cannot have any more," announced Sylvia; "I am saving
this for the concierge." Fallowby transferred his eyes to the fish.</p>
<p>The sardines, hot from the grille, were a great success. While the
others were eating Sylvia ran downstairs with the soup for the old
concierge and her husband, and when she hurried back, flushed and
breathless, and had slipped into her chair with a happy smile at Trent,
that young man arose, and silence fell over the table. For an instant he
looked at Sylvia and thought he had never seen her so beautiful.</p>
<p>"You all know," he began, "that to-day is my wife's nineteenth
birthday—"</p>
<p>Fallowby, bubbling with enthusiasm, waved his glass in circles about his
head to the terror of Odile and Colette, his neighbours, and Thorne,
West and Guernalec refilled their glasses three times before the storm
of applause which the toast of Sylvia had provoked, subsided.</p>
<p>Three times the glasses were filled and emptied to Sylvia, and again to
Trent, who protested.</p>
<p>"This is irregular," he cried, "the next toast is to the twin Republics,
France and America?"</p>
<p>"To the Republics! To the Republics!" they cried, and the toast was
drunk amid shouts of "Vive la France! Vive l'Am�rique! Vive la Nation!"</p>
<p>Then Trent, with a smile at West, offered the toast, "To a Happy Pair!"
and everybody understood, and Sylvia leaned over and kissed Colette,
while Trent bowed to West.</p>
<p>The beef was eaten in comparative calm, but when it was finished and a
portion of it set aside for the old people below, Trent cried: "Drink to
Paris! May she rise from her ruins and crush the invader!" and the
cheers rang out, drowning for a moment the monotonous thunder of the
Prussian guns.</p>
<p>Pipes and cigarettes were lighted, and Trent listened an instant to the
animated chatter around him, broken by ripples of laughter from the
girls or the mellow chuckle of Fallowby. Then he turned to West.</p>
<p>"There is going to be a sortie to-night," he said. "I saw the American
Ambulance surgeon just before I came in and he asked me to speak to you
fellows. Any aid we can give him will not come amiss."</p>
<p>Then dropping his voice and speaking in English, "As for me, I shall go
out with the ambulance to-morrow morning. There is of course no danger,
but it's just as well to keep it from Sylvia."</p>
<p>West nodded. Thorne and Guernalec, who had heard, broke in and offered
assistance, and Fallowby volunteered with a groan.</p>
<p>"All right," said Trent rapidly,—"no more now, but meet me at Ambulance
headquarters to-morrow morning at eight."</p>
<p>Sylvia and Colette, who were becoming uneasy at the conversation in
English, now demanded to know what they were talking about.</p>
<p>"What does a sculptor usually talk about?" cried West, with a laugh.</p>
<p>Odile glanced reproachfully at Thorne, her <i>fianc�</i>.</p>
<p>"You are not French, you know, and it is none of your business, this
war," said Odile with much dignity.</p>
<p>Thorne looked meek, but West assumed an air of outraged virtue.</p>
<p>"It seems," he said to Fallowby, "that a fellow cannot discuss the
beauties of Greek sculpture in his mother tongue, without being openly
suspected."</p>
<p>Colette placed her hand over his mouth and turning to Sylvia, murmured,
"They are horridly untruthful, these men."</p>
<p>"I believe the word for ambulance is the same in both languages," said
Marie Guernalec saucily; "Sylvia, don't trust Monsieur Trent."</p>
<p>"Jack," whispered Sylvia, "promise me—"</p>
<p>A knock at the studio door interrupted her.</p>
<p>"Come in!" cried Fallowby, but Trent sprang up, and opening the door,
looked out. Then with a hasty excuse to the rest, he stepped into the
hallway and closed the door.</p>
<p>When he returned he was grumbling.</p>
<p>"What is it, Jack?" cried West.</p>
<p>"What is it?" repeated Trent savagely; "I'll tell you what it is. I have
received a dispatch from the American Minister to go at once and
identify and claim, as a fellow-countryman and a brother artist, a
rascally thief and a German spy!"</p>
<p>"Don't go," suggested Fallowby.</p>
<p>"If I don't they'll shoot him at once."</p>
<p>"Let them," growled Thorne.</p>
<p>"Do you fellows know who it is?"</p>
<p>"Hartman!" shouted West, inspired.</p>
<p>Sylvia sprang up deathly white, but Odile slipped her arm around her and
supported her to a chair, saying calmly, "Sylvia has fainted,—it's the
hot room,—bring some water."</p>
<p>Trent brought it at once.</p>
<p>Sylvia opened her eyes, and after a moment rose, and supported by Marie
Guernalec and Trent, passed into the bedroom.</p>
<p>It was the signal for breaking up, and everybody came and shook hands
with Trent, saying they hoped Sylvia would sleep it off and that it
would be nothing.</p>
<p>When Marie Guernalec took leave of him, she avoided his eyes, but he
spoke to her cordially and thanked her for her aid.</p>
<p>"Anything I can do, Jack?" inquired West, lingering, and then hurried
downstairs to catch up with the rest.</p>
<p>Trent leaned over the banisters, listening to their footsteps and
chatter, and then the lower door banged and the house was silent. He
lingered, staring down into the blackness, biting his lips; then with an
impatient movement, "I am crazy!" he muttered, and lighting a candle,
went into the bedroom. Sylvia was lying on the bed. He bent over her,
smoothing the curly hair on her forehead.</p>
<p>"Are you better, dear Sylvia?"</p>
<p>She did not answer, but raised her eyes to his. For an instant he met
her gaze, but what he read there sent a chill to his heart and he sat
down covering his face with his hands.</p>
<p>At last she spoke in a voice, changed and strained,—a voice which he
had never heard, and he dropped his hands and listened, bolt upright in
his chair.</p>
<p>"Jack, it has come at last. I have feared it and trembled,—ah! how
often have I lain awake at night with this on my heart and prayed that I
might die before you should ever know of it! For I love you, Jack, and
if you go away I cannot live. I have deceived you;—it happened before I
knew you, but since that first day when you found me weeping in the
Luxembourg and spoke to me, Jack, I have been faithful to you in every
thought and deed. I loved you from the first, and did not dare to tell
you this—fearing that you would go away; and since then my love has
grown—grown—and oh! I suffered!—but I dared not tell you. And now you
know, but you do not know the worst. For him—now—what do I care? He
was cruel—oh, so cruel!"</p>
<p>She hid her face in her arms.</p>
<p>"Must I go on? Must I tell you—can you not imagine, oh! Jack—"</p>
<p>He did not stir; his eyes seemed dead.</p>
<p>"I—I was so young, I knew nothing, and he said—said that he loved
me—"</p>
<p>Trent rose and struck the candle with his clenched fist, and the room
was dark.</p>
<p>The bells of St. Sulpice tolled the hour, and she started up, speaking
with feverish haste,—"I must finish! When you told me you loved
me—you—you asked me nothing; but then, even then, it was too late, and
<i>that other life</i> which binds me to him, must stand for ever between you
and me! For there <i>is another</i> whom he has claimed, and is good to. He
must not die,—they cannot shoot him, for that <i>other's</i> sake!"</p>
<p>Trent sat motionless, but his thoughts ran on in an interminable whirl.</p>
<p>Sylvia, little Sylvia, who shared with him his student life,—who bore
with him the dreary desolation of the siege without complaint,—this
slender blue-eyed girl whom he was so quietly fond of, whom he teased or
caressed as the whim suited, who sometimes made him the least bit
impatient with her passionate devotion to him,—could this be the same
Sylvia who lay weeping there in the darkness?</p>
<p>Then he clinched his teeth. "Let him die! Let him die!"—but then,—for
Sylvia's sake, and,—for that <i>other's</i> sake,—Yes, he would go,—he
<i>must</i> go,—his duty was plain before him. But Sylvia,—he could not be
what he had been to her, and yet a vague terror seized him, now all was
said. Trembling, he struck a light.</p>
<p>She lay there, her curly hair tumbled about her face, her small white
hands pressed to her breast.</p>
<p>He could not leave her, and he could not stay. He never knew before that
he loved her. She had been a mere comrade, this girl wife of his. Ah! he
loved her now with all his heart and soul, and he knew it, only when it
was too late. Too late? Why? Then he thought of that <i>other</i> one,
binding her, linking her forever to the creature, who stood in danger of
his life. With an oath he sprang to the door, but the door would not
open,—or was it that he pressed it back,—locked it,—and flung himself
on his knees beside the bed, knowing that he dared not for his life's
sake leave what was his all in life.</p>
<h3>III</h3>
<p>It was four in the morning when he came out of the Prison of the
Condemned with the Secretary of the American Legation. A knot of people
had gathered around the American Minister's carriage, which stood in
front of the prison, the horses stamping and pawing in the icy street,
the coachman huddled on the box, wrapped in furs. Southwark helped the
Secretary into the carriage, and shook hands with Trent, thanking him
for coming.</p>
<p>"How the scoundrel did stare," he said; "your evidence was worse than a
kick, but it saved his skin for the moment at least,—and prevented
complications."</p>
<p>The Secretary sighed. "We have done our part. Now let them prove him a
spy and we wash our hands of him. Jump in, Captain! Come along, Trent!"</p>
<p>"I have a word to say to Captain Southwark, I won't detain him," said
Trent hastily, and dropping his voice, "Southwark, help <i>me</i> now. You
know the story from the blackguard. You know the—the child is at his
rooms. Get it, and take it to my own apartment, and if he is shot, I
will provide a home for it."</p>
<p>"I understand," said the Captain gravely.</p>
<p>"Will you do this at once?"</p>
<p>"At once," he replied.</p>
<p>Their hands met in a warm clasp, and then Captain Southwark climbed into
the carriage, motioning Trent to follow; but he shook his head saying,
"Good-bye!" and the carriage rolled away.</p>
<p>He watched the carriage to the end of the street, then started toward
his own quarter, but after a step or two hesitated, stopped, and finally
turned away in the opposite direction. Something—perhaps it was the
sight of the prisoner he had so recently confronted nauseated him. He
felt the need of solitude and quiet to collect his thoughts. The events
of the evening had shaken him terribly, but he would walk it off,
forget, bury everything, and then go back to Sylvia. He started on
swiftly, and for a time the bitter thoughts seemed to fade, but when he
paused at last, breathless, under the Arc de Triomphe, the bitterness
and the wretchedness of the whole thing—yes, of his whole misspent life
came back with a pang. Then the face of the prisoner, stamped with the
horrible grimace of fear, grew in the shadows before his eyes.</p>
<p>Sick at heart he wandered up and down under the great Arc, striving to
occupy his mind, peering up at the sculptured cornices to read the names
of the heroes and battles which he knew were engraved there, but always
the ashen face of Hartman followed him, grinning with terror!—or was it
terror?—was it not triumph?—At the thought he leaped like a man who
feels a knife at his throat, but after a savage tramp around the square,
came back again and sat down to battle with his misery.</p>
<p>The air was cold, but his cheeks were burning with angry shame. Shame?
Why? Was it because he had married a girl whom chance had made a mother?
<i>Did</i> he love her? Was this miserable bohemian existence, then, his end
and aim in life? He turned his eyes upon the secrets of his heart, and
read an evil story,—the story of the past, and he covered his face for
shame, while, keeping time to the dull pain throbbing in his head, his
heart beat out the story for the future. Shame and disgrace.</p>
<p>Roused at last from a lethargy which had begun to numb the bitterness of
his thoughts, he raised his head and looked about. A sudden fog had
settled in the streets; the arches of the Arc were choked with it. He
would go home. A great horror of being alone seized him. <i>But he was not
alone.</i> The fog was peopled with phantoms. All around him in the mist
they moved, drifting through the arches in lengthening lines, and
vanished, while from the fog others rose up, swept past and were
engulfed. He was not alone, for even at his side they crowded, touched
him, swarmed before him, beside him, behind him, pressed him back,
seized, and bore him with them through the mist. Down a dim avenue,
through lanes and alleys white with fog, they moved, and if they spoke
their voices were dull as the vapour which shrouded them. At last in
front, a bank of masonry and earth cut by a massive iron barred gate
towered up in the fog. Slowly and more slowly they glided, shoulder to
shoulder and thigh to thigh. Then all movement ceased. A sudden breeze
stirred the fog. It wavered and eddied. Objects became more distinct. A
pallor crept above the horizon, touching the edges of the watery clouds,
and drew dull sparks from a thousand bayonets. Bayonets—they were
everywhere, cleaving the fog or flowing beneath it in rivers of steel.
High on the wall of masonry and earth a great gun loomed, and around it
figures moved in silhouettes. Below, a broad torrent of bayonets swept
through the iron barred gateway, out into the shadowy plain. It became
lighter. Faces grew more distinct among the marching masses and he
recognized one.</p>
<p>"You, Philippe!"</p>
<p>The figure turned its head.</p>
<p>Trent cried, "Is there room for me?" but the other only waved his arm in
a vague adieu and was gone with the rest. Presently the cavalry began to
pass, squadron on squadron, crowding out into the darkness; then many
cannon, then an ambulance, then again the endless lines of bayonets.
Beside him a cuirassier sat on his steaming horse, and in front, among a
group of mounted officers he saw a general, with the astrakan collar of
his dolman turned up about his bloodless face.</p>
<p>Some women were weeping near him and one was struggling to force a loaf
of black bread into a soldier's haversack. The soldier tried to aid her,
but the sack was fastened, and his rifle bothered him, so Trent held it,
while the woman unbuttoned the sack and forced in the bread, now all wet
with her tears. The rifle was not heavy. Trent found it wonderfully
manageable. Was the bayonet sharp? He tried it. Then a sudden longing, a
fierce, imperative desire took possession of him.</p>
<p>"<i>Chouette!</i>" cried a gamin, clinging to the barred gate, "<i>encore toi
mon vieux</i>?"</p>
<p>Trent looked up, and the rat-killer laughed in his face. But when the
soldier had taken the rifle again, and thanking him, ran hard to catch
his battalion, he plunged into the throng about the gateway.</p>
<p>"Are you going?" he cried to a marine who sat in the gutter bandaging
his foot.</p>
<p>"Yes."</p>
<p>Then a girl—a mere child—caught him by the hand and led him into the
caf� which faced the gate. The room was crowded with soldiers, some,
white and silent, sitting on the floor, others groaning on the
leather-covered settees. The air was sour and suffocating.</p>
<p>"Choose!" said the girl with a little gesture of pity; "they can't go!"</p>
<p>In a heap of clothing on the floor he found a capote and k�pi.</p>
<p>She helped him buckle his knapsack, cartridge-box, and belt, and showed
him how to load the chasse-pot rifle, holding it on her knees.</p>
<p>When he thanked her she started to her feet.</p>
<p>"You are a foreigner!"</p>
<p>"American," he said, moving toward the door, but the child barred his
way.</p>
<p>"I am a Bretonne. My father is up there with the cannon of the marine.
He will shoot you if you are a spy."</p>
<p>They faced each other for a moment. Then sighing, he bent over and
kissed the child. "Pray for France, little one," he murmured, and she
repeated with a pale smile: "For France and you, beau Monsieur."</p>
<p>He ran across the street and through the gateway. Once outside, he edged
into line and shouldered his way along the road. A corporal passed,
looked at him, repassed, and finally called an officer. "You belong to
the 60th," growled the corporal looking at the number on his k�pi.</p>
<p>"We have no use for Franc-tireurs," added the officer, catching sight of
his black trousers.</p>
<p>"I wish to volunteer in place of a comrade," said Trent, and the officer
shrugged his shoulders and passed on.</p>
<p>Nobody paid much attention to him, one or two merely glancing at his
trousers. The road was deep with slush and mud-ploughed and torn by
wheels and hoofs. A soldier in front of him wrenched his foot in an icy
rut and dragged himself to the edge of the embankment groaning. The
plain on either side of them was grey with melting snow. Here and there
behind dismantled hedge-rows stood wagons, bearing white flags with red
crosses. Sometimes the driver was a priest in rusty hat and gown,
sometimes a crippled Mobile. Once they passed a wagon driven by a Sister
of Charity. Silent empty houses with great rents in their walls, and
every window blank, huddled along the road. Further on, within the zone
of danger, nothing of human habitation remained except here and there a
pile of frozen bricks or a blackened cellar choked with snow.</p>
<p>For some time Trent had been annoyed by the man behind him, who kept
treading on his heels. Convinced at last that it was intentional, he
turned to remonstrate and found himself face to face with a
fellow-student from the Beaux Arts. Trent stared.</p>
<p>"I thought you were in the hospital!"</p>
<p>The other shook his head, pointing to his bandaged jaw.</p>
<p>"I see, you can't speak. Can I do anything?"</p>
<p>The wounded man rummaged in his haversack and produced a crust of black
bread.</p>
<p>"He can't eat it, his jaw is smashed, and he wants you to chew it for
him," said the soldier next to him.</p>
<p>Trent took the crust, and grinding it in his teeth morsel by morsel,
passed it back to the starving man.</p>
<p>From time to time mounted orderlies sped to the front, covering them
with slush. It was a chilly, silent march through sodden meadows
wreathed in fog. Along the railroad embankment across the ditch, another
column moved parallel to their own. Trent watched it, a sombre mass, now
distinct, now vague, now blotted out in a puff of fog. Once for
half-an-hour he lost it, but when again it came into view, he noticed a
thin line detach itself from the flank, and, bellying in the middle,
swing rapidly to the west. At the same moment a prolonged crackling
broke out in the fog in front. Other lines began to slough off from the
column, swinging east and west, and the crackling became continuous. A
battery passed at full gallop, and he drew back with his comrades to
give it way. It went into action a little to the right of his battalion,
and as the shot from the first rifled piece boomed through the mist, the
cannon from the fortifications opened with a mighty roar. An officer
galloped by shouting something which Trent did not catch, but he saw the
ranks in front suddenly part company with his own, and disappear in the
twilight. More officers rode up and stood beside him peering into the
fog. Away in front the crackling had become one prolonged crash. It was
dreary waiting. Trent chewed some bread for the man behind, who tried to
swallow it, and after a while shook his head, motioning Trent to eat the
rest himself. A corporal offered him a little brandy and he drank it,
but when he turned around to return the flask, the corporal was lying on
the ground. Alarmed, he looked at the soldier next to him, who shrugged
his shoulders and opened his mouth to speak, but something struck him
and he rolled over and over into the ditch below. At that moment the
horse of one of the officers gave a bound and backed into the battalion,
lashing out with his heels. One man was ridden down; another was kicked
in the chest and hurled through the ranks. The officer sank his spurs
into the horse and forced him to the front again, where he stood
trembling. The cannonade seemed to draw nearer. A staff-officer, riding
slowly up and down the battalion suddenly collapsed in his saddle and
clung to his horse's mane. One of his boots dangled, crimsoned and
dripping, from the stirrup. Then out of the mist in front men came
running. The roads, the fields, the ditches were full of them, and many
of them fell. For an instant he imagined he saw horsemen riding about
like ghosts in the vapours beyond, and a man behind him cursed horribly,
declaring he too had seen them, and that they were Uhlans; but the
battalion stood inactive, and the mist fell again over the meadows.</p>
<p>The colonel sat heavily upon his horse, his bullet-shaped head buried in
the astrakan collar of his dolman, his fat legs sticking straight out in
the stirrups.</p>
<p>The buglers clustered about him with bugles poised, and behind him a
staff-officer in a pale blue jacket smoked a cigarette and chatted with
a captain of hussars. From the road in front came the sound of furious
galloping and an orderly reined up beside the colonel, who motioned him
to the rear without turning his head. Then on the left a confused murmur
arose which ended in a shout. A hussar passed like the wind, followed by
another and another, and then squadron after squadron whirled by them
into the sheeted mists. At that instant the colonel reared in his
saddle, the bugles clanged, and the whole battalion scrambled down the
embankment, over the ditch and started across the soggy meadow. Almost
at once Trent lost his cap. Something snatched it from his head, he
thought it was a tree branch. A good many of his comrades rolled over in
the slush and ice, and he imagined that they had slipped. One pitched
right across his path and he stopped to help him up, but the man
screamed when he touched him and an officer shouted, "Forward! Forward!"
so he ran on again. It was a long jog through the mist, and he was often
obliged to shift his rifle. When at last they lay panting behind the
railroad embankment, he looked about him. He had felt the need of
action, of a desperate physical struggle, of killing and crushing. He
had been seized with a desire to fling himself among masses and tear
right and left. He longed to fire, to use the thin sharp bayonet on his
chasse-pot. He had not expected this. He wished to become exhausted, to
struggle and cut until incapable of lifting his arm. Then he had
intended to go home. He heard a man say that half the battalion had gone
down in the charge, and he saw another examining a corpse under the
embankment. The body, still warm, was clothed in a strange uniform, but
even when he noticed the spiked helmet lying a few inches further away,
he did not realize what had happened.</p>
<p>The colonel sat on his horse a few feet to the left, his eyes sparkling
under the crimson k�pi. Trent heard him reply to an officer: "I can hold
it, but another charge, and I won't have enough men left to sound a
bugle."</p>
<p>"Were the Prussians here?" Trent asked of a soldier who sat wiping the
blood trickling from his hair.</p>
<p>"Yes. The hussars cleaned them out. We caught their cross fire."</p>
<p>"We are supporting a battery on the embankment," said another.</p>
<p>Then the battalion crawled over the embankment and moved along the lines
of twisted rails. Trent rolled up his trousers and tucked them into his
woollen socks: but they halted again, and some of the men sat down on
the dismantled railroad track. Trent looked for his wounded comrade from
the Beaux Arts. He was standing in his place, very pale. The cannonade
had become terrific. For a moment the mist lifted. He caught a glimpse
of the first battalion motionless on the railroad track in front, of
regiments on either flank, and then, as the fog settled again, the drums
beat and the music of the bugles began away on the extreme left. A
restless movement passed among the troops, the colonel threw up his arm,
the drums rolled, and the battalion moved off through the fog. They were
near the front now for the battalion was firing as it advanced.
Ambulances galloped along the base of the embankment to the rear, and
the hussars passed and repassed like phantoms. They were in the front at
last, for all about them was movement and turmoil, while from the fog,
close at hand, came cries and groans and crashing volleys. Shells fell
everywhere, bursting along the embankment, splashing them with frozen
slush. Trent was frightened. He began to dread the unknown, which lay
there crackling and flaming in obscurity. The shock of the cannon
sickened him. He could even see the fog light up with a dull orange as
the thunder shook the earth. It was near, he felt certain, for the
colonel shouted "Forward!" and the first battalion was hastening into
it. He felt its breath, he trembled, but hurried on. A fearful discharge
in front terrified him. Somewhere in the fog men were cheering, and the
colonel's horse, streaming with blood plunged about in the smoke.</p>
<p>Another blast and shock, right in his face, almost stunned him, and he
faltered. All the men to the right were down. His head swam; the fog and
smoke stupefied him. He put out his hand for a support and caught
something. It was the wheel of a gun-carriage, and a man sprang from
behind it, aiming a blow at his head with a rammer, but stumbled back
shrieking with a bayonet through his neck, and Trent knew that he had
killed. Mechanically he stooped to pick up his rifle, but the bayonet
was still in the man, who lay, beating with red hands against the sod.
It sickened him and he leaned on the cannon. Men were fighting all
around him now, and the air was foul with smoke and sweat. Somebody
seized him from behind and another in front, but others in turn seized
them or struck them solid blows. The click! click! click! of bayonets
infuriated him, and he grasped the rammer and struck out blindly until
it was shivered to pieces.</p>
<p>A man threw his arm around his neck and bore him to the ground, but he
throttled him and raised himself on his knees. He saw a comrade seize
the cannon, and fall across it with his skull crushed in; he saw the
colonel tumble clean out of his saddle into the mud; then consciousness
fled.</p>
<p>When he came to himself, he was lying on the embankment among the
twisted rails. On every side huddled men who cried out and cursed and
fled away into the fog, and he staggered to his feet and followed them.
Once he stopped to help a comrade with a bandaged jaw, who could not
speak but clung to his arm for a time and then fell dead in the freezing
mire; and again he aided another, who groaned: "Trent, c'est
moi—Philippe," until a sudden volley in the midst relieved him of his
charge.</p>
<p>An icy wind swept down from the heights, cutting the fog into shreds.
For an instant, with an evil leer the sun peered through the naked woods
of Vincennes, sank like a blood-clot in the battery smoke, lower, lower,
into the blood-soaked plain.</p>
<h3>IV</h3>
<p>When midnight sounded from the belfry of St. Sulpice the gates of Paris
were still choked with fragments of what had once been an army.</p>
<p>They entered with the night, a sullen horde, spattered with slime, faint
with hunger and exhaustion. There was little disorder at first, and the
throng at the gates parted silently as the troops tramped along the
freezing streets. Confusion came as the hours passed. Swiftly and more
swiftly, crowding squadron after squadron and battery on battery, horses
plunging and caissons jolting, the remnants from the front surged
through the gates, a chaos of cavalry and artillery struggling for the
right of way. Close upon them stumbled the infantry; here a skeleton of
a regiment marching with a desperate attempt at order, there a riotous
mob of Mobiles crushing their way to the streets, then a turmoil of
horsemen, cannon, troops without, officers, officers without men, then
again a line of ambulances, the wheels groaning under their heavy loads.</p>
<p>Dumb with misery the crowd looked on.</p>
<p>All through the day the ambulances had been arriving, and all day long
the ragged throng whimpered and shivered by the barriers. At noon the
crowd was increased ten-fold, filling the squares about the gates, and
swarming over the inner fortifications.</p>
<p>At four o'clock in the afternoon the German batteries suddenly wreathed
themselves in smoke, and the shells fell fast on Montparnasse. At twenty
minutes after four two projectiles struck a house in the rue de Bac, and
a moment later the first shell fell in the Latin Quarter.</p>
<p>Braith was painting in bed when West came in very much scared.</p>
<p>"I wish you would come down; our house has been knocked into a cocked
hat, and I'm afraid that some of the pillagers may take it into their
heads to pay us a visit to-night."</p>
<p>Braith jumped out of bed and bundled himself into a garment which had
once been an overcoat.</p>
<p>"Anybody hurt?" he inquired, struggling with a sleeve full of
dilapidated lining.</p>
<p>"No. Colette is barricaded in the cellar, and the concierge ran away to
the fortifications. There will be a rough gang there if the bombardment
keeps up. You might help us—"</p>
<p>"Of course," said Braith; but it was not until they had reached the rue
Serpente and had turned in the passage which led to West's cellar, that
the latter cried: "Have you seen Jack Trent, to-day?"</p>
<p>"No," replied Braith, looking troubled, "he was not at Ambulance
Headquarters."</p>
<p>"He stayed to take care of Sylvia, I suppose."</p>
<p>A bomb came crashing through the roof of a house at the end of the alley
and burst in the basement, showering the street with slate and plaster.
A second struck a chimney and plunged into the garden, followed by an
avalanche of bricks, and another exploded with a deafening report in the
next street.</p>
<p>They hurried along the passage to the steps which led to the cellar.
Here again Braith stopped.</p>
<p>"Don't you think I had better run up to see if Jack and Sylvia are well
entrenched? I can get back before dark."</p>
<p>"No. Go in and find Colette, and I'll go."</p>
<p>"No, no, let me go, there's no danger."</p>
<p>"I know it," replied West calmly; and, dragging Braith into the alley,
pointed to the cellar steps. The iron door was barred.</p>
<p>"Colette! Colette!" he called. The door swung inward, and the girl
sprang up the stairs to meet them. At that instant, Braith, glancing
behind him, gave a startled cry, and pushing the two before him into the
cellar, jumped down after them and slammed the iron door. A few seconds
later a heavy jar from the outside shook the hinges.</p>
<p>"They are here," muttered West, very pale.</p>
<p>"That door," observed Colette calmly, "will hold for ever."</p>
<p>Braith examined the low iron structure, now trembling with the blows
rained on it from without. West glanced anxiously at Colette, who
displayed no agitation, and this comforted him.</p>
<p>"I don't believe they will spend much time here," said Braith; "they
only rummage in cellars for spirits, I imagine."</p>
<p>"Unless they hear that valuables are buried there."</p>
<p>"But surely nothing is buried here?" exclaimed Braith uneasily.</p>
<p>"Unfortunately there is," growled West. "That miserly landlord of
mine—"</p>
<p>A crash from the outside, followed by a yell, cut him short; then blow
after blow shook the doors, until there came a sharp snap, a clinking of
metal and a triangular bit of iron fell inwards, leaving a hole through
which struggled a ray of light.</p>
<p>Instantly West knelt, and shoving his revolver through the aperture
fired every cartridge. For a moment the alley resounded with the racket
of the revolver, then absolute silence followed.</p>
<p>Presently a single questioning blow fell upon the door, and a moment
later another and another, and then a sudden crack zigzagged across the
iron plate.</p>
<p>"Here," said West, seizing Colette by the wrist, "you follow me,
Braith!" and he ran swiftly toward a circular spot of light at the
further end of the cellar. The spot of light came from a barred man-hole
above. West motioned Braith to mount on his shoulders.</p>
<p>"Push it over. You <i>must</i>!"</p>
<p>With little effort Braith lifted the barred cover, scrambled out on his
stomach, and easily raised Colette from West's shoulders.</p>
<p>"Quick, old chap!" cried the latter.</p>
<p>Braith twisted his legs around a fence-chain and leaned down again. The
cellar was flooded with a yellow light, and the air reeked with the
stench of petroleum torches. The iron door still held, but a whole plate
of metal was gone, and now as they looked a figure came creeping
through, holding a torch.</p>
<p>"Quick!" whispered Braith. "Jump!" and West hung dangling until Colette
grasped him by the collar, and he was dragged out. Then her nerves gave
way and she wept hysterically, but West threw his arm around her and led
her across the gardens into the next street, where Braith, after
replacing the man-hole cover and piling some stone slabs from the wall
over it, rejoined them. It was almost dark. They hurried through the
street, now only lighted by burning buildings, or the swift glare of the
shells. They gave wide berth to the fires, but at a distance saw the
flitting forms of pillagers among the <i>d�bris</i>. Sometimes they passed a
female fury crazed with drink shrieking anathemas upon the world, or
some slouching lout whose blackened face and hands betrayed his share in
the work of destruction. At last they reached the Seine and passed the
bridge, and then Braith said: "I must go back. I am not sure of Jack and
Sylvia." As he spoke, he made way for a crowd which came trampling
across the bridge, and along the river wall by the d'Orsay barracks. In
the midst of it West caught the measured tread of a platoon. A lantern
passed, a file of bayonets, then another lantern which glimmered on a
deathly face behind, and Colette gasped, "Hartman!" and he was gone.
They peered fearfully across the embankment, holding their breath. There
was a shuffle of feet on the quay, and the gate of the barracks slammed.
A lantern shone for a moment at the postern, the crowd pressed to the
grille, then came the clang of the volley from the stone parade.</p>
<p>One by one the petroleum torches flared up along the embankment, and now
the whole square was in motion. Down from the Champs Elys�es and across
the Place de la Concorde straggled the fragments of the battle, a
company here, and a mob there. They poured in from every street followed
by women and children, and a great murmur, borne on the icy wind, swept
through the Arc de Triomphe and down the dark avenue,—"Perdus! perdus!"</p>
<p>A ragged end of a battalion was pressing past, the spectre of
annihilation. West groaned. Then a figure sprang from the shadowy ranks
and called West's name, and when he saw it was Trent he cried out. Trent
seized him, white with terror.</p>
<p>"Sylvia?"</p>
<p>West stared speechless, but Colette moaned, "Oh, Sylvia! Sylvia!—and
they are shelling the Quarter!"</p>
<p>"Trent!" shouted Braith; but he was gone, and they could not overtake
him.</p>
<p>The bombardment ceased as Trent crossed the Boulevard St. Germain, but
the entrance to the rue de Seine was blocked by a heap of smoking
bricks. Everywhere the shells had torn great holes in the pavement. The
caf� was a wreck of splinters and glass, the book-store tottered, ripped
from roof to basement, and the little bakery, long since closed, bulged
outward above a mass of slate and tin.</p>
<p>He climbed over the steaming bricks and hurried into the rue de Tournon.
On the corner a fire blazed, lighting up his own street, and on the bank
wall, beneath a shattered gas lamp, a child was writing with a bit of
cinder.</p>
<p class="c">"H<small>ERE</small> F<small>ELL THE</small> F<small>IRST</small> S<small>HELL</small>."</p>
<p>The letters stared him in the face. The rat-killer finished and stepped
back to view his work, but catching sight of Trent's bayonet, screamed
and fled, and as Trent staggered across the shattered street, from holes
and crannies in the ruins fierce women fled from their work of pillage,
cursing him.</p>
<p>At first he could not find his house, for the tears blinded him, but he
felt along the wall and reached the door. A lantern burned in the
concierge's lodge and the old man lay dead beside it. Faint with fright
he leaned a moment on his rifle, then, snatching the lantern, sprang up
the stairs. He tried to call, but his tongue hardly moved. On the second
floor he saw plaster on the stairway, and on the third the floor was
torn and the concierge lay in a pool of blood across the landing. The
next floor was his, <i>theirs</i>. The door hung from its hinges, the walls
gaped. He crept in and sank down by the bed, and there two arms were
flung around his neck, and a tear-stained face sought his own.</p>
<p>"Sylvia!"</p>
<p>"O Jack! Jack! Jack!"</p>
<p>From the tumbled pillow beside them a child wailed.</p>
<p>"They brought it; it is mine," she sobbed.</p>
<p>"Ours," he whispered, with his arms around them both.</p>
<p>Then from the stairs below came Braith's anxious voice.</p>
<p>"Trent! Is all well?"</p>
<h2><SPAN name="THE_STREET_OF_OUR_LADY_OF_THE_FIELDS" id="THE_STREET_OF_OUR_LADY_OF_THE_FIELDS"></SPAN>THE STREET OF OUR LADY OF THE FIELDS</h2>
<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="poetry">
<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: 0em;">"Et tout les jours pass�s dans la tristesse</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: 0.25em;">Nous sont compt�s comme des jours heureux!"</span></td></tr>
</table>
<h3>I</h3>
<p>The street is not fashionable, neither is it shabby. It is a pariah
among streets—a street without a Quarter. It is generally understood to
lie outside the pale of the aristocratic Avenue de l'Observatoire. The
students of the Montparnasse Quarter consider it swell and will have
none of it. The Latin Quarter, from the Luxembourg, its northern
frontier, sneers at its respectability and regards with disfavour the
correctly costumed students who haunt it. Few strangers go into it. At
times, however, the Latin Quarter students use it as a thoroughfare
between the rue de Rennes and the Bullier, but except for that and the
weekly afternoon visits of parents and guardians to the Convent near the
rue Vavin, the street of Our Lady of the Fields is as quiet as a Passy
boulevard. Perhaps the most respectable portion lies between the rue de
la Grande Chaumi�re and the rue Vavin, at least this was the conclusion
arrived at by the Reverend Joel Byram, as he rambled through it with
Hastings in charge. To Hastings the street looked pleasant in the bright
June weather, and he had begun to hope for its selection when the
Reverend Byram shied violently at the cross on the Convent opposite.</p>
<p>"Jesuits," he muttered.</p>
<p>"Well," said Hastings wearily, "I imagine we won't find anything better.
You say yourself that vice is triumphant in Paris, and it seems to me
that in every street we find Jesuits or something worse."</p>
<p>After a moment he repeated, "Or something worse, which of course I would
not notice except for your kindness in warning me."</p>
<p>Dr. Byram sucked in his lips and looked about him. He was impressed by
the evident respectability of the surroundings. Then frowning at the
Convent he took Hastings' arm and shuffled across the street to an iron
gateway which bore the number 201 <i>bis</i> painted in white on a blue
ground. Below this was a notice printed in English:</p>
<table border="0" cellpadding="1" cellspacing="0" summary="poetry">
<tr><td align="left">1.</td><td align="left">For Porter please oppress once.</td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">2.</td><td align="left">For Servant please oppress twice.</td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">3.</td><td align="left">For Parlour please oppress thrice.</td></tr>
</table>
<p>Hastings touched the electric button three times, and they were ushered
through the garden and into the parlour by a trim maid. The dining-room
door, just beyond, was open, and from the table in plain view a stout
woman hastily arose and came toward them. Hastings caught a glimpse of a
young man with a big head and several snuffy old gentlemen at breakfast,
before the door closed and the stout woman waddled into the room,
bringing with her an aroma of coffee and a black poodle.</p>
<p>"It ees a plaisir to you receive!" she cried. "Monsieur is Anglish? No?
Americain? Off course. My pension it ees for Americains surtout. Here
all spik Angleesh, c'est � dire, ze personnel; ze sairvants do spik,
plus ou moins, a little. I am happy to have you comme pensionnaires—"</p>
<p>"Madame," began Dr. Byram, but was cut short again.</p>
<p>"Ah, yess, I know, ah! mon Dieu! you do not spik Frainch but you have
come to lairne! My husband does spik Frainch wiss ze pensionnaires. We
have at ze moment a family Americaine who learn of my husband Frainch—"</p>
<p>Here the poodle growled at Dr. Byram and was promptly cuffed by his
mistress.</p>
<p>"Veux tu!" she cried, with a slap, "veux tu! Oh! le vilain, oh! le
vilain!"</p>
<p>"Mais, madame," said Hastings, smiling, "il n'a pas l'air tr�s f�roce."</p>
<p>The poodle fled, and his mistress cried, "Ah, ze accent charming! He
does spik already Frainch like a Parisien young gentleman!"</p>
<p>Then Dr. Byram managed to get in a word or two and gathered more or less
information with regard to prices.</p>
<p>"It ees a pension serieux; my client�le ees of ze best, indeed a pension
de famille where one ees at 'ome."</p>
<p>Then they went upstairs to examine Hastings' future quarters, test the
bed-springs and arrange for the weekly towel allowance. Dr. Byram
appeared satisfied.</p>
<p>Madame Marotte accompanied them to the door and rang for the maid, but
as Hastings stepped out into the gravel walk, his guide and mentor
paused a moment and fixed Madame with his watery eyes.</p>
<p>"You understand," he said, "that he is a youth of most careful bringing
up, and his character and morals are without a stain. He is young and
has never been abroad, never even seen a large city, and his parents
have requested me, as an old family friend living in Paris, to see that
he is placed under good influences. He is to study art, but on no
account would his parents wish him to live in the Latin Quarter if they
knew of the immorality which is rife there."</p>
<p>A sound like the click of a latch interrupted him and he raised his
eyes, but not in time to see the maid slap the big-headed young man
behind the parlour-door.</p>
<p>Madame coughed, cast a deadly glance behind her and then beamed on Dr.
Byram.</p>
<p>"It ees well zat he come here. The pension more serious, il n'en existe
pas, eet ees not any!" she announced with conviction.</p>
<p>So, as there was nothing more to add, Dr. Byram joined Hastings at the
gate.</p>
<p>"I trust," he said, eyeing the Convent, "that you will make no
acquaintances among Jesuits!"</p>
<p>Hastings looked at the Convent until a pretty girl passed before the
gray fa�ade, and then he looked at her. A young fellow with a paint-box
and canvas came swinging along, stopped before the pretty girl, said
something during a brief but vigorous handshake at which they both
laughed, and he went his way, calling back, "� demain Valentine!" as in
the same breath she cried, "� demain!"</p>
<p>"Valentine," thought Hastings, "what a quaint name;" and he started to
follow the Reverend Joel Byram, who was shuffling towards the nearest
tramway station.</p>
<h3>II</h3>
<p>"An' you are pleas wiz Paris, Monsieur' Astang?" demanded Madame Marotte
the next morning as Hastings came into the breakfast-room of the
pension, rosy from his plunge in the limited bath above.</p>
<p>"I am sure I shall like it," he replied, wondering at his own depression
of spirits.</p>
<p>The maid brought him coffee and rolls. He returned the vacant glance of
the big-headed young man and acknowledged diffidently the salutes of the
snuffy old gentlemen. He did not try to finish his coffee, and sat
crumbling a roll, unconscious of the sympathetic glances of Madame
Marotte, who had tact enough not to bother him.</p>
<p>Presently a maid entered with a tray on which were balanced two bowls of
chocolate, and the snuffy old gentlemen leered at her ankles. The maid
deposited the chocolate at a table near the window and smiled at
Hastings. Then a thin young lady, followed by her counterpart in all
except years, marched into the room and took the table near the window.
They were evidently American, but Hastings, if he expected any sign of
recognition, was disappointed. To be ignored by compatriots intensified
his depression. He fumbled with his knife and looked at his plate.</p>
<p>The thin young lady was talkative enough. She was quite aware of
Hastings' presence, ready to be flattered if he looked at her, but on
the other hand she felt her superiority, for she had been three weeks in
Paris and he, it was easy to see, had not yet unpacked his
steamer-trunk.</p>
<p>Her conversation was complacent. She argued with her mother upon the
relative merits of the Louvre and the Bon March�, but her mother's part
of the discussion was mostly confined to the observation, "Why, Susie!"</p>
<p>The snuffy old gentlemen had left the room in a body, outwardly polite
and inwardly raging. They could not endure the Americans, who filled the
room with their chatter.</p>
<p>The big-headed young man looked after them with a knowing cough,
murmuring, "Gay old birds!"</p>
<p>"They look like bad old men, Mr. Bladen," said the girl.</p>
<p>To this Mr. Bladen smiled and said, "They've had their day," in a tone
which implied that he was now having his.</p>
<p>"And that's why they all have baggy eyes," cried the girl. "I think it's
a shame for young gentlemen—"</p>
<p>"Why, Susie!" said the mother, and the conversation lagged.</p>
<p>After a while Mr. Bladen threw down the <i>Petit Journal</i>, which he daily
studied at the expense of the house, and turning to Hastings, started to
make himself agreeable. He began by saying, "I see you are American."</p>
<p>To this brilliant and original opening, Hastings, deadly homesick,
replied gratefully, and the conversation was judiciously nourished by
observations from Miss Susie Byng distinctly addressed to Mr. Bladen. In
the course of events Miss Susie, forgetting to address herself
exclusively to Mr. Bladen, and Hastings replying to her general
question, the <i>entente cordiale</i> was established, and Susie and her
mother extended a protectorate over what was clearly neutral territory.</p>
<p>"Mr. Hastings, you must not desert the pension every evening as Mr.
Bladen does. Paris is an awful place for young gentlemen, and Mr. Bladen
is a horrid cynic."</p>
<p>Mr. Bladen looked gratified.</p>
<p>Hastings answered, "I shall be at the studio all day, and I imagine I
shall be glad enough to come back at night."</p>
<p>Mr. Bladen, who, at a salary of fifteen dollars a week, acted as agent
for the Pewly Manufacturing Company of Troy, N.Y., smiled a sceptical
smile and withdrew to keep an appointment with a customer on the
Boulevard Magenta.</p>
<p>Hastings walked into the garden with Mrs. Byng and Susie, and, at their
invitation, sat down in the shade before the iron gate.</p>
<p>The chestnut trees still bore their fragrant spikes of pink and white,
and the bees hummed among the roses, trellised on the white-walled
house.</p>
<p>A faint freshness was in the air. The watering carts moved up and down
the street, and a clear stream bubbled over the spotless gutters of the
rue de la Grande Chaumi�re. The sparrows were merry along the
curb-stones, taking bath after bath in the water and ruffling their
feathers with delight. In a walled garden across the street a pair of
blackbirds whistled among the almond trees.</p>
<p>Hastings swallowed the lump in his throat, for the song of the birds and
the ripple of water in a Paris gutter brought back to him the sunny
meadows of Millbrook.</p>
<p>"That's a blackbird," observed Miss Byng; "see him there on the bush
with pink blossoms. He's all black except his bill, and that looks as if
it had been dipped in an omelet, as some Frenchman says—"</p>
<p>"Why, Susie!" said Mrs. Byng.</p>
<p>"That garden belongs to a studio inhabited by two Americans," continued
the girl serenely, "and I often see them pass. They seem to need a great
many models, mostly young and feminine—"</p>
<p>"Why, Susie!"</p>
<p>"Perhaps they prefer painting that kind, but I don't see why they should
invite five, with three more young gentlemen, and all get into two cabs
and drive away singing. This street," she continued, "is dull. There is
nothing to see except the garden and a glimpse of the Boulevard
Montparnasse through the rue de la Grande Chaumi�re. No one ever passes
except a policeman. There is a convent on the corner."</p>
<p>"I thought it was a Jesuit College," began Hastings, but was at once
overwhelmed with a Baedecker description of the place, ending with, "On
one side stand the palatial hotels of Jean Paul Laurens and Guillaume
Bouguereau, and opposite, in the little Passage Stanislas, Carolus Duran
paints the masterpieces which charm the world."</p>
<p>The blackbird burst into a ripple of golden throaty notes, and from some
distant green spot in the city an unknown wild-bird answered with a
frenzy of liquid trills until the sparrows paused in their ablutions to
look up with restless chirps.</p>
<p>Then a butterfly came and sat on a cluster of heliotrope and waved his
crimson-banded wings in the hot sunshine. Hastings knew him for a
friend, and before his eyes there came a vision of tall mulleins and
scented milkweed alive with painted wings, a vision of a white house and
woodbine-covered piazza,—a glimpse of a man reading and a woman leaning
over the pansy bed,—and his heart was full. He was startled a moment
later by Miss Byng.</p>
<p>"I believe you are homesick!" Hastings blushed. Miss Byng looked at him
with a sympathetic sigh and continued: "Whenever I felt homesick at
first I used to go with mamma and walk in the Luxembourg Gardens. I
don't know why it is, but those old-fashioned gardens seemed to bring me
nearer home than anything in this artificial city."</p>
<p>"But they are full of marble statues," said Mrs. Byng mildly; "I don't
see the resemblance myself."</p>
<p>"Where is the Luxembourg?" inquired Hastings after a silence.</p>
<p>"Come with me to the gate," said Miss Byng. He rose and followed her,
and she pointed out the rue Vavin at the foot of the street.</p>
<p>"You pass by the convent to the right," she smiled; and Hastings went.</p>
<h3>III</h3>
<p>The Luxembourg was a blaze of flowers. He walked slowly through the long
avenues of trees, past mossy marbles and old-time columns, and threading
the grove by the bronze lion, came upon the tree-crowned terrace above
the fountain. Below lay the basin shining in the sunlight. Flowering
almonds encircled the terrace, and, in a greater spiral, groves of
chestnuts wound in and out and down among the moist thickets by the
western palace wing. At one end of the avenue of trees the Observatory
rose, its white domes piled up like an eastern mosque; at the other end
stood the heavy palace, with every window-pane ablaze in the fierce sun
of June.</p>
<p>Around the fountain, children and white-capped nurses armed with bamboo
poles were pushing toy boats, whose sails hung limp in the sunshine. A
dark policeman, wearing red epaulettes and a dress sword, watched them
for a while and then went away to remonstrate with a young man who had
unchained his dog. The dog was pleasantly occupied in rubbing grass and
dirt into his back while his legs waved into the air.</p>
<p>The policeman pointed at the dog. He was speechless with indignation.</p>
<p>"Well, Captain," smiled the young fellow.</p>
<p>"Well, Monsieur Student," growled the policeman.</p>
<p>"What do you come and complain to me for?"</p>
<p>"If you don't chain him I'll take him," shouted the policeman.</p>
<p>"What's that to me, mon capitaine?"</p>
<p>"Wha—t! Isn't that bull-dog yours?"</p>
<p>"If it was, don't you suppose I'd chain him?"</p>
<p>The officer glared for a moment in silence, then deciding that as he was
a student he was wicked, grabbed at the dog, who promptly dodged. Around
and around the flower-beds they raced, and when the officer came too
near for comfort, the bull-dog cut across a flower-bed, which perhaps
was not playing fair.</p>
<p>The young man was amused, and the dog also seemed to enjoy the exercise.</p>
<p>The policeman noticed this and decided to strike at the fountain-head of
the evil. He stormed up to the student and said, "As the owner of this
public nuisance I arrest you!"</p>
<p>"But," objected the other, "I disclaim the dog."</p>
<p>That was a poser. It was useless to attempt to catch the dog until three
gardeners lent a hand, but then the dog simply ran away and disappeared
in the rue de Medici.</p>
<p>The policeman shambled off to find consolation among the white-capped
nurses, and the student, looking at his watch, stood up yawning. Then
catching sight of Hastings, he smiled and bowed. Hastings walked over to
the marble, laughing.</p>
<p>"Why, Clifford," he said, "I didn't recognize you."</p>
<p>"It's my moustache," sighed the other. "I sacrificed it to humour a whim
of—of—a friend. What do you think of my dog?"</p>
<p>"Then he is yours?" cried Hastings.</p>
<p>"Of course. It's a pleasant change for him, this playing tag with
policemen, but he is known now and I'll have to stop it. He's gone home.
He always does when the gardeners take a hand. It's a pity; he's fond of
rolling on lawns." Then they chatted for a moment of Hastings'
prospects, and Clifford politely offered to stand his sponsor at the
studio.</p>
<p>"You see, old tabby, I mean Dr. Byram, told me about you before I met
you," explained Clifford, "and Elliott and I will be glad to do anything
we can." Then looking at his watch again, he muttered, "I have just ten
minutes to catch the Versailles train; au revoir," and started to go,
but catching sight of a girl advancing by the fountain, took off his hat
with a confused smile.</p>
<p>"Why are you not at Versailles?" she said, with an almost imperceptible
acknowledgment of Hastings' presence.</p>
<p>"I—I'm going," murmured Clifford.</p>
<p>For a moment they faced each other, and then Clifford, very red,
stammered, "With your permission I have the honour of presenting to you
my friend, Monsieur Hastings."</p>
<p>Hastings bowed low. She smiled very sweetly, but there was something of
malice in the quiet inclination of her small Parisienne head.</p>
<p>"I could have wished," she said, "that Monsieur Clifford might spare me
more time when he brings with him so charming an American."</p>
<p>"Must—must I go, Valentine?" began Clifford.</p>
<p>"Certainly," she replied.</p>
<p>Clifford took his leave with very bad grace, wincing, when she added,
"And give my dearest love to C�cile!" As he disappeared in the rue
d'Assas, the girl turned as if to go, but then suddenly remembering
Hastings, looked at him and shook her head.</p>
<p>"Monsieur Clifford is so perfectly hare-brained," she smiled, "it is
embarrassing sometimes. You have heard, of course, all about his success
at the Salon?"</p>
<p>He looked puzzled and she noticed it.</p>
<p>"You have been to the Salon, of course?"</p>
<p>"Why, no," he answered, "I only arrived in Paris three days ago."</p>
<p>She seemed to pay little heed to his explanation, but continued: "Nobody
imagined he had the energy to do anything good, but on varnishing day
the Salon was astonished by the entrance of Monsieur Clifford, who
strolled about as bland as you please with an orchid in his buttonhole,
and a beautiful picture on the line."</p>
<p>She smiled to herself at the reminiscence, and looked at the fountain.</p>
<p>"Monsieur Bouguereau told me that Monsieur Julian was so astonished that
he only shook hands with Monsieur Clifford in a dazed manner, and
actually forgot to pat him on the back! Fancy," she continued with much
merriment, "fancy papa Julian forgetting to pat one on the back."</p>
<p>Hastings, wondering at her acquaintance with the great Bouguereau,
looked at her with respect. "May I ask," he said diffidently, "whether
you are a pupil of Bouguereau?"</p>
<p>"I?" she said in some surprise. Then she looked at him curiously. Was he
permitting himself the liberty of joking on such short acquaintance?</p>
<p>His pleasant serious face questioned hers.</p>
<p>"Tiens," she thought, "what a droll man!"</p>
<p>"You surely study art?" he said.</p>
<p>She leaned back on the crooked stick of her parasol, and looked at him.
"Why do you think so?"</p>
<p>"Because you speak as if you did."</p>
<p>"You are making fun of me," she said, "and it is not good taste."</p>
<p>She stopped, confused, as he coloured to the roots of his hair.</p>
<p>"How long have you been in Paris?" she said at length.</p>
<p>"Three days," he replied gravely.</p>
<p>"But—but—surely you are not a nouveau! You speak French too well!"</p>
<p>Then after a pause, "Really are you a nouveau?"</p>
<p>"I am," he said.</p>
<p>She sat down on the marble bench lately occupied by Clifford, and
tilting her parasol over her small head looked at him.</p>
<p>"I don't believe it."</p>
<p>He felt the compliment, and for a moment hesitated to declare himself
one of the despised. Then mustering up his courage, he told her how new
and green he was, and all with a frankness which made her blue eyes open
very wide and her lips part in the sweetest of smiles.</p>
<p>"You have never seen a studio?"</p>
<p>"Never."</p>
<p>"Nor a model?"</p>
<p>"No."</p>
<p>"How funny," she said solemnly. Then they both laughed.</p>
<p>"And you," he said, "have seen studios?"</p>
<p>"Hundreds."</p>
<p>"And models?"</p>
<p>"Millions."</p>
<p>"And you know Bouguereau?"</p>
<p>"Yes, and Henner, and Constant and Laurens, and Puvis de Chavannes and
Dagnan and Courtois, and—and all the rest of them!"</p>
<p>"And yet you say you are not an artist."</p>
<p>"Pardon," she said gravely, "did I say I was not?"</p>
<p>"Won't you tell me?" he hesitated.</p>
<p>At first she looked at him, shaking her head and smiling, then of a
sudden her eyes fell and she began tracing figures with her parasol in
the gravel at her feet. Hastings had taken a place on the seat, and now,
with his elbows on his knees, sat watching the spray drifting above the
fountain jet. A small boy, dressed as a sailor, stood poking his yacht
and crying, "I won't go home! I won't go home!" His nurse raised her
hands to Heaven.</p>
<p>"Just like a little American boy," thought Hastings, and a pang of
homesickness shot through him.</p>
<p>Presently the nurse captured the boat, and the small boy stood at bay.</p>
<p>"Monsieur Ren�, when you decide to come here you may have your boat."</p>
<p>The boy backed away scowling.</p>
<p>"Give me my boat, I say," he cried, "and don't call me Ren�, for my
name's Randall and you know it!"</p>
<p>"Hello!" said Hastings,—"Randall?—that's English."</p>
<p>"I am American," announced the boy in perfectly good English, turning to
look at Hastings, "and she's such a fool she calls me Ren� because mamma
calls me Ranny—"</p>
<p>Here he dodged the exasperated nurse and took up his station behind
Hastings, who laughed, and catching him around the waist lifted him into
his lap.</p>
<p>"One of my countrymen," he said to the girl beside him. He smiled while
he spoke, but there was a queer feeling in his throat.</p>
<p>"Don't you see the stars and stripes on my yacht?" demanded Randall.
Sure enough, the American colours hung limply under the nurse's arm.</p>
<p>"Oh," cried the girl, "he is charming," and impulsively stooped to kiss
him, but the infant Randall wriggled out of Hastings' arms, and his
nurse pounced upon him with an angry glance at the girl.</p>
<p>She reddened and then bit her lips as the nurse, with eyes still fixed
on her, dragged the child away and ostentatiously wiped his lips with
her handkerchief.</p>
<p>Then she stole a look at Hastings and bit her lip again.</p>
<p>"What an ill-tempered woman!" he said. "In America, most nurses are
flattered when people kiss their children."</p>
<p>For an instant she tipped the parasol to hide her face, then closed it
with a snap and looked at him defiantly.</p>
<p>"Do you think it strange that she objected?"</p>
<p>"Why not?" he said in surprise.</p>
<p>Again she looked at him with quick searching eyes.</p>
<p>His eyes were clear and bright, and he smiled back, repeating, "Why
not?"</p>
<p>"You <i>are</i> droll," she murmured, bending her head.</p>
<p>"Why?"</p>
<p>But she made no answer, and sat silent, tracing curves and circles in
the dust with her parasol. After a while he said—"I am glad to see that
young people have so much liberty here. I understood that the French
were not at all like us. You know in America—or at least where I live
in Milbrook, girls have every liberty,—go out alone and receive their
friends alone, and I was afraid I should miss it here. But I see how it
is now, and I am glad I was mistaken."</p>
<p>She raised her eyes to his and kept them there.</p>
<p>He continued pleasantly—"Since I have sat here I have seen a lot of
pretty girls walking alone on the terrace there,—and then <i>you</i> are
alone too. Tell me, for I do not know French customs,—do you have the
liberty of going to the theatre without a chaperone?"</p>
<p>For a long time she studied his face, and then with a trembling smile
said, "Why do you ask me?"</p>
<p>"Because you must know, of course," he said gaily.</p>
<p>"Yes," she replied indifferently, "I know."</p>
<p>He waited for an answer, but getting none, decided that perhaps she had
misunderstood him.</p>
<p>"I hope you don't think I mean to presume on our short acquaintance," he
began,—"in fact it is very odd but I don't know your name. When Mr.
Clifford presented me he only mentioned mine. Is that the custom in
France?"</p>
<p>"It is the custom in the Latin Quarter," she said with a queer light in
her eyes. Then suddenly she began talking almost feverishly.</p>
<p>"You must know, Monsieur Hastings, that we are all <i>un peu sans g�ne</i>
here in the Latin Quarter. We are very Bohemian, and etiquette and
ceremony are out of place. It was for that Monsieur Clifford presented
you to me with small ceremony, and left us together with less,—only for
that, and I am his friend, and I have many friends in the Latin Quarter,
and we all know each other very well—and I am not studying art,
but—but—"</p>
<p>"But what?" he said, bewildered.</p>
<p>"I shall not tell you,—it is a secret," she said with an uncertain
smile. On both cheeks a pink spot was burning, and her eyes were very
bright.</p>
<p>Then in a moment her face fell. "Do you know Monsieur Clifford very
intimately?"</p>
<p>"Not very."</p>
<p>After a while she turned to him, grave and a little pale.</p>
<p>"My name is Valentine—Valentine Tissot. Might—might I ask a service of
you on such very short acquaintance?"</p>
<p>"Oh," he cried, "I should be honoured."</p>
<p>"It is only this," she said gently, "it is not much. Promise me not to
speak to Monsieur Clifford about me. Promise me that you will speak to
no one about me."</p>
<p>"I promise," he said, greatly puzzled.</p>
<p>She laughed nervously. "I wish to remain a mystery. It is a caprice."</p>
<p>"But," he began, "I had wished, I had hoped that you might give Monsieur
Clifford permission to bring me, to present me at your house."</p>
<p>"My—my house!" she repeated.</p>
<p>"I mean, where you live, in fact, to present me to your family."</p>
<p>The change in the girl's face shocked him.</p>
<p>"I beg your pardon," he cried, "I have hurt you."</p>
<p>And as quick as a flash she understood him because she was a woman.</p>
<p>"My parents are dead," she said.</p>
<p>Presently he began again, very gently.</p>
<p>"Would it displease you if I beg you to receive me? It is the custom?"</p>
<p>"I cannot," she answered. Then glancing up at him, "I am sorry; I should
like to; but believe me. I cannot."</p>
<p>He bowed seriously and looked vaguely uneasy.</p>
<p>"It isn't because I don't wish to. I—I like you; you are very kind to
me."</p>
<p>"Kind?" he cried, surprised and puzzled.</p>
<p>"I like you," she said slowly, "and we will see each other sometimes if
you will."</p>
<p>"At friends' houses."</p>
<p>"No, not at friends' houses."</p>
<p>"Where?"</p>
<p>"Here," she said with defiant eyes.</p>
<p>"Why," he cried, "in Paris you are much more liberal in your views than
we are."</p>
<p>She looked at him curiously.</p>
<p>"Yes, we are very Bohemian."</p>
<p>"I think it is charming," he declared.</p>
<p>"You see, we shall be in the best of society," she ventured timidly,
with a pretty gesture toward the statues of the dead queens, ranged in
stately ranks above the terrace.</p>
<p>He looked at her, delighted, and she brightened at the success of her
innocent little pleasantry.</p>
<p>"Indeed," she smiled, "I shall be well chaperoned, because you see we
are under the protection of the gods themselves; look, there are Apollo,
and Juno, and Venus, on their pedestals," counting them on her small
gloved fingers, "and Ceres, Hercules, and—but I can't make out—"</p>
<p>Hastings turned to look up at the winged god under whose shadow they
were seated.</p>
<p>"Why, it's Love," he said.</p>
<h3>IV</h3>
<p>"There is a nouveau here," drawled Laffat, leaning around his easel and
addressing his friend Bowles, "there is a nouveau here who is so tender
and green and appetizing that Heaven help him if he should fall into a
salad bowl."</p>
<p>"Hayseed?" inquired Bowles, plastering in a background with a broken
palette-knife and squinting at the effect with approval.</p>
<p>"Yes, Squeedunk or Oshkosh, and how he ever grew up among the daisies
and escaped the cows, Heaven alone knows!"</p>
<p>Bowles rubbed his thumb across the outlines of his study to "throw in a
little atmosphere," as he said, glared at the model, pulled at his pipe
and finding it out struck a match on his neighbour's back to relight it.</p>
<p>"His name," continued Laffat, hurling a bit of bread at the hat-rack,
"his name is Hastings. He <i>is</i> a berry. He knows no more about the
world,"—and here Mr. Laffat's face spoke volumes for his own knowledge
of that planet,—"than a maiden cat on its first moonlight stroll."</p>
<p>Bowles now having succeeded in lighting his pipe, repeated the thumb
touch on the other edge of the study and said, "Ah!"</p>
<p>"Yes," continued his friend, "and would you imagine it, he seems to
think that everything here goes on as it does in his d——d little
backwoods ranch at home; talks about the pretty girls who walk alone in
the street; says how sensible it is; and how French parents are
misrepresented in America; says that for his part he finds French
girls,—and he confessed to only knowing one,—as jolly as American
girls. I tried to set him right, tried to give him a pointer as to what
sort of ladies walk about alone or with students, and he was either too
stupid or too innocent to catch on. Then I gave it to him straight, and
he said I was a vile-minded fool and marched off."</p>
<p>"Did you assist him with your shoe?" inquired Bowles, languidly
interested.</p>
<p>"Well, no."</p>
<p>"He called you a vile-minded fool."</p>
<p>"He was correct," said Clifford from his easel in front.</p>
<p>"What—what do you mean?" demanded Laffat, turning red.</p>
<p>"<i>That</i>," replied Clifford.</p>
<p>"Who spoke to you? Is this your business?" sneered Bowles, but nearly
lost his balance as Clifford swung about and eyed him.</p>
<p>"Yes," he said slowly, "it's my business."</p>
<p>No one spoke for some time.</p>
<p>Then Clifford sang out, "I say, Hastings!"</p>
<p>And when Hastings left his easel and came around, he nodded toward the
astonished Laffat.</p>
<p>"This man has been disagreeable to you, and I want to tell you that any
time you feel inclined to kick him, why, I will hold the other
creature."</p>
<p>Hastings, embarrassed, said, "Why no, I don't agree with his ideas,
nothing more."</p>
<p>Clifford said "Naturally," and slipping his arm through Hastings',
strolled about with him, and introduced him to several of his own
friends, at which all the nouveaux opened their eyes with envy, and the
studio were given to understand that Hastings, although prepared to do
menial work as the latest nouveau, was already within the charmed circle
of the old, respected and feared, the truly great.</p>
<p>The rest finished, the model resumed his place, and work went on in a
chorus of songs and yells and every ear-splitting noise which the art
student utters when studying the beautiful.</p>
<p>Five o'clock struck,—the model yawned, stretched and climbed into his
trousers, and the noisy contents of six studios crowded through the hall
and down into the street. Ten minutes later, Hastings found himself on
top of a Montrouge tram, and shortly afterward was joined by Clifford.</p>
<p>They climbed down at the rue Gay Lussac.</p>
<p>"I always stop here," observed Clifford, "I like the walk through the
Luxembourg."</p>
<p>"By the way," said Hastings, "how can I call on you when I don't know
where you live?"</p>
<p>"Why, I live opposite you."</p>
<p>"What—the studio in the garden where the almond trees are and the
blackbirds—"</p>
<p>"Exactly," said Clifford. "I'm with my friend Elliott."</p>
<p>Hastings thought of the description of the two American artists which he
had heard from Miss Susie Byng, and looked blank.</p>
<p>Clifford continued, "Perhaps you had better let me know when you think
of coming so,—so that I will be sure to—to be there," he ended rather
lamely.</p>
<p>"I shouldn't care to meet any of your model friends there," said
Hastings, smiling. "You know—my ideas are rather straitlaced,—I
suppose you would say, Puritanical. I shouldn't enjoy it and wouldn't
know how to behave."</p>
<p>"Oh, I understand," said Clifford, but added with great
cordiality,—"I'm sure we'll be friends although you may not approve of
me and my set, but you will like Severn and Selby because—because,
well, they are like yourself, old chap."</p>
<p>After a moment he continued, "There is something I want to speak about.
You see, when I introduced you, last week, in the Luxembourg, to
Valentine—"</p>
<p>"Not a word!" cried Hastings, smiling; "you must not tell me a word of
her!"</p>
<p>"Why—"</p>
<p>"No—not a word!" he said gaily. "I insist,—promise me upon your honour
you will not speak of her until I give you permission; promise!"</p>
<p>"I promise," said Clifford, amazed.</p>
<p>"She is a charming girl,—we had such a delightful chat after you left,
and I thank you for presenting me, but not another word about her until
I give you permission."</p>
<p>"Oh," murmured Clifford.</p>
<p>"Remember your promise," he smiled, as he turned into his gateway.</p>
<p>Clifford strolled across the street and, traversing the ivy-covered
alley, entered his garden.</p>
<p>He felt for his studio key, muttering, "I wonder—I wonder,—but of
course he doesn't!"</p>
<p>He entered the hallway, and fitting the key into the door, stood staring
at the two cards tacked over the panels.</p>
<table border="2" cellpadding="10" cellspacing="0" summary="poetry">
<tr><td align="center">FOXHALL CLIFFORD</td></tr>
</table>
<table border="2" cellpadding="10" cellspacing="0" summary="poetry">
<tr><td align="center">RICHARD OSBORNE ELLIOTT</td></tr>
</table>
<p>"Why the devil doesn't he want me to speak of her?"</p>
<p>He opened the door, and, discouraging the caresses of two brindle
bull-dogs, sank down on the sofa.</p>
<p>Elliott sat smoking and sketching with a piece of charcoal by the
window.</p>
<p>"Hello," he said without looking around.</p>
<p>Clifford gazed absently at the back of his head, murmuring, "I'm afraid,
I'm afraid that man is too innocent. I say, Elliott," he said, at last,
"Hastings,—you know the chap that old Tabby Byram came around here to
tell us about—the day you had to hide Colette in the armoire—"</p>
<p>"Yes, what's up?"</p>
<p>"Oh, nothing. He's a brick."</p>
<p>"Yes," said Elliott, without enthusiasm.</p>
<p>"Don't you think so?" demanded Clifford.</p>
<p>"Why yes, but he is going to have a tough time when some of his
illusions are dispelled."</p>
<p>"More shame to those who dispel 'em!"</p>
<p>"Yes,—wait until he comes to pay his call on us, unexpectedly, of
course—"</p>
<p>Clifford looked virtuous and lighted a cigar.</p>
<p>"I was just going to say," he observed, "that I have asked him not to
come without letting us know, so I can postpone any orgie you may have
intended—"</p>
<p>"Ah!" cried Elliott indignantly, "I suppose you put it to him in that
way."</p>
<p>"Not exactly," grinned Clifford. Then more seriously, "I don't want
anything to occur here to bother him. He's a brick, and it's a pity we
can't be more like him."</p>
<p>"I am," observed Elliott complacently, "only living with you—"</p>
<p>"Listen!" cried the other. "I have managed to put my foot in it in great
style. Do you know what I've done? Well—the first time I met him in the
street,—or rather, it was in the Luxembourg, I introduced him to
Valentine!"</p>
<p>"Did he object?"</p>
<p>"Believe me," said Clifford, solemnly, "this rustic Hastings has no more
idea that Valentine is—is—in fact is Valentine, than he has that he
himself is a beautiful example of moral decency in a Quarter where
morals are as rare as elephants. I heard enough in a conversation
between that blackguard Loffat and the little immoral eruption, Bowles,
to open my eyes. I tell you Hastings is a trump! He's a healthy,
clean-minded young fellow, bred in a small country village, brought up
with the idea that saloons are way-stations to hell—and as for women—"</p>
<p>"Well?" demanded Elliott</p>
<p>"Well," said Clifford, "his idea of the dangerous woman is probably a
painted Jezabel."</p>
<p>"Probably," replied the other.</p>
<p>"He's a trump!" said Clifford, "and if he swears the world is as good
and pure as his own heart, I'll swear he's right."</p>
<p>Elliott rubbed his charcoal on his file to get a point and turned to his
sketch saying, "He will never hear any pessimism from Richard Osborne
E."</p>
<p>"He's a lesson to me," said Clifford. Then he unfolded a small perfumed
note, written on rose-coloured paper, which had been lying on the table
before him.</p>
<p>He read it, smiled, whistled a bar or two from "Miss Helyett," and sat
down to answer it on his best cream-laid note-paper. When it was written
and sealed, he picked up his stick and marched up and down the studio
two or three times, whistling.</p>
<p>"Going out?" inquired the other, without turning.</p>
<p>"Yes," he said, but lingered a moment over Elliott's shoulder, watching
him pick out the lights in his sketch with a bit of bread.</p>
<p>"To-morrow is Sunday," he observed after a moment's silence.</p>
<p>"Well?" inquired Elliott.</p>
<p>"Have you seen Colette?"</p>
<p>"No, I will to-night. She and Rowden and Jacqueline are coming to
Boulant's. I suppose you and C�cile will be there?"</p>
<p>"Well, no," replied Clifford. "C�cile dines at home to-night, and I—I
had an idea of going to Mignon's."</p>
<p>Elliott looked at him with disapproval.</p>
<p>"You can make all the arrangements for La Roche without me," he
continued, avoiding Elliott's eyes.</p>
<p>"What are you up to now?"</p>
<p>"Nothing," protested Clifford.</p>
<p>"Don't tell me," replied his chum, with scorn; "fellows don't rush off
to Mignon's when the set dine at Boulant's. Who is it now?—but no, I
won't ask that,—what's the use!" Then he lifted up his voice in
complaint and beat upon the table with his pipe. "What's the use of ever
trying to keep track of you? What will C�cile say,—oh, yes, what will
she say? It's a pity you can't be constant two months, yes, by Jove! and
the Quarter is indulgent, but you abuse its good nature and mine too!"</p>
<p>Presently he arose, and jamming his hat on his head, marched to the
door.</p>
<p>"Heaven alone knows why any one puts up with your antics, but they all
do and so do I. If I were C�cile or any of the other pretty fools after
whom you have toddled and will, in all human probabilities, continue to
toddle, I say, if I were C�cile I'd spank you! Now I'm going to
Boulant's, and as usual I shall make excuses for you and arrange the
affair, and I don't care a continental where you are going, but, by the
skull of the studio skeleton! if you don't turn up to-morrow with your
sketching-kit under one arm and C�cile under the other,—if you don't
turn up in good shape, I'm done with you, and the rest can think what
they please. Good-night."</p>
<p>Clifford said good-night with as pleasant a smile as he could muster,
and then sat down with his eyes on the door. He took out his watch and
gave Elliott ten minutes to vanish, then rang the concierge's call,
murmuring, "Oh dear, oh dear, why the devil do I do it?"</p>
<p>"Alfred," he said, as that gimlet-eyed person answered the call, "make
yourself clean and proper, Alfred, and replace your sabots with a pair
of shoes. Then put on your best hat and take this letter to the big
white house in the Rue de Dragon. There is no answer, <i>mon petit</i>
Alfred."</p>
<p>The concierge departed with a snort in which unwillingness for the
errand and affection for M. Clifford were blended. Then with great care
the young fellow arrayed himself in all the beauties of his and
Elliott's wardrobe. He took his time about it, and occasionally
interrupted his toilet to play his banjo or make pleasing diversion for
the bull-dogs by gambling about on all fours. "I've got two hours before
me," he thought, and borrowed a pair of Elliott's silken foot-gear, with
which he and the dogs played ball until he decided to put them on. Then
he lighted a cigarette and inspected his dress-coat. When he had emptied
it of four handkerchiefs, a fan, and a pair of crumpled gloves as long
as his arm, he decided it was not suited to add <i>�clat</i> to his charms
and cast about in his mind for a substitute. Elliott was too thin, and,
anyway, his coats were now under lock and key. Rowden probably was as
badly off as himself. Hastings! Hastings was the man! But when he threw
on a smoking-jacket and sauntered over to Hastings' house, he was
informed that he had been gone over an hour.</p>
<p>"Now, where in the name of all that's reasonable could he have gone!"
muttered Clifford, looking down the street.</p>
<p>The maid didn't know, so he bestowed upon her a fascinating smile and
lounged back to the studio.</p>
<p>Hastings was not far away. The Luxembourg is within five minutes' walk
of the rue Notre Dame des Champs, and there he sat under the shadow of a
winged god, and there he had sat for an hour, poking holes in the dust
and watching the steps which lead from the northern terrace to the
fountain. The sun hung, a purple globe, above the misty hills of Meudon.
Long streamers of clouds touched with rose swept low on the western sky,
and the dome of the distant Invalides burned like an opal through the
haze. Behind the Palace the smoke from a high chimney mounted straight
into the air, purple until it crossed the sun, where it changed to a bar
of smouldering fire. High above the darkening foliage of the chestnuts
the twin towers of St. Sulpice rose, an ever-deepening silhouette.</p>
<p>A sleepy blackbird was carolling in some near thicket, and pigeons
passed and repassed with the whisper of soft winds in their wings. The
light on the Palace windows had died away, and the dome of the Pantheon
swam aglow above the northern terrace, a fiery Valhalla in the sky;
while below in grim array, along the terrace ranged, the marble ranks of
queens looked out into the west.</p>
<p>From the end of the long walk by the northern fa�ade of the Palace came
the noise of omnibuses and the cries of the street. Hastings looked at
the Palace clock. Six, and as his own watch agreed with it, he fell to
poking holes in the gravel again. A constant stream of people passed
between the Od�on and the fountain. Priests in black, with
silver-buckled shoes; line soldiers, slouchy and rakish; neat girls
without hats bearing milliners' boxes, students with black portfolios
and high hats, students with b�rets and big canes, nervous,
quick-stepping officers, symphonies in turquoise and silver; ponderous
jangling cavalrymen all over dust, pastry cooks' boys skipping along
with utter disregard for the safety of the basket balanced on the impish
head, and then the lean outcast, the shambling Paris tramp, slouching
with shoulders bent and little eye furtively scanning the ground for
smokers' refuse;—all these moved in a steady stream across the fountain
circle and out into the city by the Odeon, whose long arcades were now
beginning to flicker with gas-jets. The melancholy bells of St Sulpice
struck the hour and the clock-tower of the Palace lighted up. Then
hurried steps sounded across the gravel and Hastings raised his head.</p>
<p>"How late you are," he said, but his voice was hoarse and only his
flushed face told how long had seemed the waiting.</p>
<p>She said, "I was kept—indeed, I was so much annoyed—and—and I may
only stay a moment."</p>
<p>She sat down beside him, casting a furtive glance over her shoulder at
the god upon his pedestal.</p>
<p>"What a nuisance, that intruding cupid still there?"</p>
<p>"Wings and arrows too," said Hastings, unheeding her motion to be
seated.</p>
<p>"Wings," she murmured, "oh, yes—to fly away with when he's tired of his
play. Of course it was a man who conceived the idea of wings, otherwise
Cupid would have been insupportable."</p>
<p>"Do you think so?"</p>
<p>"<i>Ma foi</i>, it's what men think."</p>
<p>"And women?"</p>
<p>"Oh," she said, with a toss of her small head, "I really forget what we
were speaking of."</p>
<p>"We were speaking of love," said Hastings.</p>
<p>"<i>I</i> was not," said the girl. Then looking up at the marble god, "I
don't care for this one at all. I don't believe he knows how to shoot
his arrows—no, indeed, he is a coward;—he creeps up like an assassin
in the twilight. I don't approve of cowardice," she announced, and
turned her back on the statue.</p>
<p>"I think," said Hastings quietly, "that he does shoot fairly—yes, and
even gives one warning."</p>
<p>"Is it your experience, Monsieur Hastings?"</p>
<p>He looked straight into her eyes and said, "He is warning me."</p>
<p>"Heed the warning then," she cried, with a nervous laugh. As she spoke
she stripped off her gloves, and then carefully proceeded to draw them
on again. When this was accomplished she glanced at the Palace clock,
saying, "Oh dear, how late it is!" furled her umbrella, then unfurled
it, and finally looked at him.</p>
<p>"No," he said, "I shall not heed his warning."</p>
<p>"Oh dear," she sighed again, "still talking about that tiresome statue!"
Then stealing a glance at his face, "I suppose—I suppose you are in
love."</p>
<p>"I don't know," he muttered, "I suppose I am."</p>
<p>She raised her head with a quick gesture. "You seem delighted at the
idea," she said, but bit her lip and trembled as his eyes met hers. Then
sudden fear came over her and she sprang up, staring into the gathering
shadows.</p>
<p>"Are you cold?" he said.</p>
<p>But she only answered, "Oh dear, oh dear, it is late—so late! I must
go—good-night."</p>
<p>She gave him her gloved hand a moment and then withdrew it with a start.</p>
<p>"What is it?" he insisted. "Are you frightened?"</p>
<p>She looked at him strangely.</p>
<p>"No—no—not frightened,—you are very good to me—"</p>
<p>"By Jove!" he burst out, "what do you mean by saying I'm good to you?
That's at least the third time, and I don't understand!"</p>
<p>The sound of a drum from the guard-house at the palace cut him short.
"Listen," she whispered, "they are going to close. It's late, oh, so
late!"</p>
<p>The rolling of the drum came nearer and nearer, and then the silhouette
of the drummer cut the sky above the eastern terrace. The fading light
lingered a moment on his belt and bayonet, then he passed into the
shadows, drumming the echoes awake. The roll became fainter along the
eastern terrace, then grew and grew and rattled with increasing
sharpness when he passed the avenue by the bronze lion and turned down
the western terrace walk. Louder and louder the drum sounded, and the
echoes struck back the notes from the grey palace wall; and now the
drummer loomed up before them—his red trousers a dull spot in the
gathering gloom, the brass of his drum and bayonet touched with a pale
spark, his epaulettes tossing on his shoulders. He passed leaving the
crash of the drum in their ears, and far into the alley of trees they
saw his little tin cup shining on his haversack. Then the sentinels
began the monotonous cry: "On ferme! on ferme!" and the bugle blew from
the barracks in the rue de Tournon.</p>
<p>"On ferme! on ferme!"</p>
<p>"Good-night," she whispered, "I must return alone to-night."</p>
<p>He watched her until she reached the northern terrace, and then sat down
on the marble seat until a hand on his shoulder and a glimmer of
bayonets warned him away.</p>
<p>She passed on through the grove, and turning into the rue de Medici,
traversed it to the Boulevard. At the corner she bought a bunch of
violets and walked on along the Boulevard to the rue des �coles. A cab
was drawn up before Boulant's, and a pretty girl aided by Elliott jumped
out.</p>
<p>"Valentine!" cried the girl, "come with us!"</p>
<p>"I can't," she said, stopping a moment—"I have a rendezvous at
Mignon's."</p>
<p>"Not Victor?" cried the girl, laughing, but she passed with a little
shiver, nodding good-night, then turning into the Boulevard St. Germain,
she walked a tittle faster to escape a gay party sitting before the Caf�
Cluny who called to her to join them. At the door of the Restaurant
Mignon stood a coal-black negro in buttons. He took off his peaked cap
as she mounted the carpeted stairs.</p>
<p>"Send Eugene to me," she said at the office, and passing through the
hallway to the right of the dining-room stopped before a row of panelled
doors. A waiter passed and she repeated her demand for Eugene, who
presently appeared, noiselessly skipping, and bowed murmuring, "Madame."</p>
<p>"Who is here?"</p>
<p>"No one in the cabinets, madame; in the half Madame Madelon and Monsieur
Gay, Monsieur de Clamart, Monsieur Clisson, Madame Marie and their set."
Then he looked around and bowing again murmured, "Monsieur awaits madame
since half an hour," and he knocked at one of the panelled doors bearing
the number six.</p>
<p>Clifford opened the door and the girl entered.</p>
<p>The gar�on bowed her in, and whispering, "Will Monsieur have the
goodness to ring?" vanished.</p>
<p>He helped her off with her jacket and took her hat and umbrella. When
she was seated at the little table with Clifford opposite she smiled and
leaned forward on both elbows looking him in the face.</p>
<p>"What are you doing here?" she demanded.</p>
<p>"Waiting," he replied, in accents of adoration.</p>
<p>For an instant she turned and examined herself in the glass. The wide
blue eyes, the curling hair, the straight nose and short curled lip
flashed in the mirror an instant only, and then its depths reflected her
pretty neck and back. "Thus do I turn my back on vanity," she said, and
then leaning forward again, "What are you doing here?"</p>
<p>"Waiting for you," repeated Clifford, slightly troubled.</p>
<p>"And C�cile."</p>
<p>"Now don't, Valentine—"</p>
<p>"Do you know," she said calmly, "I dislike your conduct?"</p>
<p>He was a little disconcerted, and rang for Eugene to cover his
confusion.</p>
<p>The soup was bisque, and the wine Pommery, and the courses followed each
other with the usual regularity until Eugene brought coffee, and there
was nothing left on the table but a small silver lamp.</p>
<p>"Valentine," said Clifford, after having obtained permission to smoke,
"is it the Vaudeville or the Eldorado—or both, or the Nouveau Cirque,
or—"</p>
<p>"It is here," said Valentine.</p>
<p>"Well," he said, greatly flattered, "I'm afraid I couldn't amuse you—"</p>
<p>"Oh, yes, you are funnier than the Eldorado."</p>
<p>"Now see here, don't guy me, Valentine. You always do, and, and,—you
know what they say,—a good laugh kills—"</p>
<p>"What?"</p>
<p>"Er—er—love and all that."</p>
<p>She laughed until her eyes were moist with tears. "Tiens," she cried,
"he is dead, then!"</p>
<p>Clifford eyed her with growing alarm.</p>
<p>"Do you know why I came?" she said.</p>
<p>"No," he replied uneasily, "I don't."</p>
<p>"How long have you made love to me?"</p>
<p>"Well," he admitted, somewhat startled,—"I should say,—for about a
year."</p>
<p>"It is a year, I think. Are you not tired?"</p>
<p>He did not answer.</p>
<p>"Don't you know that I like you too well to—to ever fall in love with
you?" she said. "Don't you know that we are too good comrades,—too old
friends for that? And were we not,—do you think that I do not know your
history, Monsieur Clifford?"</p>
<p>"Don't be—don't be so sarcastic," he urged; "don't be unkind,
Valentine."</p>
<p>"I'm not. I'm kind. I'm very kind,—to you and to C�cile."</p>
<p>"C�cile is tired of me."</p>
<p>"I hope she is," said the girl, "for she deserves a better fate. Tiens,
do you know your reputation in the Quarter? Of the inconstant, the most
inconstant,—utterly incorrigible and no more serious than a gnat on a
summer night. Poor C�cile!"</p>
<p>Clifford looked so uncomfortable that she spoke more kindly.</p>
<p>"I like you. You know that. Everybody does. You are a spoiled child
here. Everything is permitted you and every one makes allowance, but
every one cannot be a victim to caprice."</p>
<p>"Caprice!" he cried. "By Jove, if the girls of the Latin Quarter are not
capricious—"</p>
<p>"Never mind,—never mind about that! You must not sit in judgment—you
of all men. Why are you here to-night? Oh," she cried, "I will tell you
why! Monsieur receives a little note; he sends a little answer; he
dresses in his conquering raiment—"</p>
<p>"I don't," said Clifford, very red.</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>Clifford opened his eyes, but said nothing.</p>
<p>"I am in—great distress of mind. It is Monsieur Hastings."</p>
<p>"Well?" said Clifford, in some astonishment.</p>
<p>"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,—"</p>
<p>"I shall not speak of you to him," he said quietly.</p>
<p>"Can—can you prevent others?"</p>
<p>"I might if I was present. May I ask why?"</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>He let his cigarette go out unnoticed.</p>
<p>"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 <i>you</i>?"</p>
<p>Clifford, much embarrassed, eyed his cigarette.</p>
<p>The girl rose, very white. "He is your friend—you have a right to warn
him."</p>
<p>"He is my friend," he said at length.</p>
<p>They looked at each other in silence.</p>
<p>Then she cried, "By all that I hold to me most sacred, you need not warn
him!"</p>
<p>"I shall trust your word," he said pleasantly.</p>
<h3>V</h3>
<p>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 caf� where Mr. Bladen had hauled him to join them in a
<i>bock</i> 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.</p>
<p>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 H�tel 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 C�cile 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.</p>
<p>"You shut up," he observed to Clifford, "it's fate, and that settles
it."</p>
<p>"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.</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>Elliott protested, but was forced to smile in the general laugh.</p>
<p>"You make me ill," he asserted; "do you think this is my first trout?"</p>
<p>"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 C�cile,
Colette, and Jacqueline. With perfect gravity he ornamented each line
with four split shot, a small hook, and a brilliant quill float.</p>
<p>"<i>I</i> shall never touch the worms," announced C�cile with a shudder.</p>
<p>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 C�cile, 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.</p>
<p>Elliott looked doubtfully at Colette.</p>
<p>"I prefer gudgeons," said that damsel with decision, "and you and
Monsieur Rowden may go away when you please; may they not, Jacqueline?"</p>
<p>"Certainly," responded Jacqueline.</p>
<p>Elliott, undecided, examined his rod and reel.</p>
<p>"You've got your reel on wrong side up," observed Rowden.</p>
<p>Elliott wavered, and stole a glance at Colette.</p>
<p>"I—I—have almost decided to—er—not to flip the flies about just
now," he began. "There's the pole that C�cile left—"</p>
<p>"Don't call it a pole," corrected Rowden.</p>
<p>"<i>Rod</i>, then," continued Elliott, and started off in the wake of the two
girls, but was promptly collared by Rowden.</p>
<p>"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!"</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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 "Gu�pe 27," ploughed up the
river dragging its interminable train of barges, or a sailboat dropped
down with the current toward sleepy Rouen.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>"Where are your trout?" said Colette severely.</p>
<p>"They still live," murmured Elliott, and went fast asleep.</p>
<p>Rowden returned shortly after, and casting a scornful glance at the
slumbering one, displayed three crimson-flecked trout.</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>Rowden disdained to answer him. Colette caught another gudgeon and awoke
Elliott, who protested and gazed about for the lunch baskets, as
Clifford and C�cile came up demanding instant refreshment. C�cile'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.</p>
<p>"Where the deuce did you get that?" demanded Elliott.</p>
<p>C�cile, 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.</p>
<p>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 C�cile 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.</p>
<p>"Good-night," they said, pressing around him. "You must come with us
next time!"</p>
<p>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.</p>
<h3>VI</h3>
<p>It was with another quick heart-beat that he awoke next morning, for his
first thought was of Valentine.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>"Monsieur Elliott?" he replied to the perfunctory inquiry, "<i>je ne sais
pas</i>."</p>
<p>"And Monsieur Clifford," began Hastings, somewhat astonished.</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>"I do not think I will come in," said Hastings.</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>"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.</p>
<p>"Good-morning, do you use Pears' soap?" he inquired with a vague wave of
his hand and a vaguer smile.</p>
<p>Hastings' heart sank. "For Heaven's sake," he said, "Clifford, go to
bed."</p>
<p>"Not while that—that Alfred pokes his shaggy head in here an' I have a
shoe left."</p>
<p>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."</p>
<p>"Well, I do," said Clifford.</p>
<p>"Where is Elliott?"</p>
<p>"Ole chap," returned Clifford, becoming maudlin, "Providence which
feeds—feeds—er—sparrows an' that sort of thing watcheth over the
intemperate wanderer—"</p>
<p>"Where is Elliott?"</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>"Ole chap," he observed, "do you want to see er—er miracle? Well, here
goes. I'm goin' to begin."</p>
<p>He paused, beaming at vacancy.</p>
<p>"Er miracle," he repeated.</p>
<p>Hastings supposed he was alluding to the miracle of his keeping his
balance, and said nothing.</p>
<p>"I'm goin' to bed," he announced, "poor ole Clifford's goin' to bed, an'
that's er miracle!"</p>
<p>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 <i>en connaisseur</i>. 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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>The sentries paced briskly before the painted boxes, pausing at times to
look toward the guard-house for their relief.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>"You! At this hour?"</p>
<p>"I was restless, I could not sleep." Then in a low, happy voice—"And
<i>you!</i> at this hour?"</p>
<p>"I—I slept, but the sun awoke me."</p>
<p>"<i>I</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."</p>
<p>"Did you really dream of,—of my being here?"</p>
<p>"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.</p>
<p>"I have not yet had my chocolate," she confessed, "but what a material
man you are."</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"Oh dear," she smiled, "not only material, but selfish!"</p>
<p>"Not selfish, hungry," he said, looking at her.</p>
<p>"A cannibal too; oh dear!"</p>
<p>"Will you, Valentine?"</p>
<p>"But my chocolate—"</p>
<p>"Take it with me."</p>
<p>"But <i>d�jeuner</i>—"</p>
<p>"Together, at St. Cloud."</p>
<p>"But I can't—"</p>
<p>"Together,—all day,—all day long; will you, Valentine?"</p>
<p>She was silent.</p>
<p>"Only for this once."</p>
<p>Again that indefinable shadow fell across her eyes, and when it was gone
she sighed. "Yes,—together, only for this once."</p>
<p>"All day?" he said, doubting his happiness.</p>
<p>"All day," she smiled; "and oh, I am so hungry!"</p>
<p>He laughed, enchanted.</p>
<p>"What a material young lady it is."</p>
<p>On the Boulevard St. Michel there is a Cr�merie 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 <i>t�te-�-t�te</i> table, whisked before them two cups of chocolate
and a basket full of crisp, fresh croissons.</p>
<p>The primrose-coloured pats of butter, each stamped with a shamrock in
relief, seemed saturated with the fragrance of Normandy pastures.</p>
<p>"How delicious!" they said in the same breath, and then laughed at the
coincidence.</p>
<p>"With but a single thought," he began.</p>
<p>"How absurd!" she cried with cheeks all rosy. "I'm thinking I'd like a
croisson."</p>
<p>"So am I," he replied triumphant, "that proves it."</p>
<p>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: "<i>Bonjour, madame!
bonjour, monsieur</i>!" and watched them hail a passing cab and drive away.
"<i>Dieu! qu'il est beau</i>," she sighed, adding after a moment, "Do they be
married, I dunno,—<i>ma foi ils ont bien l'air</i>."</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>"We have the compartment to ourselves," said Hastings.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>"Faster! faster!" she cried.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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?</p>
<p>"Faster! faster!" she cried.</p>
<p>Her parted lips burned scarlet.</p>
<p>The car shook and shivered, and the fields streamed by like an emerald
torrent. He caught the excitement, and his faced glowed.</p>
<p>"Oh," she cried, and with an unconscious movement caught his hand,
drawing him to the window beside her. "Look! lean out with me!"</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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!"</p>
<p>"What are you saying all to yourself?" he said, but his voice was
broken, and the wind whirled it back into his throat.</p>
<p>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!"</p>
<p>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."</p>
<p>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."</p>
<p>She turned to the sunlight. From the window, the world below seemed very
fair to her.</p>
<p>Trembling with happiness, she sighed: "Is this the world? Then I have
never known it."</p>
<p>"Nor have I, God forgive me," he murmured.</p>
<p>Perhaps it was our gentle Lady of the Fields who forgave them both.</p>
<h2><SPAN name="RUE_BARREE" id="RUE_BARREE"></SPAN>RUE BARR�E</h2>
<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="poetry">
<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: 0em;">"For let Philosopher and Doctor preach</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: 0.25em;">Of what they will and what they will not,—each</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: 0.25em;">Is but one link in an eternal chain</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: 0.25em;">That none can slip nor break nor over-reach."</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"> </td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: 0em;">"Crimson nor yellow roses nor</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: 0.25em;">The savour of the mounting sea</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: 0.25em;">Are worth the perfume I adore</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: 0.25em;">That clings to thee.</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: 0.25em;">The languid-headed lilies tire,</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: 0.25em;">The changeless waters weary me;</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: 0.25em;">I ache with passionate desire</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: 0.25em;">Of thine and thee.</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: 0.25em;">There are but these things in the world—</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: 0.25em;">Thy mouth of fire,</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: 0.25em;">Thy breasts, thy hands, thy hair upcurled</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: 0.25em;">And my desire."</span></td></tr>
</table>
<h3>I</h3>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>"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?"</p>
<p>"Of course."</p>
<p>"And you don't mind chaff?"</p>
<p>"No," replied Selby, who hated it.</p>
<p>Clifford, much amused, put on his hat, saying, "You must expect lots of
it at first."</p>
<p>Selby placed his own hat on his head and followed him to the door.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>"Take off your hat for them," said the latter, laughing.</p>
<p>A little embarrassed, he turned and saluted the studio.</p>
<p>"Et moi?" cried the model.</p>
<p>"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: "�
demain beau jeune homme!"</p>
<p>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."</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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
Ch�telet, 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 Caf� 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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>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 Caf� 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."</p>
<p>The "sights" looked amiable, and took vermouth.</p>
<p>"You cut the studio to-day," said Elliott, suddenly turning on Clifford,
who avoided his eyes.</p>
<p>"To commune with nature?" observed Rowden.</p>
<p>"What's her name this time?" asked Elliott, and Rowden answered
promptly, "Name, Yvette; nationality, Breton—"</p>
<p>"Wrong," replied Clifford blandly, "it's Rue Barr�e."</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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
�cole de M�decine. At the corner a girl passed them, walking hurriedly.
Clifford smirked, Elliott 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.</p>
<p>"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.</p>
<p>"Rue Barr�e!"</p>
<p>"What!" cried Selby, bewildered.</p>
<p>The only answer was a vague gesture from Clifford.</p>
<p>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."</p>
<p>"Yes, I do," he said, innocently enough; "it's about that girl. Who is
she?"</p>
<p>In Rowden's smile there was pity, in Elliott's bitterness.</p>
<p>"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 Barr�e. Mr. Rowden, in his imperfect knowledge
of the French tongue, called our attention to it as Roo Barry—"</p>
<p>"I didn't," said Rowden hotly.</p>
<p>"And Roo Barry, or Rue Barr�e, is to-day an object of adoration to every
rapin in the Quarter—"</p>
<p>"We are not rapins," corrected Elliott.</p>
<p>"<i>I</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 Barr�e. 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."</p>
<p>Elliott and Rowden, boiling with indignation, cried out, "And you!"</p>
<p>"I," said Clifford blandly, "do fear to tread where you rush in."</p>
<h3>II</h3>
<p>Twenty-four hours later Selby had completely forgotten Rue Barr�e.
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 Barr�e, 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 Barr�e
shook her head.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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 Barr�e.</p>
<p>The gardener said, "Mademoiselle, this is undoubtedly a fine pot of
pansies."</p>
<p>Rue Barr�e shook her head.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>"These tulips are magnificent," he observed, "and these hyacinths—" He
fell into a trance at the mere sight of the scented thickets.</p>
<p>"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.</p>
<p>"Fifty francs, Mademoiselle."</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>"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 Barr�e had
been gone some time.</p>
<p>"What," said the gardener, "may I offer Monsieur?"</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>"These tulips are magnificent!"</p>
<p>"They are!" cried Selby warmly.</p>
<p>"But alas, they are dear."</p>
<p>"I will take them."</p>
<p>"Dieu!" murmured the gardener in a perspiration, "he's madder than most
Englishmen."</p>
<p>"This cactus—"</p>
<p>"Is gorgeous!"</p>
<p>"Alas—"</p>
<p>"Send it with the rest."</p>
<p>The gardener braced himself against the river wall.</p>
<p>"That splendid rose-bush," he began faintly.</p>
<p>"That is a beauty. I believe it is fifty francs—"</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>"I'll take that bush. Why did not the young lady buy it?"</p>
<p>"Mademoiselle is not wealthy."</p>
<p>"How do you know?"</p>
<p>"<i>Dame</i>, I sell her many pansies; pansies are not expensive."</p>
<p>"Those are the pansies she bought?"</p>
<p>"These, Monsieur, the blue and gold."</p>
<p>"Then you intend to send them to her?"</p>
<p>"At mid-day after the market."</p>
<p>"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 H�tel du S�nat, 7 rue de Tournon. I will leave directions
with the concierge."</p>
<p>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 H�tel du S�nat repeating with an
imbecile smile: "What an ass I am, what an ass!"</p>
<p>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.</p>
<h3>III</h3>
<p>About five o'clock that afternoon, the little sad-eyed woman who fills
the position of concierge at the H�tel du S�nat 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 gar�on, who, while
calculating the value of the flowers in <i>petits verres</i>, gloomily
disclaimed any knowledge as to their destination.</p>
<p>"<i>Voyons</i>," said the little concierge, "<i>cherchons la femme</i>!"</p>
<p>"You?" he suggested.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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 <i>f�te</i>
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.</p>
<p>"Are you going to give a ball?" demanded Clifford.</p>
<p>"N—no,—I'm very fond of flowers," said Selby, but the statement lacked
enthusiasm.</p>
<p>"I should imagine so." Then, after a silence, "That's a fine cactus."</p>
<p>Selby contemplated the cactus, touched it with the air of a connoisseur,
and pricked his thumb.</p>
<p>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 <i>pourboire</i> 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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>"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.</p>
<p>"See here, Selby, why the deuce did you buy those flowers?"</p>
<p>"I'm fond of them," said Selby.</p>
<p>"What are you going to do with them? You can't sleep here."</p>
<p>"I could, if you'd help me take the pansies off the bed."</p>
<p>"Where can you put them?"</p>
<p>"Couldn't I give them to the concierge?"</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>Then somebody knocked.</p>
<p>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?"</p>
<p>This graceful style of reception is indigenous to the Quarter.</p>
<p>"It's Elliott," he said, looking back, "and Rowden too, and their
bulldogs." Then he addressed them through the crack.</p>
<p>"Sit down on the stairs; Selby and I are coming out directly."</p>
<p>Discretion is a virtue. The Latin Quarter possesses few, and discretion
seldom figures on the list. They sat down and began to whistle.</p>
<p>Presently Rowden called out, "I smell flowers. They feast within!"</p>
<p>"You ought to know Selby better than that," growled Clifford behind the
door, while the other hurriedly exchanged his torn trousers for others.</p>
<p>"<i>We</i> know Selby," said Elliott with emphasis.</p>
<p>"Yes," said Rowden, "he gives receptions with floral decorations and
invites Clifford, while we sit on the stairs."</p>
<p>"Yes, while the youth and beauty of the Quarter revel," suggested
Rowden; then, with sudden misgiving; "Is Odette there?"</p>
<p>"See here," demanded Elliott, "is Colette there?"</p>
<p>Then he raised his voice in a plaintive howl, "Are you there, Colette,
while I'm kicking my heels on these tiles?"</p>
<p>"Clifford is capable of anything," said Rowden; "his nature is soured
since Rue Barr�e sat on him."</p>
<p>Elliott raised his voice: "I say, you fellows, we saw some flowers
carried into Rue Barr�e's house at noon."</p>
<p>"Posies and roses," specified Rowden.</p>
<p>"Probably for her," added Elliott, caressing his bulldog.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<h3>IV</h3>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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!"</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>The word was passed, "They begin with C this week."</p>
<p>They did.</p>
<p>"Clisson!"</p>
<p>Clisson jumped like a flash and marked his name on the floor in chalk
before a front seat.</p>
<p>"Caron!"</p>
<p>Caron galloped away to secure his place. Bang! went an easel. "<i>Nom de
Dieu</i>!" in French,—"Where in h—l are you goin'!" in English. Crash! a
paintbox fell with brushes and all on board. "<i>Dieu de Dieu de</i>—" spat!
A blow, a short rush, a clinch and scuffle, and the voice of the
massier, stern and reproachful:</p>
<p>"Cochon!"</p>
<p>Then the roll-call was resumed.</p>
<p>"Clifford!"</p>
<p>The massier paused and looked up, one finger between the leaves of the
ledger.</p>
<p>"Clifford!"</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>"Elliott, you are a true friend—"</p>
<p>"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—"</p>
<p>"Not idiot," remonstrated Clifford gently.</p>
<p>"See here," cried Elliott, "have you the nerve to try to tell me that
you are in love again?"</p>
<p>"Again?"</p>
<p>"Yes, again and again and again and—by George have you?"</p>
<p>"This," observed Clifford sadly, "is serious."</p>
<p>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 Cl�mence and
Marie Tellec and Cosette and Fifine, Colette, Marie Verdier—"</p>
<p>"All of whom are charming, most charming, but I never was serious—"</p>
<p>"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?"</p>
<p>"What you say may be founded on facts—in a way—but give me the credit
of being faithful to one at a time—"</p>
<p>"Until the next came along."</p>
<p>"But this,—this is really very different. Elliott, believe me, I am all
broken up."</p>
<p>Then there being nothing else to do, Elliott gnashed his teeth and
listened.</p>
<p>"It's—it's Rue Barr�e."</p>
<p>"Well," observed Elliott, with scorn, "if you are moping and moaning
over <i>that</i> girl,—the girl who has given you and myself every reason to
wish that the ground would open and engulf us,—well, go on!"</p>
<p>"I'm going on,—I don't care; timidity has fled—"</p>
<p>"Yes, your native timidity."</p>
<p>"I'm desperate, Elliott. Am I in love? Never, never did I feel so d—n
miserable. I can't sleep; honestly, I'm incapable of eating properly."</p>
<p>"Same symptoms noticed in the case of Colette."</p>
<p>"Listen, will you?"</p>
<p>"Hold on a moment, I know the rest by heart. Now let me ask you
something. Is it your belief that Rue Barr�e is a pure girl?"</p>
<p>"Yes," said Clifford, turning red.</p>
<p>"Do you love her,—not as you dangle and tiptoe after every pretty
inanity—I mean, do you honestly love her?"</p>
<p>"Yes," said the other doggedly, "I would—"</p>
<p>"Hold on a moment; would you marry her?"</p>
<p>Clifford turned scarlet. "Yes," he muttered.</p>
<p>"Pleasant news for your family," growled Elliott in suppressed fury.
"'Dear father, I have just married a charming grisette whom I'm sure
you'll welcome with open arms, in company with her mother, a most
estimable and cleanly washlady.' Good heavens! This seems to have gone a
little further than the rest. Thank your stars, young man, that my head
is level enough for us both. Still, in this case, I have no fear. Rue
Barr�e sat on your aspirations in a manner unmistakably final."</p>
<p>"Rue Barr�e," began Clifford, drawing himself up, but he suddenly
ceased, for there where the dappled sunlight glowed in spots of gold,
along the sun-flecked path, tripped Rue Barr�e. Her gown was spotless,
and her big straw hat, tipped a little from the white forehead, threw a
shadow across her eyes.</p>
<p>Elliott stood up and bowed. Clifford removed his head-covering with an
air so plaintive, so appealing, so utterly humble that Rue Barr�e
smiled.</p>
<p>The smile was delicious and when Clifford, incapable of sustaining
himself on his legs from sheer astonishment, toppled slightly, she
smiled again in spite of herself. A few moments later she took a chair
on the terrace and drawing a book from her music-roll, turned the pages,
found the place, and then placing it open downwards in her lap, sighed a
little, smiled a little, and looked out over the city. She had entirely
forgotten Foxhall Clifford.</p>
<p>After a while she took up her book again, but instead of reading began
to adjust a rose in her corsage. The rose was big and red. It glowed
like fire there over her heart, and like fire it warmed her heart, now
fluttering under the silken petals. Rue Barr�e sighed again. She was
very happy. The sky was so blue, the air so soft and perfumed, the
sunshine so caressing, and her heart sang within her, sang to the rose
in her breast. This is what it sang: "Out of the throng of passers-by,
out of the world of yesterday, out of the millions passing, one has
turned aside to me."</p>
<p>So her heart sang under his rose on her breast. Then two big
mouse-coloured pigeons came whistling by and alighted on the terrace,
where they bowed and strutted and bobbed and turned until Rue Barr�e
laughed in delight, and looking up beheld Clifford before her. His hat
was in his hand and his face was wreathed in a series of appealing
smiles which would have touched the heart of a Bengal tiger.</p>
<p>For an instant Rue Barr�e frowned, then she looked curiously at
Clifford, then when she saw the resemblance between his bows and the
bobbing pigeons, in spite of herself, her lips parted in the most
bewitching laugh. Was this Rue Barr�e? So changed, so changed that she
did not know herself; but oh! that song in her heart which drowned all
else, which trembled on her lips, struggling for utterance, which
rippled forth in a laugh at nothing,—at a strutting pigeon,—and Mr.
Clifford.</p>
<p><br/></p>
<p>"And you think, because I return the salute of the students in the
Quarter, that you may be received in particular as a friend? I do not
know you, Monsieur, but vanity is man's other name;—be content,
Monsieur Vanity, I shall be punctilious—oh, most punctilious in
returning your salute."</p>
<p>"But I beg—I implore you to let me render you that homage which has so
long—"</p>
<p>"Oh dear; I don't care for homage."</p>
<p>"Let me only be permitted to speak to you now and
then,—occasionally—very occasionally."</p>
<p>"And if <i>you</i>, why not another?"</p>
<p>"Not at all,—I will be discretion itself."</p>
<p>"Discretion—why?"</p>
<p>Her eyes were very clear, and Clifford winced for a moment, but only for
a moment. Then the devil of recklessness seizing him, he sat down and
offered himself, soul and body, goods and chattels. And all the time he
knew he was a fool and that infatuation is not love, and that each word
he uttered bound him in honour from which there was no escape. And all
the time Elliott was scowling down on the fountain plaza and savagely
checking both bulldogs from their desire to rush to Clifford's
rescue,—for even they felt there was something wrong, as Elliott
stormed within himself and growled maledictions.</p>
<p>When Clifford finished, he finished in a glow of excitement, but Rue
Barr�e's response was long in coming and his ardour cooled while the
situation slowly assumed its just proportions. Then regret began to
creep in, but he put that aside and broke out again in protestations. At
the first word Rue Barr�e checked him.</p>
<p>"I thank you," she said, speaking very gravely. "No man has ever before
offered me marriage." She turned and looked out over the city. After a
while she spoke again. "You offer me a great deal. I am alone, I have
nothing, I am nothing." She turned again and looked at Paris, brilliant,
fair, in the sunshine of a perfect day. He followed her eyes.</p>
<p>"Oh," she murmured, "it is hard,—hard to work always—always alone with
never a friend you can have in honour, and the love that is offered
means the streets, the boulevard—when passion is dead. I know it,—<i>we</i>
know it,—we others who have nothing,—have no one, and who give
ourselves, unquestioning—when we love,—yes, unquestioning—heart and
soul, knowing the end."</p>
<p>She touched the rose at her breast. For a moment she seemed to forget
him, then quietly—"I thank you, I am very grateful." She opened the
book and, plucking a petal from the rose, dropped it between the leaves.
Then looking up she said gently, "I cannot accept."</p>
<h3>V</h3>
<p>It took Clifford a month to entirely recover, although at the end of the
first week he was pronounced convalescent by Elliott, who was an
authority, and his convalescence was aided by the cordiality with which
Rue Barr�e acknowledged his solemn salutes. Forty times a day he blessed
Rue Barr�e for her refusal, and thanked his lucky stars, and at the same
time, oh, wondrous heart of ours!—he suffered the tortures of the
blighted.</p>
<p>Elliott was annoyed, partly by Clifford's reticence, partly by the
unexplainable thaw in the frigidity of Rue Barr�e. At their frequent
encounters, when she, tripping along the rue de Seine, with music-roll
and big straw hat would pass Clifford and his familiars steering an
easterly course to the Caf� Vachette, and at the respectful uncovering
of the band would colour and smile at Clifford, Elliott's slumbering
suspicions awoke. But he never found out anything, and finally gave it
up as beyond his comprehension, merely qualifying Clifford as an idiot
and reserving his opinion of Rue Barr�e. And all this time Selby was
jealous. At first he refused to acknowledge it to himself, and cut the
studio for a day in the country, but the woods and fields of course
aggravated his case, and the brooks babbled of Rue Barr�e and the mowers
calling to each other across the meadow ended in a quavering "Rue
Bar-r�e-e!" That day spent in the country made him angry for a week, and
he worked sulkily at Julian's, all the time tormented by a desire to
know where Clifford was and what he might be doing. This culminated in
an erratic stroll on Sunday which ended at the flower-market on the Pont
au Change, began again, was gloomily extended to the morgue, and again
ended at the marble bridge. It would never do, and Selby felt it, so he
went to see Clifford, who was convalescing on mint juleps in his garden.</p>
<p>They sat down together and discussed morals and human happiness, and
each found the other most entertaining, only Selby failed to pump
Clifford, to the other's unfeigned amusement. But the juleps spread balm
on the sting of jealousy, and trickled hope to the blighted, and when
Selby said he must go, Clifford went too, and when Selby, not to be
outdone, insisted on accompanying Clifford back to his door, Clifford
determined to see Selby back half way, and then finding it hard to part,
they decided to dine together and "flit." To flit, a verb applied to
Clifford's nocturnal prowls, expressed, perhaps, as well as anything,
the gaiety proposed. Dinner was ordered at Mignon's, and while Selby
interviewed the chef, Clifford kept a fatherly eye on the butler. The
dinner was a success, or was of the sort generally termed a success.
Toward the dessert Selby heard some one say as at a great distance, "Kid
Selby, drunk as a lord."</p>
<p>A group of men passed near them; it seemed to him that he shook hands
and laughed a great deal, and that everybody was very witty. There was
Clifford opposite swearing undying confidence in his chum Selby, and
there seemed to be others there, either seated beside them or
continually passing with the swish of skirts on the polished floor. The
perfume of roses, the rustle of fans, the touch of rounded arms and the
laughter grew vaguer and vaguer. The room seemed enveloped in mist.
Then, all in a moment each object stood out painfully distinct, only
forms and visages were distorted and voices piercing. He drew himself
up, calm, grave, for the moment master of himself, but very drunk. He
knew he was drunk, and was as guarded and alert, as keenly suspicious of
himself as he would have been of a thief at his elbow. His self-command
enabled Clifford to hold his head safely under some running water, and
repair to the street considerably the worse for wear, but never
suspecting that his companion was drunk. For a time he kept his
self-command. His face was only a bit paler, a bit tighter than usual;
he was only a trifle slower and more fastidious in his speech. It was
midnight when he left Clifford peacefully slumbering in somebody's
arm-chair, with a long suede glove dangling in his hand and a plumy boa
twisted about his neck to protect his throat from drafts. He walked
through the hall and down the stairs, and found himself on the sidewalk
in a quarter he did not know. Mechanically he looked up at the name of
the street. The name was not familiar. He turned and steered his course
toward some lights clustered at the end of the street. They proved
farther away than he had anticipated, and after a long quest he came to
the conclusion that his eyes had been mysteriously removed from their
proper places and had been reset on either side of his head like those
of a bird. It grieved him to think of the inconvenience this
transformation might occasion him, and he attempted to cock up his head,
hen-like, to test the mobility of his neck. Then an immense despair
stole over him,—tears gathered in the tear-ducts, his heart melted, and
he collided with a tree. This shocked him into comprehension; he stifled
the violent tenderness in his breast, picked up his hat and moved on
more briskly. His mouth was white and drawn, his teeth tightly clinched.
He held his course pretty well and strayed but little, and after an
apparently interminable length of time found himself passing a line of
cabs. The brilliant lamps, red, yellow, and green annoyed him, and he
felt it might be pleasant to demolish them with his cane, but mastering
this impulse he passed on. Later an idea struck him that it would save
fatigue to take a cab, and he started back with that intention, but the
cabs seemed already so far away and the lanterns were so bright and
confusing that he gave it up, and pulling himself together looked
around.</p>
<p>A shadow, a mass, huge, undefined, rose to his right. He recognized the
Arc de Triomphe and gravely shook his cane at it. Its size annoyed him.
He felt it was too big. Then he heard something fall clattering to the
pavement and thought probably it was his cane but it didn't much matter.
When he had mastered himself and regained control of his right leg,
which betrayed symptoms of insubordination, he found himself traversing
the Place de la Concorde at a pace which threatened to land him at the
Madeleine. This would never do. He turned sharply to the right and
crossing the bridge passed the Palais Bourbon at a trot and wheeled into
the Boulevard St. Germain. He got on well enough although the size of
the War Office struck him as a personal insult, and he missed his cane,
which it would have been pleasant to drag along the iron railings as he
passed. It occurred to him, however, to substitute his hat, but when he
found it he forgot what he wanted it for and replaced it upon his head
with gravity. Then he was obliged to battle with a violent inclination
to sit down and weep. This lasted until he came to the rue de Rennes,
but there he became absorbed in contemplating the dragon on the balcony
overhanging the Cour du Dragon, and time slipped away until he
remembered vaguely that he had no business there, and marched off again.
It was slow work. The inclination to sit down and weep had given place
to a desire for solitary and deep reflection. Here his right leg forgot
its obedience and attacking the left, outflanked it and brought him up
against a wooden board which seemed to bar his path. He tried to walk
around it, but found the street closed. He tried to push it over, and
found he couldn't. Then he noticed a red lantern standing on a pile of
paving-stones inside the barrier. This was pleasant. How was he to get
home if the boulevard was blocked? But he was not on the boulevard. His
treacherous right leg had beguiled him into a detour, for there, behind
him lay the boulevard with its endless line of lamps,—and here, what
was this narrow dilapidated street piled up with earth and mortar and
heaps of stone? He looked up. Written in staring black letters on the
barrier was</p>
<p class="c">R<small>UE</small> B<small>ARR�E</small>.</p>
<p>He sat down. Two policemen whom he knew came by and advised him to get
up, but he argued the question from a standpoint of personal taste, and
they passed on, laughing. For he was at that moment absorbed in a
problem. It was, how to see Rue Barr�e. She was somewhere or other in
that big house with the iron balconies, and the door was locked, but
what of that? The simple idea struck him to shout until she came. This
idea was replaced by another equally lucid,—to hammer on the door until
she came; but finally rejecting both of these as too uncertain, he
decided to climb into the balcony, and opening a window politely inquire
for Rue Barr�e. There was but one lighted window in the house that he
could see. It was on the second floor, and toward this he cast his eyes.
Then mounting the wooden barrier and clambering over the piles of
stones, he reached the sidewalk and looked up at the fa�ade for a
foothold. It seemed impossible. But a sudden fury seized him, a blind,
drunken obstinacy, and the blood rushed to his head, leaping, beating in
his ears like the dull thunder of an ocean. He set his teeth, and
springing at a window-sill, dragged himself up and hung to the iron
bars. Then reason fled; there surged in his brain the sound of many
voices, his heart leaped up beating a mad tattoo, and gripping at
cornice and ledge he worked his way along the fa�ade, clung to pipes and
shutters, and dragged himself up, over and into the balcony by the
lighted window. His hat fell off and rolled against the pane. For a
moment he leaned breathless against the railing—then the window was
slowly opened from within.</p>
<p>They stared at each other for some time. Presently the girl took two
unsteady steps back into the room. He saw her face,—all crimsoned
now,—he saw her sink into a chair by the lamplit table, and without a
word he followed her into the room, closing the big door-like panes
behind him. Then they looked at each other in silence.</p>
<p>The room was small and white; everything was white about it,—the
curtained bed, the little wash-stand in the corner, the bare walls, the
china lamp,—and his own face,—had he known it, but the face and neck
of Rue were surging in the colour that dyed the blossoming rose-tree
there on the hearth beside her. It did not occur to him to speak. She
seemed not to expect it. His mind was struggling with the impressions of
the room. The whiteness, the extreme purity of everything occupied
him—began to trouble him. As his eye became accustomed to the light,
other objects grew from the surroundings and took their places in the
circle of lamplight. There was a piano and a coal-scuttle and a little
iron trunk and a bath-tub. Then there was a row of wooden pegs against
the door, with a white chintz curtain covering the clothes underneath.
On the bed lay an umbrella and a big straw hat, and on the table, a
music-roll unfurled, an ink-stand, and sheets of ruled paper. Behind him
stood a wardrobe faced with a mirror, but somehow he did not care to see
his own face just then. He was sobering.</p>
<p>The girl sat looking at him without a word. Her face was expressionless,
yet the lips at times trembled almost imperceptibly. Her eyes, so
wonderfully blue in the daylight, seemed dark and soft as velvet, and
the colour on her neck deepened and whitened with every breath. She
seemed smaller and more slender than when he had seen her in the street,
and there was now something in the curve of her cheek almost infantine.
When at last he turned and caught his own reflection in the mirror
behind him, a shock passed through him as though he had seen a shameful
thing, and his clouded mind and his clouded thoughts grew clearer. For a
moment their eyes met then his sought the floor, his lips tightened, and
the struggle within him bowed his head and strained every nerve to the
breaking. And now it was over, for the voice within had spoken. He
listened, dully interested but already knowing the end,—indeed it
little mattered;—the end would always be the same for him;—he
understood now—always the same for him, and he listened, dully
interested, to a voice which grew within him. After a while he stood up,
and she rose at once, one small hand resting on the table. Presently he
opened the window, picked up his hat, and shut it again. Then he went
over to the rose-bush and touched the blossoms with his face. One was
standing in a glass of water on the table and mechanically the girl drew
it out, pressed it with her lips and laid it on the table beside him. He
took it without a word and crossing the room, opened the door. The
landing was dark and silent, but the girl lifted the lamp and gliding
past him slipped down the polished stairs to the hallway. Then
unchaining the bolts, she drew open the iron wicket.</p>
<p>Through this he passed with his rose.</p>
<p class="c"><br/><br/><br/><br/><small>THE END</small></p>
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