The King in Yellow

by Robert W. Chambers

  IV

  When midnight sounded from the belfry of St. Sulpice the gates of Pariswere still choked with fragments of what had once been an army.

  They entered with the night, a sullen horde, spattered with slime, faintwith hunger and exhaustion. There was little disorder at first, and thethrong at the gates parted silently as the troops tramped along thefreezing streets. Confusion came as the hours passed. Swiftly and moreswiftly, crowding squadron after squadron and battery on battery, horsesplunging and caissons jolting, the remnants from the front surged throughthe gates, a chaos of cavalry and artillery struggling for the right ofway. Close upon them stumbled the infantry; here a skeleton of a regimentmarching with a desperate attempt at order, there a riotous mob of Mobilescrushing their way to the streets, then a turmoil of horsemen, cannon,troops without, officers, officers without men, then again a line ofambulances, the wheels groaning under their heavy loads.

  Dumb with misery the crowd looked on.

  All through the day the ambulances had been arriving, and all day long theragged throng whimpered and shivered by the barriers. At noon the crowdwas increased ten-fold, filling the squares about the gates, and swarmingover the inner fortifications.

  At four o'clock in the afternoon the German batteries suddenly wreathedthemselves in smoke, and the shells fell fast on Montparnasse. At twentyminutes after four two projectiles struck a house in the rue de Bac, and amoment later the first shell fell in the Latin Quarter.

  Braith was painting in bed when West came in very much scared.

  "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 topay us a visit to-night."

  Braith jumped out of bed and bundled himself into a garment which had oncebeen an overcoat.

  "Anybody hurt?" he inquired, struggling with a sleeve full of dilapidatedlining.

  "No. Colette is barricaded in the cellar, and the concierge ran away tothe fortifications. There will be a rough gang there if the bombardmentkeeps up. You might help us--"

  "Of course," said Braith; but it was not until they had reached the rueSerpente and had turned in the passage which led to West's cellar, thatthe latter cried: "Have you seen Jack Trent, to-day?"

  "No," replied Braith, looking troubled, "he was not at AmbulanceHeadquarters."

  "He stayed to take care of Sylvia, I suppose."

  A bomb came crashing through the roof of a house at the end of the alleyand burst in the basement, showering the street with slate and plaster. Asecond struck a chimney and plunged into the garden, followed by anavalanche of bricks, and another exploded with a deafening report in thenext street.

  They hurried along the passage to the steps which led to the cellar. Hereagain Braith stopped.

  "Don't you think I had better run up to see if Jack and Sylvia are wellentrenched? I can get back before dark."

  "No. Go in and find Colette, and I'll go."

  "No, no, let me go, there's no danger."

  "I know it," replied West calmly; and, dragging Braith into the alley,pointed to the cellar steps. The iron door was barred.

  "Colette! Colette!" he called. The door swung inward, and the girl sprangup 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 aheavy jar from the outside shook the hinges.

  "They are here," muttered West, very pale.

  "That door," observed Colette calmly, "will hold for ever."

  Braith examined the low iron structure, now trembling with the blowsrained on it from without. West glanced anxiously at Colette, whodisplayed no agitation, and this comforted him.

  "I don't believe they will spend much time here," said Braith; "they onlyrummage in cellars for spirits, I imagine."

  "Unless they hear that valuables are buried there."

  "But surely nothing is buried here?" exclaimed Braith uneasily.

  "Unfortunately there is," growled West. "That miserly landlord of mine--"

  A crash from the outside, followed by a yell, cut him short; then blowafter blow shook the doors, until there came a sharp snap, a clinking ofmetal and a triangular bit of iron fell inwards, leaving a hole throughwhich struggled a ray of light.

  Instantly West knelt, and shoving his revolver through the aperture firedevery cartridge. For a moment the alley resounded with the racket of therevolver, then absolute silence followed.

  Presently a single questioning blow fell upon the door, and a moment lateranother and another, and then a sudden crack zigzagged across the ironplate.

  "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 ofthe cellar. The spot of light came from a barred man-hole above. Westmotioned Braith to mount on his shoulders.

  "Push it over. You _must_!"

  With little effort Braith lifted the barred cover, scrambled out on hisstomach, and easily raised Colette from West's shoulders.

  "Quick, old chap!" cried the latter.

  Braith twisted his legs around a fence-chain and leaned down again. Thecellar was flooded with a yellow light, and the air reeked with the stenchof petroleum torches. The iron door still held, but a whole plate of metalwas gone, and now as they looked a figure came creeping through, holding atorch.

  "Quick!" whispered Braith. "Jump!" and West hung dangling until Colettegrasped him by the collar, and he was dragged out. Then her nerves gaveway and she wept hysterically, but West threw his arm around her and ledher across the gardens into the next street, where Braith, after replacingthe man-hole cover and piling some stone slabs from the wall over it,rejoined them. It was almost dark. They hurried through the street, nowonly lighted by burning buildings, or the swift glare of the shells. Theygave wide berth to the fires, but at a distance saw the flitting forms ofpillagers among the _debris_. Sometimes they passed a female fury crazedwith drink shrieking anathemas upon the world, or some slouching loutwhose blackened face and hands betrayed his share in the work ofdestruction. At last they reached the Seine and passed the bridge, andthen Braith said: "I must go back. I am not sure of Jack and Sylvia." Ashe 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 Westcaught the measured tread of a platoon. A lantern passed, a file ofbayonets, then another lantern which glimmered on a deathly face behind,and Colette gasped, "Hartman!" and he was gone. They peered fearfullyacross the embankment, holding their breath. There was a shuffle of feeton the quay, and the gate of the barracks slammed. A lantern shone for amoment at the postern, the crowd pressed to the grille, then came theclang of the volley from the stone parade.

  One by one the petroleum torches flared up along the embankment, and nowthe whole square was in motion. Down from the Champs Elysees and acrossthe Place de la Concorde straggled the fragments of the battle, a companyhere, and a mob there. They poured in from every street followed by womenand children, and a great murmur, borne on the icy wind, swept through theArc de Triomphe and down the dark avenue,--"Perdus! perdus!"

  A ragged end of a battalion was pressing past, the spectre ofannihilation. West groaned. Then a figure sprang from the shadowy ranksand called West's name, and when he saw it was Trent he cried out. Trentseized him, white with terror.

  "Sylvia?"

  West stared speechless, but Colette moaned, "Oh, Sylvia! Sylvia!--and theyare shelling the Quarter!"

  "Trent!" shouted Braith; but he was gone, and they could not overtakethem.

  The bombardment ceased as Trent crossed the Boulevard St. Germain, but theentrance to the rue de Seine was blocked by a heap of smoking bricks.Everywhere the shells had torn great holes in the pavement. The cafe was awreck of splinters and glass, the book-store tottered, ripped from roof tobasement, and the little bakery, long since closed, bulged outward above amass of slate and tin.


  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 bankwall, beneath a shattered gas lamp, a child was writing with a bit ofcinder.

  "HERE FELL THE FIRST SHELL."

  The letters stared him in the face. The rat-killer finished and steppedback to view his work, but catching sight of Trent's bayonet, screamed andfled, and as Trent staggered across the shattered street, from holes andcrannies in the ruins fierce women fled from their work of pillage,cursing him.

  At first he could not find his house, for the tears blinded him, but hefelt along the wall and reached the door. A lantern burned in theconcierge's lodge and the old man lay dead beside it. Faint with fright heleaned a moment on his rifle, then, snatching the lantern, sprang up thestairs. He tried to call, but his tongue hardly moved. On the second floorhe saw plaster on the stairway, and on the third the floor was torn andthe concierge lay in a pool of blood across the landing. The next floorwas his, _theirs_. The door hung from its hinges, the walls gaped. Hecrept in and sank down by the bed, and there two arms were flung aroundhis neck, and a tear-stained face sought his own.

  "Sylvia!"

  "O Jack! Jack! Jack!"

  From the tumbled pillow beside them a child wailed.

  "They brought it; it is mine," she sobbed.

  "Ours," he whispered, with his arms around them both.

  Then from the stairs below came Braith's anxious voice.

  "Trent! Is all well?"