The King in Yellow

by Robert W. Chambers

  VI

  It was with another quick heart-beat that he awoke next morning, for hisfirst thought was of Valentine.

  The sun already gilded the towers of Notre Dame, the clatter of workmen'ssabots awoke sharp echoes in the street below, and across the way ablackbird in a pink almond tree was going into an ecstasy of trills.

  He determined to awake Clifford for a brisk walk in the country, hopinglater to beguile that gentleman into the American church for his soul'ssake. He found Alfred the gimlet-eyed washing the asphalt walk which ledto the studio.

  "Monsieur Elliott?" he replied to the perfunctory inquiry, "_je ne saispas_."

  "And Monsieur Clifford," began Hastings, somewhat astonished.

  "Monsieur Clifford," said the concierge with fine irony, "will be pleasedto see you, as he retired early; in fact he has just come in."

  Hastings hesitated while the concierge pronounced a fine eulogy on peoplewho never stayed out all night and then came battering at the lodge gateduring hours which even a gendarme held sacred to sleep. He alsodiscoursed eloquently upon the beauties of temperance, and took anostentatious draught from the fountain in the court.

  "I do not think I will come in," said Hastings.

  "Pardon, monsieur," growled the concierge, "perhaps it would be well tosee Monsieur Clifford. He possibly needs aid. Me he drives forth withhair-brushes and boots. It is a mercy if he has not set fire to somethingwith his candle."

  Hastings hesitated for an instant, but swallowing his dislike of such amission, walked slowly through the ivy-covered alley and across the innergarden to the studio. He knocked. Perfect silence. Then he knocked again,and this time something struck the door from within with a crash.

  "That," said the concierge, "was a boot." He fitted his duplicate key intothe 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, anddid not appear astonished to see Hastings.

  "Good-morning, do you use Pears' soap?" he inquired with a vague wave ofhis hand and a vaguer smile.

  Hastings' heart sank. "For Heaven's sake," he said, "Clifford, go to bed."

  "Not while that--that Alfred pokes his shaggy head in here an' I have ashoe left."

  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."

  "Well, I do," said Clifford.

  "Where is Elliott?"

  "Ole chap," returned Clifford, becoming maudlin, "Providence whichfeeds--feeds--er--sparrows an' that sort of thing watcheth over theintemperate wanderer--"

  "Where is Elliott?"

  But Clifford only wagged his head and waved his arm about. "He's outthere,--somewhere about." Then suddenly feeling a desire to see hismissing chum, lifted up his voice and howled for him.

  Hastings, thoroughly shocked, sat down on the lounge without a word.Presently, after shedding several scalding tears, Clifford brightened upand rose with great precaution.

  "Ole chap," he observed, "do you want to see er--er miracle? Well, heregoes. I'm goin' to begin."

  He paused, beaming at vacancy.

  "Er miracle," he repeated.

  Hastings supposed he was alluding to the miracle of his keeping hisbalance, and said nothing.

  "I'm goin' to bed," he announced, "poor ole Clifford's goin' to bed, an'that's er miracle!"

  And he did with a nice calculation of distance and equilibrium which wouldhave rung enthusiastic yells of applause from Elliott had he been there toassist _en connaisseur_. But he was not. He had not yet reached thestudio. He was on his way, however, and smiled with magnificentcondescension on Hastings, who, half an hour later, found him recliningupon a bench in the Luxembourg. He permitted himself to be aroused, dustedand escorted to the gate. Here, however, he refused all furtherassistance, and bestowing a patronizing bow upon Hastings, steered atolerably true course for the rue Vavin.

  Hastings watched him out of sight, and then slowly retraced his stepstoward the fountain. At first he felt gloomy and depressed, but graduallythe clear air of the morning lifted the pressure from his heart, and hesat down on the marble seat under the shadow of the winged god.

  The air was fresh and sweet with perfume from the orange flowers.Everywhere pigeons were bathing, dashing the water over their iris-huedbreasts, flashing in and out of the spray or nestling almost to the neckalong the polished basin. The sparrows, too, were abroad in force, soakingtheir dust-coloured feathers in the limpid pool and chirping with mightand main. Under the sycamores which surrounded the duck-pond opposite thefountain of Marie de Medici, the water-fowl cropped the herbage, orwaddled in rows down the bank to embark on some solemn aimless cruise.

  Butterflies, somewhat lame from a chilly night's repose under the lilacleaves, crawled over and over the white phlox, or took a rheumatic flighttoward some sun-warmed shrub. The bees were already busy among theheliotrope, and one or two grey flies with brick-coloured eyes sat in aspot of sunlight beside the marble seat, or chased each other about, onlyto return again to the spot of sunshine and rub their fore-legs, exulting.

  The sentries paced briskly before the painted boxes, pausing at times tolook toward the guard-house for their relief.

  They came at last, with a shuffle of feet and click of bayonets, the wordwas passed, the relief fell out, and away they went, crunch, crunch,across the gravel.

  A mellow chime floated from the clock-tower of the palace, the deep bellof St. Sulpice echoed the stroke. Hastings sat dreaming in the shadow ofthe god, and while he mused somebody came and sat down beside him. Atfirst he did not raise his head. It was only when she spoke that he sprangup.

  "You! At this hour?"

  "I was restless, I could not sleep." Then in a low, happy voice--"And_you!_ at this hour?"

  "I--I slept, but the sun awoke me."

  "_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 seemedto know you were coming. Don't laugh, I believe in dreams."

  "Did you really dream of,--of my being here?"

  "I think I was awake when I dreamed it," she admitted. Then for a timethey were mute, acknowledging by silence the happiness of being together.And after all their silence was eloquent, for faint smiles, and glancesborn of their thoughts, crossed and recrossed, until lips moved and wordswere formed, which seemed almost superfluous. What they said was not veryprofound. Perhaps the most valuable jewel that fell from Hastings' lipsbore direct reference to breakfast.

  "I have not yet had my chocolate," she confessed, "but what a material manyou are."

  "Valentine," he said impulsively, "I wish,--I do wish that youwould,--just for this once,--give me the whole day,--just for this once."

  "Oh dear," she smiled, "not only material, but selfish!"

  "Not selfish, hungry," he said, looking at her.

  "A cannibal too; oh dear!"

  "Will you, Valentine?"

  "But my chocolate--"

  "Take it with me."

  "But _dejeuner_--"

  "Together, at St. Cloud."

  "But I can't--"

  "Together,--all day,--all day long; will you, Valentine?"

  She was silent.

  "Only for this once."

  Again that indefinable shadow fell across her eyes, and when it was goneshe sighed. "Yes,--together, only for this once."

  "All day?" he said, doubting his happiness.

  "All day," she smiled; "and oh, I am so hungry!"

  He laughed, enchanted.

  "What a material young lady it is."

  On the Boulevard St. Michel there is a Cremerie painted white and blueoutside, and neat and clean as a whistle inside. The auburn-haired youngwoman 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_tete-a-tete_ table, whisked before them two cups of chocolate and abasket full of c
risp, fresh croissons.

  The primrose-coloured pats of butter, each stamped with a shamrock inrelief, seemed saturated with the fragrance of Normandy pastures.

  "How delicious!" they said in the same breath, and then laughed at thecoincidence.

  "With but a single thought," he began.

  "How absurd!" she cried with cheeks all rosy. "I'm thinking I'd like acroisson."

  "So am I," he replied triumphant, "that proves it."

  Then they had a quarrel; she accusing him of behaviour unworthy of a childin arms, and he denying it, and bringing counter charges, untilMademoiselle Murphy laughed in sympathy, and the last croisson was eatenunder a flag of truce. Then they rose, and she took his arm with a brightnod to Mile. Murphy, who cried them a merry: "_Bonjour, madame! bonjour,monsieur_!" and watched them hail a passing cab and drive away. "_Dieu!qu'il est beau_," she sighed, adding after a moment, "Do they be married,I dunno,--_ma foi ils ont bien l'air_."

  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 noisythoroughfare, drew up before the Gare Montparnasse. They were just in timefor a train and scampered up the stairway and out to the cars as the lastnote from the starting-gong rang through the arched station. The guardslammed the door of their compartment, a whistle sounded, answered by ascreech from the locomotive, and the long train glided from the station,faster, faster, and sped out into the morning sunshine. The summer windblew in their faces from the open window, and sent the soft hair dancingon the girl's forehead.

  "We have the compartment to ourselves," said Hastings.

  She leaned against the cushioned window-seat, her eyes bright and wideopen, her lips parted. The wind lifted her hat, and fluttered the ribbonsunder her chin. With a quick movement she untied them, and, drawing a longhat-pin from her hat, laid it down on the seat beside her. The train wasflying.

  The colour surged in her cheeks, and, with each quick-drawn breath, herbreath rose and fell under the cluster of lilies at her throat. Trees,houses, ponds, danced past, cut by a mist of telegraph poles.

  "Faster! faster!" she cried.

  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, butfled before them as they fled.

  Was it the horizon, cut now by the grim fortress on the hill, now by thecross of a country chapel? Was it the summer moon, ghost-like, slippingthrough the vaguer blue above?

  "Faster! faster!" she cried.

  Her parted lips burned scarlet.

  The car shook and shivered, and the fields streamed by like an emeraldtorrent. He caught the excitement, and his faced glowed.

  "Oh," she cried, and with an unconscious movement caught his hand, drawinghim to the window beside her. "Look! lean out with me!"

  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 intheir ears. "Not so far out, Valentine, take care!" he gasped.

  Below, through the ties of the trestle, a broad river flashed into viewand out again, as the train thundered along a tunnel, and away once morethrough the freshest of green fields. The wind roared about them. The girlwas 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 ofthe city, out of the land, faster, faster! away out of the world!"

  "What are you saying all to yourself?" he said, but his voice was broken,and the wind whirled it back into his throat.

  She heard him, and, turning from the window looked down at his arm abouther. Then she raised her eyes to his. The car shook and the windowsrattled. They were dashing through a forest now, and the sun swept thedewy branches with running flashes of fire. He looked into her troubledeyes; he drew her to him and kissed the half-parted lips, and she criedout, a bitter, hopeless cry, "Not that--not that!"

  But he held her close and strong, whispering words of honest love andpassion, and when she sobbed--"Not that--not that--I have promised! Youmust--you must know--I am--not--worthy--" In the purity of his own hearther words were, to him, meaningless then, meaningless for ever after.Presently her voice ceased, and her head rested on his breast. He leanedagainst the window, his ears swept by the furious wind, his heart in ajoyous tumult. The forest was passed, and the sun slipped from behind thetrees, flooding the earth again with brightness. She raised her eyes andlooked out into the world from the window. Then she began to speak, buther voice was faint, and he bent his head close to hers and listened. "Icannot turn from you; I am too weak. You were long ago my master--masterof my heart and soul. I have broken my word to one who trusted me, but Ihave told you all;--what matters the rest?" He smiled at her innocence andshe worshipped his. She spoke again: "Take me or cast me away;--whatmatters it? Now with a word you can kill me, and it might be easier to diethan to look upon happiness as great as mine."

  He took her in his arms, "Hush, what are you saying? Look,--look out atthe sunlight, the meadows and the streams. We shall be very happy in sobright a world."

  She turned to the sunlight. From the window, the world below seemed veryfair to her.

  Trembling with happiness, she sighed: "Is this the world? Then I havenever known it."

  "Nor have I, God forgive me," he murmured.

  Perhaps it was our gentle Lady of the Fields who forgave them both.