II
Twenty-four hours later Selby had completely forgotten Rue Barree. Duringthe week he worked with might and main at the studio, and Saturday nightfound him so tired that he went to bed before dinner and had a nightmareabout a river of yellow ochre in which he was drowning. Sunday morning,apropos of nothing at all, he thought of Rue Barree, and ten secondsafterwards he saw her. It was at the flower-market on the marble bridge.She was examining a pot of pansies. The gardener had evidently thrownheart and soul into the transaction, but Rue Barree shook her head.
It is a question whether Selby would have stopped then and there toinspect a cabbage-rose had not Clifford unwound for him the yarn of theprevious Tuesday. It is possible that his curiosity was piqued, for withthe exception of a hen-turkey, a boy of nineteen is the most openlycurious 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. Undera cloudless sky the flowers were packed and heaped along the marble bridgeto the parapet. The air was soft, the sun spun a shadowy lacework amongthe palms and glowed in the hearts of a thousand roses. Spring hadcome,--was in full tide. The watering carts and sprinklers spreadfreshness over the Boulevard, the sparrows had become vulgarly obtrusive,and the credulous Seine angler anxiously followed his gaudy quill floatingamong the soapsuds of the lavoirs. The white-spiked chestnuts clad intender green vibrated with the hum of bees. Shoddy butterflies flauntedtheir winter rags among the heliotrope. There was a smell of fresh earthin the air, an echo of the woodland brook in the ripple of the Seine, andswallows soared and skimmed among the anchored river craft. Somewhere in awindow a caged bird was singing its heart out to the sky.
Selby looked at the cabbage-rose and then at the sky. Something in thesong of the caged bird may have moved him, or perhaps it was thatdangerous sweetness in the air of May.
At first he was hardly conscious that he had stopped then he was scarcelyconscious why he had stopped, then he thought he would move on, then hethought he wouldn't, then he looked at Rue Barree.
The gardener said, "Mademoiselle, this is undoubtedly a fine pot ofpansies."
Rue Barree shook her head.
The gardener smiled. She evidently did not want the pansies. She hadbought many pots of pansies there, two or three every spring, and neverargued. What did she want then? The pansies were evidently a feeler towarda more important transaction. The gardener rubbed his hands and gazedabout him.
"These tulips are magnificent," he observed, "and these hyacinths--" Hefell into a trance at the mere sight of the scented thickets.
"That," murmured Rue, pointing to a splendid rose-bush with her furledparasol, but in spite of her, her voice trembled a little. Selby noticedit, 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 himjustice, he did not add a centime to the honest value of the plant, forafter all, Rue was probably poor, and any one could see she was charming.
"Fifty francs, Mademoiselle."
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 hisprize,--the rose-tree was gorgeous and any one could see it.
"I will take the pansies," said the girl, and drew two francs from a wornpurse. Then she looked up. A tear-drop stood in the way refracting thelight like a diamond, but as it rolled into a little corner by her nose avision of Selby replaced it, and when a brush of the handkerchief hadcleared the startled blue eyes, Selby himself appeared, very muchembarrassed. He instantly looked up into the sky, apparently devoured witha thirst for astronomical research, and as he continued his investigationsfor fully five minutes, the gardener looked up too, and so did apoliceman. Then Selby looked at the tips of his boots, the gardener lookedat him and the policeman slouched on. Rue Barree had been gone some time.
"What," said the gardener, "may I offer Monsieur?"
Selby never knew why, but he suddenly began to buy flowers. The gardenerwas electrified. Never before had he sold so many flowers, never at suchsatisfying prices, and never, never with such absolute unanimity ofopinion with a customer. But he missed the bargaining, the arguing, thecalling of Heaven to witness. The transaction lacked spice.
"These tulips are magnificent!"
"They are!" cried Selby warmly.
"But alas, they are dear."
"I will take them."
"Dieu!" murmured the gardener in a perspiration, "he's madder than mostEnglishmen."
"This cactus--"
"Is gorgeous!"
"Alas--"
"Send it with the rest."
The gardener braced himself against the river wall.
"That splendid rose-bush," he began faintly.
"That is a beauty. I believe it is fifty francs--"
He stopped, very red. The gardener relished his confusion. Then a suddencool self-possession took the place of his momentary confusion and he heldthe gardener with his eye, and bullied him.
"I'll take that bush. Why did not the young lady buy it?"
"Mademoiselle is not wealthy."
"How do you know?"
"_Dame_, I sell her many pansies; pansies are not expensive."
"Those are the pansies she bought?"
"These, Monsieur, the blue and gold."
"Then you intend to send them to her?"
"At mid-day after the market."
"Take this rose-bush with them, and"--here he glared at thegardener--"don't you dare say from whom they came." The gardener's eyeswere like saucers, but Selby, calm and victorious, said: "Send the othersto the Hotel du Senat, 7 rue de Tournon. I will leave directions with theconcierge."
Then he buttoned his glove with much dignity and stalked off, but whenwell around the corner and hidden from the gardener's view, the convictionthat he was an idiot came home to him in a furious blush. Ten minuteslater he sat in his room in the Hotel du Senat repeating with an imbecilesmile: "What an ass I am, what an ass!"
An hour later found him in the same chair, in the same position, his hatand gloves still on, his stick in his hand, but he was silent, apparentlylost in contemplation of his boot toes, and his smile was less imbecileand even a bit retrospective.
The King in Yellow Page 34
