The 11th Golden Age of Weird Fiction

by E. Hoffmann Price

  “Pale hands I loved, beside the Shalimar,

  Where are you now…”

  It was but a short walk to Joubert’s house.

  “Georges,” said Lawton to his astonished friend, “place me under arrest. And tell the Prefect of Police to call at 34 rue Lachepaillet. He will find her with a cord about her throat. I thought that she sold me. But I met an old man at the station, who told me…”

  “I understand,” replied Joubert, as he heard the final whistle of the express clearing the yards for Spain.

  TARBIS OF THE LAKE

  Originally published in Weird Tales, February 1934.

  “My son,” said white-haired Father Peytral to his companion, whose steel-grey eyes seemed far older than his rugged, bronzed features, “suppose that you abandon this hypothetical friend of yours and tell what is worrying you. Never mind what I’ll think. Just express yourself.”

  John Rankin started. His face darkened for an instant; then he smiled as he caught the kindly expression in the old priest’s eyes.

  “I might have known you’d see through it, Father Peytral. But before I go any further, tell me who—what—well, was there ever a woman named Tarbis? I mean, other than—”

  Rankin abruptly checked his speech, stared at the earth and at the heels of the unending throng of pilgrims who passed along the Esplanade.

  Father Peytral’s scrutiny of Rankin became keener at the mention of Tarbis.

  “What’s that?” he demanded. “Tarbis?” The priest frowned as he groped for a moment for a thought that was evading him, then resumed, “There is an old tradition to the effect that Tarbis, Queen of Ethiopia—”

  “Ethiopia?” interrupted Rankin. “Why—she is as white as I am.”

  Father Peytral’s eyebrows rose. Then, instead of asking the question that was on his lips, he explained, “Ethiopia in those days was the upper kingdom of Egypt. A queen of that country was no more negro than Rameses the Great.

  “And Tarbis,” he continued, “offered her hand and crown to Moses, who declined both. The pride of the queen and the woman being sorely wounded, she abandoned her throne and set sail, wandering until she reached France. She founded not only the city of Tarbes, which to this day bears her name, but also its neighbor Lapurdum—our modern Lourdes which God has so signally honored in selecting it as the place for the apparition of the Holy Virgin to appear.

  “They say that the site of the original Lapurdum was three kilometers from here. Its inhabitants practiced black magic. The place became a den of necromancers, an affront to God, man, and nature. But instead of following the Scriptural precedent, and destroying Lapurdum with fire, the Almighty caused a flood to rise out of the earth and overwhelm the city, whence the present lake, not far from the outskirts of the modern city of Lourdes.

  “All of which,” concluded Father Peytral, “is to be found in the archives of Lourdes.”

  “Good God!” muttered Rankin. “Worse and worse! You’ve just succeeded in confirming my outrageous fancy—the thing I’ve tried to deny….”

  Rankin suddenly sat bolt-upright. His bronzed cheeks had become sickly yellow. His eyes were burning with an unnatural light, and his face was drawn and haggard as he regarded the priest for a moment before continuing, “That Ethiopian queen never died. She is living in Lourdes, on the street that leads to the chateau. I knew—I sensed—and now you have confirmed it!”

  Father Peytral recognized solemn-voiced knowledge.

  “My son,” he said in a low, even voice, “that any human being, man or woman, could attain everlasting physical life is denied both by the Church and by science. Whatever the source of your obsession, you must forget such fantastic thoughts!”

  “Forget them?” exclaimed Rankin. “I’ve tried that for several years. You’ve often tried to get me to open up. I evaded your queries, but my fear finally got the best of me. First it was a lover’s fancy, that idea that Tarbis Dulac had in the dim past discovered the secret of eternal youth. That didn’t alarm me. It was just a quaint conceit, a whimsical fancy about a girl I think a great deal of. But at last I found that I was telling myself that I didn’t believe anything of the kind.”

  “Which,” said the priest, “assured you that you did believe just that, and it frightened you.”

  Rankin nodded.

  “So I left Lourdes. I roamed all over Asia, trying to forget. And when I finally succeeded in driving her antique smile from my conscious memory, and with it the idea that she was some one who had lived for ages, she returned and haunted me in nightmarish dreams. She made statuesque gestures, like—you’ve seen them, sculptured—”

  “Mais oui,” agreed Father Peytral. “In the Louvre, for instance.”

  “She wore a tall, curious head-dress. She murmured words that I could not understand, except in momentary flashes. And what I understood troubled me more than what I didn’t. I’m afraid of Tarbis—and I’m in love with her.”

  He raised his eyes and make a despairing gesture of his hand, then let his head droop wearily. Father Peytral murmured to himself as he contemplated the hopelessly baffled expression of Rankin’s rugged features.

  “And now you tell me a legend of a Tarbis who was a queen, Lord knows how many centuries ago,” muttered Rankin. “And of the lake—her very name today, Dulac…du Lac…” Then, jerking himself erect: “What do you say? Am I utterly insane?”

  “No,” replied the priest as he grasped Rankin by the shoulder. “On the contrary, your doubts prove your sanity. An insane person is assured that every one but himself is unbalanced. Your denying this delusion is your best assurance.”

  “Well, what am I to do?” demanded Rankin, taking heart. “I can’t stand being near a woman who I know is an uncanny creature that should have died ages ago. And neither can I stay away from her. I’ve tried both!”

  For a moment neither spoke. Then Father Peytral’s frown of perplexed pondering was replaced by a smile of calm assurance.

  “You have unwittingly taken the right course,” he said, “in speaking your thought aloud instead of letting it be an inner murmuring that has poisoned your mind. See this Tarbis Dulac, look her in the eye, speak to her and tell her your thought. Never mind what she thinks of your sanity. Face her unflinchingly and express yourself. Ask her solemnly who and what she is, and tell her why you ask. If she cares for you, she will not be harsh in her judgment.”

  “Father Peytral, I can’t do that!” protested Rankin. “She’ll think—” He regarded the priest with outraged amazement.

  “You seem to forget—”

  Father Peytral shook his gray head. His smile was a tale of time-mellowed grief.

  “My son,” he said in a voice that was none the less authoritative for being low, “I do not forget. I know. If she cares for you, she will not judge harshly. And once you have enunciated this outrageous thought, you will have conquered it. Your fear and your furtive denials have fostered this obsession, even as your speaking boldly will burn it out.”

  Rankin pondered for a moment. He rose from the stone bench and stood erect. His eyes were less haggard, and his drawn face had relaxed.

  “Thank you, Father,” he said. “I’ll see her tonight, and I’ll follow your advice.”

  Rankin lifted his hat and bowed. Then, to himself, as he strode down the Esplanade, “Fine old man…not a sign of a sermon…seems perfectly natural to call him Father.…”

  Like those pilgrims who flock toward Lourdes, Rankin had crossed land and sea for the good of his soul, even though he had not come to pray, or to drink the water of the spring that had miraculously burst forth from the grotto of the great black rock of Massabielle. But, though Father Peytral’s assurance gave Rankin a new grip on himself, and a weapon with which to combat his obsession, the priest’s words had at the same time strengthened Rankin’s ever-present feeling that he was dealing with one whose name was writ
ten on the first pages of the archives of that city which had not always been a holy place, comparable to Rome, Jerusalem, or Mecca.

  * * * *

  That evening Rankin sat once more in the luxuriously furnished reception room of that outwardly unprepossessing house which was perched on the steep slope of the hill whose high-walled fortress and square donjon built by the Moslem conquerors commanded the valley of the Gave.

  “It is good to see you again, mon ami,” she said as she regarded Rankin with her smoldering, long-lashed eyes. “Incurable nomad, you tried to forget Tarbis, didn’t you?”

  “But I couldn’t,” Rankin admitted somberly. The assurance that he had gained from Father Peytral was slowly melting before the loveliness of Tarbis Dulac. “And I know now that I never shall. You’ve haunted me. Your memory followed me and made a madness of my dreams. So I’ve returned.”

  “I knew that you would, some day,” murmured the girl. “I’ve been expecting you.”

  She smiled that slow, archaic smile that had haunted Rankin; but her eyes were dolorous and incredibly ancient. They contradicted the youthful freshness of her skin and the gracious contours of her throat and shoulders. Tarbis was uncommonly lovely, and any one but Rankin would have accepted her without undue wonderings and fancies.

  Then Rankin nerved himself for the assault.

  “I’ve returned to solve the riddle,” said Rankin. “You’ve evaded me and mocked me with that sphinx smile of yours, and your eyes have laughed at me. I’ve wondered entirely too long who and what you are. So I’ve returned to find out, once and for all,” he concluded.

  The girl’s eyebrows rose in Moorish arches, and she made a fleeting gesture of her slender hand. That damnable, haunting gesture! That insidious suggestion of sculptured fingers on the granite of deserted temples and rifled tombs!

  “Insatiable, aren’t you?” she chided. “What more do you want? What have I ever denied you?”

  Tarbis was right. Any sane man should have been content. Yet there was that same evasion which had always left Rankin baffled. Rankin knew that he had flinched from the assault; that he had failed solemnly to demand who and what she was.

  “Tarbis, how old are you?” he asked in blunt-spoken desperation.

  “Such a question, mon ami!” Her laugh was light. She refused to take him seriously. Then she answered, “I’m ever so much older than you suspect, John. But would I be any more pleasing if you could catalogue me like a piece of antique furniture, a bit of jade, a Persian carpet?”

  Rankin had to admit that Tarbis was right. And to consider her as a normal woman was the sane and logical thing; yet there would be no peace until she had answered the solemn adjuration he was to make.

  “I wonder,” she continued, “if you are sure that you want to know. Did you ever stop to think that you might have long regrets?”

  Worse and yet worse! She was hinting at the very thought that he had sought to disown.

  “You know,” said Tarbis after a long pause during which her lips were alternately smiling and grave, “I could just as well question you, and wonder why you’ve left me several times, with never a quarrel or any apparent necessity. And I do know that you’ve always cared for me—a great deal. There is nothing to prevent your staying in Lourdes. You know I’d not seek any claim on you. Yet you’ve always left.”

  “Yes, and always returned!” he retorted, stung by the memory of his resolutions to forget her, and his inevitable relapse from his determination. “But this time I’m going to get the answer. You’re so much more than you appear to be. You’re not one woman but a world of women in one, and you are withholding a hundredfold more than you’ll ever reveal.”

  “Such versatility should be pleasing,” suggested Tarbis with a lightness that belied her unsmiling eyes.

  Rankin decided that she was not mocking him, but he would no longer accept evasion. He rose abruptly and seized her by the wrist.

  “Let’s not fence any longer! Just because I’ve not found words to express myself—”

  Rankin stopped short. He had found words, but he dared not use them.

  “Then tell me what is on your mind, John,” said Tarbis. “Maybe I’ll understand.”

  She spoke very solemnly now. Her voice was grave, and her eyes were unsmiling and age-old. Rankin released her wrist and stared at the golden-olive tint that crept back to erase the white imprint of his grasp. She regarded him intently for a long moment, then spoke again.

  “Can’t you forget your morbid curiosity?” she pleaded. “Can’t you take me for what I am, and without question? Kiss me, and love me for the sake of the evening, and for myself. And if you do care enough to be jealous, stay here in Lourdes, always, and watch me as closely as any Turk ever guarded his harem.”

  Rankin saw the gleam of tears in her great lustrous eyes. He knew that he was about to weaken as he had so many times before. At the moment, his thoughts seemed outrageous and insane beyond expression. And then he thought of the obsession that had overwhelmed him and affronted every trace of reason. No matter what she thought of his sanity, he had to declare himself. It would be better for her to think him utterly mad than for him to become so in fact. He nerved himself for the final plunge.

  “Tarbis, do you know that most of the time I’ve been resisting the thought that you are not a woman at all, but something—”

  “Must you know all about me?” she interrupted, recoiling from the implication of his last word, and eager to prevent his expressing that which she sensed would follow. “John, can’t you take anything for granted? Have I ever—”

  “No, I can’t,” declared Rankin, evading her attempted change of subject. “I’ve reached the verge of madness, telling myself, arguing with myself to prove that you are not older than any woman has a right to be. In my own mind I’ve denied breaths of rumors and hints that no rational person would bother to deny.”

  “Oh, those damnable, meddling priests and villagers!” exclaimed Tarbis with a despairing, impersonal bitterness. “Can’t they live and let live? Can’t they be content to go their placid, ordained ways and leave me in peace?”

  “But they didn’t talk about you,” protested Rankin.

  “No, but they spoke of her,” countered Tarbis. “John, can’t you forget all this? You do care for me, don’t you? Or am I just another riddle that your insatiable mind must solve lest it perish of unsatisfied vanity? Must you know everything?”

  “Not everything. Tarbis. But this one thing, yes; for the good of my soul and my sanity. Who and what are you?” he demanded desperately, steeling himself to resist the appeal that he read in her eyes.

  She was about to yield. He could not now relent.

  “Since you insist, I’ll tell you,” she finally assented. “No, I’ll show you, and let you draw your own conclusion. I will let you meet my rival face to face.”

  “Your rival?” gasped Rankin, amazed at that turn. “You mean my rival don’t you?”

  “No, I mean what I said: my rival,” affirmed Tarbis. “My rival, and my damnation. She will drive you away. She will everlastingly destroy the happiness I have stolen—we have stolen. But since it must be—”

  She took Rankin by the hand, and half turned toward the winding stairway. Then she paused and reached for her wine-glass.

  “A toast, John,” she proposed, with the air of one gallantly drinking to impending doom. “To my rival and to her damnation!”

  Rankin drained his glass. Tarbis barely moistened her lips, and set the stemmed glass back on the old lace runner that crossed the table. Then she led the way upstairs.

  As Rankin passed the carved newel post and followed her up through the dim light, it seemed that he was marching toward a perilous rendezvous. For a moment he wanted to take the steps three at a bound, seize her and carry her back to the warmth and light of that familiar living-room, to fight those torturing fa
ncies on the level ground of sanity. But Rankin remembered his resolve, and stifled the sadness that was mingled with his sense of impending peril.

  Tarbis halted at the head of the stairs. Her blue-black hair glistened under the glow of a shaded oil lamp. Queer, how this luxurious house of hers should be so obsolete in some details. The square-cut emerald on her finger was phosphorescent as the eyes of a beast of prey. Rankin knew why he observed and made mental comment on such irrelevancies…once, in crossing a courtyard to face a firing-squad, he had noted the pattern of the tiles and had observed that the color scheme was clashing.…

  “She is waiting for us,” he heard Tarbis saying. “Here, in my own room.”

  Rankin fought the raging impulse to retreat and let well enough alone. He followed her into the dimness of that familiar room with its canopied bed and its dressing table. A hand-mirror lay, as always, face down, the twining golden serpents of its handle gleaming in the faint light. Rankin wondered again why that mirror was never face up.

  Then, in a niche in the masonry of the wall he saw a mummy-case whose gilded features stared vacantly at him.

  “She is here,” said Tarbis. “I will leave you with her. Her last words were spoken far back in the first youth of time. Her lips are silent, but she will speak to your mind. And when you know, you may return to the living-room. I’ll probably be asleep on the divan.”

  She paused and regarded him intently for a moment; then she continued, “Perhaps, when she tells you who I am, and how old I am, you’ll pass quietly on, without even a word of farewell. But, perhaps—the memories we share—I hope—”

  She turned, without expressing her hope. The door closed behind her, leaving Rankin with his strange companion. The loneliness of the room oppressed him. The departure of Tarbis made it appallingly like a tomb.

  He felt in his vest pocket for cigarettes, but found none. Well, no matter; although a smoke would be company while he sat there, seeking the point of the tableau she had arranged. Then he saw a silver case among the combs and perfume vials and powder boxes. It was half filled with long, slender cigarettes. He struck light to one. It was ever so faintly scented and had a curious but not unpleasant aroma. That exotic tobacco was appropriate to Tarbis. Rankin snapped his lighter closed and leaned back in his chair to contemplate the gilded features of the sycamore case and its rows of painted hieroglyphs.