The King In Yellow by Robert W. Chambers

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"My--my house!" she repeated.

"I mean, where you live, in fact, to present me to your family."

The change in the girl's face shocked him.

"I beg your pardon," he cried, "I have hurt you."

And as quick as a flash she understood him because she was a woman.

"My parents are dead," she said.

Presently he began again, very gently.

"Would it displease you if I beg you to receive me? It is the custom?"

"I cannot," she answered. Then glancing up at him, "I am sorry; I should
like to; but believe me. I cannot."

He bowed seriously and looked vaguely uneasy.

"It isn't because I don't wish to. I--I like you; you are very kind to
me."

"Kind?" he cried, surprised and puzzled.

"I like you," she said slowly, "and we will see each other sometimes if
you will."

"At friends' houses."

"No, not at friends' houses."

"Where?"

"Here," she said with defiant eyes.

"Why," he cried, "in Paris you are much more liberal in your views than we
are."

She looked at him curiously.

"Yes, we are very Bohemian."

"I think it is charming," he declared.

"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.

He looked at her, delighted, and she brightened at the success of her
innocent little pleasantry.

"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--"

Hastings turned to look up at the winged god under whose shadow they were
seated.

"Why, it's Love," he said.

IV

"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."

"Hayseed?" inquired Bowles, plastering in a background with a broken
palette-knife and squinting at the effect with approval.

"Yes, Squeedunk or Oshkosh, and how he ever grew up among the daisies and
escaped the cows, Heaven alone knows!"

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.

"His name," continued Laffat, hurling a bit of bread at the hat-rack, "his
name is Hastings. He _is_ 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."

Bowles now having succeeded in lighting his pipe, repeated the thumb touch
on the other edge of the study and said, "Ah!"

"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."

"Did you assist him with your shoe?" inquired Bowles, languidly
interested.

"Well, no."

"He called you a vile-minded fool."

"He was correct," said Clifford from his easel in front.

"What--what do you mean?" demanded Laffat, turning red.

"_That_," replied Clifford.

"Who spoke to you? Is this your business?" sneered Bowles, but nearly lost
his balance as Clifford swung about and eyed him.

"Yes," he said slowly, "it's my business."

No one spoke for some time.

Then Clifford sang out, "I say, Hastings!"

And when Hastings left his easel and came around, he nodded toward the
astonished Laffat.

"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."

Hastings, embarrassed, said, "Why no, I don't agree with his ideas,
nothing more."

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.

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.

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.

They climbed down at the rue Gay Lussac.

"I always stop here," observed Clifford, "I like the walk through the
Luxembourg."

"By the way," said Hastings, "how can I call on you when I don't know
where you live?"

"Why, I live opposite you."

"What--the studio in the garden where the almond trees are and the
blackbirds--"

"Exactly," said Clifford. "I'm with my friend Elliott."

Hastings thought of the description of the two American artists which he
had heard from Miss Susie Byng, and looked blank.

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.

"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."

"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."

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--"

"Not a word!" cried Hastings, smiling; "you must not tell me a word of
her!"

"Why--"

"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!"

"I promise," said Clifford, amazed.

"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."

"Oh," murmured Clifford.

"Remember your promise," he smiled, as he turned into his gateway.

Clifford strolled across the street and, traversing the ivy-covered alley,
entered his garden.

He felt for his studio key, muttering, "I wonder--I wonder,--but of course
he doesn't!"

He entered the hallway, and fitting the key into the door, stood staring
at the two cards tacked over the panels.

FOXHALL CLIFFORD

RICHARD OSBORNE ELLIOTT

"Why the devil doesn't he want me to speak of her?"

He opened the door, and, discouraging the caresses of two brindle
bull-dogs, sank down on the sofa.

Elliott sat smoking and sketching with a piece of charcoal by the window.

"Hello," he said without looking around.

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--"

"Yes, what's up?"

"Oh, nothing. He's a brick."

"Yes," said Elliott, without enthusiasm.

"Don't you think so?" demanded Clifford.

"Why yes, but he is going to have a tough time when some of his illusions
are dispelled."

"More shame to those who dispel 'em!"

"Yes,--wait until he comes to pay his call on us, unexpectedly, of
course--"

Clifford looked virtuous and lighted a cigar.

"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--"

"Ah!" cried Elliott indignantly, "I suppose you put it to him in that
way."

"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."

"I am," observed Elliott complacently, "only living with you--"

"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!"

"Did he object?"

"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--"

"Well?" demanded Elliott

"Well," said Clifford, "his idea of the dangerous woman is probably a
painted Jezabel."

"Probably," replied the other.

"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."

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."

"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.

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.

"Going out?" inquired the other, without turning.

"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.

"To-morrow is Sunday," he observed after a moment's silence.

"Well?" inquired Elliott.

"Have you seen Colette?"

"No, I will to-night. She and Rowden and Jacqueline are coming to
Boulant's. I suppose you and, Cecile will be there?"

"Well, no," replied Clifford. "Cecile dines at home to-night, and I--I had
an idea of going to Mignon's."

Elliott looked at him with disapproval.

"You can make all the arrangements for La Roche without me," he continued,
avoiding Elliott's eyes.

"What are you up to now?"

"Nothing," protested Clifford.

"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 Cecile 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!"

Presently he arose, and jamming his hat on his head, marched to the door.

"Heaven alone knows why any one puts up with your antics, but they all do
and so do I. If I were Cecile 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 Cecile 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 Cecile 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."

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?"

"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, _mon petit_ Alfred."

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 _eclat_ 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.

"Now, where in the name of all that's reasonable could he have gone!"
muttered Clifford, looking down the street.

The maid didn't know, so he bestowed upon her a fascinating smile and
lounged back to the studio.

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.

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.

From the end of the long walk by the northern facade 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
Odeon 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 berets
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.

"How late you are," he said, but his voice was hoarse and only his flushed
face told how long had seemed the waiting.

She said, "I was kept--indeed, I was so much annoyed--and--and I may only
stay a moment."

She sat down beside him, casting a furtive glance over her shoulder at the
god upon his pedestal.

"What a nuisance, that intruding cupid still there?"

"Wings and arrows too," said Hastings, unheeding her motion to be seated.

"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."

"Do you think so?"

"_Ma foi_, it's what men think."

"And women?"

"Oh," she said, with a toss of her small head, "I really forget what we
were speaking of."

"We were speaking of love," said Hastings.

"_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.

"I think," said Hastings quietly, "that he does shoot fairly--yes, and
even gives one warning."

"Is it your experience, Monsieur Hastings?"

He looked straight into her eyes and said, "He is warning me."

"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.

"No," he said, "I shall not heed his warning."

"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."

"I don't know," he muttered, "I suppose I am."

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.

"Are you cold?" he said.

But she only answered, "Oh dear, oh dear, it is late--so late! I must
go--good-night."

She gave him her gloved hand a moment and then withdrew it with a start.

"What is it?" he insisted. "Are you frightened?"

She looked at him strangely.

"No--no--not frightened,--you are very good to me--"

"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!"

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!"

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.

"On ferme! on ferme!"

"Good-night," she whispered, "I must return alone to-night."

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.

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 Ecoles. A cab was drawn
up before Boulant's, and a pretty girl aided by Elliott jumped out.

"Valentine!" cried the girl, "come with us!"

"I can't," she said, stopping a moment--"I have a rendezvous at Mignon's."

"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 Cafe
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.

"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."

"Who is here?"

"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.

Clifford opened the door and the girl entered.

The garcon bowed her in, and whispering, "Will Monsieur have the goodness
to ring?" vanished.

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.

"What are you doing here?" she demanded.

"Waiting," he replied, in accents of adoration.

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?"

"Waiting for you," repeated Clifford, slightly troubled.

"And Cecile."

"Now don't, Valentine--"

"Do you know," she said calmly, "I dislike your conduct?"

He was a little disconcerted, and rang for Eugene to cover his confusion.

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.

"Valentine," said Clifford, after having obtained permission to smoke, "is
it the Vaudeville or the Eldorado--or both, or the Nouveau Cirque, or--"

"It is here," said Valentine.

"Well," he said, greatly flattered, "I'm afraid I couldn't amuse you--"

"Oh, yes, you are funnier than the Eldorado."

"Now see here, don't guy me, Valentine. You always do, and, and,--you know
what they say,--a good laugh kills--"

"What?"

"Er--er--love and all that."

She laughed until her eyes were moist with tears. "Tiens," she cried, "he
is dead, then!"

Clifford eyed her with growing alarm.

"Do you know why I came?" she said.

"No," he replied uneasily, "I don't."

"How long have you made love to me?"

"Well," he admitted, somewhat startled,--"I should say,--for about a
year."

"It is a year, I think. Are you not tired?"

He did not answer.

"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?"

"Don't be--don't be so sarcastic," he urged; "don't be unkind, Valentine."

"I'm not. I'm kind. I'm very kind,--to you and to Cecile."

"Cecile is tired of me."

"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 Cecile!"

Clifford looked so uncomfortable that she spoke more kindly.

"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."

"Caprice!" he cried. "By Jove, if the girls of the Latin Quarter are not
capricious--"

"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--"

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