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The King In Yellow

Robert W. Chambers

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Title: The King In Yellow

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THE KING IN YELLOW

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ROBERT W. CHAMBERS

Original publication date: 1895

THE KING IN YELLOW

IS DEDICATED

MY BROTHER

Along the shore the cloud waves break,

The twin suns sink beneath the lake,

The shadows lengthen

In Carcosa.

Strange is the night where black stars rise,

And strange moons circle through the skies

But stranger still is

Lost Carcosa.

Songs that the Hyades shall sing,

Where flap the tatters of the King,

Must die unheard in

Dim Carcosa.

Song of my soul, my voice is dead;

Die thou, unsung, as tears unshed

Shall dry and die in

Lost Carcosa.

Cassilda's Song in "The King in Yellow," Act i, Scene 2.

THE REPAIRER OF REPUTATIONS

"Ne raillons pas les fous; leur folie dure plus longtemps que

la notre.... Voila toute la difference."

Toward the end of the year 1920 the Government of the United States had

practically completed the programme, adopted during the last months of

President Winthrop's administration. The country was apparently tranquil.

Everybody knows how the Tariff and Labour questions were settled. The war

with Germany, incident on that country's seizure of the Samoan Islands,

had left no visible scars upon the republic, and the temporary occupation

of Norfolk by the invading army had been forgotten in the joy over

repeated naval victories, and the subsequent ridiculous plight of General

Von Gartenlaube's forces in the State of New Jersey. The Cuban and

Hawaiian investments had paid one hundred per cent and the territory of

Samoa was well worth its cost as a coaling station. The country was in a

ads:

superb state of defence. Every coast city had been well supplied with land

fortifications; the army under the parental eye of the General Staff,

organized according to the Prussian system, had been increased to 300,000

men, with a territorial reserve of a million; and six magnificent

squadrons of cruisers and battle-ships patrolled the six stations of the

navigable seas, leaving a steam reserve amply fitted to control home

waters. The gentlemen from the West had at last been constrained to

acknowledge that a college for the training of diplomats was as necessary

as law schools are for the training of barristers; consequently we were no

longer represented abroad by incompetent patriots. The nation was

prosperous; Chicago, for a moment paralyzed after a second great fire, had

risen from its ruins, white and imperial, and more beautiful than the white

city which had been built for its plaything in 1893. Everywhere good

architecture was replacing bad, and even in New York, a sudden craving for

decency had swept away a great portion of the existing horrors. Streets

had been widened, properly paved and lighted, trees had been planted,

squares laid out, elevated structures demolished and underground roads

built to replace them. The new government buildings and barracks were fine

bits of architecture, and the long system of stone quays which completely

surrounded the island had been turned into parks which proved a god-send

to the population. The subsidizing of the state theatre and state opera

brought its own reward. The United States National Academy of Design was

much like European institutions of the same kind. Nobody envied the

Secretary of Fine Arts, either his cabinet position or his portfolio. The

Secretary of Forestry and Game Preservation had a much easier time, thanks

to the new system of National Mounted Police. We had profited well by the

latest treaties with France and England; the exclusion of foreign-born

Jews as a measure of self-preservation, the settlement of the new

independent negro state of Suanee, the checking of immigration, the new

laws concerning naturalization, and the gradual centralization of power in

the executive all contributed to national calm and prosperity. When the

Government solved the Indian problem and squadrons of Indian cavalry

scouts in native costume were substituted for the pitiable organizations

tacked on to the tail of skeletonized regiments by a former Secretary of

War, the nation drew a long sigh of relief. When, after the colossal

Congress of Religions, bigotry and intolerance were laid in their graves

and kindness and charity began to draw warring sects together, many

thought the millennium had arrived, at least in the new world which after

all is a world by itself.

But self-preservation is the first law, and the United States had to look

on in helpless sorrow as Germany, Italy, Spain and Belgium writhed in the

throes of Anarchy, while Russia, watching from the Caucasus, stooped and

bound them one by one.

In the city of New York the summer of 1899 was signalized by the

dismantling of the Elevated Railroads. The summer of 1900 will live in

the memories of New York people for many a cycle; the Dodge Statue was

removed in that year. In the following winter began that agitation for

the repeal of the laws prohibiting suicide which bore its final fruit in

the month of April, 1920, when the first Government Lethal Chamber was

opened on Washington Square.

I had walked down that day from Dr. Archer's house on Madison Avenue,

where I had been as a mere formality. Ever since that fall from my horse,

four years before, I had been troubled at times with pains in the back of

my head and neck, but now for months they had been absent, and the doctor

sent me away that day saying there was nothing more to be cured in me. It

was hardly worth his fee to be told that; I knew it myself. Still I did

not grudge him the money. What I minded was the mistake which he made at

first. When they picked me up from the pavement where I lay unconscious,

and somebody had mercifully sent a bullet through my horse's head, I was

carried to Dr. Archer, and he, pronouncing my brain affected, placed me

in his private asylum where I was obliged to endure treatment for

insanity. At last he decided that I was well, and I, knowing that my mind

had always been as sound as his, if not sounder, "paid my tuition" as he

jokingly called it, and left. I told him, smiling, that I would get even

with him for his mistake, and he laughed heartily, and asked me to call

once in a while. I did so, hoping for a chance to even up accounts, but

he gave me none, and I told him I would wait.

The fall from my horse had fortunately left no evil results; on the

contrary it had changed my whole character for the better. From a lazy

young man about town, I had become active, energetic, temperate, and

above all--oh, above all else--ambitious. There was only one thing which

troubled me, I laughed at my own uneasiness, and yet it troubled me.

During my convalescence I had bought and read for the first time, _The

King in Yellow_. I remember after finishing the first act that it

occurred to me that I had better stop. I started up and flung the book

into the fireplace; the volume struck the barred grate and fell open on

the hearth in the firelight. If I had not caught a glimpse of the opening

words in the second act I should never have finished it, but as I stooped

to pick it up, my eyes became riveted to the open page, and with a cry of

terror, or perhaps it was of joy so poignant that I suffered in every

nerve, I snatched the thing out of the coals and crept shaking to my

bedroom, where I read it and reread it, and wept and laughed and trembled

with a horror which at times assails me yet. This is the thing that

troubles me, for I cannot forget Carcosa where black stars hang in the

heavens; where the shadows of men's thoughts lengthen in the afternoon,

when the twin suns sink into the lake of Hali; and my mind will bear for

ever the memory of the Pallid Mask. I pray God will curse the writer, as

the writer has cursed the world with this beautiful, stupendous creation,

terrible in its simplicity, irresistible in its truth--a world which now

trembles before the King in Yellow. When the French Government seized the

translated copies which had just arrived in Paris, London, of course,

became eager to read it. It is well known how the book spread like an

infectious disease, from city to city, from continent to continent,

barred out here, confiscated there, denounced by Press and pulpit,

censured even by the most advanced of literary anarchists. No definite

principles had been violated in those wicked pages, no doctrine

promulgated, no convictions outraged. It could not be judged by any known

standard, yet, although it was acknowledged that the supreme note of art

had been struck in _The King in Yellow_, all felt that human nature

could not bear the strain, nor thrive on words in which the essence of

purest poison lurked. The very banality and innocence of the first act

only allowed the blow to fall afterward with more awful effect.

It was, I remember, the 13th day of April, 1920, that the first

Government Lethal Chamber was established on the south side of Washington

Square, between Wooster Street and South Fifth Avenue. The block which

had formerly consisted of a lot of shabby old buildings, used as cafes

and restaurants for foreigners, had been acquired by the Government in

the winter of 1898. The French and Italian cafes and restaurants were

torn down; the whole block was enclosed by a gilded iron railing, and

converted into a lovely garden with lawns, flowers and fountains. In the

centre of the garden stood a small, white building, severely classical in

architecture, and surrounded by thickets of flowers. Six Ionic columns

supported the roof, and the single door was of bronze. A splendid marble

group of the "Fates" stood before the door, the work of a young American

sculptor, Boris Yvain, who had died in Paris when only twenty-three years

old.

The inauguration ceremonies were in progress as I crossed University

Place and entered the square. I threaded my way through the silent throng

of spectators, but was stopped at Fourth Street by a cordon of police. A

regiment of United States lancers were drawn up in a hollow square round

the Lethal Chamber. On a raised tribune facing Washington Park stood the

Governor of New York, and behind him were grouped the Mayor of New

York and Brooklyn, the Inspector-General of Police, the Commandant of

the state troops, Colonel Livingston, military aid to the President of the

United States, General Blount, commanding at Governor's Island,

Major-General Hamilton, commanding the garrison of New York and Brooklyn,

Admiral Buffby of the fleet in the North River, Surgeon-General

Lanceford, the staff of the National Free Hospital, Senators Wyse and

Franklin of New York, and the Commissioner of Public Works. The tribune

was surrounded by a squadron of hussars of the National Guard.

The Governor was finishing his reply to the short speech of the

Surgeon-General. I heard him say: "The laws prohibiting suicide and

providing punishment for any attempt at self-destruction have been

repealed. The Government has seen fit to acknowledge the right of man to

end an existence which may have become intolerable to him, through

physical suffering or mental despair. It is believed that the community

will be benefited by the removal of such people from their midst. Since

the passage of this law, the number of suicides in the United States has

not increased. Now the Government has determined to establish a Lethal

Chamber in every city, town and village in the country, it remains to be

seen whether or not that class of human creatures from whose desponding

ranks new victims of self-destruction fall daily will accept the relief

thus provided." He paused, and turned to the white Lethal Chamber. The

silence in the street was absolute. "There a painless death awaits him

who can no longer bear the sorrows of this life. If death is welcome let

him seek it there." Then quickly turning to the military aid of the

President's household, he said, "I declare the Lethal Chamber open," and

again facing the vast crowd he cried in a clear voice: "Citizens of New

York and of the United States of America, through me the Government

declares the Lethal Chamber to be open."

The solemn hush was broken by a sharp cry of command, the squadron of

hussars filed after the Governor's carriage, the lancers wheeled and

formed along Fifth Avenue to wait for the commandant of the garrison, and

the mounted police followed them. I left the crowd to gape and stare at

the white marble Death Chamber, and, crossing South Fifth Avenue, walked

along the western side of that thoroughfare to Bleecker Street. Then I

turned to the right and stopped before a dingy shop which bore the sign:

HAWBERK, ARMOURER.

I glanced in at the doorway and saw Hawberk busy in his little shop at

the end of the hall. He looked up, and catching sight of me cried in his

deep, hearty voice, "Come in, Mr. Castaigne!" Constance, his daughter,

rose to meet me as I crossed the threshold, and held out her pretty

hand, but I saw the blush of disappointment on her cheeks, and knew

that it was another Castaigne she had expected, my cousin Louis. I

smiled at her confusion and complimented her on the banner she was

embroidering from a coloured plate. Old Hawberk sat riveting the worn

greaves of some ancient suit of armour, and the ting! ting! ting! of his

little hammer sounded pleasantly in the quaint shop. Presently he

dropped his hammer, and fussed about for a moment with a tiny wrench.

The soft clash of the mail sent a thrill of pleasure through me. I

loved to hear the music of steel brushing against steel, the mellow

shock of the mallet on thigh pieces, and the jingle of chain armour.

That was the only reason I went to see Hawberk. He had never interested

me personally, nor did Constance, except for the fact of her being in

love with Louis. This did occupy my attention, and sometimes even kept

me awake at night. But I knew in my heart that all would come right,

and that I should arrange their future as I expected to arrange that of

my kind doctor, John Archer. However, I should never have troubled

myself about visiting them just then, had it not been, as I say, that

the music of the tinkling hammer had for me this strong fascination. I

would sit for hours, listening and listening, and when a stray sunbeam

struck the inlaid steel, the sensation it gave me was almost too keen

to endure. My eyes would become fixed, dilating with a pleasure that

stretched every nerve almost to breaking, until some movement of the

old armourer cut off the ray of sunlight, then, still thrilling

secretly, I leaned back and listened again to the sound of the

polishing rag, swish! swish! rubbing rust from the rivets.

Constance worked with the embroidery over her knees, now and then pausing

to examine more closely the pattern in the coloured plate from the

Metropolitan Museum.

"Who is this for?" I asked.

Hawberk explained, that in addition to the treasures of armour in the

Metropolitan Museum of which he had been appointed armourer, he also

had charge of several collections belonging to rich amateurs. This was the

missing greave of a famous suit which a client of his had traced to a

little shop in Paris on the Quai d'Orsay. He, Hawberk, had negotiated for

and secured the greave, and now the suit was complete. He laid down his

hammer and read me the history of the suit, traced since 1450 from owner

to owner until it was acquired by Thomas Stainbridge. When his superb

collection was sold, this client of Hawberk's bought the suit, and since

then the search for the missing greave had been pushed until it was,

almost by accident, located in Paris.

"Did you continue the search so persistently without any certainty of the

greave being still in existence?" I demanded.

"Of course," he replied coolly.

Then for the first time I took a personal interest in Hawberk.

"It was worth something to you," I ventured.

"No," he replied, laughing, "my pleasure in finding it was my reward."

"Have you no ambition to be rich?" I asked, smiling.

"My one ambition is to be the best armourer in the world," he answered

gravely.

Constance asked me if I had seen the ceremonies at the Lethal Chamber.

She herself had noticed cavalry passing up Broadway that morning, and had

wished to see the inauguration, but her father wanted the banner

finished, and she had stayed at his request.

"Did you see your cousin, Mr. Castaigne, there?" she asked, with the

slightest tremor of her soft eyelashes.

"No," I replied carelessly. "Louis' regiment is manoeuvring out in

Westchester County." I rose and picked up my hat and cane.

"Are you going upstairs to see the lunatic again?" laughed old Hawberk.

If Hawberk knew how I loathe that word "lunatic," he would never use it

in my presence. It rouses certain feelings within me which I do not care

to explain. However, I answered him quietly: "I think I shall drop in and

see Mr. Wilde for a moment or two."

"Poor fellow," said Constance, with a shake of the head, "it must be hard

to live alone year after year poor, crippled and almost demented. It is

very good of you, Mr. Castaigne, to visit him as often as you do."

"I think he is vicious," observed Hawberk, beginning again with his

hammer. I listened to the golden tinkle on the greave plates; when he had

finished I replied:

"No, he is not vicious, nor is he in the least demented. His mind is a

wonder chamber, from which he can extract treasures that you and I would

give years of our life to acquire."'

Hawberk laughed.

I continued a little impatiently: "He knows history as no one else could

know it. Nothing, however trivial, escapes his search, and his memory is

so absolute, so precise in details, that were it known in New York that

such a man existed, the people could not honour him enough."

"Nonsense," muttered Hawberk, searching on the floor for a fallen rivet.

"Is it nonsense," I asked, managing to suppress what I felt, "is it

nonsense when he says that the tassets and cuissards of the enamelled

suit of armour commonly known as the 'Prince's Emblazoned' can be found

among a mass of rusty theatrical properties, broken stoves and

ragpicker's refuse in a garret in Pell Street?"

Hawberk's hammer fell to the ground, but he picked it up and asked, with

a great deal of calm, how I knew that the tassets and left cuissard were

missing from the "Prince's Emblazoned."

"I did not know until Mr. Wilde mentioned it to me the other day. He said

they were in the garret of 998 Pell Street."

"Nonsense," he cried, but I noticed his hand trembling under his leathern

apron.

"Is this nonsense too?" I asked pleasantly, "is it nonsense when Mr.

Wilde continually speaks of you as the Marquis of Avonshire and of Miss

Constance--"

I did not finish, for Constance had started to her feet with terror

written on every feature. Hawberk looked at me and slowly smoothed his

leathern apron.

"That is impossible," he observed, "Mr. Wilde may know a great many

things--"

"About armour, for instance, and the 'Prince's Emblazoned,'" I

interposed, smiling.

"Yes," he continued, slowly, "about armour also--may be--but he is wrong

in regard to the Marquis of Avonshire, who, as you know, killed his

wife's traducer years ago, and went to Australia where he did not long

survive his wife."

"Mr. Wilde is wrong," murmured Constance. Her lips were blanched, but her

voice was sweet and calm.

"Let us agree, if you please, that in this one circumstance Mr. Wilde is

wrong," I said.

I climbed the three dilapidated flights of stairs, which I had so often

climbed before, and knocked at a small door at the end of the corridor.

Mr. Wilde opened the door and I walked in.

When he had double-locked the door and pushed a heavy chest against it,

he came and sat down beside me, peering up into my face with his little

light-coloured eyes. Half a dozen new scratches covered his nose and

cheeks, and the silver wires which supported his artificial ears had

become displaced. I thought I had never seen him so hideously

fascinating. He had no ears. The artificial ones, which now stood out at

an angle from the fine wire, were his one weakness. They were made of wax

and painted a shell pink, but the rest of his face was yellow. He might

better have revelled in the luxury of some artificial fingers for his

left hand, which was absolutely fingerless, but it seemed to cause him no

inconvenience, and he was satisfied with his wax ears. He was very small,

scarcely higher than a child of ten, but his arms were magnificently

developed, and his thighs as thick as any athlete's. Still, the most

remarkable thing about Mr. Wilde was that a man of his marvellous

intelligence and knowledge should have such a head. It was flat and

pointed, like the heads of many of those unfortunates whom people

imprison in asylums for the weak-minded. Many called him insane, but I

knew him to be as sane as I was.

I do not deny that he was eccentric; the mania he had for keeping that

cat and teasing her until she flew at his face like a demon, was

certainly eccentric. I never could understand why he kept the creature,

nor what pleasure he found in shutting himself up in his room with this

surly, vicious beast. I remember once, glancing up from the manuscript I

was studying by the light of some tallow dips, and seeing Mr. Wilde

squatting motionless on his high chair, his eyes fairly blazing with

excitement, while the cat, which had risen from her place before the

stove, came creeping across the floor right at him. Before I could move

she flattened her belly to the ground, crouched, trembled, and sprang

into his face. Howling and foaming they rolled over and over on the

floor, scratching and clawing, until the cat screamed and fled under the

cabinet, and Mr. Wilde turned over on his back, his limbs contracting and

curling up like the legs of a dying spider. He _was_ eccentric.

Mr. Wilde had climbed into his high chair, and, after studying my face,

picked up a dog's-eared ledger and opened it.

"Henry B. Matthews," he read, "book-keeper with Whysot Whysot and

Company, dealers in church ornaments. Called April 3rd. Reputation

damaged on the race-track. Known as a welcher. Reputation to be repaired

by August 1st. Retainer Five Dollars." He turned the page and ran his

fingerless knuckles down the closely-written columns.

"P. Greene Dusenberry, Minister of the Gospel, Fairbeach, New Jersey.

Reputation damaged in the Bowery. To be repaired as soon as possible.

Retainer $100."

He coughed and added, "Called, April 6th."

"Then you are not in need of money, Mr. Wilde," I inquired.

"Listen," he coughed again.

"Mrs. C. Hamilton Chester, of Chester Park, New York City. Called April

7th. Reputation damaged at Dieppe, France. To be repaired by October 1st

Retainer $500.

"Note.--C. Hamilton Chester, Captain U.S.S. 'Avalanche', ordered home

from South Sea Squadron October 1st."

"Well," I said, "the profession of a Repairer of Reputations is

lucrative."

His colourless eyes sought mine, "I only wanted to demonstrate that I

was correct. You said it was impossible to succeed as a Repairer of

Reputations; that even if I did succeed in certain cases it would cost

me more than I would gain by it. To-day I have five hundred men in my

employ, who are poorly paid, but who pursue the work with an enthusiasm

which possibly may be born of fear. These men enter every shade and grade

of society; some even are pillars of the most exclusive social temples;

others are the prop and pride of the financial world; still others, hold

undisputed sway among the 'Fancy and the Talent.' I choose them at my

leisure from those who reply to my advertisements. It is easy enough,

they are all cowards. I could treble the number in twenty days if I

wished. So you see, those who have in their keeping the reputations of

their fellow-citizens, I have in my pay."

"They may turn on you," I suggested.

He rubbed his thumb over his cropped ears, and adjusted the wax

substitutes. "I think not," he murmured thoughtfully, "I seldom have to

apply the whip, and then only once. Besides they like their wages."

"How do you apply the whip?" I demanded.

His face for a moment was awful to look upon. His eyes dwindled to a pair

of green sparks.

"I invite them to come and have a little chat with me," he said in a soft

voice.

A knock at the door interrupted him, and his face resumed its amiable

expression.

"Who is it?" he inquired.

"Mr. Steylette," was the answer.

"Come to-morrow," replied Mr. Wilde.

"Impossible," began the other, but was silenced by a sort of bark from

Mr. Wilde.

"Come to-morrow," he repeated.

We heard somebody move away from the door and turn the corner by the

stairway.

"Who is that?" I asked.

"Arnold Steylette, Owner and Editor in Chief of the great New York

daily."

He drummed on the ledger with his fingerless hand adding: "I pay him very

badly, but he thinks it a good bargain."

"Arnold Steylette!" I repeated amazed.

"Yes," said Mr. Wilde, with a self-satisfied cough.

The cat, which had entered the room as he spoke, hesitated, looked up at

him and snarled. He climbed down from the chair and squatting on the

floor, took the creature into his arms and caressed her. The cat ceased

snarling and presently began a loud purring which seemed to increase in

timbre as he stroked her. "Where are the notes?" I asked. He pointed to

the table, and for the hundredth time I picked up the bundle of

manuscript entitled--

"THE IMPERIAL DYNASTY OF AMERICA."

One by one I studied the well-worn pages, worn only by my own handling,

and although I knew all by heart, from the beginning, "When from Carcosa,

the Hyades, Hastur, and Aldebaran," to "Castaigne, Louis de Calvados,

born December 19th, 1877," I read it with an eager, rapt attention,

pausing to repeat parts of it aloud, and dwelling especially on "Hildred

de Calvados, only son of Hildred Castaigne and Edythe Landes Castaigne,

first in succession," etc., etc.

When I finished, Mr. Wilde nodded and coughed.

"Speaking of your legitimate ambition," he said, "how do Constance and

Louis get along?"

"She loves him," I replied simply.

The cat on his knee suddenly turned and struck at his eyes, and he flung

her off and climbed on to the chair opposite me.

"And Dr. Archer! But that's a matter you can settle any time you wish,"

he added.

"Yes," I replied, "Dr. Archer can wait, but it is time I saw my cousin

Louis."

"It is time," he repeated. Then he took another ledger from the table and

ran over the leaves rapidly. "We are now in communication with ten

thousand men," he muttered. "We can count on one hundred thousand within

the first twenty-eight hours, and in forty-eight hours the state will

rise _en masse_. The country follows the state, and the portion that

will not, I mean California and the Northwest, might better never have

been inhabited. I shall not send them the Yellow Sign."

The blood rushed to my head, but I only answered, "A new broom sweeps

clean."

"The ambition of Caesar and of Napoleon pales before that which could not

rest until it had seized the minds of men and controlled even their

unborn thoughts," said Mr. Wilde.

"You are speaking of the King in Yellow," I groaned, with a shudder.

"He is a king whom emperors have served."

"I am content to serve him," I replied.

Mr. Wilde sat rubbing his ears with his crippled hand. "Perhaps Constance

does not love him," he suggested.

I started to reply, but a sudden burst of military music from the street

below drowned my voice. The twentieth dragoon regiment, formerly in

garrison at Mount St. Vincent, was returning from the manoeuvres in

Westchester County, to its new barracks on East Washington Square. It was

my cousin's regiment. They were a fine lot of fellows, in their pale

blue, tight-fitting jackets, jaunty busbys and white riding breeches with

the double yellow stripe, into which their limbs seemed moulded. Every

other squadron was armed with lances, from the metal points of which

fluttered yellow and white pennons. The band passed, playing the

regimental march, then came the colonel and staff, the horses crowding

and trampling, while their heads bobbed in unison, and the pennons

fluttered from their lance points. The troopers, who rode with the

beautiful English seat, looked brown as berries from their bloodless

campaign among the farms of Westchester, and the music of their sabres

against the stirrups, and the jingle of spurs and carbines was delightful

to me. I saw Louis riding with his squadron. He was as handsome an

officer as I have ever seen. Mr. Wilde, who had mounted a chair by the

window, saw him too, but said nothing. Louis turned and looked straight

at Hawberk's shop as he passed, and I could see the flush on his brown

cheeks. I think Constance must have been at the window. When the last

troopers had clattered by, and the last pennons vanished into South Fifth

Avenue, Mr. Wilde clambered out of his chair and dragged the chest away

from the door.

"Yes," he said, "it is time that you saw your cousin Louis."

He unlocked the door and I picked up my hat and stick and stepped into

the corridor. The stairs were dark. Groping about, I set my foot on

something soft, which snarled and spit, and I aimed a murderous blow at

the cat, but my cane shivered to splinters against the balustrade, and

the beast scurried back into Mr. Wilde's room.

Passing Hawberk's door again I saw him still at work on the armour, but

I did not stop, and stepping out into Bleecker Street, I followed it to

Wooster, skirted the grounds of the Lethal Chamber, and crossing

Washington Park went straight to my rooms in the Benedick. Here I lunched

comfortably, read the _Herald_ and the _Meteor_, and finally went

to the steel safe in my bedroom and set the time combination. The

three and three-quarter minutes which it is necessary to wait, while the

time lock is opening, are to me golden moments. From the instant I set

the combination to the moment when I grasp the knobs and swing back

the solid steel doors, I live in an ecstasy of expectation. Those moments

must be like moments passed in Paradise. I know what I am to find at

the end of the time limit. I know what the massive safe holds secure for

me, for me alone, and the exquisite pleasure of waiting is hardly enhanced

when the safe opens and I lift, from its velvet crown, a diadem of purest

gold, blazing with diamonds. I do this every day, and yet the joy of

waiting and at last touching again the diadem, only seems to increase as

the days pass. It is a diadem fit for a King among kings, an Emperor

among emperors. The King in Yellow might scorn it, but it shall be worn

by his royal servant.

I held it in my arms until the alarm in the safe rang harshly, and then

tenderly, proudly, I replaced it and shut the steel doors. I walked

slowly back into my study, which faces Washington Square, and leaned on

the window sill. The afternoon sun poured into my windows, and a gentle

breeze stirred the branches of the elms and maples in the park, now

covered with buds and tender foliage. A flock of pigeons circled about

the tower of the Memorial Church; sometimes alighting on the purple tiled

roof, sometimes wheeling downward to the lotos fountain in front of the

marble arch. The gardeners were busy with the flower beds around the

fountain, and the freshly turned earth smelled sweet and spicy. A lawn

mower, drawn by a fat white horse, clinked across the green sward, and

watering-carts poured showers of spray over the asphalt drives. Around

the statue of Peter Stuyvesant, which in 1897 had replaced the

monstrosity supposed to represent Garibaldi, children played in the

spring sunshine, and nurse girls wheeled elaborate baby carriages with a

reckless disregard for the pasty-faced occupants, which could probably be

explained by the presence of half a dozen trim dragoon troopers languidly

lolling on the benches. Through the trees, the Washington Memorial Arch

glistened like silver in the sunshine, and beyond, on the eastern

extremity of the square the grey stone barracks of the dragoons, and the

white granite artillery stables were alive with colour and motion.

I looked at the Lethal Chamber on the corner of the square opposite. A

few curious people still lingered about the gilded iron railing, but

inside the grounds the paths were deserted. I watched the fountains

ripple and sparkle; the sparrows had already found this new bathing nook,

and the basins were covered with the dusty-feathered little things. Two

or three white peacocks picked their way across the lawns, and a drab

coloured pigeon sat so motionless on the arm of one of the "Fates," that

it seemed to be a part of the sculptured stone.

As I was turning carelessly away, a slight commotion in the group of

curious loiterers around the gates attracted my attention. A young man

had entered, and was advancing with nervous strides along the gravel path

which leads to the bronze doors of the Lethal Chamber. He paused a moment

before the "Fates," and as he raised his head to those three mysterious

faces, the pigeon rose from its sculptured perch, circled about for a

moment and wheeled to the east. The young man pressed his hand to his

face, and then with an undefinable gesture sprang up the marble steps,

the bronze doors closed behind him, and half an hour later the loiterers

slouched away, and the frightened pigeon returned to its perch in the

arms of Fate.

I put on my hat and went out into the park for a little walk before

dinner. As I crossed the central driveway a group of officers passed, and

one of them called out, "Hello, Hildred," and came back to shake hands

with me. It was my cousin Louis, who stood smiling and tapping his

spurred heels with his riding-whip.

"Just back from Westchester," he said; "been doing the bucolic; milk and

curds, you know, dairy-maids in sunbonnets, who say 'haeow' and 'I don't

think' when you tell them they are pretty. I'm nearly dead for a square

meal at Delmonico's. What's the news?"

"There is none," I replied pleasantly. "I saw your regiment coming in this

morning."

"Did you? I didn't see you. Where were you?"

"In Mr. Wilde's window."

"Oh, hell!" he began impatiently, "that man is stark mad! I don't

understand why you--"

He saw how annoyed I felt by this outburst, and begged my pardon.

"Really, old chap," he said, "I don't mean to run down a man you like,

but for the life of me I can't see what the deuce you find in common with

Mr. Wilde. He's not well bred, to put it generously; he is hideously

deformed; his head is the head of a criminally insane person. You know

yourself he's been in an asylum--"

"So have I," I interrupted calmly.

Louis looked startled and confused for a moment, but recovered and

slapped me heartily on the shoulder. "You were completely cured," he

began; but I stopped him again.

"I suppose you mean that I was simply acknowledged never to have been

insane."

"Of course that--that's what I meant," he laughed.

I disliked his laugh because I knew it was forced, but I nodded gaily and

asked him where he was going. Louis looked after his brother officers who

had now almost reached Broadway.

"We had intended to sample a Brunswick cocktail, but to tell you the

truth I was anxious for an excuse to go and see Hawberk instead. Come

along, I'll make you my excuse."

We found old Hawberk, neatly attired in a fresh spring suit, standing at

the door of his shop and sniffing the air.

"I had just decided to take Constance for a little stroll before dinner,"

he replied to the impetuous volley of questions from Louis. "We thought

of walking on the park terrace along the North River."

At that moment Constance appeared and grew pale and rosy by turns as

Louis bent over her small gloved fingers. I tried to excuse myself,

alleging an engagement uptown, but Louis and Constance would not listen,

and I saw I was expected to remain and engage old Hawberk's attention.

After all it would be just as well if I kept my eye on Louis, I thought,

and when they hailed a Spring Street horse-car, I got in after them and

took my seat beside the armourer.

The beautiful line of parks and granite terraces overlooking the wharves

along the North River, which were built in 1910 and finished in the

autumn of 1917, had become one of the most popular promenades in the

metropolis. They extended from the battery to 190th Street, overlooking

the noble river and affording a fine view of the Jersey shore and the

Highlands opposite. Cafes and restaurants were scattered here and there

among the trees, and twice a week military bands from the garrison played

in the kiosques on the parapets.

We sat down in the sunshine on the bench at the foot of the equestrian

statue of General Sheridan. Constance tipped her sunshade to shield her

eyes, and she and Louis began a murmuring conversation which was

impossible to catch. Old Hawberk, leaning on his ivory headed cane,

lighted an excellent cigar, the mate to which I politely refused, and

smiled at vacancy. The sun hung low above the Staten Island woods, and

the bay was dyed with golden hues reflected from the sun-warmed sails of

the shipping in the harbour.

Brigs, schooners, yachts, clumsy ferry-boats, their decks swarming with

people, railroad transports carrying lines of brown, blue and white

freight cars, stately sound steamers, declasse tramp steamers, coasters,

dredgers, scows, and everywhere pervading the entire bay impudent little

tugs puffing and whistling officiously;--these were the craft which

churned the sunlight waters as far as the eye could reach. In calm

contrast to the hurry of sailing vessel and steamer a silent fleet of

white warships lay motionless in midstream.

Constance's merry laugh aroused me from my reverie.

"What _are_ you staring at?" she inquired.

"Nothing--the fleet," I smiled.

Then Louis told us what the vessels were, pointing out each by its

relative position to the old Red Fort on Governor's Island.

"That little cigar shaped thing is a torpedo boat," he explained; "there

are four more lying close together. They are the _Tarpon_, the _Falcon_,

the _Sea Fox_, and the _Octopus_. The gun-boats just above are the

_Princeton_, the _Champlain_, the _Still Water_ and the _Erie_. Next to

them lie the cruisers _Faragut_ and _Los Angeles_, and above them the

battle ships _California_, and _Dakota_, and the _Washington_ which is

the flag ship. Those two squatty looking chunks of metal which are

anchored there off Castle William are the double turreted monitors

_Terrible_ and _Magnificent_; behind them lies the ram, _Osceola_."

Constance looked at him with deep approval in her beautiful eyes. "What

loads of things you know for a soldier," she said, and we all joined in

the laugh which followed.

Presently Louis rose with a nod to us and offered his arm to Constance,

and they strolled away along the river wall. Hawberk watched them for a

moment and then turned to me.

"Mr. Wilde was right," he said. "I have found the missing tassets and

left cuissard of the 'Prince's Emblazoned,' in a vile old junk garret in

Pell Street."

"998?" I inquired, with a smile.

"Yes."

"Mr. Wilde is a very intelligent man," I observed.

"I want to give him the credit of this most important discovery,"

continued Hawberk. "And I intend it shall be known that he is entitled

to the fame of it."

"He won't thank you for that," I answered sharply; "please say nothing

about it."

"Do you know what it is worth?" said Hawberk.

"No, fifty dollars, perhaps."

"It is valued at five hundred, but the owner of the 'Prince's Emblazoned'

will give two thousand dollars to the person who completes his suit; that

reward also belongs to Mr. Wilde."

"He doesn't want it! He refuses it!" I answered angrily. "What do you

know about Mr. Wilde? He doesn't need the money. He is rich--or will

be--richer than any living man except myself. What will we care for money

then--what will we care, he and I, when--when--"

"When what?" demanded Hawberk, astonished.

"You will see," I replied, on my guard again.

He looked at me narrowly, much as Doctor Archer used to, and I knew he

thought I was mentally unsound. Perhaps it was fortunate for him that he

did not use the word lunatic just then.

"No," I replied to his unspoken thought, "I am not mentally weak; my mind

is as healthy as Mr. Wilde's. I do not care to explain just yet what I

have on hand, but it is an investment which will pay more than mere gold,

silver and precious stones. It will secure the happiness and prosperity

of a continent--yes, a hemisphere!"

"Oh," said Hawberk.

"And eventually," I continued more quietly, "it will secure the happiness

of the whole world."

"And incidentally your own happiness and prosperity as well as Mr.

Wilde's?"

"Exactly," I smiled. But I could have throttled him for taking that tone.

He looked at me in silence for a while and then said very gently, "Why

don't you give up your books and studies, Mr. Castaigne, and take a tramp

among the mountains somewhere or other? You used to be fond of fishing.

Take a cast or two at the trout in the Rangelys."

"I don't care for fishing any more," I answered, without a shade of

annoyance in my voice.

"You used to be fond of everything," he continued; "athletics, yachting,

shooting, riding--"

"I have never cared to ride since my fall," I said quietly.

"Ah, yes, your fall," he repeated, looking away from me.

I thought this nonsense had gone far enough, so I brought the

conversation back to Mr. Wilde; but he was scanning my face again in a

manner highly offensive to me.

"Mr. Wilde," he repeated, "do you know what he did this afternoon? He

came downstairs and nailed a sign over the hall door next to mine; it

read:

"MR. WILDE,

REPAIRER OF REPUTATIONS.

Third Bell.

"Do you know what a Repairer of Reputations can be?"

"I do," I replied, suppressing the rage within.

"Oh," he said again.

Louis and Constance came strolling by and stopped to ask if we would join

them. Hawberk looked at his watch. At the same moment a puff of smoke

shot from the casemates of Castle William, and the boom of the sunset gun

rolled across the water and was re-echoed from the Highlands opposite.

The flag came running down from the flag-pole, the bugles sounded on the

white decks of the warships, and the first electric light sparkled out

from the Jersey shore.

As I turned into the city with Hawberk I heard Constance murmur something

to Louis which I did not understand; but Louis whispered "My darling," in

reply; and again, walking ahead with Hawberk through the square I heard a

murmur of "sweetheart," and "my own Constance," and I knew the time had

nearly arrived when I should speak of important matters with my cousin

Louis.

III

One morning early in May I stood before the steel safe in my bedroom,

trying on the golden jewelled crown. The diamonds flashed fire as I

turned to the mirror, and the heavy beaten gold burned like a halo about

my head. I remembered Camilla's agonized scream and the awful words

echoing through the dim streets of Carcosa. They were the last lines in

the first act, and I dared not think of what followed--dared not, even

in the spring sunshine, there in my own room, surrounded with familiar

objects, reassured by the bustle from the street and the voices of the

servants in the hallway outside. For those poisoned words had dropped

slowly into my heart, as death-sweat drops upon a bed-sheet and is

absorbed. Trembling, I put the diadem from my head and wiped my forehead,

but I thought of Hastur and of my own rightful ambition, and I remembered

Mr. Wilde as I had last left him, his face all torn and bloody from the

claws of that devil's creature, and what he said--ah, what he said. The

alarm bell in the safe began to whirr harshly, and I knew my time was up;

but I would not heed it, and replacing the flashing circlet upon my head

I turned defiantly to the mirror. I stood for a long time absorbed in the

changing expression of my own eyes. The mirror reflected a face which was

like my own, but whiter, and so thin that I hardly recognized it And all

the time I kept repeating between my clenched teeth, "The day has come!

the day has come!" while the alarm in the safe whirred and clamoured, and

the diamonds sparkled and flamed above my brow. I heard a door open but

did not heed it. It was only when I saw two faces in the mirror:--it was

only when another face rose over my shoulder, and two other eyes met

mine. I wheeled like a flash and seized a long knife from my

dressing-table, and my cousin sprang back very pale, crying: "Hildred!

for God's sake!" then as my hand fell, he said: "It is I, Louis, don't

you know me?" I stood silent. I could not have spoken for my life. He

walked up to me and took the knife from my hand.

"What is all this?" he inquired, in a gentle voice. "Are you ill?"

"No," I replied. But I doubt if he heard me.

"Come, come, old fellow," he cried, "take off that brass crown and toddle

into the study. Are you going to a masquerade? What's all this theatrical

tinsel anyway?"

I was glad he thought the crown was made of brass and paste, yet I didn't

like him any the better for thinking so. I let him take it from my hand,

knowing it was best to humour him. He tossed the splendid diadem in the

air, and catching it, turned to me smiling.

"It's dear at fifty cents," he said. "What's it for?"

I did not answer, but took the circlet from his hands, and placing it in

the safe shut the massive steel door. The alarm ceased its infernal din

at once. He watched me curiously, but did not seem to notice the sudden

ceasing of the alarm. He did, however, speak of the safe as a biscuit

box. Fearing lest he might examine the combination I led the way into my

study. Louis threw himself on the sofa and flicked at flies with his

eternal riding-whip. He wore his fatigue uniform with the braided jacket

and jaunty cap, and I noticed that his riding-boots were all splashed

with red mud.

"Where have you been?" I inquired.

"Jumping mud creeks in Jersey," he said. "I haven't had time to change

yet; I was rather in a hurry to see you. Haven't you got a glass of

something? I'm dead tired; been in the saddle twenty-four hours."

I gave him some brandy from my medicinal store, which he drank with a

grimace.

"Damned bad stuff," he observed. "I'll give you an address where they

sell brandy that is brandy."

"It's good enough for my needs," I said indifferently. "I use it to rub

my chest with." He stared and flicked at another fly.

"See here, old fellow," he began, "I've got something to suggest to you.

It's four years now that you've shut yourself up here like an owl, never

going anywhere, never taking any healthy exercise, never doing a damn

thing but poring over those books up there on the mantelpiece."

He glanced along the row of shelves. "Napoleon, Napoleon, Napoleon!" he

read. "For heaven's sake, have you nothing but Napoleons there?"

"I wish they were bound in gold," I said. "But wait, yes, there is

another book, _The King in Yellow_." I looked him steadily in the

eye.

"Have you never read it?" I asked.

"I? No, thank God! I don't want to be driven crazy."

I saw he regretted his speech as soon as he had uttered it. There is only

one word which I loathe more than I do lunatic and that word is crazy.

But I controlled myself and asked him why he thought _The King in

Yellow_ dangerous.

"Oh, I don't know," he said, hastily. "I only remember the excitement it

created and the denunciations from pulpit and Press. I believe the author

shot himself after bringing forth this monstrosity, didn't he?"

"I understand he is still alive," I answered.

"That's probably true," he muttered; "bullets couldn't kill a fiend like

that."

"It is a book of great truths," I said.

"Yes," he replied, "of 'truths' which send men frantic and blast their

lives. I don't care if the thing is, as they say, the very supreme

essence of art. It's a crime to have written it, and I for one shall

never open its pages."

"Is that what you have come to tell me?" I asked.

"No," he said, "I came to tell you that I am going to be married."

I believe for a moment my heart ceased to beat, but I kept my eyes on his

face.

"Yes," he continued, smiling happily, "married to the sweetest girl on

earth."

"Constance Hawberk," I said mechanically.

"How did you know?" he cried, astonished. "I didn't know it myself until

that evening last April, when we strolled down to the embankment before

dinner."

"When is it to be?" I asked.

"It was to have been next September, but an hour ago a despatch came

ordering our regiment to the Presidio, San Francisco. We leave at noon

to-morrow. To-morrow," he repeated. "Just think, Hildred, to-morrow I

shall be the happiest fellow that ever drew breath in this jolly world,

for Constance will go with me."

I offered him my hand in congratulation, and he seized and shook it like

the good-natured fool he was--or pretended to be.

"I am going to get my squadron as a wedding present," he rattled on.

"Captain and Mrs. Louis Castaigne, eh, Hildred?"

Then he told me where it was to be and who were to be there, and made me

promise to come and be best man. I set my teeth and listened to his

boyish chatter without showing what I felt, but--

I was getting to the limit of my endurance, and when he jumped up, and,

switching his spurs till they jingled, said he must go, I did not detain

him.

"There's one thing I want to ask of you," I said quietly.

"Out with it, it's promised," he laughed.

"I want you to meet me for a quarter of an hour's talk to-night."

"Of course, if you wish," he said, somewhat puzzled. "Where?"

"Anywhere, in the park there."

"What time, Hildred?"

"Midnight."

"What in the name of--" he began, but checked himself and laughingly

assented. I watched him go down the stairs and hurry away, his sabre

banging at every stride. He turned into Bleecker Street, and I knew he

was going to see Constance. I gave him ten minutes to disappear and then

followed in his footsteps, taking with me the jewelled crown and the

silken robe embroidered with the Yellow Sign. When I turned into Bleecker

Street, and entered the doorway which bore the sign--

MR. WILDE,

REPAIRER OF REPUTATIONS.

Third Bell.

I saw old Hawberk moving about in his shop, and imagined I heard

Constance's voice in the parlour; but I avoided them both and hurried up

the trembling stairways to Mr. Wilde's apartment. I knocked and entered

without ceremony. Mr. Wilde lay groaning on the floor, his face covered

with blood, his clothes torn to shreds. Drops of blood were scattered

about over the carpet, which had also been ripped and frayed in the

evidently recent struggle.

"It's that cursed cat," he said, ceasing his groans, and turning his

colourless eyes to me; "she attacked me while I was asleep. I believe she

will kill me yet."

This was too much, so I went into the kitchen, and, seizing a hatchet

from the pantry, started to find the infernal beast and settle her then

and there. My search was fruitless, and after a while I gave it up and

came back to find Mr. Wilde squatting on his high chair by the table. He

had washed his face and changed his clothes. The great furrows which the

cat's claws had ploughed up in his face he had filled with collodion, and

a rag hid the wound in his throat. I told him I should kill the cat when

I came across her, but he only shook his head and turned to the open

ledger before him. He read name after name of the people who had come to

him in regard to their reputation, and the sums he had amassed were

startling.

"I put on the screws now and then," he explained.

"One day or other some of these people will assassinate you," I insisted.

"Do you think so?" he said, rubbing his mutilated ears.

It was useless to argue with him, so I took down the manuscript entitled

Imperial Dynasty of America, for the last time I should ever take it down

in Mr. Wilde's study. I read it through, thrilling and trembling with

pleasure. When I had finished Mr. Wilde took the manuscript and, turning

to the dark passage which leads from his study to his bed-chamber,

called out in a loud voice, "Vance." Then for the first time, I noticed a

man crouching there in the shadow. How I had overlooked him during my

search for the cat, I cannot imagine.

"Vance, come in," cried Mr. Wilde.

The figure rose and crept towards us, and I shall never forget the face

that he raised to mine, as the light from the window illuminated it.

"Vance, this is Mr. Castaigne," said Mr. Wilde. Before he had finished

speaking, the man threw himself on the ground before the table, crying

and grasping, "Oh, God! Oh, my God! Help me! Forgive me! Oh, Mr.

Castaigne, keep that man away. You cannot, you cannot mean it! You are

different--save me! I am broken down--I was in a madhouse and now--when

all was coming right--when I had forgotten the King--the King in Yellow

and--but I shall go mad again--I shall go mad--"

His voice died into a choking rattle, for Mr. Wilde had leapt on him and

his right hand encircled the man's throat. When Vance fell in a heap on

the floor, Mr. Wilde clambered nimbly into his chair again, and rubbing

his mangled ears with the stump of his hand, turned to me and asked me

for the ledger. I reached it down from the shelf and he opened it. After

a moment's searching among the beautifully written pages, he coughed

complacently, and pointed to the name Vance.

"Vance," he read aloud, "Osgood Oswald Vance." At the sound of his name,

the man on the floor raised his head and turned a convulsed face to Mr.

Wilde. His eyes were injected with blood, his lips tumefied. "Called

April 28th," continued Mr. Wilde. "Occupation, cashier in the Seaforth

National Bank; has served a term of forgery at Sing Sing, from whence he

was transferred to the Asylum for the Criminal Insane. Pardoned by the

Governor of New York, and discharged from the Asylum, January 19, 1918.

Reputation damaged at Sheepshead Bay. Rumours that he lives beyond his

income. Reputation to be repaired at once. Retainer $1,500.

"Note.--Has embezzled sums amounting to $30,000 since March 20, 1919,

excellent family, and secured present position through uncle's influence.

Father, President of Seaforth Bank."

I looked at the man on the floor.

"Get up, Vance," said Mr. Wilde in a gentle voice. Vance rose as if

hypnotized. "He will do as we suggest now," observed Mr. Wilde, and

opening the manuscript, he read the entire history of the Imperial

Dynasty of America. Then in a kind and soothing murmur he ran over the

important points with Vance, who stood like one stunned. His eyes were so

blank and vacant that I imagined he had become half-witted, and remarked

it to Mr. Wilde who replied that it was of no consequence anyway. Very

patiently we pointed out to Vance what his share in the affair would be,

and he seemed to understand after a while. Mr. Wilde explained the

manuscript, using several volumes on Heraldry, to substantiate the result

of his researches. He mentioned the establishment of the Dynasty in

Carcosa, the lakes which connected Hastur, Aldebaran and the mystery of

the Hyades. He spoke of Cassilda and Camilla, and sounded the cloudy

depths of Demhe, and the Lake of Hali. "The scolloped tatters of the King

in Yellow must hide Yhtill forever," he muttered, but I do not believe

Vance heard him. Then by degrees he led Vance along the ramifications of

the Imperial family, to Uoht and Thale, from Naotalba and Phantom of

Truth, to Aldones, and then tossing aside his manuscript and notes, he

began the wonderful story of the Last King. Fascinated and thrilled I

watched him. He threw up his head, his long arms were stretched out in a

magnificent gesture of pride and power, and his eyes blazed deep in their

sockets like two emeralds. Vance listened stupefied. As for me, when at

last Mr. Wilde had finished, and pointing to me, cried, "The cousin of

the King!" my head swam with excitement.

Controlling myself with a superhuman effort, I explained to Vance why I

alone was worthy of the crown and why my cousin must be exiled or die.

I made him understand that my cousin must never marry, even after

renouncing all his claims, and how that least of all he should marry the

daughter of the Marquis of Avonshire and bring England into the question.

I showed him a list of thousands of names which Mr. Wilde had drawn up;

every man whose name was there had received the Yellow Sign which no

living human being dared disregard. The city, the state, the whole land,

were ready to rise and tremble before the Pallid Mask.

The time had come, the people should know the son of Hastur, and the

whole world bow to the black stars which hang in the sky over Carcosa.

Vance leaned on the table, his head buried in his hands. Mr. Wilde drew

a rough sketch on the margin of yesterday's _Herald_ with a bit of

lead pencil. It was a plan of Hawberk's rooms. Then he wrote out the

order and affixed the seal, and shaking like a palsied man I signed my

first writ of execution with my name Hildred-Rex.

Mr. Wilde clambered to the floor and unlocking the cabinet, took a long

square box from the first shelf. This he brought to the table and opened.

A new knife lay in the tissue paper inside and I picked it up and handed

it to Vance, along with the order and the plan of Hawberk's apartment.

Then Mr. Wilde told Vance he could go; and he went, shambling like an

outcast of the slums.

I sat for a while watching the daylight fade behind the square tower of

the Judson Memorial Church, and finally, gathering up the manuscript and

notes, took my hat and started for the door.

Mr. Wilde watched me in silence. When I had stepped into the hall I

looked back. Mr. Wilde's small eyes were still fixed on me. Behind him,

the shadows gathered in the fading light. Then I closed the door behind

me and went out into the darkening streets.

I had eaten nothing since breakfast, but I was not hungry. A wretched,

half-starved creature, who stood looking across the street at the Lethal

Chamber, noticed me and came up to tell me a tale of misery. I gave him

money, I don't know why, and he went away without thanking me. An

hour later another outcast approached and whined his story. I had a blank

bit of paper in my pocket, on which was traced the Yellow Sign, and I

handed it to him. He looked at it stupidly for a moment, and then with an

uncertain glance at me, folded it with what seemed to me exaggerated care

and placed it in his bosom.

The electric lights were sparkling among the trees, and the new moon

shone in the sky above the Lethal Chamber. It was tiresome waiting in the

square; I wandered from the Marble Arch to the artillery stables and back

again to the lotos fountain. The flowers and grass exhaled a fragrance

which troubled me. The jet of the fountain played in the moonlight, and

the musical splash of falling drops reminded me of the tinkle of chained

mail in Hawberk's shop. But it was not so fascinating, and the dull

sparkle of the moonlight on the water brought no such sensations of

exquisite pleasure, as when the sunshine played over the polished steel

of a corselet on Hawberk's knee. I watched the bats darting and turning

above the water plants in the fountain basin, but their rapid, jerky

flight set my nerves on edge, and I went away again to walk aimlessly to

and fro among the trees.

The artillery stables were dark, but in the cavalry barracks the

officers' windows were brilliantly lighted, and the sallyport was

constantly filled with troopers in fatigue, carrying straw and harness

and baskets filled with tin dishes.

Twice the mounted sentry at the gates was changed while I wandered up and

down the asphalt walk. I looked at my watch. It was nearly time. The

lights in the barracks went out one by one, the barred gate was closed,

and every minute or two an officer passed in through the side wicket,

leaving a rattle of accoutrements and a jingle of spurs on the night air.

The square had become very silent. The last homeless loiterer had been

driven away by the grey-coated park policeman, the car tracks along

Wooster Street were deserted, and the only sound which broke the

stillness was the stamping of the sentry's horse and the ring of his

sabre against the saddle pommel. In the barracks, the officers' quarters

were still lighted, and military servants passed and repassed before the

bay windows. Twelve o'clock sounded from the new spire of St. Francis

Xavier, and at the last stroke of the sad-toned bell a figure passed

through the wicket beside the portcullis, returned the salute of the

sentry, and crossing the street entered the square and advanced toward

the Benedick apartment house.

"Louis," I called.

The man pivoted on his spurred heels and came straight toward me.

"Is that you, Hildred?"

"Yes, you are on time."

I took his offered hand, and we strolled toward the Lethal Chamber.

He rattled on about his wedding and the graces of Constance, and their

future prospects, calling my attention to his captain's shoulder-straps,

and the triple gold arabesque on his sleeve and fatigue cap. I believe I

listened as much to the music of his spurs and sabre as I did to his

boyish babble, and at last we stood under the elms on the Fourth Street

corner of the square opposite the Lethal Chamber. Then he laughed and

asked me what I wanted with him. I motioned him to a seat on a bench

under the electric light, and sat down beside him. He looked at me

curiously, with that same searching glance which I hate and fear so in

doctors. I felt the insult of his look, but he did not know it, and I

carefully concealed my feelings.

"Well, old chap," he inquired, "what can I do for you?"

I drew from my pocket the manuscript and notes of the Imperial Dynasty

of America, and looking him in the eye said:

"I will tell you. On your word as a soldier, promise me to read this

manuscript from beginning to end, without asking me a question. Promise

me to read these notes in the same way, and promise me to listen to what

I have to tell later."

"I promise, if you wish it," he said pleasantly. "Give me the paper,

Hildred."

He began to read, raising his eyebrows with a puzzled, whimsical air,

which made me tremble with suppressed anger. As he advanced his, eyebrows

contracted, and his lips seemed to form the word "rubbish."

Then he looked slightly bored, but apparently for my sake read, with an

attempt at interest, which presently ceased to be an effort He started

when in the closely written pages he came to his own name, and when he

came to mine he lowered the paper, and looked sharply at me for a moment

But he kept his word, and resumed his reading, and I let the half-formed

question die on his lips unanswered. When he came to the end and read the

signature of Mr. Wilde, he folded the paper carefully and returned it to

me. I handed him the notes, and he settled back, pushing his fatigue cap

up to his forehead, with a boyish gesture, which I remembered so well in

school. I watched his face as he read, and when he finished I took the

notes with the manuscript, and placed them in my pocket. Then I unfolded

a scroll marked with the Yellow Sign. He saw the sign, but he did not

seem to recognize it, and I called his attention to it somewhat sharply.

"Well," he said, "I see it. What is it?"

"It is the Yellow Sign," I said angrily.

"Oh, that's it, is it?" said Louis, in that flattering voice, which

Doctor Archer used to employ with me, and would probably have employed

again, had I not settled his affair for him.

I kept my rage down and answered as steadily as possible, "Listen, you

have engaged your word?"

"I am listening, old chap," he replied soothingly.

I began to speak very calmly.

"Dr. Archer, having by some means become possessed of the secret of the

Imperial Succession, attempted to deprive me of my right, alleging that

because of a fall from my horse four years ago, I had become mentally

deficient. He presumed to place me under restraint in his own house in

hopes of either driving me insane or poisoning me. I have not forgotten

it. I visited him last night and the interview was final."

Louis turned quite pale, but did not move. I resumed triumphantly, "There

are yet three people to be interviewed in the interests of Mr. Wilde and

myself. They are my cousin Louis, Mr. Hawberk, and his daughter

Constance."

Louis sprang to his feet and I arose also, and flung the paper marked

with the Yellow Sign to the ground.

"Oh, I don't need that to tell you what I have to say," I cried, with a

laugh of triumph. "You must renounce the crown to me, do you hear, to

_me_."

Louis looked at me with a startled air, but recovering himself said

kindly, "Of course I renounce the--what is it I must renounce?"

"The crown," I said angrily.

"Of course," he answered, "I renounce it. Come, old chap, I'll walk back

to your rooms with you."

"Don't try any of your doctor's tricks on me," I cried, trembling with

fury. "Don't act as if you think I am insane."

"What nonsense," he replied. "Come, it's getting late, Hildred."

"No," I shouted, "you must listen. You cannot marry, I forbid it. Do you

hear? I forbid it. You shall renounce the crown, and in reward I grant

you exile, but if you refuse you shall die."

He tried to calm me, but I was roused at last, and drawing my long knife

barred his way.

Then I told him how they would find Dr. Archer in the cellar with his

throat open, and I laughed in his face when I thought of Vance and his

knife, and the order signed by me.

"Ah, you are the King," I cried, "but I shall be King. Who are you to

keep me from Empire over all the habitable earth! I was born the cousin

of a king, but I shall be King!"

Louis stood white and rigid before me. Suddenly a man came running up

Fourth Street, entered the gate of the Lethal Temple, traversed the path

to the bronze doors at full speed, and plunged into the death chamber

with the cry of one demented, and I laughed until I wept tears, for I had

recognized Vance, and knew that Hawberk and his daughter were no longer

in my way.

"Go," I cried to Louis, "you have ceased to be a menace. You will never

marry Constance now, and if you marry any one else in your exile, I will

visit you as I did my doctor last night. Mr. Wilde takes charge of you

to-morrow." Then I turned and darted into South Fifth Avenue, and with a

cry of terror Louis dropped his belt and sabre and followed me like the

wind. I heard him close behind me at the corner of Bleecker Street, and I

dashed into the doorway under Hawberk's sign. He cried, "Halt, or I

fire!" but when he saw that I flew up the stairs leaving Hawberk's shop

below, he left me, and I heard him hammering and shouting at their door

as though it were possible to arouse the dead.

Mr. Wilde's door was open, and I entered crying, "It is done, it is done!

Let the nations rise and look upon their King!" but I could not find Mr.

Wilde, so I went to the cabinet and took the splendid diadem from its

case. Then I drew on the white silk robe, embroidered with the Yellow

Sign, and placed the crown upon my head. At last I was King, King by my

right in Hastur, King because I knew the mystery of the Hyades, and my

mind had sounded the depths of the Lake of Hali. I was King! The first

grey pencillings of dawn would raise a tempest which would shake two

hemispheres. Then as I stood, my every nerve pitched to the highest

tension, faint with the joy and splendour of my thought, without, in the

dark passage, a man groaned.

I seized the tallow dip and sprang to the door. The cat passed me like a

demon, and the tallow dip went out, but my long knife flew swifter than

she, and I heard her screech, and I knew that my knife had found her. For

a moment I listened to her tumbling and thumping about in the darkness,

and then when her frenzy ceased, I lighted a lamp and raised it over my

head. Mr. Wilde lay on the floor with his throat torn open. At first I

thought he was dead, but as I looked, a green sparkle came into his

sunken eyes, his mutilated hand trembled, and then a spasm stretched his

mouth from ear to ear. For a moment my terror and despair gave place to

hope, but as I bent over him his eyeballs rolled clean around in his

head, and he died. Then while I stood, transfixed with rage and despair,

seeing my crown, my empire, every hope and every ambition, my very life,

lying prostrate there with the dead master, _they_ came, seized me

from behind, and bound me until my veins stood out like cords, and my

voice failed with the paroxysms of my frenzied screams. But I still

raged, bleeding and infuriated among them, and more than one policeman

felt my sharp teeth. Then when I could no longer move they came nearer; I

saw old Hawberk, and behind him my cousin Louis' ghastly face, and

farther away, in the corner, a woman, Constance, weeping softly.

"Ah! I see it now!" I shrieked. "You have seized the throne and the

empire. Woe! woe to you who are crowned with the crown of the King in

Yellow!"

[EDITOR'S NOTE.--Mr. Castaigne died yesterday in the Asylum for Criminal

Insane.]

THE MASK

CAMILLA: You, sir, should unmask.

STRANGER: Indeed?

CASSILDA: Indeed it's time. We all have laid aside disguise but you.

STRANGER: I wear no mask.

CAMILLA: (Terrified, aside to Cassilda.) No mask? No mask!

_The King in Yellow, Act I, Scene 2_.

Although I knew nothing of chemistry, I listened fascinated. He picked up

an Easter lily which Genevieve had brought that morning from Notre Dame,

and dropped it into the basin. Instantly the liquid lost its crystalline

clearness. For a second the lily was enveloped in a milk-white foam,

which disappeared, leaving the fluid opalescent. Changing tints of orange

and crimson played over the surface, and then what seemed to be a ray of

pure sunlight struck through from the bottom where the lily was resting.

At the same instant he plunged his hand into the basin and drew out the

flower. "There is no danger," he explained, "if you choose the right

moment. That golden ray is the signal."

He held the lily toward me, and I took it in my hand. It had turned to

stone, to the purest marble.

"You see," he said, "it is without a flaw. What sculptor could reproduce

it?"

The marble was white as snow, but in its depths the veins of the lily

were tinged with palest azure, and a faint flush lingered deep in its

heart.

"Don't ask me the reason of that," he smiled, noticing my wonder. "I have

no idea why the veins and heart are tinted, but they always are.

Yesterday I tried one of Genevieve's gold-fish,--there it is."

The fish looked as if sculptured in marble. But if you held it to the

light the stone was beautifully veined with a faint blue, and from

somewhere within came a rosy light like the tint which slumbers in an

opal. I looked into the basin. Once more it seemed filled with clearest

crystal.

"If I should touch it now?" I demanded.

"I don't know," he replied, "but you had better not try."

"There is one thing I'm curious about," I said, "and that is where the

ray of sunlight came from."

"It looked like a sunbeam true enough," he said. "I don't know, it always

comes when I immerse any living thing. Perhaps," he continued, smiling,

"perhaps it is the vital spark of the creature escaping to the source

from whence it came."

I saw he was mocking, and threatened him with a mahl-stick, but he only

laughed and changed the subject.

"Stay to lunch. Genevieve will be here directly."

"I saw her going to early mass," I said, "and she looked as fresh and

sweet as that lily--before you destroyed it."

"Do you think I destroyed it?" said Boris gravely.

"Destroyed, preserved, how can we tell?"

We sat in the corner of a studio near his unfinished group of the

"Fates." He leaned back on the sofa, twirling a sculptor's chisel and

squinting at his work.

"By the way," he said, "I have finished pointing up that old academic

Ariadne, and I suppose it will have to go to the Salon. It's all I have

ready this year, but after the success the 'Madonna' brought me I feel

ashamed to send a thing like that."

The "Madonna," an exquisite marble for which Genevieve had sat, had been

the sensation of last year's Salon. I looked at the Ariadne. It was a

magnificent piece of technical work, but I agreed with Boris that the

world would expect something better of him than that. Still, it was

impossible now to think of finishing in time for the Salon that splendid

terrible group half shrouded in the marble behind me. The "Fates" would

have to wait.

We were proud of Boris Yvain. We claimed him and he claimed us on the

strength of his having been born in America, although his father was

French and his mother was a Russian. Every one in the Beaux Arts called

him Boris. And yet there were only two of us whom he addressed in the

same familiar way--Jack Scott and myself.

Perhaps my being in love with Genevieve had something to do with his

affection for me. Not that it had ever been acknowledged between us. But

after all was settled, and she had told me with tears in her eyes that it

was Boris whom she loved, I went over to his house and congratulated him.

The perfect cordiality of that interview did not deceive either of us, I

always believed, although to one at least it was a great comfort. I do

not think he and Genevieve ever spoke of the matter together, but Boris

knew.

Genevieve was lovely. The Madonna-like purity of her face might have been

inspired by the Sanctus in Gounod's Mass. But I was always glad when she

changed that mood for what we called her "April Manoeuvres." She was

often as variable as an April day. In the morning grave, dignified and

sweet, at noon laughing, capricious, at evening whatever one least

expected. I preferred her so rather than in that Madonna-like

tranquillity which stirred the depths of my heart. I was dreaming of

Genevieve when he spoke again.

"What do you think of my discovery, Alec?"

"I think it wonderful."

"I shall make no use of it, you know, beyond satisfying my own curiosity

so far as may be, and the secret will die with me."

"It would be rather a blow to sculpture, would it not? We painters lose

more than we ever gain by photography."

Boris nodded, playing with the edge of the chisel.

"This new vicious discovery would corrupt the world of art. No, I shall

never confide the secret to any one," he said slowly.

It would be hard to find any one less informed about such phenomena than

myself; but of course I had heard of mineral springs so saturated with

silica that the leaves and twigs which fell into them were turned to

stone after a time. I dimly comprehended the process, how the silica

replaced the vegetable matter, atom by atom, and the result was a

duplicate of the object in stone. This, I confess, had never interested

me greatly, and as for the ancient fossils thus produced, they disgusted

me. Boris, it appeared, feeling curiosity instead of repugnance, had

investigated the subject, and had accidentally stumbled on a solution

which, attacking the immersed object with a ferocity unheard of, in a

second did the work of years. This was all I could make out of the

strange story he had just been telling me. He spoke again after a long

silence.

"I am almost frightened when I think what I have found. Scientists would

go mad over the discovery. It was so simple too; it discovered itself.

When I think of that formula, and that new element precipitated in

metallic scales--"

"What new element?"

"Oh, I haven't thought of naming it, and I don't believe I ever shall.

There are enough precious metals now in the world to cut throats over."

I pricked up my ears. "Have you struck gold, Boris?"

"No, better;--but see here, Alec!" he laughed, starting up. "You and I

have all we need in this world. Ah! how sinister and covetous you look

already!" I laughed too, and told him I was devoured by the desire for

gold, and we had better talk of something else; so when Genevieve came in

shortly after, we had turned our backs on alchemy.

Genevieve was dressed in silvery grey from head to foot. The light

glinted along the soft curves of her fair hair as she turned her cheek to

Boris; then she saw me and returned my greeting. She had never before

failed to blow me a kiss from the tips of her white fingers, and I

promptly complained of the omission. She smiled and held out her hand,

which dropped almost before it had touched mine; then she said, looking

at Boris--

"You must ask Alec to stay for luncheon." This also was something new.

She had always asked me herself until to-day.

"I did," said Boris shortly.

"And you said yes, I hope?" She turned to me with a charming conventional

smile. I might have been an acquaintance of the day before yesterday. I

made her a low bow. "J'avais bien l'honneur, madame," but refusing to

take up our usual bantering tone, she murmured a hospitable commonplace

and disappeared. Boris and I looked at one another.

"I had better go home, don't you think?" I asked.

"Hanged if I know," he replied frankly.

While we were discussing the advisability of my departure Genevieve

reappeared in the doorway without her bonnet. She was wonderfully

beautiful, but her colour was too deep and her lovely eyes were too

bright. She came straight up to me and took my arm.

"Luncheon is ready. Was I cross, Alec? I thought I had a headache, but I

haven't. Come here, Boris;" and she slipped her other arm through his.

"Alec knows that after you there is no one in the world whom I like as

well as I like him, so if he sometimes feels snubbed it won't hurt him."

"A la bonheur!" I cried, "who says there are no thunderstorms in April?"

"Are you ready?" chanted Boris. "Aye ready;" and arm-in-arm we raced into

the dining-room, scandalizing the servants. After all we were not so much

to blame; Genevieve was eighteen, Boris was twenty-three, and I not quite

twenty-one.

Some work that I was doing about this time on the decorations for

Genevieve's boudoir kept me constantly at the quaint little hotel in the

Rue Sainte-Cecile. Boris and I in those days laboured hard but as we

pleased, which was fitfully, and we all three, with Jack Scott, idled a

great deal together.

One quiet afternoon I had been wandering alone over the house examining

curios, prying into odd corners, bringing out sweetmeats and cigars from

strange hiding-places, and at last I stopped in the bathing-room. Boris,

all over clay, stood there washing his hands.

The room was built of rose-coloured marble excepting the floor, which was

tessellated in rose and grey. In the centre was a square pool sunken

below the surface of the floor; steps led down into it, sculptured

pillars supported a frescoed ceiling. A delicious marble Cupid appeared

to have just alighted on his pedestal at the upper end of the room. The

whole interior was Boris' work and mine. Boris, in his working-clothes of

white canvas, scraped the traces of clay and red modelling wax from his

handsome hands, and coquetted over his shoulder with the Cupid.

"I see you," he insisted, "don't try to look the other way and pretend

not to see me. You know who made you, little humbug!"

It was always my role to interpret Cupid's sentiments in these

conversations, and when my turn came I responded in such a manner, that

Boris seized my arm and dragged me toward the pool, declaring he would

duck me. Next instant he dropped my arm and turned pale. "Good God!" he

said, "I forgot the pool is full of the solution!"

I shivered a little, and dryly advised him to remember better where he

had stored the precious liquid.

"In Heaven's name, why do you keep a small lake of that gruesome stuff

here of all places?" I asked.

"I want to experiment on something large," he replied.

"On me, for instance?"

"Ah! that came too close for jesting; but I do want to watch the action

of that solution on a more highly organized living body; there is that

big white rabbit," he said, following me into the studio.

Jack Scott, wearing a paint-stained jacket, came wandering in,

appropriated all the Oriental sweetmeats he could lay his hands on,

looted the cigarette case, and finally he and Boris disappeared together

to visit the Luxembourg Gallery, where a new silver bronze by Rodin and a

landscape of Monet's were claiming the exclusive attention of artistic

France. I went back to the studio, and resumed my work. It was a

Renaissance screen, which Boris wanted me to paint for Genevieve's

boudoir. But the small boy who was unwillingly dawdling through a series

of poses for it, to-day refused all bribes to be good. He never rested an

instant in the same position, and inside of five minutes I had as many

different outlines of the little beggar.

"Are you posing, or are you executing a song and dance, my friend?" I

inquired.

"Whichever monsieur pleases," he replied, with an angelic smile.

Of course I dismissed him for the day, and of course I paid him for the

full time, that being the way we spoil our models.

After the young imp had gone, I made a few perfunctory daubs at my work,

but was so thoroughly out of humour, that it took me the rest of the

afternoon to undo the damage I had done, so at last I scraped my palette,

stuck my brushes in a bowl of black soap, and strolled into the

smoking-room. I really believe that, excepting Genevieve's apartments, no

room in the house was so free from the perfume of tobacco as this one. It

was a queer chaos of odds and ends, hung with threadbare tapestry. A

sweet-toned old spinet in good repair stood by the window. There were

stands of weapons, some old and dull, others bright and modern, festoons

of Indian and Turkish armour over the mantel, two or three good pictures,

and a pipe-rack. It was here that we used to come for new sensations in

smoking. I doubt if any type of pipe ever existed which was not

represented in that rack. When we had selected one, we immediately

carried it somewhere else and smoked it; for the place was, on the whole,

more gloomy and less inviting than any in the house. But this afternoon,

the twilight was very soothing, the rugs and skins on the floor looked

brown and soft and drowsy; the big couch was piled with cushions--I found

my pipe and curled up there for an unaccustomed smoke in the

smoking-room. I had chosen one with a long flexible stem, and lighting it

fell to dreaming. After a while it went out, but I did not stir. I

dreamed on and presently fell asleep.

I awoke to the saddest music I had ever heard. The room was quite dark, I

had no idea what time it was. A ray of moonlight silvered one edge of the

old spinet, and the polished wood seemed to exhale the sounds as perfume

floats above a box of sandalwood. Some one rose in the darkness, and came

away weeping quietly, and I was fool enough to cry out "Genevieve!"

She dropped at my voice, and, I had time to curse myself while I made a

light and tried to raise her from the floor. She shrank away with a

murmur of pain. She was very quiet, and asked for Boris. I carried her to

the divan, and went to look for him, but he was not in the house, and the

servants were gone to bed. Perplexed and anxious, I hurried back to

Genevieve. She lay where I had left her, looking very white.

"I can't find Boris nor any of the servants," I said.

"I know," she answered faintly, "Boris has gone to Ept with Mr. Scott. I

did not remember when I sent you for him just now."

"But he can't get back in that case before to-morrow afternoon, and--are

you hurt? Did I frighten you into falling? What an awful fool I am, but I

was only half awake."

"Boris thought you had gone home before dinner. Do please excuse us for

letting you stay here all this time."

"I have had a long nap," I laughed, "so sound that I did not know whether

I was still asleep or not when I found myself staring at a figure that

was moving toward me, and called out your name. Have you been trying the

old spinet? You must have played very softly."

I would tell a thousand more lies worse than that one to see the look of

relief that came into her face. She smiled adorably, and said in her

natural voice: "Alec, I tripped on that wolf's head, and I think my ankle

is sprained. Please call Marie, and then go home."

I did as she bade me, and left her there when the maid came in.

III

At noon next day when I called, I found Boris walking restlessly about

his studio.

"Genevieve is asleep just now," he told me, "the sprain is nothing, but

why should she have such a high fever? The doctor can't account for it;

or else he will not," he muttered.

"Genevieve has a fever?" I asked.

"I should say so, and has actually been a little light-headed at

intervals all night. The idea! gay little Genevieve, without a care in

the world,--and she keeps saying her heart's broken, and she wants to

die!"

My own heart stood still.

Boris leaned against the door of his studio, looking down, his hands in

his pockets, his kind, keen eyes clouded, a new line of trouble drawn

"over the mouth's good mark, that made the smile." The maid had orders to

summon him the instant Genevieve opened her eyes. We waited and waited,

and Boris, growing restless, wandered about, fussing with modelling wax

and red clay. Suddenly he started for the next room. "Come and see my

rose-coloured bath full of death!" he cried.

"Is it death?" I asked, to humour his mood.

"You are not prepared to call it life, I suppose," he answered. As he

spoke he plucked a solitary goldfish squirming and twisting out of its

globe. "We'll send this one after the other--wherever that is," he said.

There was feverish excitement in his voice. A dull weight of fever lay on

my limbs and on my brain as I followed him to the fair crystal pool with

its pink-tinted sides; and he dropped the creature in. Falling, its

scales flashed with a hot orange gleam in its angry twistings and

contortions; the moment it struck the liquid it became rigid and sank

heavily to the bottom. Then came the milky foam, the splendid hues

radiating on the surface and then the shaft of pure serene light broke

through from seemingly infinite depths. Boris plunged in his hand and

drew out an exquisite marble thing, blue-veined, rose-tinted, and

glistening with opalescent drops.

"Child's play," he muttered, and looked wearily, longingly at me,--as if

I could answer such questions! But Jack Scott came in and entered into

the "game," as he called it, with ardour. Nothing would do but to try the

experiment on the white rabbit then and there. I was willing that Boris

should find distraction from his cares, but I hated to see the life go

out of a warm, living creature and I declined to be present. Picking up a

book at random, I sat down in the studio to read. Alas! I had found

_The King in Yellow_. After a few moments, which seemed ages, I was

putting it away with a nervous shudder, when Boris and Jack came in

bringing their marble rabbit. At the same time the bell rang above, and a

cry came from the sick-room. Boris was gone like a flash, and the next

moment he called, "Jack, run for the doctor; bring him back with you.

Alec, come here."

I went and stood at her door. A frightened maid came out in haste and ran

away to fetch some remedy. Genevieve, sitting bolt upright, with crimson

cheeks and glittering eyes, babbled incessantly and resisted Boris'

gentle restraint. He called me to help. At my first touch she sighed and

sank back, closing her eyes, and then--then--as we still bent above her,

she opened them again, looked straight into Boris' face--poor

fever-crazed girl!--and told her secret. At the same instant our three

lives turned into new channels; the bond that held us so long together

snapped for ever and a new bond was forged in its place, for she had

spoken my name, and as the fever tortured her, her heart poured out its

load of hidden sorrow. Amazed and dumb I bowed my head, while my face

burned like a live coal, and the blood surged in my ears, stupefying me

with its clamour. Incapable of movement, incapable of speech, I listened

to her feverish words in an agony of shame and sorrow. I could not

silence her, I could not look at Boris. Then I felt an arm upon my

shoulder, and Boris turned a bloodless face to mine.

"It is not your fault, Alec; don't grieve so if she loves you--" but he

could not finish; and as the doctor stepped swiftly into the room,

saying--"Ah, the fever!" I seized Jack Scott and hurried him to the

street, saying, "Boris would rather be alone." We crossed the street to

our own apartments, and that night, seeing I was going to be ill too, he

went for the doctor again. The last thing I recollect with any

distinctness was hearing Jack say, "For Heaven's sake, doctor, what ails

him, to wear a face like that?" and I thought of _The King in

Yellow_ and the Pallid Mask.

I was very ill, for the strain of two years which I had endured since

that fatal May morning when Genevieve murmured, "I love you, but I think

I love Boris best," told on me at last. I had never imagined that it

could become more than I could endure. Outwardly tranquil, I had deceived

myself. Although the inward battle raged night after night, and I, lying

alone in my room, cursed myself for rebellious thoughts unloyal to Boris

and unworthy of Genevieve, the morning always brought relief, and I

returned to Genevieve and to my dear Boris with a heart washed clean by

the tempests of the night.

Never in word or deed or thought while with them had I betrayed my sorrow

even to myself.

The mask of self-deception was no longer a mask for me, it was a part of

me. Night lifted it, laying bare the stifled truth below; but there was

no one to see except myself, and when the day broke the mask fell back

again of its own accord. These thoughts passed through my troubled mind

as I lay sick, but they were hopelessly entangled with visions of white

creatures, heavy as stone, crawling about in Boris' basin,--of the wolf's

head on the rug, foaming and snapping at Genevieve, who lay smiling

beside it. I thought, too, of the King in Yellow wrapped in the fantastic

colours of his tattered mantle, and that bitter cry of Cassilda, "Not

upon us, oh King, not upon us!" Feverishly I struggled to put it from me,

but I saw the lake of Hali, thin and blank, without a ripple or wind to

stir it, and I saw the towers of Carcosa behind the moon. Aldebaran, the

Hyades, Alar, Hastur, glided through the cloud-rifts which fluttered and

flapped as they passed like the scolloped tatters of the King in Yellow.

Among all these, one sane thought persisted. It never wavered, no matter

what else was going on in my disordered mind, that my chief reason for

existing was to meet some requirement of Boris and Genevieve. What this

obligation was, its nature, was never clear; sometimes it seemed to be

protection, sometimes support, through a great crisis. Whatever it seemed

to be for the time, its weight rested only on me, and I was never so ill

or so weak that I did not respond with my whole soul. There were always

crowds of faces about me, mostly strange, but a few I recognized, Boris

among them. Afterward they told me that this could not have been, but I

know that once at least he bent over me. It was only a touch, a faint

echo of his voice, then the clouds settled back on my senses, and I lost

him, but he _did_ stand there and bend over me _once_ at least.

At last, one morning I awoke to find the sunlight falling across my bed,

and Jack Scott reading beside me. I had not strength enough to speak

aloud, neither could I think, much less remember, but I could smile

feebly, as Jack's eye met mine, and when he jumped up and asked eagerly

if I wanted anything, I could whisper, "Yes--Boris." Jack moved to the

head of my bed, and leaned down to arrange my pillow: I did not see his

face, but he answered heartily, "You must wait, Alec; you are too weak to

see even Boris."

I waited and I grew strong; in a few days I was able to see whom I would,

but meanwhile I had thought and remembered. From the moment when all the

past grew clear again in my mind, I never doubted what I should do when

the time came, and I felt sure that Boris would have resolved upon the

same course so far as he was concerned; as for what pertained to me

alone, I knew he would see that also as I did. I no longer asked for any

one. I never inquired why no message came from them; why during the week

I lay there, waiting and growing stronger, I never heard their name

spoken. Preoccupied with my own searchings for the right way, and with my

feeble but determined fight against despair, I simply acquiesced in

Jack's reticence, taking for granted that he was afraid to speak of them,

lest I should turn unruly and insist on seeing them. Meanwhile I said

over and over to myself, how would it be when life began again for us

all? We would take up our relations exactly as they were before Genevieve

fell ill. Boris and I would look into each other's eyes, and there would

be neither rancour nor cowardice nor mistrust in that glance. I would be

with them again for a little while in the dear intimacy of their home,

and then, without pretext or explanation, I would disappear from their

lives for ever. Boris would know; Genevieve--the only comfort was that

she would never know. It seemed, as I thought it over, that I had found

the meaning of that sense of obligation which had persisted all through

my delirium, and the only possible answer to it. So, when I was quite

ready, I beckoned Jack to me one day, and said--

"Jack, I want Boris at once; and take my dearest greeting to

Genevieve...."

When at last he made me understand that they were both dead, I fell into

a wild rage that tore all my little convalescent strength to atoms. I

raved and cursed myself into a relapse, from which I crawled forth some

weeks afterward a boy of twenty-one who believed that his youth was gone

for ever. I seemed to be past the capability of further suffering, and

one day when Jack handed me a letter and the keys to Boris' house, I took

them without a tremor and asked him to tell me all. It was cruel of me to

ask him, but there was no help for it, and he leaned wearily on his thin

hands, to reopen the wound which could never entirely heal. He began very

quietly--

"Alec, unless you have a clue that I know nothing about, you will not be

able to explain any more than I what has happened. I suspect that you

would rather not hear these details, but you must learn them, else I

would spare you the relation. God knows I wish I could be spared the

telling. I shall use few words.

"That day when I left you in the doctor's care and came back to Boris, I

found him working on the 'Fates.' Genevieve, he said, was sleeping under

the influence of drugs. She had been quite out of her mind, he said. He

kept on working, not talking any more, and I watched him. Before long, I

saw that the third figure of the group--the one looking straight ahead,

out over the world--bore his face; not as you ever saw it, but as it

looked then and to the end. This is one thing for which I should like to

find an explanation, but I never shall.

"Well, he worked and I watched him in silence, and we went on that way

until nearly midnight. Then we heard the door open and shut sharply, and

a swift rush in the next room. Boris sprang through the doorway and I

followed; but we were too late. She lay at the bottom of the pool, her

hands across her breast. Then Boris shot himself through the heart." Jack

stopped speaking, drops of sweat stood under his eyes, and his thin

cheeks twitched. "I carried Boris to his room. Then I went back and let

that hellish fluid out of the pool, and turning on all the water, washed

the marble clean of every drop. When at length I dared descend the steps,

I found her lying there as white as snow. At last, when I had decided

what was best to do, I went into the laboratory, and first emptied the

solution in the basin into the waste-pipe; then I poured the contents of

every jar and bottle after it. There was wood in the fire-place, so I

built a fire, and breaking the locks of Boris' cabinet I burnt every

paper, notebook and letter that I found there. With a mallet from the

studio I smashed to pieces all the empty bottles, then loading them into

a coal-scuttle, I carried them to the cellar and threw them over the

red-hot bed of the furnace. Six times I made the journey, and at last,

not a vestige remained of anything which might again aid in seeking for

the formula which Boris had found. Then at last I dared call the doctor.

He is a good man, and together we struggled to keep it from the public.

Without him I never could have succeeded. At last we got the servants

paid and sent away into the country, where old Rosier keeps them quiet

with stones of Boris' and Genevieve's travels in distant lands, from

whence they will not return for years. We buried Boris in the little

cemetery of Sevres. The doctor is a good creature, and knows when to pity

a man who can bear no more. He gave his certificate of heart disease and

asked no questions of me."

Then, lifting his head from his hands, he said, "Open the letter, Alec;

it is for us both."

I tore it open. It was Boris' will dated a year before. He left

everything to Genevieve, and in case of her dying childless, I was to

take control of the house in the Rue Sainte-Cecile, and Jack Scott the

management at Ept. On our deaths the property reverted to his mother's

family in Russia, with the exception of the sculptured marbles executed

by himself. These he left to me.

The page blurred under our eyes, and Jack got up and walked to the

window. Presently he returned and sat down again. I dreaded to hear what

he was going to say, but he spoke with the same simplicity and

gentleness.

"Genevieve lies before the Madonna in the marble room. The Madonna bends

tenderly above her, and Genevieve smiles back into that calm face that

never would have been except for her."

His voice broke, but he grasped my hand, saying, "Courage, Alec." Next

morning he left for Ept to fulfil his trust.

The same evening I took the keys and went into the house I had known so

well. Everything was in order, but the silence was terrible. Though I

went twice to the door of the marble room, I could not force myself to

enter. It was beyond my strength. I went into the smoking-room and sat

down before the spinet. A small lace handkerchief lay on the keys, and I

turned away, choking. It was plain I could not stay, so I locked every

door, every window, and the three front and back gates, and went away.

Next morning Alcide packed my valise, and leaving him in charge of my

apartments I took the Orient express for Constantinople. During the two

years that I wandered through the East, at first, in our letters, we

never mentioned Genevieve and Boris, but gradually their names crept in.

I recollect particularly a passage in one of Jack's letters replying to

one of mine--

"What you tell me of seeing Boris bending over you while you lay ill, and

feeling his touch on your face, and hearing his voice, of course troubles

me. This that you describe must have happened a fortnight after he died.

I say to myself that you were dreaming, that it was part of your

delirium, but the explanation does not satisfy me, nor would it you."

Toward the end of the second year a letter came from Jack to me in India

so unlike anything that I had ever known of him that I decided to return

at once to Paris. He wrote: "I am well, and sell all my pictures as

artists do who have no need of money. I have not a care of my own, but I

am more restless than if I had. I am unable to shake off a strange

anxiety about you. It is not apprehension, it is rather a breathless

expectancy--of what, God knows! I can only say it is wearing me out.

Nights I dream always of you and Boris. I can never recall anything

afterward, but I wake in the morning with my heart beating, and all day

the excitement increases until I fall asleep at night to recall the same

experience. I am quite exhausted by it, and have determined to break up

this morbid condition. I must see you. Shall I go to Bombay, or will you

come to Paris?"

I telegraphed him to expect me by the next steamer.

When we met I thought he had changed very little; I, he insisted, looked

in splendid health. It was good to hear his voice again, and as we sat

and chatted about what life still held for us, we felt that it was

pleasant to be alive in the bright spring weather.

We stayed in Paris together a week, and then I went for a week to Ept

with him, but first of all we went to the cemetery at Sevres, where Boris

lay.

"Shall we place the 'Fates' in the little grove above him?" Jack asked,

and I answered--

"I think only the 'Madonna' should watch over Boris' grave." But Jack was

none the better for my home-coming. The dreams of which he could not

retain even the least definite outline continued, and he said that at

times the sense of breathless expectancy was suffocating.

"You see I do you harm and not good," I said. "Try a change without me."

So he started alone for a ramble among the Channel Islands, and I went

back to Paris. I had not yet entered Boris' house, now mine, since my

return, but I knew it must be done. It had been kept in order by Jack;

there were servants there, so I gave up my own apartment and went there

to live. Instead of the agitation I had feared, I found myself able to

paint there tranquilly. I visited all the rooms--all but one. I could not

bring myself to enter the marble room where Genevieve lay, and yet I felt

the longing growing daily to look upon her face, to kneel beside her.

One April afternoon, I lay dreaming in the smoking-room, just as I had

lain two years before, and mechanically I looked among the tawny Eastern

rugs for the wolf-skin. At last I distinguished the pointed ears and flat

cruel head, and I thought of my dream where I saw Genevieve lying beside

it. The helmets still hung against the threadbare tapestry, among them

the old Spanish morion which I remembered Genevieve had once put on when

we were amusing ourselves with the ancient bits of mail. I turned my eyes

to the spinet; every yellow key seemed eloquent of her caressing hand,

and I rose, drawn by the strength of my life's passion to the sealed door

of the marble room. The heavy doors swung inward under my trembling

hands. Sunlight poured through the window, tipping with gold the wings of

Cupid, and lingered like a nimbus over the brows of the Madonna. Her

tender face bent in compassion over a marble form so exquisitely pure

that I knelt and signed myself. Genevieve lay in the shadow under the

Madonna, and yet, through her white arms, I saw the pale azure vein, and

beneath her softly clasped hands the folds of her dress were tinged with

rose, as if from some faint warm light within her breast.

Bending, with a breaking heart, I touched the marble drapery with my

lips, then crept back into the silent house.

A maid came and brought me a letter, and I sat down in the little

conservatory to read it; but as I was about to break the seal, seeing the

girl lingering, I asked her what she wanted.

She stammered something about a white rabbit that had been caught in the

house, and asked what should be done with it I told her to let it loose

in the walled garden behind the house, and opened my letter. It was from

Jack, but so incoherent that I thought he must have lost his reason. It

was nothing but a series of prayers to me not to leave the house until he

could get back; he could not tell me why, there were the dreams, he

said--he could explain nothing, but he was sure that I must not leave the

house in the Rue Sainte-Cecile.

As I finished reading I raised my eyes and saw the same maid-servant

standing in the doorway holding a glass dish in which two gold-fish were

swimming: "Put them back into the tank and tell me what you mean by

interrupting me," I said.

With a half-suppressed whimper she emptied water and fish into an

aquarium at the end of the conservatory, and turning to me asked my

permission to leave my service. She said people were playing tricks on

her, evidently with a design of getting her into trouble; the marble

rabbit had been stolen and a live one had been brought into the house;

the two beautiful marble fish were gone, and she had just found those

common live things flopping on the dining-room floor. I reassured her and

sent her away, saying I would look about myself. I went into the studio;

there was nothing there but my canvases and some casts, except the marble

of the Easter lily. I saw it on a table across the room. Then I strode

angrily over to it. But the flower I lifted from the table was fresh and

fragile and filled the air with perfume.

Then suddenly I comprehended, and sprang through the hall-way to the

marble room. The doors flew open, the sunlight streamed into my face, and

through it, in a heavenly glory, the Madonna smiled, as Genevieve lifted

her flushed face from her marble couch and opened her sleepy eyes.

IN THE COURT OF THE DRAGON

"Oh, thou who burn'st in heart for those who burn

In Hell, whose fires thyself shall feed in turn;

How long be crying--'Mercy on them.' God!

Why, who art thou to teach and He to learn?"

In the Church of St. Barnabe vespers were over; the clergy left the

altar; the little choir-boys flocked across the chancel and settled in

the stalls. A Suisse in rich uniform marched down the south aisle,

sounding his staff at every fourth step on the stone pavement; behind him

came that eloquent preacher and good man, Monseigneur C----.

My chair was near the chancel rail, I now turned toward the west end of

the church. The other people between the altar and the pulpit turned too.

There was a little scraping and rustling while the congregation seated

itself again; the preacher mounted the pulpit stairs, and the organ

voluntary ceased.

I had always found the organ-playing at St. Barnabe highly interesting.

Learned and scientific it was, too much so for my small knowledge, but

expressing a vivid if cold intelligence. Moreover, it possessed the

French quality of taste: taste reigned supreme, self-controlled,

dignified and reticent.

To-day, however, from the first chord I had felt a change for the worse,

a sinister change. During vespers it had been chiefly the chancel organ

which supported the beautiful choir, but now and again, quite wantonly as

it seemed, from the west gallery where the great organ stands, a heavy

hand had struck across the church at the serene peace of those clear

voices. It was something more than harsh and dissonant, and it betrayed

no lack of skill. As it recurred again and again, it set me thinking of

what my architect's books say about the custom in early times to

consecrate the choir as soon as it was built, and that the nave, being

finished sometimes half a century later, often did not get any blessing

at all: I wondered idly if that had been the case at St. Barnabe, and

whether something not usually supposed to be at home in a Christian

church might have entered undetected and taken possession of the west

gallery. I had read of such things happening, too, but not in works on

architecture.

Then I remembered that St. Barnabe was not much more than a hundred years

old, and smiled at the incongruous association of mediaeval superstitions

with that cheerful little piece of eighteenth-century rococo.

But now vespers were over, and there should have followed a few quiet

chords, fit to accompany meditation, while we waited for the sermon.

Instead of that, the discord at the lower end of the church broke out

with the departure of the clergy, as if now nothing could control it.

I belong to those children of an older and simpler generation who do not

love to seek for psychological subtleties in art; and I have ever refused

to find in music anything more than melody and harmony, but I felt that

in the labyrinth of sounds now issuing from that instrument there was

something being hunted. Up and down the pedals chased him, while the

manuals blared approval. Poor devil! whoever he was, there seemed small

hope of escape!

My nervous annoyance changed to anger. Who was doing this? How dare he

play like that in the midst of divine service? I glanced at the people

near me: not one appeared to be in the least disturbed. The placid brows

of the kneeling nuns, still turned towards the altar, lost none of their

devout abstraction under the pale shadow of their white head-dress. The

fashionable lady beside me was looking expectantly at Monseigneur C----.

For all her face betrayed, the organ might have been singing an Ave

Maria.

But now, at last, the preacher had made the sign of the cross, and

commanded silence. I turned to him gladly. Thus far I had not found the

rest I had counted on when I entered St. Barnabe that afternoon.

I was worn out by three nights of physical suffering and mental trouble:

the last had been the worst, and it was an exhausted body, and a mind

benumbed and yet acutely sensitive, which I had brought to my favourite

church for healing. For I had been reading _The King in Yellow_.

"The sun ariseth; they gather themselves together and lay them down in

their dens." Monseigneur C---- delivered his text in a calm voice,

glancing quietly over the congregation. My eyes turned, I knew not why,

toward the lower end of the church. The organist was coming from behind

his pipes, and passing along the gallery on his way out, I saw him

disappear by a small door that leads to some stairs which descend

directly to the street. He was a slender man, and his face was as white

as his coat was black. "Good riddance!" I thought, "with your wicked

music! I hope your assistant will play the closing voluntary."

With a feeling of relief--with a deep, calm feeling of relief, I turned

back to the mild face in the pulpit and settled myself to listen. Here,

at last, was the ease of mind I longed for.

"My children," said the preacher, "one truth the human soul finds hardest

of all to learn: that it has nothing to fear. It can never be made to see

that nothing can really harm it."

"Curious doctrine!" I thought, "for a Catholic priest. Let us see how he

will reconcile that with the Fathers."

"Nothing can really harm the soul," he went on, in, his coolest, clearest

tones, "because----"

But I never heard the rest; my eye left his face, I knew not for what

reason, and sought the lower end of the church. The same man was coming

out from behind the organ, and was passing along the gallery _the same

way_. But there had not been time for him to return, and if he had

returned, I must have seen him. I felt a faint chill, and my heart sank;

and yet, his going and coming were no affair of mine. I looked at him: I

could not look away from his black figure and his white face. When he was

exactly opposite to me, he turned and sent across the church straight

into my eyes, a look of hate, intense and deadly: I have never seen any

other like it; would to God I might never see it again! Then he

disappeared by the same door through which I had watched him depart less

than sixty seconds before.

I sat and tried to collect my thoughts. My first sensation was like that

of a very young child badly hurt, when it catches its breath before

crying out.

To suddenly find myself the object of such hatred was exquisitely

painful: and this man was an utter stranger. Why should he hate me

so?--me, whom he had never seen before? For the moment all other

sensation was merged in this one pang: even fear was subordinate to

grief, and for that moment I never doubted; but in the next I began to

reason, and a sense of the incongruous came to my aid.

As I have said, St. Barnabe is a modern church. It is small and well

lighted; one sees all over it almost at a glance. The organ gallery gets

a strong white light from a row of long windows in the clerestory, which

have not even coloured glass.

The pulpit being in the middle of the church, it followed that, when I

was turned toward it, whatever moved at the west end could not fail to

attract my eye. When the organist passed it was no wonder that I saw him:

I had simply miscalculated the interval between his first and his second

passing. He had come in that last time by the other side-door. As for the

look which had so upset me, there had been no such thing, and I was a

nervous fool.

I looked about. This was a likely place to harbour supernatural horrors!

That clear-cut, reasonable face of Monseigneur C----, his collected

manner and easy, graceful gestures, were they not just a little

discouraging to the notion of a gruesome mystery? I glanced above his

head, and almost laughed. That flyaway lady supporting one corner of the

pulpit canopy, which looked like a fringed damask table-cloth in a high

wind, at the first attempt of a basilisk to pose up there in the organ

loft, she would point her gold trumpet at him, and puff him out of

existence! I laughed to myself over this conceit, which, at the time, I

thought very amusing, and sat and chaffed myself and everything else,

from the old harpy outside the railing, who had made me pay ten centimes

for my chair, before she would let me in (she was more like a basilisk, I

told myself, than was my organist with the anaemic complexion): from that

grim old dame, to, yes, alas! Monseigneur C---- himself. For all

devoutness had fled. I had never yet done such a thing in my life, but

now I felt a desire to mock.

As for the sermon, I could not hear a word of it for the jingle in my

ears of

"The skirts of St. Paul has reached.

Having preached us those six Lent lectures,

More unctuous than ever he preached,"

keeping time to the most fantastic and irreverent thoughts.

It was no use to sit there any longer: I must get out of doors and shake

myself free from this hateful mood. I knew the rudeness I was committing,

but still I rose and left the church.

A spring sun was shining on the Rue St. Honore, as I ran down the church

steps. On one corner stood a barrow full of yellow jonquils, pale violets

from the Riviera, dark Russian violets, and white Roman hyacinths in a

golden cloud of mimosa. The street was full of Sunday pleasure-seekers. I

swung my cane and laughed with the rest. Some one overtook and passed me.

He never turned, but there was the same deadly malignity in his white

profile that there had been in his eyes. I watched him as long as I could

see him. His lithe back expressed the same menace; every step that

carried him away from me seemed to bear him on some errand connected with

my destruction.

I was creeping along, my feet almost refusing to move. There began to

dawn in me a sense of responsibility for something long forgotten. It

began to seem as if I deserved that which he threatened: it reached a

long way back--a long, long way back. It had lain dormant all these

years: it was there, though, and presently it would rise and confront me.

But I would try to escape; and I stumbled as best I could into the Rue de

Rivoli, across the Place de la Concorde and on to the Quai. I looked with

sick eyes upon the sun, shining through the white foam of the fountain,

pouring over the backs of the dusky bronze river-gods, on the far-away

Arc, a structure of amethyst mist, on the countless vistas of grey stems

and bare branches faintly green. Then I saw him again coming down one of

the chestnut alleys of the Cours la Reine.

I left the river-side, plunged blindly across to the Champs Elysees and

turned toward the Arc. The setting sun was sending its rays along the

green sward of the Rond-point: in the full glow he sat on a bench,

children and young mothers all about him. He was nothing but a Sunday

lounger, like the others, like myself. I said the words almost aloud, and

all the while I gazed on the malignant hatred of his face. But he was not

looking at me. I crept past and dragged my leaden feet up the Avenue. I

knew that every time I met him brought him nearer to the accomplishment

of his purpose and my fate. And still I tried to save myself.

The last rays of sunset were pouring through the great Arc. I passed

under it, and met him face to face. I had left him far down the Champs

Elysees, and yet he came in with a stream of people who were returning

from the Bois de Boulogne. He came so close that he brushed me. His

slender frame felt like iron inside its loose black covering. He showed

no signs of haste, nor of fatigue, nor of any human feeling. His whole

being expressed one thing: the will, and the power to work me evil.

In anguish I watched him where he went down the broad crowded Avenue,

that was all flashing with wheels and the trappings of horses and the

helmets of the Garde Republicaine.

He was soon lost to sight; then I turned and fled. Into the Bois, and far

out beyond it--I know not where I went, but after a long while as it

seemed to me, night had fallen, and I found myself sitting at a table

before a small cafe. I had wandered back into the Bois. It was hours now

since I had seen him. Physical fatigue and mental suffering had left me

no power to think or feel. I was tired, so tired! I longed to hide away

in my own den. I resolved to go home. But that was a long way off.

I live in the Court of the Dragon, a narrow passage that leads from the

Rue de Rennes to the Rue du Dragon.

It is an "impasse"; traversable only for foot passengers. Over the

entrance on the Rue de Rennes is a balcony, supported by an iron dragon.

Within the court tall old houses rise on either side, and close the ends

that give on the two streets. Huge gates, swung back during the day into

the walls of the deep archways, close this court, after midnight, and one

must enter then by ringing at certain small doors on the side. The sunken

pavement collects unsavoury pools. Steep stairways pitch down to doors

that open on the court. The ground floors are occupied by shops of

second-hand dealers, and by iron workers. All day long the place rings

with the clink of hammers and the clang of metal bars.

Unsavoury as it is below, there is cheerfulness, and comfort, and hard,

honest work above.

Five flights up are the ateliers of architects and painters, and the

hiding-places of middle-aged students like myself who want to live alone.

When I first came here to live I was young, and not alone.

I had to walk a while before any conveyance appeared, but at last, when I

had almost reached the Arc de Triomphe again, an empty cab came along and

I took it.

From the Arc to the Rue de Rennes is a drive of more than half an hour,

especially when one is conveyed by a tired cab horse that has been at the

mercy of Sunday fete-makers.

There had been time before I passed under the Dragon's wings to meet my

enemy over and over again, but I never saw him once, and now refuge was

close at hand.

Before the wide gateway a small mob of children were playing. Our

concierge and his wife walked among them, with their black poodle,

keeping order; some couples were waltzing on the side-walk. I returned

their greetings and hurried in.

All the inhabitants of the court had trooped out into the street. The

place was quite deserted, lighted by a few lanterns hung high up, in

which the gas burned dimly.

My apartment was at the top of a house, halfway down the court, reached

by a staircase that descended almost into the street, with only a bit of

passage-way intervening, I set my foot on the threshold of the open door,

the friendly old ruinous stairs rose before me, leading up to rest and

shelter. Looking back over my right shoulder, I saw _him,_ ten paces

off. He must have entered the court with me.

He was coming straight on, neither slowly, nor swiftly, but straight on

to me. And now he was looking at me. For the first time since our eyes

encountered across the church they met now again, and I knew that the

time had come.

Retreating backward, down the court, I faced him. I meant to escape by

the entrance on the Rue du Dragon. His eyes told me that I never should

escape.

It seemed ages while we were going, I retreating, he advancing, down the

court in perfect silence; but at last I felt the shadow of the archway,

and the next step brought me within it. I had meant to turn here and

spring through into the street. But the shadow was not that of an

archway; it was that of a vault. The great doors on the Rue du Dragon

were closed. I felt this by the blackness which surrounded me, and at the

same instant I read it in his face. How his face gleamed in the darkness,

drawing swiftly nearer! The deep vaults, the huge closed doors, their

cold iron clamps were all on his side. The thing which he had threatened

had arrived: it gathered and bore down on me from the fathomless shadows;

the point from which it would strike was his infernal eyes. Hopeless, I

set my back against the barred doors and defied him.

There was a scraping of chairs on the stone floor, and a rustling as the

congregation rose. I could hear the Suisse's staff in the south aisle,

preceding Monseigneur C---- to the sacristy.

The kneeling nuns, roused from their devout abstraction, made their

reverence and went away. The fashionable lady, my neighbour, rose also,

with graceful reserve. As she departed her glance just flitted over my

face in disapproval.

Half dead, or so it seemed to me, yet intensely alive to every trifle, I

sat among the leisurely moving crowd, then rose too and went toward the

door.

I had slept through the sermon. Had I slept through the sermon? I looked

up and saw him passing along the gallery to his place. Only his side I

saw; the thin bent arm in its black covering looked like one of those

devilish, nameless instruments which lie in the disused torture-chambers

of mediaeval castles.

But I had escaped him, though his eyes had said I should not. _Had_

I escaped him? That which gave him the power over me came back out of

oblivion, where I had hoped to keep it. For I knew him now. Death and the

awful abode of lost souls, whither my weakness long ago had sent

him--they had changed him for every other eye, but not for mine. I had

recognized him almost from the first; I had never doubted what he was

come to do; and now I knew while my body sat safe in the cheerful little

church, he had been hunting my soul in the Court of the Dragon.

I crept to the door: the organ broke out overhead with a blare. A

dazzling light filled the church, blotting the altar from my eyes. The

people faded away, the arches, the vaulted roof vanished. I raised my

seared eyes to the fathomless glare, and I saw the black stars hanging in

the heavens: and the wet winds from the lake of Hali chilled my face.

And now, far away, over leagues of tossing cloud-waves, I saw the moon

dripping with spray; and beyond, the towers of Carcosa rose behind the

moon.

Death and the awful abode of lost souls, whither my weakness long ago had

sent him, had changed him for every other eye but mine. And now I heard

_his voice_, rising, swelling, thundering through the flaring light,

and as I fell, the radiance increasing, increasing, poured over me in

waves of flame. Then I sank into the depths, and I heard the King in

Yellow whispering to my soul: "It is a fearful thing to fall into the

hands of the living God!"

THE YELLOW SIGN

"Let the red dawn surmise

What we shall do,

When this blue starlight dies

And all is through."

There are so many things which are impossible to explain! Why should

certain chords in music make me think of the brown and golden tints of

autumn foliage? Why should the Mass of Sainte Cecile bend my thoughts

wandering among caverns whose walls blaze with ragged masses of virgin

silver? What was it in the roar and turmoil of Broadway at six o'clock

that flashed before my eyes the picture of a still Breton forest where

sunlight filtered through spring foliage and Sylvia bent, half curiously,

half tenderly, over a small green lizard, murmuring: "To think that this

also is a little ward of God!"

When I first saw the watchman his back was toward me. I looked at him

indifferently until he went into the church. I paid no more attention to

him than I had to any other man who lounged through Washington Square

that morning, and when I shut my window and turned back into my studio I

had forgotten him. Late in the afternoon, the day being warm, I raised

the window again and leaned out to get a sniff of air. A man was standing

in the courtyard of the church, and I noticed him again with as little

interest as I had that morning. I looked across the square to where the

fountain was playing and then, with my mind filled with vague impressions

of trees, asphalt drives, and the moving groups of nursemaids and

holiday-makers, I started to walk back to my easel. As I turned, my

listless glance included the man below in the churchyard. His face was

toward me now, and with a perfectly involuntary movement I bent to see

it. At the same moment he raised his head and looked at me. Instantly I

thought of a coffin-worm. Whatever it was about the man that repelled me

I did not know, but the impression of a plump white grave-worm was so

intense and nauseating that I must have shown it in my expression, for he

turned his puffy face away with a movement which made me think of a

disturbed grub in a chestnut.

I went back to my easel and motioned the model to resume her pose. After

working a while I was satisfied that I was spoiling what I had done as

rapidly as possible, and I took up a palette knife and scraped the colour

out again. The flesh tones were sallow and unhealthy, and I did not

understand how I could have painted such sickly colour into a study which

before that had glowed with healthy tones.

I looked at Tessie. She had not changed, and the clear flush of health

dyed her neck and cheeks as I frowned.

"Is it something I've done?" she said.

"No,--I've made a mess of this arm, and for the life of me I can't see

how I came to paint such mud as that into the canvas," I replied.

"Don't I pose well?" she insisted.

"Of course, perfectly."

"Then it's not my fault?"

"No. It's my own."

"I am very sorry," she said.

I told her she could rest while I applied rag and turpentine to the

plague spot on my canvas, and she went off to smoke a cigarette and look

over the illustrations in the _Courrier Francais_.

I did not know whether it was something in the turpentine or a defect in

the canvas, but the more I scrubbed the more that gangrene seemed to

spread. I worked like a beaver to get it out, and yet the disease

appeared to creep from limb to limb of the study before me. Alarmed, I

strove to arrest it, but now the colour on the breast changed and the

whole figure seemed to absorb the infection as a sponge soaks up water.

Vigorously I plied palette-knife, turpentine, and scraper, thinking all

the time what a _seance_ I should hold with Duval who had sold me

the canvas; but soon I noticed that it was not the canvas which was

defective nor yet the colours of Edward. "It must be the turpentine," I

thought angrily, "or else my eyes have become so blurred and confused by

the afternoon light that I can't see straight." I called Tessie, the

model. She came and leaned over my chair blowing rings of smoke into the

air.

"What _have_ you been doing to it?" she exclaimed

"Nothing," I growled, "it must be this turpentine!"

"What a horrible colour it is now," she continued. "Do you think my flesh

resembles green cheese?"

"No, I don't," I said angrily; "did you ever know me to paint like that

before?"

"No, indeed!"

"Well, then!"

"It must be the turpentine, or something," she admitted.

She slipped on a Japanese robe and walked to the window. I scraped and

rubbed until I was tired, and finally picked up my brushes and hurled

them through the canvas with a forcible expression, the tone alone of

which reached Tessie's ears.

Nevertheless she promptly began: "That's it! Swear and act silly and ruin

your brushes! You have been three weeks on that study, and now look!

What's the good of ripping the canvas? What creatures artists are!"

I felt about as much ashamed as I usually did after such an outbreak, and

I turned the ruined canvas to the wall. Tessie helped me clean my

brushes, and then danced away to dress. From the screen she regaled me

with bits of advice concerning whole or partial loss of temper, until,

thinking, perhaps, I had been tormented sufficiently, she came out to

implore me to button her waist where she could not reach it on the

shoulder.

"Everything went wrong from the time you came back from the window and

talked about that horrid-looking man you saw in the churchyard," she

announced.

"Yes, he probably bewitched the picture," I said, yawning. I looked at my

watch.

"It's after six, I know," said Tessie, adjusting her hat before the

mirror.

"Yes," I replied, "I didn't mean to keep you so long." I leaned out of

the window but recoiled with disgust, for the young man with the pasty

face stood below in the churchyard. Tessie saw my gesture of disapproval

and leaned from the window.

"Is that the man you don't like?" she whispered.

I nodded.

"I can't see his face, but he does look fat and soft. Someway or other,"

she continued, turning to look at me, "he reminds me of a dream,--an

awful dream I once had. Or," she mused, looking down at her shapely

shoes, "was it a dream after all?"

"How should I know?" I smiled.

Tessie smiled in reply.

"You were in it," she said, "so perhaps you might know something about

it."

"Tessie! Tessie!" I protested, "don't you dare flatter by saying that you

dream about me!"

"But I did," she insisted; "shall I tell you about it?"

"Go ahead," I replied, lighting a cigarette.

Tessie leaned back on the open window-sill and began very seriously.

"One night last winter I was lying in bed thinking about nothing at all

in particular. I had been posing for you and I was tired out, yet it

seemed impossible for me to sleep. I heard the bells in the city ring

ten, eleven, and midnight. I must have fallen asleep about midnight

because I don't remember hearing the bells after that. It seemed to me

that I had scarcely closed my eyes when I dreamed that something impelled

me to go to the window. I rose, and raising the sash leaned out.

Twenty-fifth Street was deserted as far as I could see. I began to be

afraid; everything outside seemed so--so black and uncomfortable. Then

the sound of wheels in the distance came to my ears, and it seemed to me

as though that was what I must wait for. Very slowly the wheels

approached, and, finally, I could make out a vehicle moving along the

street. It came nearer and nearer, and when it passed beneath my window I

saw it was a hearse. Then, as I trembled with fear, the driver turned and

looked straight at me. When I awoke I was standing by the open window

shivering with cold, but the black-plumed hearse and the driver were

gone. I dreamed this dream again in March last, and again awoke beside

the open window. Last night the dream came again. You remember how it was

raining; when I awoke, standing at the open window, my night-dress was

soaked."

"But where did I come into the dream?" I asked.

"You--you were in the coffin; but you were not dead."

"In the coffin?"

"Yes."

"How did you know? Could you see me?"

"No; I only knew you were there."

"Had you been eating Welsh rarebits, or lobster salad?" I began,

laughing, but the girl interrupted me with a frightened cry.

"Hello! What's up?" I said, as she shrank into the embrasure by the

window.

"The--the man below in the churchyard;--he drove the hearse."

"Nonsense," I said, but Tessie's eyes were wide with terror. I went to

the window and looked out. The man was gone. "Come, Tessie," I urged,

"don't be foolish. You have posed too long; you are nervous."

"Do you think I could forget that face?" she murmured. "Three times I saw

the hearse pass below my window, and every time the driver turned and

looked up at me. Oh, his face was so white and--and soft? It looked

dead--it looked as if it had been dead a long time."

I induced the girl to sit down and swallow a glass of Marsala. Then I sat

down beside her, and tried to give her some advice.

"Look here, Tessie," I said, "you go to the country for a week or two,

and you'll have no more dreams about hearses. You pose all day, and when

night comes your nerves are upset. You can't keep this up. Then again,

instead of going to bed when your day's work is done, you run off to

picnics at Sulzer's Park, or go to the Eldorado or Coney Island, and when

you come down here next morning you are fagged out. There was no real

hearse. There was a soft-shell crab dream."

She smiled faintly.

"What about the man in the churchyard?"

"Oh, he's only an ordinary unhealthy, everyday creature."

"As true as my name is Tessie Reardon, I swear to you, Mr. Scott, that

the face of the man below in the churchyard is the face of the man who

drove the hearse!"

"What of it?" I said. "It's an honest trade."

"Then you think I _did_ see the hearse?"

"Oh," I said diplomatically, "if you really did, it might not be unlikely

that the man below drove it. There is nothing in that."

Tessie rose, unrolled her scented handkerchief, and taking a bit of gum

from a knot in the hem, placed it in her mouth. Then drawing on her

gloves she offered me her hand, with a frank, "Good-night, Mr. Scott,"

and walked out.

The next morning, Thomas, the bell-boy, brought me the _Herald_ and

a bit of news. The church next door had been sold. I thanked Heaven for

it, not that being a Catholic I had any repugnance for the congregation

next door, but because my nerves were shattered by a blatant exhorter,

whose every word echoed through the aisle of the church as if it had been

my own rooms, and who insisted on his r's with a nasal persistence which

revolted my every instinct. Then, too, there was a fiend in human shape,

an organist, who reeled off some of the grand old hymns with an

interpretation of his own, and I longed for the blood of a creature who

could play the doxology with an amendment of minor chords which one hears

only in a quartet of very young undergraduates. I believe the minister

was a good man, but when he bellowed: "And the Lorrrrd said unto Moses,

the Lorrrd is a man of war; the Lorrrd is his name. My wrath shall wax

hot and I will kill you with the sworrrrd!" I wondered how many centuries

of purgatory it would take to atone for such a sin.

"Who bought the property?" I asked Thomas.

"Nobody that I knows, sir. They do say the gent wot owns this 'ere

'Amilton flats was lookin' at it. 'E might be a bildin' more studios."

I walked to the window. The young man with the unhealthy face stood by

the churchyard gate, and at the mere sight of him the same overwhelming

repugnance took possession of me.

"By the way, Thomas," I said, "who is that fellow down there?"

Thomas sniffed. "That there worm, sir? 'Es night-watchman of the church,

sir. 'E maikes me tired a-sittin' out all night on them steps and lookin'

at you insultin' like. I'd a punched 'is 'ed, sir--beg pardon, sir--"

"Go on, Thomas."

"One night a comin' 'ome with Arry, the other English boy, I sees 'im a

sittin' there on them steps. We 'ad Molly and Jen with us, sir, the two

girls on the tray service, an' 'e looks so insultin' at us that I up and

sez: 'Wat you looking hat, you fat slug?'--beg pardon, sir, but that's

'ow I sez, sir. Then 'e don't say nothin' and I sez: 'Come out and I'll

punch that puddin' 'ed.' Then I hopens the gate an' goes in, but 'e don't

say nothin', only looks insultin' like. Then I 'its 'im one, but, ugh!

'is 'ed was that cold and mushy it ud sicken you to touch 'im."

"What did he do then?" I asked curiously.

"'Im? Nawthin'."

"And you, Thomas?"

The young fellow flushed with embarrassment and smiled uneasily.

"Mr. Scott, sir, I ain't no coward, an' I can't make it out at all why I

run. I was in the 5th Lawncers, sir, bugler at Tel-el-Kebir, an' was shot

by the wells."

"You don't mean to say you ran away?"

"Yes, sir; I run."

"Why?"

"That's just what I want to know, sir. I grabbed Molly an' run, an' the

rest was as frightened as I."

"But what were they frightened at?"

Thomas refused to answer for a while, but now my curiosity was aroused

about the repulsive young man below and I pressed him. Three years'

sojourn in America had not only modified Thomas' cockney dialect but had

given him the American's fear of ridicule.

"You won't believe me, Mr. Scott, sir?"

"Yes, I will."

"You will lawf at me, sir?"

"Nonsense!"

He hesitated. "Well, sir, it's Gawd's truth that when I 'it 'im 'e

grabbed me wrists, sir, and when I twisted 'is soft, mushy fist one of

'is fingers come off in me 'and."

The utter loathing and horror of Thomas' face must have been reflected in

my own, for he added:

"It's orful, an' now when I see 'im I just go away. 'E maikes me hill."

When Thomas had gone I went to the window. The man stood beside the

church-railing with both hands on the gate, but I hastily retreated to my

easel again, sickened and horrified, for I saw that the middle finger of

his right hand was missing.

At nine o'clock Tessie appeared and vanished behind the screen with a

merry "Good morning, Mr. Scott." When she had reappeared and taken her

pose upon the model-stand I started a new canvas, much to her delight.

She remained silent as long as I was on the drawing, but as soon as the

scrape of the charcoal ceased and I took up my fixative she began to

chatter.

"Oh, I had such a lovely time last night. We went to Tony Pastor's."

"Who are 'we'?" I demanded.

"Oh, Maggie, you know, Mr. Whyte's model, and Pinkie McCormick--we call

her Pinkie because she's got that beautiful red hair you artists like so

much--and Lizzie Burke."

I sent a shower of spray from the fixative over the canvas, and said:

"Well, go on."

"We saw Kelly and Baby Barnes the skirt-dancer and--and all the rest. I

made a mash."

"Then you have gone back on me, Tessie?"

She laughed and shook her head.

"He's Lizzie Burke's brother, Ed. He's a perfect gen'l'man."

I felt constrained to give her some parental advice concerning mashing,

which she took with a bright smile.

"Oh, I can take care of a strange mash," she said, examining her chewing

gum, "but Ed is different. Lizzie is my best friend."

Then she related how Ed had come back from the stocking mill in Lowell,

Massachusetts, to find her and Lizzie grown up, and what an accomplished

young man he was, and how he thought nothing of squandering half-a-dollar

for ice-cream and oysters to celebrate his entry as clerk into the

woollen department of Macy's. Before she finished I began to paint, and

she resumed the pose, smiling and chattering like a sparrow. By noon I

had the study fairly well rubbed in and Tessie came to look at it.

"That's better," she said.

I thought so too, and ate my lunch with a satisfied feeling that all was

going well. Tessie spread her lunch on a drawing table opposite me and we

drank our claret from the same bottle and lighted our cigarettes from the

same match. I was very much attached to Tessie. I had watched her shoot

up into a slender but exquisitely formed woman from a frail, awkward

child. She had posed for me during the last three years, and among all my

models she was my favourite. It would have troubled me very much indeed

had she become "tough" or "fly," as the phrase goes, but I never noticed

any deterioration of her manner, and felt at heart that she was all

right. She and I never discussed morals at all, and I had no intention of

doing so, partly because I had none myself, and partly because I knew she

would do what she liked in spite of me. Still I did hope she would steer

clear of complications, because I wished her well, and then also I had a

selfish desire to retain the best model I had. I knew that mashing, as

she termed it, had no significance with girls like Tessie, and that such

things in America did not resemble in the least the same things in Paris.

Yet, having lived with my eyes open, I also knew that somebody would take

Tessie away some day, in one manner or another, and though I professed to

myself that marriage was nonsense, I sincerely hoped that, in this case,

there would be a priest at the end of the vista. I am a Catholic. When I

listen to high mass, when I sign myself, I feel that everything,

including myself, is more cheerful, and when I confess, it does me good.

A man who lives as much alone as I do, must confess to somebody. Then,

again, Sylvia was Catholic, and it was reason enough for me. But I was

speaking of Tessie, which is very different. Tessie also was Catholic and

much more devout than I, so, taking it all in all, I had little fear for

my pretty model until she should fall in love. But _then_ I knew

that fate alone would decide her future for her, and I prayed inwardly

that fate would keep her away from men like me and throw into her path

nothing but Ed Burkes and Jimmy McCormicks, bless her sweet face!

Tessie sat blowing rings of smoke up to the ceiling and tinkling the ice

in her tumbler.

"Do you know that I also had a dream last night?" I observed.

"Not about that man," she laughed.

"Exactly. A dream similar to yours, only much worse."

It was foolish and thoughtless of me to say this, but you know how little

tact the average painter has. "I must have fallen asleep about ten

o'clock," I continued, "and after a while I dreamt that I awoke. So

plainly did I hear the midnight bells, the wind in the tree-branches, and

the whistle of steamers from the bay, that even now I can scarcely

believe I was not awake. I seemed to be lying in a box which had a glass

cover. Dimly I saw the street lamps as I passed, for I must tell you,

Tessie, the box in which I reclined appeared to lie in a cushioned wagon

which jolted me over a stony pavement. After a while I became impatient

and tried to move, but the box was too narrow. My hands were crossed on

my breast, so I could not raise them to help myself. I listened and then

tried to call. My voice was gone. I could hear the trample of the horses

attached to the wagon, and even the breathing of the driver. Then another

sound broke upon my ears like the raising of a window sash. I managed to

turn my head a little, and found I could look, not only through the glass

cover of my box, but also through the glass panes in the side of the

covered vehicle. I saw houses, empty and silent, with neither light nor

life about any of them excepting one. In that house a window was open on

the first floor, and a figure all in white stood looking down into the

street. It was you."

Tessie had turned her face away from me and leaned on the table with her

elbow.

"I could see your face," I resumed, "and it seemed to me to be very

sorrowful. Then we passed on and turned into a narrow black lane.

Presently the horses stopped. I waited and waited, closing my eyes with

ear and impatience, but all was silent as the grave. After what seemed to

me hours, I began to feel uncomfortable. A sense that somebody was close

to me made me unclose my eyes. Then I saw the white face of the

hearse-driver looking at me through the coffin-lid----"

A sob from Tessie interrupted me. She was trembling like a leaf. I saw I

had made an ass of myself and attempted to repair the damage.

"Why, Tess," I said, "I only told you this to show you what influence

your story might have on another person's dreams. You don't suppose I

really lay in a coffin, do you? What are you trembling for? Don't you see

that your dream and my unreasonable dislike for that inoffensive watchman

of the church simply set my brain working as soon as I fell asleep?"

She laid her head between her arms, and sobbed as if her heart would

break. What a precious triple donkey I had made of myself! But I was

about to break my record. I went over and put my arm about her.

"Tessie dear, forgive me," I said; "I had no business to frighten you

with such nonsense. You are too sensible a girl, too good a Catholic to

believe in dreams."

Her hand tightened on mine and her head fell back upon my shoulder, but

she still trembled and I petted her and comforted her.

"Come, Tess, open your eyes and smile."

Her eyes opened with a slow languid movement and met mine, but their

expression was so queer that I hastened to reassure her again.

"It's all humbug, Tessie; you surely are not afraid that any harm will

come to you because of that."

"No," she said, but her scarlet lips quivered.

"Then, what's the matter? Are you afraid?"

"Yes. Not for myself."

"For me, then?" I demanded gaily.

"For you," she murmured in a voice almost inaudible. "I--I care for you."

At first I started to laugh, but when I understood her, a shock passed

through me, and I sat like one turned to stone. This was the crowning bit

of idiocy I had committed. During the moment which elapsed between her

reply and my answer I thought of a thousand responses to that innocent

confession. I could pass it by with a laugh, I could misunderstand her

and assure her as to my health, I could simply point out that it was

impossible she could love me. But my reply was quicker than my thoughts,

and I might think and think now when it was too late, for I had kissed

her on the mouth.

That evening I took my usual walk in Washington Park, pondering over the

occurrences of the day. I was thoroughly committed. There was no back out

now, and I stared the future straight in the face. I was not good, not

even scrupulous, but I had no idea of deceiving either myself or Tessie.

The one passion of my life lay buried in the sunlit forests of Brittany.

Was it buried for ever? Hope cried "No!" For three years I had been

listening to the voice of Hope, and for three years I had waited for a

footstep on my threshold. Had Sylvia forgotten? "No!" cried Hope.

I said that I was no good. That is true, but still I was not exactly a

comic opera villain. I had led an easy-going reckless life, taking what

invited me of pleasure, deploring and sometimes bitterly regretting

consequences. In one thing alone, except my painting, was I serious, and

that was something which lay hidden if not lost in the Breton forests.

It was too late for me to regret what had occurred during the day.

Whatever it had been, pity, a sudden tenderness for sorrow, or the more

brutal instinct of gratified vanity, it was all the same now, and unless

I wished to bruise an innocent heart, my path lay marked before me. The

fire and strength, the depth of passion of a love which I had never even

suspected, with all my imagined experience in the world, left me no

alternative but to respond or send her away. Whether because I am so

cowardly about giving pain to others, or whether it was that I have

little of the gloomy Puritan in me, I do not know, but I shrank from

disclaiming responsibility for that thoughtless kiss, and in fact had no

time to do so before the gates of her heart opened and the flood poured

forth. Others who habitually do their duty and find a sullen satisfaction

in making themselves and everybody else unhappy, might have withstood it.

I did not. I dared not. After the storm had abated I did tell her that

she might better have loved Ed Burke and worn a plain gold ring, but she

would not hear of it, and I thought perhaps as long as she had decided to

love somebody she could not marry, it had better be me. I, at least,

could treat her with an intelligent affection, and whenever she became

tired of her infatuation she could go none the worse for it. For I was

decided on that point although I knew how hard it would be. I remembered

the usual termination of Platonic liaisons, and thought how disgusted I

had been whenever I heard of one. I knew I was undertaking a great deal

for so unscrupulous a man as I was, and I dreamed the future, but never

for one moment did I doubt that she was safe with me. Had it been anybody

but Tessie I should not have bothered my head about scruples. For it did

not occur to me to sacrifice Tessie as I would have sacrificed a woman of

the world. I looked the future squarely in the face and saw the several

probable endings to the affair. She would either tire of the whole thing,

or become so unhappy that I should have either to marry her or go away.

If I married her we would be unhappy. I with a wife unsuited to me, and

she with a husband unsuitable for any woman. For my past life could

scarcely entitle me to marry. If I went away she might either fall ill,

recover, and marry some Eddie Burke, or she might recklessly or

deliberately go and do something foolish. On the other hand, if she tired

of me, then her whole life would be before her with beautiful vistas of

Eddie Burkes and marriage rings and twins and Harlem flats and Heaven

knows what. As I strolled along through the trees by the Washington Arch,

I decided that she should find a substantial friend in me, anyway, and

the future could take care of itself. Then I went into the house and put

on my evening dress, for the little faintly-perfumed note on my dresser

said, "Have a cab at the stage door at eleven," and the note was signed

"Edith Carmichel, Metropolitan Theatre."

I took supper that night, or rather we took supper, Miss Carmichel and I,

at Solari's, and the dawn was just beginning to gild the cross on the

Memorial Church as I entered Washington Square after leaving Edith at the

Brunswick. There was not a soul in the park as I passed along the trees

and took the walk which leads from the Garibaldi statue to the Hamilton

Apartment House, but as I passed the churchyard I saw a figure sitting on

the stone steps. In spite of myself a chill crept over me at the sight of

the white puffy face, and I hastened to pass. Then he said something

which might have been addressed to me or might merely have been a mutter

to himself, but a sudden furious anger flamed up within me that such a

creature should address me. For an instant I felt like wheeling about and

smashing my stick over his head, but I walked on, and entering the

Hamilton went to my apartment. For some time I tossed about the bed

trying to get the sound of his voice out of my ears, but could not. It

filled my head, that muttering sound, like thick oily smoke from a

fat-rendering vat or an odour of noisome decay. And as I lay and tossed

about, the voice in my ears seemed more distinct, and I began to

understand the words he had muttered. They came to me slowly as if I had

forgotten them, and at last I could make some sense out of the sounds. It

was this:

"Have you found the Yellow Sign?"

I was furious. What did he mean by that? Then with a curse upon him and

his I rolled over and went to sleep, but when I awoke later I looked pale

and haggard, for I had dreamed the dream of the night before, and it

troubled me more than I cared to think.

I dressed and went down into my studio. Tessie sat by the window, but as

I came in she rose and put both arms around my neck for an innocent kiss.

She looked so sweet and dainty that I kissed her again and then sat down

before the easel.

"Hello! Where's the study I began yesterday?" I asked.

Tessie looked conscious, but did not answer. I began to hunt among the

piles of canvases, saying, "Hurry up, Tess, and get ready; we must take

advantage of the morning light."

When at last I gave up the search among the other canvases and turned to

look around the room for the missing study I noticed Tessie standing by

the screen with her clothes still on.

"What's the matter," I asked, "don't you feel well?"

"Yes."

"Then hurry."

"Do you want me to pose as--as I have always posed?"

Then I understood. Here was a new complication. I had lost, of course,

the best nude model I had ever seen. I looked at Tessie. Her face was

scarlet. Alas! Alas! We had eaten of the tree of knowledge, and Eden and

native innocence were dreams of the past--I mean for her.

I suppose she noticed the disappointment on my face, for she said: "I

will pose if you wish. The study is behind the screen here where I put

it."

"No," I said, "we will begin something new;" and I went into my wardrobe

and picked out a Moorish costume which fairly blazed with tinsel. It was

a genuine costume, and Tessie retired to the screen with it enchanted.

When she came forth again I was astonished. Her long black hair was bound

above her forehead with a circlet of turquoises, and the ends, curled

about her glittering girdle. Her feet were encased in the embroidered

pointed slippers and the skirt of her costume, curiously wrought with

arabesques in silver, fell to her ankles. The deep metallic blue vest

embroidered with silver and the short Mauresque jacket spangled and sewn

with turquoises became her wonderfully. She came up to me and held up her

face smiling. I slipped my hand into my pocket, and drawing out a gold

chain with a cross attached, dropped it over her head.

"It's yours, Tessie."

"Mine?" she faltered.

"Yours. Now go and pose," Then with a radiant smile she ran behind the

screen and presently reappeared with a little box on which was written my

name.

"I had intended to give it to you when I went home to-night," she said,

"but I can't wait now."

I opened the box. On the pink cotton inside lay a clasp of black onyx, on

which was inlaid a curious symbol or letter in gold. It was neither

Arabic nor Chinese, nor, as I found afterwards, did it belong to any

human script.

"It's all I had to give you for a keepsake," she said timidly.

I was annoyed, but I told her how much I should prize it, and promised to

wear it always. She fastened it on my coat beneath the lapel.

"How foolish, Tess, to go and buy me such a beautiful thing as this," I

said.

"I did not buy it," she laughed.

"Where did you get it?"

Then she told me how she had found it one day while coming from the

Aquarium in the Battery, how she had advertised it and watched the

papers, but at last gave up all hopes of finding the owner.

"That was last winter," she said, "the very day I had the first horrid

dream about the hearse."

I remembered my dream of the previous night but said nothing, and

presently my charcoal was flying over a new canvas, and Tessie stood

motionless on the model-stand.

III

The day following was a disastrous one for me. While moving a framed

canvas from one easel to another my foot slipped on the polished floor,

and I fell heavily on both wrists. They were so badly sprained that it

was useless to attempt to hold a brush, and I was obliged to wander about

the studio, glaring at unfinished drawings and sketches, until despair

seized me and I sat down to smoke and twiddle my thumbs with rage. The

rain blew against the windows and rattled on the roof of the church,

driving me into a nervous fit with its interminable patter. Tessie sat

sewing by the window, and every now and then raised her head and looked

at me with such innocent compassion that I began to feel ashamed of my

irritation and looked about for something to occupy me. I had read all

the papers and all the books in the library, but for the sake of

something to do I went to the bookcases and shoved them open with my

elbow. I knew every volume by its colour and examined them all, passing

slowly around the library and whistling to keep up my spirits. I was

turning to go into the dining-room when my eye fell upon a book bound in

serpent skin, standing in a corner of the top shelf of the last bookcase.

I did not remember it, and from the floor could not decipher the pale

lettering on the back, so I went to the smoking-room and called Tessie.

She came in from the studio and climbed up to reach the book.

"What is it?" I asked.

"_The King in Yellow._"

I was dumfounded. Who had placed it there? How came it in my rooms? I had

long ago decided that I should never open that book, and nothing on earth

could have persuaded me to buy it. Fearful lest curiosity might tempt me

to open it, I had never even looked at it in book-stores. If I ever had

had any curiosity to read it, the awful tragedy of young Castaigne, whom

I knew, prevented me from exploring its wicked pages. I had always

refused to listen to any description of it, and indeed, nobody ever

ventured to discuss the second part aloud, so I had absolutely no

knowledge of what those leaves might reveal. I stared at the poisonous

mottled binding as I would at a snake.

"Don't touch it, Tessie," I said; "come down."

Of course my admonition was enough to arouse her curiosity, and before I

could prevent it she took the book and, laughing, danced off into the

studio with it. I called to her, but she slipped away with a tormenting

smile at my helpless hands, and I followed her with some impatience.

"Tessie!" I cried, entering the library, "listen, I am serious. Put that

book away. I do not wish you to open it!" The library was empty. I went

into both drawing-rooms, then into the bedrooms, laundry, kitchen, and

finally returned to the library and began a systematic search. She had

hidden herself so well that it was half-an-hour later when I discovered

her crouching white and silent by the latticed window in the store-room

above. At the first glance I saw she had been punished for her

foolishness. _The King in Yellow_ lay at her feet, but the book was

open at the second part. I looked at Tessie and saw it was too late. She

had opened _The King in Yellow_. Then I took her by the hand and led

her into the studio. She seemed dazed, and when I told her to lie down on

the sofa she obeyed me without a word. After a while she closed her eyes

and her breathing became regular and deep, but I could not determine

whether or not she slept. For a long while I sat silently beside her, but

she neither stirred nor spoke, and at last I rose, and, entering the

unused store-room, took the book in my least injured hand. It seemed

heavy as lead, but I carried it into the studio again, and sitting down

on the rug beside the sofa, opened it and read it through from beginning

to end.

When, faint with excess of my emotions, I dropped the volume and leaned

wearily back against the sofa, Tessie opened her eyes and looked at

me....

We had been speaking for some time in a dull monotonous strain before I

realized that we were discussing _The King in Yellow_. Oh the sin of

writing such words,--words which are clear as crystal, limpid and musical

as bubbling springs, words which sparkle and glow like the poisoned

diamonds of the Medicis! Oh the wickedness, the hopeless damnation of a

soul who could fascinate and paralyze human creatures with such

words,--words understood by the ignorant and wise alike, words which are

more precious than jewels, more soothing than music, more awful than

death!

We talked on, unmindful of the gathering shadows, and she was begging me

to throw away the clasp of black onyx quaintly inlaid with what we now

knew to be the Yellow Sign. I never shall know why I refused, though even

at this hour, here in my bedroom as I write this confession, I should be

glad to know _what_ it was that prevented me from tearing the Yellow

Sign from my breast and casting it into the fire. I am sure I wished to

do so, and yet Tessie pleaded with me in vain. Night fell and the hours

dragged on, but still we murmured to each other of the King and the

Pallid Mask, and midnight sounded from the misty spires in the

fog-wrapped city. We spoke of Hastur and of Cassilda, while outside the

fog rolled against the blank window-panes as the cloud waves roll and

break on the shores of Hali.

The house was very silent now, and not a sound came up from the misty

streets. Tessie lay among the cushions, her face a grey blot in the

gloom, but her hands were clasped in mine, and I knew that she knew and

read my thoughts as I read hers, for we had understood the mystery of the

Hyades and the Phantom of Truth was laid. Then as we answered each other,

swiftly, silently, thought on thought, the shadows stirred in the gloom

about us, and far in the distant streets we heard a sound. Nearer and

nearer it came, the dull crunching of wheels, nearer and yet nearer, and

now, outside before the door it ceased, and I dragged myself to the

window and saw a black-plumed hearse. The gate below opened and shut, and

I crept shaking to my door and bolted it, but I knew no bolts, no locks,

could keep that creature out who was coming for the Yellow Sign. And now

I heard him moving very softly along the hall. Now he was at the door,

and the bolts rotted at his touch. Now he had entered. With eyes starting

from my head I peered into the darkness, but when he came into the room I

did not see him. It was only when I felt him envelope me in his cold soft

grasp that I cried out and struggled with deadly fury, but my hands were

useless and he tore the onyx clasp from my coat and struck me full in the

face. Then, as I fell, I heard Tessie's soft cry and her spirit fled: and

even while falling I longed to follow her, for I knew that the King in

Yellow had opened his tattered mantle and there was only God to cry to

now.

I could tell more, but I cannot see what help it will be to the world. As

for me, I am past human help or hope. As I lie here, writing, careless

even whether or not I die before I finish, I can see the doctor gathering

up his powders and phials with a vague gesture to the good priest beside

me, which I understand.

They will be very curious to know the tragedy--they of the outside world

who write books and print millions of newspapers, but I shall write no

more, and the father confessor will seal my last words with the seal of

sanctity when his holy office is done. They of the outside world may send

their creatures into wrecked homes and death-smitten firesides, and their

newspapers will batten on blood and tears, but with me their spies must

halt before the confessional. They know that Tessie is dead and that I am

dying. They know how the people in the house, aroused by an infernal

scream, rushed into my room and found one living and two dead, but they

do not know what I shall tell them now; they do not know that the doctor

said as he pointed to a horrible decomposed heap on the floor--the livid

corpse of the watchman from the church: "I have no theory, no explanation.

That man must have been dead for months!"

I think I am dying. I wish the priest would--

THE DEMOISELLE D'YS

"Mais je croy que je

Suis descendu on puiz

Tenebreux onquel disoit

Heraclytus estre Verete cachee."

"There be three things which are too wonderful for me, yea, four which I

know not:

"The way of an eagle in the air; the way of a serpent upon a rock; the

way of a ship in the midst of the sea; and the way of a man with a maid."

The utter desolation of the scene began to have its effect; I sat down to

face the situation and, if possible, recall to mind some landmark which

might aid me in extricating myself from my present position. If I could

only find the ocean again all would be clear, for I knew one could see

the island of Groix from the cliffs.

I laid down my gun, and kneeling behind a rock lighted a pipe. Then I

looked at my watch. It was nearly four o'clock. I might have wandered far

from Kerselec since daybreak.

Standing the day before on the cliffs below Kerselec with Goulven,

looking out over the sombre moors among which I had now lost my way,

these downs had appeared to me level as a meadow, stretching to the

horizon, and although I knew how deceptive is distance, I could not

realize that what from Kerselec seemed to be mere grassy hollows were

great valleys covered with gorse and heather, and what looked like

scattered boulders were in reality enormous cliffs of granite.

"It's a bad place for a stranger," old Goulven had said: "you'd better

take a guide;" and I had replied, "I shall not lose myself." Now I knew

that I had lost myself, as I sat there smoking, with the sea-wind blowing

in my face. On every side stretched the moorland, covered with flowering

gorse and heath and granite boulders. There was not a tree in sight, much

less a house. After a while, I picked up the gun, and turning my back on

the sun tramped on again.

There was little use in following any of the brawling streams which every

now and then crossed my path, for, instead of flowing into the sea, they

ran inland to reedy pools in the hollows of the moors. I had followed

several, but they all led me to swamps or silent little ponds from which

the snipe rose peeping and wheeled away in an ecstasy of fright I began

to feel fatigued, and the gun galled my shoulder in spite of the double

pads. The sun sank lower and lower, shining level across yellow gorse and

the moorland pools.

As I walked my own gigantic shadow led me on, seeming to lengthen at

every step. The gorse scraped against my leggings, crackled beneath my

feet, showering the brown earth with blossoms, and the brake bowed and

billowed along my path. From tufts of heath rabbits scurried away through

the bracken, and among the swamp grass I heard the wild duck's drowsy

quack. Once a fox stole across my path, and again, as I stooped to drink

at a hurrying rill, a heron flapped heavily from the reeds beside me. I

turned to look at the sun. It seemed to touch the edges of the plain.

When at last I decided that it was useless to go on, and that I must make

up my mind to spend at least one night on the moors, I threw myself down

thoroughly fagged out. The evening sunlight slanted warm across my body,

but the sea-winds began to rise, and I felt a chill strike through me

from my wet shooting-boots. High overhead gulls were wheeling and tossing

like bits of white paper; from some distant marsh a solitary curlew

called. Little by little the sun sank into the plain, and the zenith

flushed with the after-glow. I watched the sky change from palest gold to

pink and then to smouldering fire. Clouds of midges danced above me, and

high in the calm air a bat dipped and soared. My eyelids began to droop.

Then as I shook off the drowsiness a sudden crash among the bracken

roused me. I raised my eyes. A great bird hung quivering in the air above

my face. For an instant I stared, incapable of motion; then something

leaped past me in the ferns and the bird rose, wheeled, and pitched

headlong into the brake.

I was on my feet in an instant peering through the gorse. There came the

sound of a struggle from a bunch of heather close by, and then all was

quiet. I stepped forward, my gun poised, but when I came to the heather

the gun fell under my arm again, and I stood motionless in silent

astonishment A dead hare lay on the ground, and on the hare stood a

magnificent falcon, one talon buried in the creature's neck, the other

planted firmly on its limp flank. But what astonished me, was not the

mere sight of a falcon sitting upon its prey. I had seen that more than

once. It was that the falcon was fitted with a sort of leash about both

talons, and from the leash hung a round bit of metal like a sleigh-bell.

The bird turned its fierce yellow eyes on me, and then stooped and struck

its curved beak into the quarry. At the same instant hurried steps

sounded among the heather, and a girl sprang into the covert in front.

Without a glance at me she walked up to the falcon, and passing her

gloved hand under its breast, raised it from the quarry. Then she deftly

slipped a small hood over the bird's head, and holding it out on her

gauntlet, stooped and picked up the hare.

She passed a cord about the animal's legs and fastened the end of the

thong to her girdle. Then she started to retrace her steps through the

covert As she passed me I raised my cap and she acknowledged my presence

with a scarcely perceptible inclination. I had been so astonished, so

lost in admiration of the scene before my eyes, that it had not occurred

to me that here was my salvation. But as she moved away I recollected

that unless I wanted to sleep on a windy moor that night I had better

recover my speech without delay. At my first word she hesitated, and as I

stepped before her I thought a look of fear came into her beautiful eyes.

But as I humbly explained my unpleasant plight, her face flushed and she

looked at me in wonder.

"Surely you did not come from Kerselec!" she repeated.

Her sweet voice had no trace of the Breton accent nor of any accent which

I knew, and yet there was something in it I seemed to have heard before,

something quaint and indefinable, like the theme of an old song.

I explained that I was an American, unacquainted with Finistere, shooting

there for my own amusement.

"An American," she repeated in the same quaint musical tones. "I have

never before seen an American."

For a moment she stood silent, then looking at me she said. "If you

should walk all night you could not reach Kerselec now, even if you had a

guide."

This was pleasant news.

"But," I began, "if I could only find a peasant's hut where I might get

something to eat, and shelter."

The falcon on her wrist fluttered and shook its head. The girl smoothed

its glossy back and glanced at me.

"Look around," she said gently. "Can you see the end of these moors?

Look, north, south, east, west. Can you see anything but moorland and

bracken?"

"No," I said.

"The moor is wild and desolate. It is easy to enter, but sometimes they

who enter never leave it. There are no peasants' huts here."

"Well," I said, "if you will tell me in which direction Kerselec lies,

to-morrow it will take me no longer to go back than it has to come."

She looked at me again with an expression almost like pity.

"Ah," she said, "to come is easy and takes hours; to go is different--and

may take centuries."

I stared at her in amazement but decided that I had misunderstood her.

Then before I had time to speak she drew a whistle from her belt and

sounded it.

"Sit down and rest," she said to me; "you have come a long distance and

are tired."

She gathered up her pleated skirts and motioning me to follow picked her

dainty way through the gorse to a flat rock among the ferns.

"They will be here directly," she said, and taking a seat at one end of

the rock invited me to sit down on the other edge. The after-glow was

beginning to fade in the sky and a single star twinkled faintly through

the rosy haze. A long wavering triangle of water-fowl drifted southward

over our heads, and from the swamps around plover were calling.

"They are very beautiful--these moors," she said quietly.

"Beautiful, but cruel to strangers," I answered.

"Beautiful and cruel," she repeated dreamily, "beautiful and cruel."

"Like a woman," I said stupidly.

"Oh," she cried with a little catch in her breath, and looked at me. Her

dark eyes met mine, and I thought she seemed angry or frightened.

"Like a woman," she repeated under her breath, "How cruel to say so!"

Then after a pause, as though speaking aloud to herself, "How cruel for

him to say that!"

I don't know what sort of an apology I offered for my inane, though

harmless speech, but I know that she seemed so troubled about it that I

began to think I had said something very dreadful without knowing it, and

remembered with horror the pitfalls and snares which the French language

sets for foreigners. While I was trying to imagine what I might have

said, a sound of voices came across the moor, and the girl rose to her

feet.

"No," she said, with a trace of a smile on her pale face, "I will not

accept your apologies, monsieur, but I must prove you wrong, and that

shall be my revenge. Look. Here come Hastur and Raoul."

Two men loomed up in the twilight. One had a sack across his shoulders

and the other carried a hoop before him as a waiter carries a tray. The

hoop was fastened with straps to his shoulders, and around the edge of

the circlet sat three hooded falcons fitted with tinkling bells. The girl

stepped up to the falconer, and with a quick turn of her wrist

transferred her falcon to the hoop, where it quickly sidled off and

nestled among its mates, who shook their hooded heads and ruffled their

feathers till the belled jesses tinkled again. The other man stepped

forward and bowing respectfully took up the hare and dropped it into the

game-sack.

"These are my piqueurs," said the girl, turning to me with a gentle

dignity. "Raoul is a good fauconnier, and I shall some day make him grand

veneur. Hastur is incomparable."

The two silent men saluted me respectfully.

"Did I not tell you, monsieur, that I should prove you wrong?" she

continued. "This, then, is my revenge, that you do me the courtesy of

accepting food and shelter at my own house."

Before I could answer she spoke to the falconers, who started instantly

across the heath, and with a gracious gesture to me she followed. I don't

know whether I made her understand how profoundly grateful I felt, but

she seemed pleased to listen, as we walked over the dewy heather.

"Are you not very tired?" she asked.

I had clean forgotten my fatigue in her presence, and I told her so.

"Don't you think your gallantry is a little old-fashioned?" she said; and

when I looked confused and humbled, she added quietly, "Oh, I like it, I

like everything old-fashioned, and it is delightful to hear you say such

pretty things."

The moorland around us was very still now under its ghostly sheet of

mist. The plovers had ceased their calling; the crickets and all the

little creatures of the fields were silent as we passed, yet it seemed to

me as if I could hear them beginning again far behind us. Well in

advance, the two tall falconers strode across the heather, and the faint

jingling of the hawks' bells came to our ears in distant murmuring

chimes.

Suddenly a splendid hound dashed out of the mist in front, followed by

another and another until half-a-dozen or more were bounding and leaping

around the girl beside me. She caressed and quieted them with her gloved

hand, speaking to them in quaint terms which I remembered to have seen in

old French manuscripts.

Then the falcons on the circlet borne by the falconer ahead began to beat

their wings and scream, and from somewhere out of sight the notes of a

hunting-horn floated across the moor. The hounds sprang away before us

and vanished in the twilight, the falcons flapped and squealed upon their

perch, and the girl, taking up the song of the horn, began to hum. Clear

and mellow her voice sounded in the night air.

"Chasseur, chasseur, chassez encore,

Quittez Rosette et Jeanneton,

Tonton, tonton, tontaine, tonton,

Ou, pour, rabattre, des l'aurore,

Que les Amours soient de planton,

Tonton, tontaine, tonton."

As I listened to her lovely voice a grey mass which rapidly grew more

distinct loomed up in front, and the horn rang out joyously through the

tumult of the hounds and falcons. A torch glimmered at a gate, a light

streamed through an opening door, and we stepped upon a wooden bridge

which trembled under our feet and rose creaking and straining behind us

as we passed over the moat and into a small stone court, walled on every

side. From an open doorway a man came and, bending in salutation,

presented a cup to the girl beside me. She took the cup and touched it

with her lips, then lowering it turned to me and said in a low voice, "I

bid you welcome."

At that moment one of the falconers came with another cup, but before

handing it to me, presented it to the girl, who tasted it. The falconer

made a gesture to receive it, but she hesitated a moment, and then,

stepping forward, offered me the cup with her own hands. I felt this to

be an act of extraordinary graciousness, but hardly knew what was

expected of me, and did not raise it to my lips at once. The girl flushed

crimson. I saw that I must act quickly.

"Mademoiselle," I faltered, "a stranger whom you have saved from dangers

he may never realize empties this cup to the gentlest and loveliest

hostess of France."

"In His name," she murmured, crossing herself as I drained the cup. Then

stepping into the doorway she turned to me with a pretty gesture and,

taking my hand in hers, led me into the house, saying again and again:

"You are very welcome, indeed you are welcome to the Chateau d'Ys."

I awoke next morning with the music of the horn in my ears, and leaping

out of the ancient bed, went to a curtained window where the sunlight

filtered through little deep-set panes. The horn ceased as I looked into

the court below.

A man who might have been brother to the two falconers of the night

before stood in the midst of a pack of hounds. A curved horn was strapped

over his back, and in his hand he held a long-lashed whip. The dogs

whined and yelped, dancing around him in anticipation; there was the

stamp of horses, too, in the walled yard.

"Mount!" cried a voice in Breton, and with a clatter of hoofs the two

falconers, with falcons upon their wrists, rode into the courtyard among

the hounds. Then I heard another voice which sent the blood throbbing

through my heart: "Piriou Louis, hunt the hounds well and spare neither

spur nor whip. Thou Raoul and thou Gaston, see that the _epervier_

does not prove himself _niais_, and if it be best in your judgment,

_faites courtoisie a l'oiseau. Jardiner un oiseau_, like the

_mue_ there on Hastur's wrist, is not difficult, but thou, Raoul,

mayest not find it so simple to govern that _hagard_. Twice last

week he foamed _au vif_ and lost the _beccade_ although he is

used to the _leurre_. The bird acts like a stupid _branchier.

Paitre un hagard n'est pas si facile."_

Was I dreaming? The old language of falconry which I had read in yellow

manuscripts--the old forgotten French of the middle ages was sounding in

my ears while the hounds bayed and the hawks' bells tinkled accompaniment

to the stamping horses. She spoke again in the sweet forgotten language:

"If you would rather attach the _longe_ and leave thy _hagard au

bloc_, Raoul, I shall say nothing; for it were a pity to spoil so fair

a day's sport with an ill-trained _sors_. _Essimer abaisser_,--it is

possibly the best way. _Ca lui donnera des reins._ I was perhaps hasty

with the bird. It takes time to pass _a la filiere_ and the exercises

_d'escap_."

Then the falconer Raoul bowed in his stirrups and replied: "If it be the

pleasure of Mademoiselle, I shall keep the hawk."

"It is my wish," she answered. "Falconry I know, but you have yet to give

me many a lesson in _Autourserie_, my poor Raoul. Sieur Piriou Louis

mount!"

The huntsman sprang into an archway and in an instant returned, mounted

upon a strong black horse, followed by a piqueur also mounted.

"Ah!" she cried joyously, "speed Glemarec Rene! speed! speed all! Sound

thy horn, Sieur Piriou!"

The silvery music of the hunting-horn filled the courtyard, the hounds

sprang through the gateway and galloping hoof-beats plunged out of the

paved court; loud on the drawbridge, suddenly muffled, then lost in the

heather and bracken of the moors. Distant and more distant sounded the

horn, until it became so faint that the sudden carol of a soaring lark

drowned it in my ears. I heard the voice below responding to some call

from within the house.

"I do not regret the chase, I will go another time Courtesy to the

stranger, Pelagie, remember!"

And a feeble voice came quavering from within the house,

"_Courtoisie_"

I stripped, and rubbed myself from head to foot in the huge earthen basin

of icy water which stood upon the stone floor at the foot of my bed. Then

I looked about for my clothes. They were gone, but on a settle near the

door lay a heap of garments which I inspected with astonishment. As my

clothes had vanished, I was compelled to attire myself in the costume

which had evidently been placed there for me to wear while my own clothes

dried. Everything was there, cap, shoes, and hunting doublet of silvery

grey homespun; but the close-fitting costume and seamless shoes belonged

to another century, and I remembered the strange costumes of the three

falconers in the court-yard. I was sure that it was not the modern dress

of any portion of France or Brittany; but not until I was dressed and

stood before a mirror between the windows did I realize that I was

clothed much more like a young huntsman of the middle ages than like a

Breton of that day. I hesitated and picked up the cap. Should I go down

and present myself in that strange guise? There seemed to be no help for

it, my own clothes were gone and there was no bell in the ancient chamber

to call a servant; so I contented myself with removing a short hawk's

feather from the cap, and, opening the door, went downstairs.

By the fireplace in the large room at the foot of the stairs an old

Breton woman sat spinning with a distaff. She looked up at me when I

appeared, and, smiling frankly, wished me health in the Breton language,

to which I laughingly replied in French. At the same moment my hostess

appeared and returned my salutation with a grace and dignity that sent a

thrill to my heart. Her lovely head with its dark curly hair was crowned

with a head-dress which set all doubts as to the epoch of my own costume

at rest. Her slender figure was exquisitely set off in the homespun

hunting-gown edged with silver, and on her gauntlet-covered wrist she

bore one of her petted hawks. With perfect simplicity she took my hand

and led me into the garden in the court, and seating herself before a

table invited me very sweetly to sit beside her. Then she asked me in her

soft quaint accent how I had passed the night, and whether I was very

much inconvenienced by wearing the clothes which old Pelagie had put

there for me while I slept. I looked at my own clothes and shoes, drying

in the sun by the garden-wall, and hated them. What horrors they were

compared with the graceful costume which I now wore! I told her this

laughing, but she agreed with me very seriously.

"We will throw them away," she said in a quiet voice. In my astonishment

I attempted to explain that I not only could not think of accepting

clothes from anybody, although for all I knew it might be the custom of

hospitality in that part of the country, but that I should cut an

impossible figure if I returned to France clothed as I was then.

She laughed and tossed her pretty head, saying something in old French

which I did not understand, and then Pelagie trotted out with a tray on

which stood two bowls of milk, a loaf of white bread, fruit, a platter of

honey-comb, and a flagon of deep red wine. "You see I have not yet broken

my fast because I wished you to eat with me. But I am very hungry," she

smiled.

"I would rather die than forget one word of what you have said!" I

blurted out, while my cheeks burned. "She will think me mad," I added to

myself, but she turned to me with sparkling eyes.

"Ah!" she murmured. "Then Monsieur knows all that there is of chivalry--"

She crossed herself and broke bread. I sat and watched her white hands,

not daring to raise my eyes to hers.

"Will you not eat?" she asked. "Why do you look so troubled?"

Ah, why? I knew it now. I knew I would give my life to touch with my lips

those rosy palms--I understood now that from the moment when I looked

into her dark eyes there on the moor last night I had loved her. My great

and sudden passion held me speechless.

"Are you ill at ease?" she asked again.

Then, like a man who pronounces his own doom, I answered in a low voice:

"Yes, I am ill at ease for love of you." And as she did not stir nor

answer, the same power moved my lips in spite of me and I said, "I, who

am unworthy of the lightest of your thoughts, I who abuse hospitality and

repay your gentle courtesy with bold presumption, I love you."

She leaned her head upon her hands, and answered softly, "I love you.

Your words are very dear to me. I love you."

"Then I shall win you."

"Win me," she replied.

But all the time I had been sitting silent, my face turned toward her.

She, also silent, her sweet face resting on her upturned palm, sat facing

me, and as her eyes looked into mine I knew that neither she nor I had

spoken human speech; but I knew that her soul had answered mine, and I

drew myself up feeling youth and joyous love coursing through every vein.

She, with a bright colour in her lovely face, seemed as one awakened from

a dream, and her eyes sought mine with a questioning glance which made me

tremble with delight. We broke our fast, speaking of ourselves. I told

her my name and she told me hers, the Demoiselle Jeanne d'Ys.

She spoke of her father and mother's death, and how the nineteen of her

years had been passed in the little fortified farm alone with her nurse

Pelagie, Glemarec Rene the piqueur, and the four falconers, Raoul,

Gaston, Hastur, and the Sieur Piriou Louis, who had served her father.

She had never been outside the moorland--never even had seen a human soul

before, except the falconers and Pelagie. She did not know how she had

heard of Kerselec; perhaps the falconers had spoken of it. She knew the

legends of Loup Garou and Jeanne la Flamme from her nurse Pelagie. She

embroidered and spun flax. Her hawks and hounds were her only

distraction. When she had met me there on the moor she had been so

frightened that she almost dropped at the sound of my voice. She had, it

was true, seen ships at sea from the cliffs, but as far as the eye could

reach the moors over which she galloped were destitute of any sign of

human life. There was a legend which old Pelagie told, how anybody once

lost in the unexplored moorland might never return, because the moors

were enchanted. She did not know whether it was true, she never had

thought about it until she met me. She did not know whether the falconers

had even been outside, or whether they could go if they would. The books

in the house which Pelagie, the nurse, had taught her to read were

hundreds of years old.

All this she told me with a sweet seriousness seldom seen in any one but

children. My own name she found easy to pronounce, and insisted, because

my first name was Philip, I must have French blood in me. She did not

seem curious to learn anything about the outside world, and I thought

perhaps she considered it had forfeited her interest and respect from the

stories of her nurse.

We were still sitting at the table, and she was throwing grapes to the

small field birds which came fearlessly to our very feet.

I began to speak in a vague way of going, but she would not hear of it,

and before I knew it I had promised to stay a week and hunt with hawk and

hound in their company. I also obtained permission to come again from

Kerselec and visit her after my return.

"Why," she said innocently, "I do not know what I should do if you never

came back;" and I, knowing that I had no right to awaken her with the

sudden shock which the avowal of my own love would bring to her, sat

silent, hardly daring to breathe.

"You will come very often?" she asked.

"Very often," I said.

"Every day?"

"Every day."

"Oh," she sighed, "I am very happy. Come and see my hawks."

She rose and took my hand again with a childlike innocence of possession,

and we walked through the garden and fruit trees to a grassy lawn which

was bordered by a brook. Over the lawn were scattered fifteen or twenty

stumps of trees--partially imbedded in the grass--and upon all of these

except two sat falcons. They were attached to the stumps by thongs which

were in turn fastened with steel rivets to their legs just above the

talons. A little stream of pure spring water flowed in a winding course

within easy distance of each perch.

The birds set up a clamour when the girl appeared, but she went from one

to another, caressing some, taking others for an instant upon her wrist,

or stooping to adjust their jesses.

"Are they not pretty?" she said. "See, here is a falcon-gentil. We call

it 'ignoble,' because it takes the quarry in direct chase. This is a blue

falcon. In falconry we call it 'noble' because it rises over the quarry,

and wheeling, drops upon it from above. This white bird is a gerfalcon

from the north. It is also 'noble!' Here is a merlin, and this tiercelet

is a falcon-heroner."

I asked her how she had learned the old language of falconry. She did not

remember, but thought her father must have taught it to her when she was

very young.

Then she led me away and showed me the young falcons still in the nest.

"They are termed _niais_ in falconry," she explained. "A

_branchier_ is the young bird which is just able to leave the nest

and hop from branch to branch. A young bird which has not yet moulted is

called a _sors_, and a _mue_ is a hawk which has moulted in

captivity. When we catch a wild falcon which has changed its plumage we

term it a _hagard_. Raoul first taught me to dress a falcon. Shall I

teach you how it is done?"

She seated herself on the bank of the stream among the falcons and I

threw myself at her feet to listen.

Then the Demoiselle d'Ys held up one rosy-tipped finger and began very

gravely.

"First one must catch the falcon."

"I am caught," I answered.

She laughed very prettily and told me my _dressage_ would perhaps be

difficult, as I was noble.

"I am already tamed," I replied; "jessed and belled."

She laughed, delighted. "Oh, my brave falcon; then you will return at my

call?"

"I am yours," I answered gravely.

She sat silent for a moment. Then the colour heightened in her cheeks and

she held up her finger again, saying, "Listen; I wish to speak of

falconry--"

"I listen, Countess Jeanne d'Ys."

But again she fell into the reverie, and her eyes seemed fixed on

something beyond the summer clouds.

"Philip," she said at last.

"Jeanne," I whispered.

"That is all,--that is what I wished," she sighed,--"Philip and Jeanne."

She held her hand toward me and I touched it with my lips.

"Win me," she said, but this time it was the body and soul which spoke in

unison.

After a while she began again: "Let us speak of falconry."

"Begin," I replied; "we have caught the falcon."

Then Jeanne d'Ys took my hand in both of hers and told me how with

infinite patience the young falcon was taught to perch upon the wrist,

how little by little it became used to the belled jesses and the

_chaperon a cornette_.

"They must first have a good appetite," she said; "then little by little

I reduce their nourishment; which in falconry we call _pat_. When,

after many nights passed _au bloc_ as these birds are now, I prevail

upon the _hagard_ to stay quietly on the wrist, then the bird is

ready to be taught to come for its food. I fix the _pat_ to the end

of a thong, or _leurre_, and teach the bird to come to me as soon as

I begin to whirl the cord in circles about my head. At first I drop the

_pat_ when the falcon comes, and he eats the food on the ground.

After a little he will learn to seize the _leurre_ in motion as I

whirl it around my head or drag it over the ground. After this it is easy

to teach the falcon to strike at game, always remembering to _'faire

courtoisie a l'oiseau'_, that is, to allow the bird to taste the

quarry."

A squeal from one of the falcons interrupted her, and she arose to adjust

the _longe_ which had become whipped about the _bloc_, but the

bird still flapped its wings and screamed.

"What _is_ the matter?" she said. "Philip, can you see?"

I looked around and at first saw nothing to cause the commotion, which

was now heightened by the screams and flapping of all the birds. Then my

eye fell upon the flat rock beside the stream from which the girl had

risen. A grey serpent was moving slowly across the surface of the

boulder, and the eyes in its flat triangular head sparkled like jet.

"A couleuvre," she said quietly.

"It is harmless, is it not?" I asked.

She pointed to the black V-shaped figure on the neck.

"It is certain death," she said; "it is a viper."

We watched the reptile moving slowly over the smooth rock to where the

sunlight fell in a broad warm patch.

I started forward to examine it, but she clung to my arm crying, "Don't,

Philip, I am afraid."

"For me?"

"For you, Philip,--I love you."

Then I took her in my arms and kissed her on the lips, but all I could

say was: "Jeanne, Jeanne, Jeanne." And as she lay trembling on my breast,

something struck my foot in the grass below, but I did not heed it. Then

again something struck my ankle, and a sharp pain shot through me. I

looked into the sweet face of Jeanne d'Ys and kissed her, and with all my

strength lifted her in my arms and flung her from me. Then bending, I

tore the viper from my ankle and set my heel upon its head. I remember

feeling weak and numb,--I remember falling to the ground. Through my

slowly glazing eyes I saw Jeanne's white face bending close to mine, and

when the light in my eyes went out I still felt her arms about my neck,

and her soft cheek against my drawn lips.

When I opened my eyes, I looked around in terror. Jeanne was gone. I saw

the stream and the flat rock; I saw the crushed viper in the grass beside

me, but the hawks and _blocs_ had disappeared. I sprang to my feet.

The garden, the fruit trees, the drawbridge and the walled court were

gone. I stared stupidly at a heap of crumbling ruins, ivy-covered and

grey, through which great trees had pushed their way. I crept forward,

dragging my numbed foot, and as I moved, a falcon sailed from the

tree-tops among the ruins, and soaring, mounting in narrowing circles,

faded and vanished in the clouds above.

"Jeanne, Jeanne," I cried, but my voice died on my lips, and I fell on my

knees among the weeds. And as God willed it, I, not knowing, had fallen

kneeling before a crumbling shrine carved in stone for our Mother of

Sorrows. I saw the sad face of the Virgin wrought in the cold stone. I

saw the cross and thorns at her feet, and beneath it I read:

"PRAY FOR THE SOUL OF THE

DEMOISELLE JEANNE D'Ys,

WHO DIED

IN HER YOUTH FOR LOVE OF

PHILIP, A STRANGER.

A.D. 1573."

But upon the icy slab lay a woman's glove still warm and fragrant.

THE PROPHETS' PARADISE

"If but the Vine and Love Abjuring Band

Are in the Prophets' Paradise to stand,

Alack, I doubt the Prophets' Paradise,

Were empty as the hollow of one's hand."

THE STUDIO

He smiled, saying, "Seek her throughout the world."

I said, "Why tell me of the world? My world is here, between these walls

and the sheet of glass above; here among gilded flagons and dull jewelled

arms, tarnished frames and canvasses, black chests and high-backed

chairs, quaintly carved and stained in blue and gold."

"For whom do you wait?" he said, and I answered, "When she comes I shall

know her."

On my hearth a tongue of flame whispered secrets to the whitening ashes.

In the street below I heard footsteps, a voice, and a song.

"For whom then do you wait?" he said, and I answered, "I shall know her."

Footsteps, a voice, and a song in the street below, and I knew the song

but neither the steps nor the voice.

"Fool!" he cried, "the song is the same, the voice and steps have but

changed with years!"

On the hearth a tongue of flame whispered above the whitening ashes:

"Wait no more; they have passed, the steps and the voice in the street

below."

Then he smiled, saying, "For whom do you wait? Seek her throughout the

world!"

I answered, "My world is here, between these walls and the sheet of glass

above; here among gilded flagons and dull jewelled arms, tarnished frames

and canvasses, black chests and high-backed chairs, quaintly carved and

stained in blue and gold."

THE PHANTOM

The Phantom of the Past would go no further.

"If it is true," she sighed, "that you find in me a friend, let us turn

back together. You will forget, here, under the summer sky."

I held her close, pleading, caressing; I seized her, white with anger,

but she resisted.

"If it is true," she sighed, "that you find in me a friend, let us turn

back together."

The Phantom of the Past would go no further.

THE SACRIFICE

I went into a field of flowers, whose petals are whiter than snow and

whose hearts are pure gold.

Far afield a woman cried, "I have killed him I loved!" and from a jar she

poured blood upon the flowers whose petals are whiter than snow and whose

hearts are pure gold.

Far afield I followed, and on the jar I read a thousand names, while from

within the fresh blood bubbled to the brim.

"I have killed him I loved!" she cried. "The world's athirst; now let it

drink!" She passed, and far afield I watched her pouring blood upon the

flowers whose petals are whiter than snow and whose hearts are pure gold.

DESTINY

I came to the bridge which few may pass.

"Pass!" cried the keeper, but I laughed, saying, "There is time;" and he

smiled and shut the gates.

To the bridge which few may pass came young and old. All were refused.

Idly I stood and counted them, until, wearied of their noise and

lamentations, I came again to the bridge which few may pass.

Those in the throng about the gates shrieked out, "He comes too late!"

But I laughed, saying, "There is time."

"Pass!" cried the keeper as I entered; then smiled and shut the gates.

THE THRONG

There, where the throng was thickest in the street, I stood with Pierrot.

All eyes were turned on me.

"What are they laughing at?" I asked, but he grinned, dusting the chalk

from my black cloak. "I cannot see; it must be something droll, perhaps

an honest thief!"

All eyes were turned on me.

"He has robbed you of your purse!" they laughed.

"My purse!" I cried; "Pierrot--help! it is a thief!"

They laughed: "He has robbed you of your purse!"

Then Truth stepped out, holding a mirror. "If he is an honest thief,"

cried Truth, "Pierrot shall find him with this mirror!" but he only

grinned, dusting the chalk from my black cloak.

"You see," he said, "Truth is an honest thief, she brings you back your

mirror."

All eyes were turned on me.

"Arrest Truth!" I cried, forgetting it was not a mirror but a purse I

lost, standing with Pierrot, there, where the throng was thickest in the

street.

THE JESTER

"Was she fair?" I asked, but he only chuckled, listening to the bells

jingling on his cap.

"Stabbed," he tittered. "Think of the long journey, the days of peril,

the dreadful nights! Think how he wandered, for her sake, year after

year, through hostile lands, yearning for kith and kin, yearning for

her!"

"Stabbed," he tittered, listening to the bells jingling on his cap.

"Was she fair?" I asked, but he only snarled, muttering to the bells

jingling on his cap.

"She kissed him at the gate," he tittered, "but in the hall his brother's

welcome touched his heart"

"Was she fair?" I asked.

"Stabbed," he chuckled. "Think of the long journey, the days of peril,

the dreadful nights! Think how he wandered, for her sake, year after year

through hostile lands, yearning for kith and kin, yearning for her!"

"She kissed him at the gate, but in the hall his brother's welcome

touched his heart."

"Was she fair?" I asked; but he only snarled, listening to the bells

jingling in his cap.

THE GREEN ROOM

The Clown turned his powdered face to the mirror.

"If to be fair is to be beautiful," he said, "who can compare with me in

my white mask?"

"Who can compare with him in his white mask?" I asked of Death beside me.

"Who can compare with me?" said Death, "for I am paler still."

"You are very beautiful," sighed the Clown, turning his powdered face

from the mirror.

THE LOVE TEST

"If it is true that you love," said Love, "then wait no longer. Give her

these jewels which would dishonour her and so dishonour you in loving

one dishonoured. If it is true that you love," said Love, "then wait no

longer."

I took the jewels and went to her, but she trod upon them, sobbing:

"Teach me to wait--I love you!"

"Then wait, if it is true," said Love.

THE STREET OF THE FOUR WINDS

"Ferme tes yeux a demi,

Croise tes bras sur ton sein,

Et de ton coeur endormi

Chasse a jamais tout dessein."

"Je chante la nature,

Les etoiles du soir, les larmes du matin,

Les couchers de soleil a l'horizon lointain,

Le ciel qui parle au coeur d'existence future!"

The animal paused on the threshold, interrogative alert, ready for flight

if necessary. Severn laid down his palette, and held out a hand of

welcome. The cat remained motionless, her yellow eyes fastened upon

Severn.

"Puss," he said, in his low, pleasant voice, "come in."

The tip of her thin tail twitched uncertainly.

"Come in," he said again.

Apparently she found his voice reassuring, for she slowly settled upon all

fours, her eyes still fastened upon him, her tail tucked under her gaunt

flanks.

He rose from his easel smiling. She eyed him quietly, and when he walked

toward her she watched him bend above her without a wince; her eyes

followed his hand until it touched her head. Then she uttered a ragged

mew.

It had long been Severn's custom to converse with animals, probably

because he lived so much alone; and now he said, "What's the matter,

puss?"

Her timid eyes sought his.

"I understand," he said gently, "you shall have it at once."

Then moving quietly about he busied himself with the duties of a host,

rinsed a saucer, filled it with the rest of the milk from the bottle on

the window-sill, and kneeling down, crumbled a roll into the hollow of his

hand.

The creature rose and crept toward the saucer.

With the handle of a palette-knife he stirred the crumbs and milk together

and stepped back as she thrust her nose into the mess. He watched her in

silence. From time to time the saucer clinked upon the tiled floor as she

reached for a morsel on the rim; and at last the bread was all gone, and

her purple tongue travelled over every unlicked spot until the saucer

shone like polished marble. Then she sat up, and coolly turning her back

to him, began her ablutions.

"Keep it up," said Severn, much interested, "you need it."

She flattened one ear, but neither turned nor interrupted her toilet. As

the grime was slowly removed Severn observed that nature had intended her

for a white cat. Her fur had disappeared in patches, from disease or the

chances of war, her tail was bony and her spine sharp. But what charms she

had were becoming apparent under vigorous licking, and he waited until she

had finished before re-opening the conversation. When at last she closed

her eyes and folded her forepaws under her breast, he began again very

gently: "Puss, tell me your troubles."

At the sound of his voice she broke into a harsh rumbling which he

recognized as an attempt to purr. He bent over to rub her cheek and she

mewed again, an amiable inquiring little mew, to which he replied,

"Certainly, you are greatly improved, and when you recover your plumage

you will be a gorgeous bird." Much flattered, she stood up and marched

around and around his legs, pushing her head between them and making

pleased remarks, to which he responded with grave politeness.

"Now, what sent you here," he said--"here into the Street of the Four

Winds, and up five flights to the very door where you would be welcome?

What was it that prevented your meditated flight when I turned from my

canvas to encounter your yellow eyes? Are you a Latin Quarter cat as I am

a Latin Quarter man? And why do you wear a rose-coloured flowered garter

buckled about your neck?" The cat had climbed into his lap, and now sat

purring as he passed his hand over her thin coat.

"Excuse me," he continued in lazy soothing tones, harmonizing with her

purring, "if I seem indelicate, but I cannot help musing on this

rose-coloured garter, flowered so quaintly and fastened with a silver

clasp. For the clasp is silver; I can see the mint mark on the edge, as is

prescribed by the law of the French Republic. Now, why is this garter

woven of rose silk and delicately embroidered,--why is this silken garter

with its silver clasp about your famished throat? Am I indiscreet when I

inquire if its owner is your owner? Is she some aged dame living in memory

of youthful vanities, fond, doting on you, decorating you with her

intimate personal attire? The circumference of the garter would suggest

this, for your neck is thin, and the garter fits you. But then again I

notice--I notice most things--that the garter is capable of being much

enlarged. These small silver-rimmed eyelets, of which I count five, are

proof of that. And now I observe that the fifth eyelet is worn out, as

though the tongue of the clasp were accustomed to lie there. That seems to

argue a well-rounded form."

The cat curled her toes in contentment. The street was very still outside.

He murmured on: "Why should your mistress decorate you with an article

most necessary to her at all times? Anyway, at most times. How did she

come to slip this bit of silk and silver about your neck? Was it the

caprice of a moment,--when you, before you had lost your pristine

plumpness, marched singing into her bedroom to bid her good-morning? Of

course, and she sat up among the pillows, her coiled hair tumbling to her

shoulders, as you sprang upon the bed purring: 'Good-day, my lady.' Oh, it

is very easy to understand," he yawned, resting his head on the back of

the chair. The cat still purred, tightening and relaxing her padded claws

over his knee.

"Shall I tell you all about her, cat? She is very beautiful--your

mistress," he murmured drowsily, "and her hair is heavy as burnished

gold. I could paint her,--not on canvas--for I should need shades and

tones and hues and dyes more splendid than the iris of a splendid rainbow.

I could only paint her with closed eyes, for in dreams alone can such

colours as I need be found. For her eyes, I must have azure from skies

untroubled by a cloud--the skies of dreamland. For her lips, roses from

the palaces of slumberland, and for her brow, snow-drifts from mountains

which tower in fantastic pinnacles to the moons;--oh, much higher than our

moon here,--the crystal moons of dreamland. She is--very--beautiful, your

mistress."

The words died on his lips and his eyelids drooped.

The cat, too, was asleep, her cheek turned up upon her wasted flank, her

paws relaxed and limp.

"It is fortunate," said Severn, sitting up and stretching, "that we have

tided over the dinner hour, for I have nothing to offer you for supper but

what may be purchased with one silver franc."

The cat on his knee rose, arched her back, yawned, and looked up at him.

"What shall it be? A roast chicken with salad? No? Possibly you prefer

beef? Of course,--and I shall try an egg and some white bread. Now for the

wines. Milk for you? Good. I shall take a little water, fresh from the

wood," with a motion toward the bucket in the sink.

He put on his hat and left the room. The cat followed to the door, and

after he had closed it behind him, she settled down, smelling at the

cracks, and cocking one ear at every creak from the crazy old building.

The door below opened and shut. The cat looked serious, for a moment

doubtful, and her ears flattened in nervous expectation. Presently she

rose with a jerk of her tail and started on a noiseless tour of the

studio. She sneezed at a pot of turpentine, hastily retreating to the

table, which she presently mounted, and having satisfied her curiosity

concerning a roll of red modelling wax, returned to the door and sat down

with her eyes on the crack over the threshold Then she lifted her voice in

a thin plaint.

When Severn returned he looked grave, but the cat, joyous and

demonstrative, marched around him, rubbing her gaunt body against his

legs, driving her head enthusiastically into his hand, and purring until

her voice mounted to a squeal.

He placed a bit of meat, wrapped in brown paper, upon the table, and with

a penknife cut it into shreds. The milk he took from a bottle which had

served for medicine, and poured it into the saucer on the hearth.

The cat crouched before it, purring and lapping at the same time.

He cooked his egg and ate it with a slice of bread, watching her busy with

the shredded meat, and when he had finished, and had filled and emptied a

cup of water from the bucket in the sink, he sat down, taking her into his

lap, where she at once curled up and began her toilet. He began to speak

again, touching her caressingly at times by way of emphasis.

"Cat, I have found out where your mistress lives. It is not very far

away;--it is here, under this same leaky roof, but in the north wing which

I had supposed was uninhabited. My janitor tells me this. By chance, he is

almost sober this evening. The butcher on the rue de Seine, where I bought

your meat, knows you, and old Cabane the baker identified you with

needless sarcasm. They tell me hard tales of your mistress which I shall

not believe. They say she is idle and vain and pleasure-loving; they say

she is hare-brained and reckless. The little sculptor on the ground floor,

who was buying rolls from old Cabane, spoke to me to-night for the first

time, although we have always bowed to each other. He said she was very

good and very beautiful. He has only seen her once, and does not know her

name. I thanked him;--I don't know why I thanked him so warmly. Cabane

said, 'Into this cursed Street of the Four Winds, the four winds blow all

things evil.' The sculptor looked confused, but when he went out with his

rolls, he said to me, 'I am sure, Monsieur, that she is as good as she is

beautiful.'"

The cat had finished her toilet, and now, springing softly to the floor,

went to the door and sniffed. He knelt beside her, and unclasping the

garter held it for a moment in his hands. After a while he said: "There is

a name engraved upon the silver clasp beneath the buckle. It is a pretty

name, Sylvia Elven. Sylvia is a woman's name, Elven is the name of a town.

In Paris, in this quarter, above all, in this Street of the Four Winds,

names are worn and put away as the fashions change with the seasons. I

know the little town of Elven, for there I met Fate face to face and Fate

was unkind. But do you know that in Elven Fate had another name, and that

name was Sylvia?"

He replaced the garter and stood up looking down at the cat crouched

before the closed door.

"The name of Elven has a charm for me. It tells me of meadows and clear

rivers. The name of Sylvia troubles me like perfume from dead flowers."

The cat mewed.

"Yes, yes," he said soothingly, "I will take you back. Your Sylvia is not

my Sylvia; the world is wide and Elven is not unknown. Yet in the darkness

and filth of poorer Paris, in the sad shadows of this ancient house, these

names are very pleasant to me."

He lifted her in his arms and strode through the silent corridors to the

stairs. Down five flights and into the moonlit court, past the little

sculptor's den, and then again in at the gate of the north wing and up the

worm-eaten stairs he passed, until he came to a closed door. When he had

stood knocking for a long time, something moved behind the door; it opened

and he went in. The room was dark. As he crossed the threshold, the cat

sprang from his arms into the shadows. He listened but heard nothing. The

silence was oppressive and he struck a match. At his elbow stood a table

and on the table a candle in a gilded candlestick. This he lighted, then

looked around. The chamber was vast, the hangings heavy with embroidery.

Over the fireplace towered a carved mantel, grey with the ashes of dead

fires. In a recess by the deep-set windows stood a bed, from which the

bedclothes, soft and fine as lace, trailed to the polished floor. He

lifted the candle above his head. A handkerchief lay at his feet. It was

faintly perfumed. He turned toward the windows. In front of them was a

_canape_ and over it were flung, pell-mell, a gown of silk, a heap of

lace-like garments, white and delicate as spiders' meshes, long, crumpled

gloves, and, on the floor beneath, the stockings, the little pointed

shoes, and one garter of rosy silk, quaintly flowered and fitted with a

silver clasp. Wondering, he stepped forward and drew the heavy curtains

from the bed. For a moment the candle flared in his hand; then his eyes

met two other eyes, wide open, smiling, and the candle-flame flashed over

hair heavy as gold.

She was pale, but not as white as he; her eyes were untroubled as a

child's; but he stared, trembling from head to foot, while the candle

flickered in his hand.

At last he whispered: "Sylvia, it is I."

Again he said, "It is I."

Then, knowing that she was dead, he kissed her on the mouth. And through

the long watches of the night the cat purred on his knee, tightening and

relaxing her padded claws, until the sky paled above the Street of the

Four Winds.

THE STREET OF THE FIRST SHELL

"Be of Good Cheer, the Sullen Month will die,

And a young Moon requite us by and by:

Look how the Old one, meagre, bent, and wan

With age and Fast, is fainting from the sky."

The room was already dark. The high roofs opposite cut off what little

remained of the December daylight. The girl drew her chair nearer the

window, and choosing a large needle, threaded it, knotting the thread over

her fingers. Then she smoothed the baby garment across her knees, and

bending, bit off the thread and drew the smaller needle from where it

rested in the hem. When she had brushed away the stray threads and bits of

lace, she laid it again over her knees caressingly. Then she slipped the

threaded needle from her corsage and passed it through a button, but as

the button spun down the thread, her hand faltered, the thread snapped,

and the button rolled across the floor. She raised her head. Her eyes were

fixed on a strip of waning light above the chimneys. From somewhere in the

city came sounds like the distant beating of drums, and beyond, far

beyond, a vague muttering, now growing, swelling, rumbling in the distance

like the pounding of surf upon the rocks, now like the surf again,

receding, growling, menacing. The cold had become intense, a bitter

piercing cold which strained and snapped at joist and beam and turned the

slush of yesterday to flint. From the street below every sound broke sharp

and metallic--the clatter of sabots, the rattle of shutters or the rare

sound of a human voice. The air was heavy, weighted with the black cold as

with a pall. To breathe was painful, to move an effort.

In the desolate sky there was something that wearied, in the brooding

clouds, something that saddened. It penetrated the freezing city cut by

the freezing river, the splendid city with its towers and domes, its quays

and bridges and its thousand spires. It entered the squares, it seized the

avenues and the palaces, stole across bridges and crept among the narrow

streets of the Latin Quarter, grey under the grey of the December sky.

Sadness, utter sadness. A fine icy sleet was falling, powdering the

pavement with a tiny crystalline dust. It sifted against the window-panes

and drifted in heaps along the sill. The light at the window had nearly

failed, and the girl bent low over her work. Presently she raised her

head, brushing the curls from her eyes.

"Jack?"

"Dearest?"

"Don't forget to clean your palette."

He said, "All right," and picking up the palette, sat down upon the floor

in front of the stove. His head and shoulders were in the shadow, but the

firelight fell across his knees and glimmered red on the blade of the

palette-knife. Full in the firelight beside him stood a colour-box. On the

lid was carved,

J. TRENT.

Ecole des Beaux Arts.

1870.

This inscription was ornamented with an American and a French flag.

The sleet blew against the window-panes, covering them with stars and

diamonds, then, melting from the warmer air within, ran down and froze

again in fern-like traceries.

A dog whined and the patter of small paws sounded on the zinc behind the

stove.

"Jack, dear, do you think Hercules is hungry?"

The patter of paws was redoubled behind the stove.

"He's whining," she continued nervously, "and if it isn't because he's

hungry it is because--"

Her voice faltered. A loud humming filled the air, the windows vibrated.

"Oh, Jack," she cried, "another--" but her voice was drowned in the scream

of a shell tearing through the clouds overhead.

"That is the nearest yet," she murmured.

"Oh, no," he answered cheerfully, "it probably fell way over by

Montmartre," and as she did not answer, he said again with exaggerated

unconcern, "They wouldn't take the trouble to fire at the Latin Quarter;

anyway they haven't a battery that can hurt it."

After a while she spoke up brightly: "Jack, dear, when are you going to

take me to see Monsieur West's statues?"

"I will bet," he said, throwing down his palette and walking over to the

window beside her, "that Colette has been here to-day."

"Why?" she asked, opening her eyes very wide. Then, "Oh, it's too

bad!--really, men are tiresome when they think they know everything! And I

warn you that if Monsieur West is vain enough to imagine that Colette--"

From the north another shell came whistling and quavering through the sky,

passing above them with long-drawn screech which left the windows singing.

"That," he blurted out, "was too near for comfort."

They were silent for a while, then he spoke again gaily: "Go on, Sylvia,

and wither poor West;" but she only sighed, "Oh, dear, I can never seem to

get used to the shells."

He sat down on the arm of the chair beside her.

Her scissors fell jingling to the floor; she tossed the unfinished frock

after them, and putting both arms about his neck drew him down into her

lap.

"Don't go out to-night, Jack."

He kissed her uplifted face; "You know I must; don't make it hard for me."

"But when I hear the shells and--and know you are out in the city--"

"But they all fall in Montmartre--"

"They may all fall in the Beaux Arts; you said yourself that two struck

the Quai d'Orsay--"

"Mere accident--"

"Jack, have pity on me! Take me with you!"

"And who will there be to get dinner?"

She rose and flung herself on the bed.

"Oh, I can't get used to it, and I know you must go, but I beg you not to

be late to dinner. If you knew what I suffer! I--I--cannot help it, and

you must be patient with me, dear."

He said, "It is as safe there as it is in our own house."

She watched him fill for her the alcohol lamp, and when he had lighted it

and had taken his hat to go, she jumped up and clung to him in silence.

After a moment he said: "Now, Sylvia, remember my courage is sustained by

yours. Come, I must go!" She did not move, and he repeated: "I must go."

Then she stepped back and he thought she was going to speak and waited,

but she only looked at him, and, a little impatiently, he kissed her

again, saying: "Don't worry, dearest."

When he had reached the last flight of stairs on his way to the street a

woman hobbled out of the house-keeper's lodge waving a letter and calling:

"Monsieur Jack! Monsieur Jack! this was left by Monsieur Fallowby!"

He took the letter, and leaning on the threshold of the lodge, read it:

"Dear Jack,

"I believe Braith is dead broke and I'm sure Fallowby is. Braith swears he

isn't, and Fallowby swears he is, so you can draw your own conclusions.

I've got a scheme for a dinner, and if it works, I will let you fellows

in.

"Yours faithfully,

"West.

"P.S.--Fallowby has shaken Hartman and his gang, thank the Lord! There is

something rotten there,--or it may be he's only a miser.

"P.P.S.--I'm more desperately in love than ever, but I'm sure she does not

care a straw for me."

"All right," said Trent, with a smile, to the concierge; "but tell me, how

is Papa Cottard?"

The old woman shook her head and pointed to the curtained bed in the

lodge.

"Pere Cottard!" he cried cheerily, "how goes the wound to-day?"

He walked over to the bed and drew the curtains. An old man was lying

among the tumbled sheets.

"Better?" smiled Trent.

"Better," repeated the man wearily; and, after a pause, "Have you any

news, Monsieur Jack?"

"I haven't been out to-day. I will bring you any rumour I may hear, though

goodness knows I've got enough of rumours," he muttered to himself. Then

aloud: "Cheer up; you're looking better."

"And the sortie?"

"Oh, the sortie, that's for this week. General Trochu sent orders last

night."

"It will be terrible."

"It will be sickening," thought Trent as he went not into the street and

turned the corner toward the rue de Seine; "slaughter, slaughter, phew!

I'm glad I'm not going."

The street was almost deserted. A few women muffled in tattered military

capes crept along the frozen pavement, and a wretchedly clad gamin hovered

over the sewer-hole on the corner of the Boulevard. A rope around his

waist held his rags together. From the rope hung a rat, still warm and

bleeding.

"There's another in there," he yelled at Trent; "I hit him but he got

away."

Trent crossed the street and asked: "How much?"

"Two francs for a quarter of a fat one; that's what they give at the St.

Germain Market."

A violent fit of coughing interrupted him, but he wiped his face with the

palm of his hand and looked cunningly at Trent.

"Last week you could buy a rat for six francs, but," and here he swore

vilely, "the rats have quit the rue de Seine and they kill them now over

by the new hospital. I'll let you have this for seven francs; I can sell

it for ten in the Isle St. Louis."

"You lie," said Trent, "and let me tell you that if you try to swindle

anybody in this quarter the people will make short work of you and your

rats."

He stood a moment eyeing the gamin, who pretended to snivel. Then he

tossed him a franc, laughing. The child caught it, and thrusting it into

his mouth wheeled about to the sewer-hole. For a second he crouched,

motionless, alert, his eyes on the bars of the drain, then leaping forward

he hurled a stone into the gutter, and Trent left him to finish a fierce

grey rat that writhed squealing at the mouth of the sewer.

"Suppose Braith should come to that," he thought; "poor little chap;" and

hurrying, he turned in the dirty passage des Beaux Arts and entered the

third house to the left.

"Monsieur is at home," quavered the old concierge.

Home? A garret absolutely bare, save for the iron bedstead in the corner

and the iron basin and pitcher on the floor.

West appeared at the door, winking with much mystery, and motioned Trent

to enter. Braith, who was painting in bed to keep warm, looked up,

laughed, and shook hands.

"Any news?"

The perfunctory question was answered as usual by: "Nothing but the

cannon."

Trent sat down on the bed.

"Where on earth did you get that?" he demanded, pointing to a

half-finished chicken nestling in a wash-basin.

West grinned.

"Are you millionaires, you two? Out with it."

Braith, looking a little ashamed, began, "Oh, it's one of West's

exploits," but was cut short by West, who said he would tell the story

himself.

"You see, before the siege, I had a letter of introduction to a '_type_'

here, a fat banker, German-American variety. You know the species, I see.

Well, of course I forgot to present the letter, but this morning, judging

it to be a favourable opportunity, I called on him.

"The villain lives in comfort;--fires, my boy!--fires in the ante-rooms!

The Buttons finally condescends to carry my letter and card up, leaving me

standing in the hallway, which I did not like, so I entered the first room

I saw and nearly fainted at the sight of a banquet on a table by the fire.

Down comes Buttons, very insolent. No, oh, no, his master, 'is not at

home, and in fact is too busy to receive letters of introduction just now;

the siege, and many business difficulties--'

"I deliver a kick to Buttons, pick up this chicken from the table, toss my

card on to the empty plate, and addressing Buttons as a species of

Prussian pig, march out with the honours of war."

Trent shook his head.

"I forgot to say that Hartman often dines there, and I draw my own

conclusions," continued West. "Now about this chicken, half of it is for

Braith and myself, and half for Colette, but of course you will help me

eat my part because I'm not hungry."

"Neither am I," began Braith, but Trent, with a smile at the pinched faces

before him, shook his head saying, "What nonsense! You know I'm never

hungry!"

West hesitated, reddened, and then slicing off Braith's portion, but not

eating any himself, said good-night, and hurried away to number 470 rue

Serpente, where lived a pretty girl named Colette, orphan after Sedan, and

Heaven alone knew where she got the roses in her cheeks, for the siege

came hard on the poor.

"That chicken will delight her, but I really believe she's in love with

West," said Trent. Then walking over to the bed: "See here, old man, no

dodging, you know, how much have you left?"

The other hesitated and flushed.

"Come, old chap," insisted Trent.

Braith drew a purse from beneath his bolster, and handed it to his friend

with a simplicity that touched him.

"Seven sons," he counted; "you make me tired! Why on earth don't you come

to me? I take it d----d ill, Braith! How many times must I go over the same

thing and explain to you that because I have money it is my duty to share

it, and your duty and the duty of every American to share it with me? You

can't get a cent, the city's blockaded, and the American Minister has his

hands full with all the German riff-raff and deuce knows what! Why don't

you act sensibly?"

"I--I will, Trent, but it's an obligation that perhaps I can never even in

part repay, I'm poor and--"

"Of course you'll pay me! If I were a usurer I would take your talent for

security. When you are rich and famous--"

"Don't, Trent--"

"All right, only no more monkey business."

He slipped a dozen gold pieces into the purse, and tucking it again under

the mattress smiled at Braith.

"How old are you?" he demanded.

"Sixteen."

Trent laid his hand lightly on his friend's shoulder. "I'm twenty-two, and

I have the rights of a grandfather as far as you are concerned. You'll do

as I say until you're twenty-one."

"The siege will be over then, I hope," said Braith, trying to laugh, but

the prayer in their hearts: "How long, O Lord, how long!" was answered by

the swift scream of a shell soaring among the storm-clouds of that

December night.

West, standing in the doorway of a house in the rue Serpentine, was

speaking angrily. He said he didn't care whether Hartman liked it or not;

he was telling him, not arguing with him.

"You call yourself an American!" he sneered; "Berlin and hell are full of

that kind of American. You come loafing about Colette with your pockets

stuffed with white bread and beef, and a bottle of wine at thirty francs

and you can't really afford to give a dollar to the American Ambulance and

Public Assistance, which Braith does, and he's half starved!"

Hartman retreated to the curbstone, but West followed him, his face like a

thunder-cloud. "Don't you dare to call yourself a countryman of mine," he

growled,--"no,--nor an artist either! Artists don't worm themselves into

the service of the Public Defence where they do nothing but feed like rats

on the people's food! And I'll tell you now," he continued dropping his

voice, for Hartman had started as though stung, "you might better keep

away from that Alsatian Brasserie and the smug-faced thieves who haunt it.

You know what they do with suspects!"

"You lie, you hound!" screamed Hartman, and flung the bottle in his hand

straight at West's face. West had him by the throat in a second, and

forcing him against the dead wall shook him wickedly.

"Now you listen to me," he muttered, through his clenched teeth. "You are

already a suspect and--I swear--I believe you are a paid spy! It isn't my

business to detect such vermin, and I don't intend to denounce you, but

understand this! Colette don't like you and I can't stand you, and if I

catch you in this street again I'll make it somewhat unpleasant. Get out,

you sleek Prussian!"

Hartman had managed to drag a knife from his pocket, but West tore it from

him and hurled him into the gutter. A gamin who had seen this burst into a

peal of laughter, which rattled harshly in the silent street. Then

everywhere windows were raised and rows of haggard faces appeared

demanding to know why people should laugh in the starving city.

"Is it a victory?" murmured one.

"Look at that," cried West as Hartman picked himself up from the pavement,

"look! you miser! look at those faces!" But Hartman gave _him_ a look

which he never forgot, and walked away without a word. Trent, who suddenly

appeared at the corner, glanced curiously at West, who merely nodded

toward his door saying, "Come in; Fallowby's upstairs."

"What are you doing with that knife?" demanded Fallowby, as he and Trent

entered the studio.

West looked at his wounded hand, which still clutched the knife, but

saying, "Cut myself by accident," tossed it into a corner and washed the

blood from his fingers.

Fallowby, fat and lazy, watched him without comment, but Trent, half

divining how things had turned, walked over to Fallowby smiling.

"I've a bone to pick with you!" he said.

"Where is it? I'm hungry," replied Fallowby with affected eagerness, but

Trent, frowning, told him to listen.

"How much did I advance you a week ago?"

"Three hundred and eighty francs," replied the other, with a squirm of

contrition.

"Where is it?"

Fallowby began a series of intricate explanations, which were soon cut

short by Trent.

"I know; you blew it in;--you always blow it in. I don't care a rap what

you did before the siege: I know you are rich and have a right to dispose

of your money as you wish to, and I also know that, generally speaking, it

is none of my business. But _now_ it is my business, as I have to supply

the funds until you get some more, which you won't until the siege is

ended one way or another. I wish to share what I have, but I won't see it

thrown out of the window. Oh, yes, of course I know you will reimburse me,

but that isn't the question; and, anyway, it's the opinion of your

friends, old man, that you will not be worse off for a little abstinence

from fleshly pleasures. You are positively a freak in this famine-cursed

city of skeletons!"

"I _am_ rather stout," he admitted.

"Is it true you are out of money?" demanded Trent.

"Yes, I am," sighed the other.

"That roast sucking pig on the rue St. Honore,--is it there yet?"

continued Trent.

"Wh--at?" stammered the feeble one.

"Ah--I thought so! I caught you in ecstasy before that sucking pig at

least a dozen times!"

Then laughing, he presented Fallowby with a roll of twenty franc pieces

saying: "If these go for luxuries you must live on your own flesh," and

went over to aid West, who sat beside the wash-basin binding up his hand.

West suffered him to tie the knot, and then said: "You remember,

yesterday, when I left you and Braith to take the chicken to Colette."

"Chicken! Good heavens!" moaned Fallowby.

"Chicken," repeated West, enjoying Fallowby's grief;--"I--that is, I must

explain that things are changed. Colette and I--are to be married--"

"What--what about the chicken?" groaned Fallowby.

"Shut up!" laughed Trent, and slipping his arm through West's, walked to

the stairway.

"The poor little thing," said West, "just think, not a splinter of

firewood for a week and wouldn't tell me because she thought I needed

it for my clay figure. Whew! When I heard it I smashed that smirking

clay nymph to pieces, and the rest can freeze and be hanged!" After a

moment he added timidly: "Won't you call on your way down and say _bon

soir_? It's No. 17."

"Yes," said Trent, and he went out softly closing the door behind.

He stopped on the third landing, lighted a match, scanned the numbers over

the row of dingy doors, and knocked at No. 17.

"C'est toi Georges?" The door opened.

"Oh, pardon, Monsieur Jack, I thought it was Monsieur West," then blushing

furiously, "Oh, I see you have heard! Oh, thank you so much for your

wishes, and I'm sure we love each other very much,--and I'm dying to see

Sylvia and tell her and--"

"And what?" laughed Trent.

"I am very happy," she sighed.

"He's pure gold," returned Trent, and then gaily: "I want you and George

to come and dine with us to-night. It's a little treat,--you see to-morrow

is Sylvia's _fete_. She will be nineteen. I have written to Thorne, and

the Guernalecs will come with their cousin Odile. Fallowby has engaged not

to bring anybody but himself."

The girl accepted shyly, charging him with loads of loving messages to

Sylvia, and he said good-night.

He started up the street, walking swiftly, for it was bitter cold, and

cutting across the rue de la Lune he entered the rue de Seine. The early

winter night had fallen, almost without warning, but the sky was clear and

myriads of stars glittered in the heavens. The bombardment had become

furious--a steady rolling thunder from the Prussian cannon punctuated by

the heavy shocks from Mont Valerien.

The shells streamed across the sky leaving trails like shooting stars, and

now, as he turned to look back, rockets blue and red flared above the

horizon from the Fort of Issy, and the Fortress of the North flamed like a

bonfire.

"Good news!" a man shouted over by the Boulevard St. Germain. As if by

magic the streets were filled with people,--shivering, chattering people

with shrunken eyes.

"Jacques!" cried one. "The Army of the Loire!"

"Eh! _mon vieux_, it has come then at last! I told thee! I told thee!

To-morrow--to-night--who knows?"

"Is it true? Is it a sortie?"

Some one said: "Oh, God--a sortie--and my son?" Another cried: "To the

Seine? They say one can see the signals of the Army of the Loire from the

Pont Neuf."

There was a child standing near Trent who kept repeating: "Mamma, Mamma,

then to-morrow we may eat white bread?" and beside him, an old man

swaying, stumbling, his shrivelled hands crushed to his breast, muttering

as if insane.

"Could it be true? Who has heard the news? The shoemaker on the rue de

Buci had it from a Mobile who had heard a Franctireur repeat it to a

captain of the National Guard."

Trent followed the throng surging through the rue de Seine to the river.

Rocket after rocket clove the sky, and now, from Montmartre, the cannon

clanged, and the batteries on Montparnasse joined in with a crash. The

bridge was packed with people.

Trent asked: "Who has seen the signals of the Army of the Loire?"

"We are waiting for them," was the reply.

He looked toward the north. Suddenly the huge silhouette of the Arc de

Triomphe sprang into black relief against the flash of a cannon. The boom

of the gun rolled along the quay and the old bridge vibrated.

Again over by the Point du Jour a flash and heavy explosion shook the

bridge, and then the whole eastern bastion of the fortifications blazed

and crackled, sending a red flame into the sky.

"Has any one seen the signals yet?" he asked again.

"We are waiting," was the reply.

"Yes, waiting," murmured a man behind him, "waiting, sick, starved,

freezing, but waiting. Is it a sortie? They go gladly. Is it to starve?

They starve. They have no time to think of surrender. Are they

heroes,--these Parisians? Answer me, Trent!"

The American Ambulance surgeon turned about and scanned the parapets of

the bridge.

"Any news, Doctor," asked Trent mechanically.

"News?" said the doctor; "I don't know any;--I haven't time to know any.

What are these people after?"

"They say that the Army of the Loire has signalled Mont Valerien."

"Poor devils." The doctor glanced about him for an instant, and then: "I'm

so harried and worried that I don't know what to do. After the last sortie

we had the work of fifty ambulances on our poor little corps. To-morrow

there's another sortie, and I wish you fellows could come over to

headquarters. We may need volunteers. How is madame?" he added abruptly.

"Well," replied Trent, "but she seems to grow more nervous every day. I

ought to be with her now."

"Take care of her," said the doctor, then with a sharp look at the people:

"I can't stop now--goodnight!" and he hurried away muttering, "Poor

devils!"

Trent leaned over the parapet and blinked at the black river surging

through the arches. Dark objects, carried swiftly on the breast of the

current, struck with a grinding tearing noise against the stone piers,

spun around for an instant, and hurried away into the darkness. The ice

from the Marne.

As he stood staring into the water, a hand was laid on his shoulder.

"Hello, Southwark!" he cried, turning around; "this is a queer place for

you!"

"Trent, I have something to tell you. Don't stay here,--don't believe in

the Army of the Loire:" and the _attache_ of the American Legation slipped

his arm through Trent's and drew him toward the Louvre.

"Then it's another lie!" said Trent bitterly.

"Worse--we know at the Legation--I can't speak of it. But that's not what

I have to say. Something happened this afternoon. The Alsatian Brasserie

was visited and an American named Hartman has been arrested. Do you know

him?"

"I know a German who calls himself an American;--his name is Hartman."

"Well, he was arrested about two hours ago. They mean to shoot him."

"What!"

"Of course we at the Legation can't allow them to shoot him off-hand, but

the evidence seems conclusive."

"Is he a spy?"

"Well, the papers seized in his rooms are pretty damning proofs, and

besides he was caught, they say, swindling the Public Food Committee. He

drew rations for fifty, how, I don't know. He claims to be an American

artist here, and we have been obliged to take notice of it at the

Legation. It's a nasty affair."

"To cheat the people at such a time is worse than robbing the poor-box,"

cried Trent angrily. "Let them shoot him!"

"He's an American citizen."

"Yes, oh yes," said the other with bitterness. "American citizenship is a

precious privilege when every goggle-eyed German--" His anger choked him.

Southwark shook hands with him warmly. "It can't be helped, we must own

the carrion. I am afraid you may be called upon to identify him as an

American artist," he said with a ghost of a smile on his deep-lined face;

and walked away through the Cours la Reine.

Trent swore silently for a moment and then drew out his watch. Seven

o'clock. "Sylvia will be anxious," he thought, and hurried back to the

river. The crowd still huddled shivering on the bridge, a sombre pitiful

congregation, peering out into the night for the signals of the Army of

the Loire: and their hearts beat time to the pounding of the guns, their

eyes lighted with each flash from the bastions, and hope rose with the

drifting rockets.

A black cloud hung over the fortifications. From horizon to horizon the

cannon smoke stretched in wavering bands, now capping the spires and domes

with cloud, now blowing in streamers and shreds along the streets, now

descending from the housetops, enveloping quays, bridges, and river, in a

sulphurous mist. And through the smoke pall the lightning of the cannon

played, while from time to time a rift above showed a fathomless black

vault set with stars.

He turned again into the rue de Seine, that sad abandoned street, with its

rows of closed shutters and desolate ranks of unlighted lamps. He was a

little nervous and wished once or twice for a revolver, but the slinking

forms which passed him in the darkness were too weak with hunger to be

dangerous, he thought, and he passed on unmolested to his doorway. But

there somebody sprang at his throat. Over and over the icy pavement he

rolled with his assailant, tearing at the noose about his neck, and then

with a wrench sprang to his feet.

"Get up," he cried to the other.

Slowly and with great deliberation, a small gamin picked himself out of

the gutter and surveyed Trent with disgust.

"That's a nice clean trick," said Trent; "a whelp of your age! You'll

finish against a dead wall! Give me that cord!"

The urchin handed him the noose without a word.

Trent struck a match and looked at his assailant. It was the rat-killer of

the day before.

"H'm! I thought so," he muttered.

"Tiens, c'est toi?" said the gamin tranquilly.

The impudence, the overpowering audacity of the ragamuffin took Trent's

breath away.

"Do you know, you young strangler," he gasped, "that they shoot thieves of

your age?"

The child turned a passionless face to Trent. "Shoot, then."

That was too much, and he turned on his heel and entered his hotel.

Groping up the unlighted stairway, he at last reached his own landing and

felt about in the darkness for the door. From his studio came the sound of

voices, West's hearty laugh and Fallowby's chuckle, and at last he found

the knob and, pushing back the door, stood a moment confused by the light.

"Hello, Jack!" cried West, "you're a pleasant creature, inviting people to

dine and letting them wait. Here's Fallowby weeping with hunger--"

"Shut up," observed the latter, "perhaps he's been out to buy a turkey."

"He's been out garroting, look at his noose!" laughed Guernalec.

"So now we know where you get your cash!" added West; "vive le coup du

Pere Francois!"

Trent shook hands with everybody and laughed at Sylvia's pale face.

"I didn't mean to be late; I stopped on the bridge a moment to watch the

bombardment. Were you anxious, Sylvia?"

She smiled and murmured, "Oh, no!" but her hand dropped into his and

tightened convulsively.

"To the table!" shouted Fallowby, and uttered a joyous whoop.

"Take it easy," observed Thorne, with a remnant of manners; "you are not

the host, you know."

Marie Guernalec, who had been chattering with Colette, jumped up and took

Thorne's arm and Monsieur Guernalec drew Odile's arm through his.

Trent, bowing gravely, offered his own arm to Colette, West took in

Sylvia, and Fallowby hovered anxiously in the rear.

"You march around the table three times singing the Marseillaise,"

explained Sylvia, "and Monsieur Fallowby pounds on the table and beats

time."

Fallowby suggested that they could sing after dinner, but his protest was

drowned in the ringing chorus--

"Aux armes!

Formez vos bataillons!"

Around the room they marched singing,

"Marchons! Marchons!"

with all their might, while Fallowby with very bad grace, hammered on the

table, consoling himself a little with the hope that the exercise would

increase his appetite. Hercules, the black and tan, fled under the bed,

from which retreat he yapped and whined until dragged out by Guernalec and

placed in Odile's lap.

"And now," said Trent gravely, when everybody was seated, "listen!" and he

read the menu.

Beef Soup a la Siege de Paris.

Fish.

Sardines a la pere Lachaise.

(White Wine).

Roti (Red Wine).

Fresh Beef a la sortie.

Vegetables.

Canned Beans a la chasse-pot,

Canned Peas Gravelotte,

Potatoes Irlandaises,

Miscellaneous.

Cold Corned Beef a la Thieis,

Stewed Prunes a la Garibaldi.

Dessert.

Dried prunes--White bread,

Currant Jelly,

Tea--Cafe,

Liqueurs,

Pipes and Cigarettes.

Fallowby applauded frantically, and Sylvia served the soup.

"Isn't it delicious?" sighed Odile.

Marie Guernalec sipped her soup in rapture.

"Not at all like horse, and I don't care what they say, horse doesn't

taste like beef," whispered Colette to West. Fallowby, who had finished,

began to caress his chin and eye the tureen.

"Have some more, old chap?" inquired Trent.

"Monsieur Fallowby cannot have any more," announced Sylvia; "I am saving

this for the concierge." Fallowby transferred his eyes to the fish.

The sardines, hot from the grille, were a great success. While the others

were eating Sylvia ran downstairs with the soup for the old concierge and

her husband, and when she hurried back, flushed and breathless, and had

slipped into her chair with a happy smile at Trent, that young man arose,

and silence fell over the table. For an instant he looked at Sylvia and

thought he had never seen her so beautiful.

"You all know," he began, "that to-day is my wife's nineteenth birthday--"

Fallowby, bubbling with enthusiasm, waved his glass in circles about his

head to the terror of Odile and Colette, his neighbours, and Thorne, West

and Guernalec refilled their glasses three times before the storm of

applause which the toast of Sylvia had provoked, subsided.

Three times the glasses were filled and emptied to Sylvia, and again to

Trent, who protested.

"This is irregular," he cried, "the next toast is to the twin Republics,

France and America?"

"To the Republics! To the Republics!" they cried, and the toast was drunk

amid shouts of "Vive a France! Vive l'Amerique! Vive la Nation!"

Then Trent, with a smile at West, offered the toast, "To a Happy Pair!"

and everybody understood, and Sylvia leaned over and kissed Colette, while

Trent bowed to West.

The beef was eaten in comparative calm, but when it was finished and a

portion of it set aside for the old people below, Trent cried: "Drink to

Paris! May she rise from her ruins and crush the invader!" and the cheers

rang out, drowning for a moment the monotonous thunder of the Prussian

guns.

Pipes and cigarettes were lighted, and Trent listened an instant to the

animated chatter around him, broken by ripples of laughter from the girls

or the mellow chuckle of Fallowby. Then he turned to West.

"There is going to be a sortie to-night," he said. "I saw the American

Ambulance surgeon just before I came in and he asked me to speak to you

fellows. Any aid we can give him will not come amiss."

Then dropping his voice and speaking in English, "As for me, I shall go

out with the ambulance to-morrow morning. There is of course no danger,

but it's just as well to keep it from Sylvia."

West nodded. Thorne and Guernalec, who had heard, broke in and offered

assistance, and Fallowby volunteered with a groan.

"All right," said Trent rapidly,--"no more now, but meet me at Ambulance

headquarters to-morrow morning at eight."

Sylvia and Colette, who were becoming uneasy at the conversation in

English, now demanded to know what they were talking about.

"What does a sculptor usually talk about?" cried West, with a laugh.

Odile glanced reproachfully at Thorne, her _fiance_.

"You are not French, you know, and it is none of your business, this war,"

said Odile with much dignity.

Thorne looked meek, but West assumed an air of outraged virtue.

"It seems," he said to Fallowby, "that a fellow cannot discuss the

beauties of Greek sculpture in his mother tongue, without being openly

suspected."

Colette placed her hand over his mouth and turning to Sylvia, murmured,

"They are horridly untruthful, these men."

"I believe the word for ambulance is the same in both languages," said

Marie Guernalec saucily; "Sylvia, don't trust Monsieur Trent."

"Jack," whispered Sylvia, "promise me--"

A knock at the studio door interrupted her.

"Come in!" cried Fallowby, but Trent sprang up, and opening the door,

looked out. Then with a hasty excuse to the rest, he stepped into the

hall-way and closed the door.

When he returned he was grumbling.

"What is it, Jack?" cried West.

"What is it?" repeated Trent savagely; "I'll tell you what it is. I have

received a dispatch from the American Minister to go at once and identify

and claim, as a fellow-countryman and a brother artist, a rascally thief

and a German spy!"

"Don't go," suggested Fallowby.

"If I don't they'll shoot him at once."

"Let them," growled Thorne.

"Do you fellows know who it is?"

"Hartman!" shouted West, inspired.

Sylvia sprang up deathly white, but Odile slipped her arm around her and

supported her to a chair, saying calmly, "Sylvia has fainted,--it's the

hot room,--bring some water."

Trent brought it at once.

Sylvia opened her eyes, and after a moment rose, and supported by Marie

Guernalec and Trent, passed into the bedroom.

It was the signal for breaking up, and everybody came and shook hands with

Trent, saying they hoped Sylvia would sleep it off and that it would be

nothing.

When Marie Guernalec took leave of him, she avoided his eyes, but he spoke

to her cordially and thanked her for her aid.

"Anything I can do, Jack?" inquired West, lingering, and then hurried

downstairs to catch up with the rest.

Trent leaned over the banisters, listening to their footsteps and chatter,

and then the lower door banged and the house was silent. He lingered,

staring down into the blackness, biting his lips; then with an impatient

movement, "I am crazy!" he muttered, and lighting a candle, went into the

bedroom. Sylvia was lying on the bed. He bent over her, smoothing the

curly hair on her forehead.

"Are you better, dear Sylvia?"

She did not answer, but raised her eyes to his. For an instant he met her

gaze, but what he read there sent a chill to his heart and he sat down

covering his face with his hands.

At last she spoke in a voice, changed and strained,--a voice which he had

never heard, and he dropped his hands and listened, bolt upright in his

chair.

"Jack, it has come at last. I have feared it and trembled,--ah! how often

have I lain awake at night with this on my heart and prayed that I might

die before you should ever know of it! For I love you, Jack, and if you go

away I cannot live. I have deceived you;--it happened before I knew you,

but since that first day when you found me weeping in the Luxembourg and

spoke to me, Jack, I have been faithful to you in every thought and deed.

I loved you from the first, and did not dare to tell you this--fearing

that you would go away; and since then my love has grown--grown--and oh! I

suffered!--but I dared not tell you. And now you know, but you do not know

the worst. For him--now--what do I care? He was cruel--oh, so cruel!"

She hid her face in her arms.

"Must I go on? Must I tell you--can you not imagine, oh! Jack--"

He did not stir; his eyes seemed dead.

"I--I was so young, I knew nothing, and he said--said that he loved me--"

Trent rose and struck the candle with his clenched fist, and the room was

dark.

The bells of St. Sulpice tolled the hour, and she started up, speaking

with feverish haste,--"I must finish! When you told me you loved

me--you--you asked me nothing; but then, even then, it was too late, and

_that other life_ which binds me to him, must stand for ever between you

and me! For there _is another_ whom he has claimed, and is good to. He

must not die,--they cannot shoot him, for that _other's_ sake!"

Trent sat motionless, but his thoughts ran on in an interminable whirl.

Sylvia, little Sylvia, who shared with him his student life,--who bore

with him the dreary desolation of the siege without complaint,--this

slender blue-eyed girl whom he was so quietly fond of, whom he teased or

caressed as the whim suited, who sometimes made him the least bit

impatient with her passionate devotion to him,--could this be the same

Sylvia who lay weeping there in the darkness?

Then he clinched his teeth. "Let him die! Let him die!"--but then,--for

Sylvia's sake, and,--for that _other's_ sake,--Yes, he would go,--he

_must_ go,--his duty was plain before him. But Sylvia,--he could not be

what he had been to her, and yet a vague terror seized him, now all was

said. Trembling, he struck a light.

She lay there, her curly hair tumbled about her face, her small white

hands pressed to her breast.

He could not leave her, and he could not stay. He never knew before that

he loved her. She had been a mere comrade, this girl wife of his. Ah! he

loved her now with all his heart and soul, and he knew it, only when it

was too late. Too late? Why? Then he thought of that _other_ one, binding

her, linking her forever to the creature, who stood in danger of his life.

With an oath he sprang to the door, but the door would not open,--or was

it that he pressed it back,--locked it,--and flung himself on his knees

beside the bed, knowing that he dared not for his life's sake leave what

was his all in life.

III

It was four in the morning when he came out of the Prison of the Condemned

with the Secretary of the American Legation. A knot of people had gathered

around the American Minister's carriage, which stood in front of the

prison, the horses stamping and pawing in the icy street, the coachman

huddled on the box, wrapped in furs. Southwark helped the Secretary into

the carriage, and shook hands with Trent, thanking him for coming.

"How the scoundrel did stare," he said; "your evidence was worse than a

kick, but it saved his skin for the moment at least,--and prevented

complications."

The Secretary sighed. "We have done our part. Now let them prove him a spy

and we wash our hands of him. Jump in, Captain! Come along, Trent!"

"I have a word to say to Captain Southwark, I won't detain him," said

Trent hastily, and dropping his voice, "Southwark, help _me_ now. You know

the story from the blackguard. You know the--the child is at his rooms.

Get it, and take it to my own apartment, and if he is shot, I will provide

a home for it."

"I understand," said the Captain gravely.

"Will you do this at once?"

"At once," he replied.

Their hands met in a warm clasp, and then Captain Southwark climbed into

the carriage, motioning Trent to follow; but he shook his head saying,

"Good-bye!" and the carriage rolled away.

He watched the carriage to the end of the street, then started toward his

own quarter, but after a step or two hesitated, stopped, and finally

turned away in the opposite direction. Something--perhaps it was the sight

of the prisoner he had so recently confronted nauseated him. He felt the

need of solitude and quiet to collect his thoughts. The events of the

evening had shaken him terribly, but he would walk it off, forget, bury

everything, and then go back to Sylvia. He started on swiftly, and for a

time the bitter thoughts seemed to fade, but when he paused at last,

breathless, under the Arc de Triomphe, the bitterness and the wretchedness

of the whole thing--yes, of his whole misspent life came back with a pang.

Then the face of the prisoner, stamped with the horrible grimace of fear,

grew in the shadows before his eyes.

Sick at heart he wandered up and down under the great Arc, striving to

occupy his mind, peering up at the sculptured cornices to read the names

of the heroes and battles which he knew were engraved there, but always

the ashen face of Hartman followed him, grinning with terror!--or was it

terror?--was it not triumph?--At the thought he leaped like a man who

feels a knife at his throat, but after a savage tramp around the square,

came back again and sat down to battle with his misery.

The air was cold, but his cheeks were burning with angry shame. Shame?

Why? Was it because he had married a girl whom chance had made a mother?

_Did_ he love her? Was this miserable bohemian existence, then, his end

and aim in life? He turned his eyes upon the secrets of his heart, and

read an evil story,--the story of the past, and he covered his face for

shame, while, keeping time to the dull pain throbbing in his head, his

heart beat out the story for the future. Shame and disgrace.

Roused at last from a lethargy which had begun to numb the bitterness of

his thoughts, he raised his head and looked about. A sudden fog had

settled in the streets; the arches of the Arc were choked with it. He

would go home. A great horror of being alone seized him. _But he was not

alone._ The fog was peopled with phantoms. All around him in the mist they

moved, drifting through the arches in lengthening lines, and vanished,

while from the fog others rose up, swept past and were engulfed. He was

not alone, for even at his side they crowded, touched him, swarmed before

him, beside him, behind him, pressed him back, seized, and bore him with

them through the mist. Down a dim avenue, through lanes and alleys white

with fog, they moved, and if they spoke their voices were dull as the

vapour which shrouded them. At last in front, a bank of masonry and earth

cut by a massive iron barred gate towered up in the fog. Slowly and more

slowly they glided, shoulder to shoulder and thigh to thigh. Then all

movement ceased. A sudden breeze stirred the fog. It wavered and eddied.

Objects became more distinct. A pallor crept above the horizon, touching

the edges of the watery clouds, and drew dull sparks from a thousand

bayonets. Bayonets--they were everywhere, cleaving the fog or flowing

beneath it in rivers of steel. High on the wall of masonry and earth a

great gun loomed, and around it figures moved in silhouettes. Below, a

broad torrent of bayonets swept through the iron barred gateway, out into

the shadowy plain. It became lighter. Faces grew more distinct among the

marching masses and he recognized one.

"You, Philippe!"

The figure turned its head.

Trent cried, "Is there room for me?" but the other only waved his arm in a

vague adieu and was gone with the rest. Presently the cavalry began to

pass, squadron on squadron, crowding out into the darkness; then many

cannon, then an ambulance, then again the endless lines of bayonets.

Beside him a cuirassier sat on his steaming horse, and in front, among a

group of mounted officers he saw a general, with the astrakan collar of

his dolman turned up about his bloodless face.

Some women were weeping near him and one was struggling to force a loaf of

black bread into a soldier's haversack. The soldier tried to aid her, but

the sack was fastened, and his rifle bothered him, so Trent held it, while

the woman unbuttoned the sack and forced in the bread, now all wet with

her tears. The rifle was not heavy. Trent found it wonderfully manageable.

Was the bayonet sharp? He tried it. Then a sudden longing, a fierce,

imperative desire took possession of him.

"_Chouette!_" cried a gamin, clinging to the barred gate, "_encore toi mon

vieux_?"

Trent looked up, and the rat-killer laughed in his face. But when the

soldier had taken the rifle again, and thanking him, ran hard to catch his

battalion, he plunged into the throng about the gateway.

"Are you going?" he cried to a marine who sat in the gutter bandaging his

foot.

"Yes."

Then a girl--a mere child--caught him by the hand and led him into the

cafe which faced the gate. The room was crowded with soldiers, some, white

and silent, sitting on the floor, others groaning on the leather-covered

settees. The air was sour and suffocating.

"Choose!" said the girl with a little gesture of pity; "they can't go!"

In a heap of clothing on the floor he found a capote and kepi.

She helped him buckle his knapsack, cartridge-box, and belt, and showed

him how to load the chasse-pot rifle, holding it on her knees.

When he thanked her she started to her feet.

"You are a foreigner!"

"American," he said, moving toward the door, but the child barred his way.

"I am a Bretonne. My father is up there with the cannon of the marine. He

will shoot you if you are a spy."

They faced each other for a moment. Then sighing, he bent over and kissed

the child. "Pray for France, little one," he murmured, and she repeated

with a pale smile: "For France and you, beau Monsieur."

He ran across the street and through the gateway. Once outside, he edged

into line and shouldered his way along the road. A corporal passed, looked

at him, repassed, and finally called an officer. "You belong to the 60th,"

growled the corporal looking at the number on his kepi.

"We have no use for Franc-tireurs," added the officer, catching sight of

his black trousers.

"I wish to volunteer in place of a comrade," said Trent, and the officer

shrugged his shoulders and passed on.

Nobody paid much attention to him, one or two merely glancing at his

trousers. The road was deep with slush and mud-ploughed and torn by wheels

and hoofs. A soldier in front of him wrenched his foot in an icy rut and

dragged himself to the edge of the embankment groaning. The plain on

either side of them was grey with melting snow. Here and there behind

dismantled hedge-rows stood wagons, bearing white flags with red crosses.

Sometimes the driver was a priest in rusty hat and gown, sometimes a

crippled Mobile. Once they passed a wagon driven by a Sister of Charity.

Silent empty houses with great rents in their walls, and every window

blank, huddled along the road. Further on, within the zone of danger,

nothing of human habitation remained except here and there a pile of

frozen bricks or a blackened cellar choked with snow.

For some time Trent had been annoyed by the man behind him, who kept

treading on his heels. Convinced at last that it was intentional, he

turned to remonstrate and found himself face to face with a fellow-student

from the Beaux Arts. Trent stared.

"I thought you were in the hospital!"

The other shook his head, pointing to his bandaged jaw.

"I see, you can't speak. Can I do anything?"

The wounded man rummaged in his haversack and produced a crust of black

bread.

"He can't eat it, his jaw is smashed, and he wants you to chew it for

him," said the soldier next to him.

Trent took the crust, and grinding it in his teeth morsel by morsel,

passed it back to the starving man.

From time to time mounted orderlies sped to the front, covering them with

slush. It was a chilly, silent march through sodden meadows wreathed in

fog. Along the railroad embankment across the ditch, another column moved

parallel to their own. Trent watched it, a sombre mass, now distinct, now

vague, now blotted out in a puff of fog. Once for half-an-hour he lost it,

but when again it came into view, he noticed a thin line detach itself

from the flank, and, bellying in the middle, swing rapidly to the west. At

the same moment a prolonged crackling broke out in the fog in front. Other

lines began to slough off from the column, swinging east and west, and the

crackling became continuous. A battery passed at full gallop, and he drew

back with his comrades to give it way. It went into action a little to the

right of his battalion, and as the shot from the first rifled piece boomed

through the mist, the cannon from the fortifications opened with a mighty

roar. An officer galloped by shouting something which Trent did not catch,

but he saw the ranks in front suddenly part company with his own, and

disappear in the twilight. More officers rode up and stood beside him

peering into the fog. Away in front the crackling had become one prolonged

crash. It was dreary waiting. Trent chewed some bread for the man behind,

who tried to swallow it, and after a while shook his head, motioning Trent

to eat the rest himself. A corporal offered him a little brandy and he

drank it, but when he turned around to return the flask, the corporal was

lying on the ground. Alarmed, he looked at the soldier next to him, who

shrugged his shoulders and opened his mouth to speak, but something struck

him and he rolled over and over into the ditch below. At that moment the

horse of one of the officers gave a bound and backed into the battalion,

lashing out with his heels. One man was ridden down; another was kicked in

the chest and hurled through the ranks. The officer sank his spurs into

the horse and forced him to the front again, where he stood trembling. The

cannonade seemed to draw nearer. A staff-officer, riding slowly up and

down the battalion suddenly collapsed in his saddle and clung to his

horse's mane. One of his boots dangled, crimsoned and dripping, from the

stirrup. Then out of the mist in front men came running. The roads, the

fields, the ditches were full of them, and many of them fell. For an

instant he imagined he saw horsemen riding about like ghosts in the

vapours beyond, and a man behind him cursed horribly, declaring he too had

seen them, and that they were Uhlans; but the battalion stood inactive,

and the mist fell again over the meadows.

The colonel sat heavily upon his horse, his bullet-shaped head buried in

the astrakan collar of his dolman, his fat legs sticking straight out in

the stirrups.

The buglers clustered about him with bugles poised, and behind him a

staff-officer in a pale blue jacket smoked a cigarette and chatted with a

captain of hussars. From the road in front came the sound of furious

galloping and an orderly reined up beside the colonel, who motioned him to

the rear without turning his head. Then on the left a confused murmur

arose which ended in a shout. A hussar passed like the wind, followed by

another and another, and then squadron after squadron whirled by them into

the sheeted mists. At that instant the colonel reared in his saddle, the

bugles clanged, and the whole battalion scrambled down the embankment,

over the ditch and started across the soggy meadow. Almost at once Trent

lost his cap. Something snatched it from his head, he thought it was a

tree branch. A good many of his comrades rolled over in the slush and ice,

and he imagined that they had slipped. One pitched right across his path

and he stopped to help him up, but the man screamed when he touched him

and an officer shouted, "Forward! Forward!" so he ran on again. It was a

long jog through the mist, and he was often obliged to shift his rifle.

When at last they lay panting behind the railroad embankment, he looked

about him. He had felt the need of action, of a desperate physical

struggle, of killing and crushing. He had been seized with a desire to

fling himself among masses and tear right and left. He longed to fire, to

use the thin sharp bayonet on his chassepot. He had not expected this. He

wished to become exhausted, to struggle and cut until incapable of lifting

his arm. Then he had intended to go home. He heard a man say that half the

battalion had gone down in the charge, and he saw another examining a

corpse under the embankment. The body, still warm, was clothed in a

strange uniform, but even when he noticed the spiked helmet lying a few

inches further away, he did not realize what had happened.

The colonel sat on his horse a few feet to the left, his eyes sparkling

under the crimson kepi. Trent heard him reply to an officer: "I can hold

it, but another charge, and I won't have enough men left to sound a

bugle."

"Were the Prussians here?" Trent asked of a soldier who sat wiping the

blood trickling from his hair.

"Yes. The hussars cleaned them out. We caught their cross fire."

"We are supporting a battery on the embankment," said another.

Then the battalion crawled over the embankment and moved along the lines

of twisted rails. Trent rolled up his trousers and tucked them into his

woollen socks: but they halted again, and some of the men sat down on the

dismantled railroad track. Trent looked for his wounded comrade from the

Beaux Arts. He was standing in his place, very pale. The cannonade had

become terrific. For a moment the mist lifted. He caught a glimpse of the

first battalion motionless on the railroad track in front, of regiments on

either flank, and then, as the fog settled again, the drums beat and the

music of the bugles began away on the extreme left. A restless movement

passed among the troops, the colonel threw up his arm, the drums rolled,

and the battalion moved off through the fog. They were near the front now

for the battalion was firing as it advanced. Ambulances galloped along the

base of the embankment to the rear, and the hussars passed and repassed

like phantoms. They were in the front at last, for all about them was

movement and turmoil, while from the fog, close at hand, came cries and

groans and crashing volleys. Shells fell everywhere, bursting along the

embankment, splashing them with frozen slush. Trent was frightened. He

began to dread the unknown, which lay there crackling and flaming in

obscurity. The shock of the cannon sickened him. He could even see the fog

light up with a dull orange as the thunder shook the earth. It was near,

he felt certain, for the colonel shouted "Forward!" and the first

battalion was hastening into it. He felt its breath, he trembled, but

hurried on. A fearful discharge in front terrified him. Somewhere in the

fog men were cheering, and the colonel's horse, streaming with blood

plunged about in the smoke.

Another blast and shock, right in his face, almost stunned him, and he

faltered. All the men to the right were down. His head swam; the fog and

smoke stupefied him. He put out his hand for a support and caught

something. It was the wheel of a gun-carriage, and a man sprang from

behind it, aiming a blow at his head with a rammer, but stumbled back

shrieking with a bayonet through his neck, and Trent knew that he had

killed. Mechanically he stooped to pick up his rifle, but the bayonet was

still in the man, who lay, beating with red hands against the sod. It

sickened him and he leaned on the cannon. Men were fighting all around him

now, and the air was foul with smoke and sweat. Somebody seized him from

behind and another in front, but others in turn seized them or struck them

solid blows. The click! click! click! of bayonets infuriated him, and he

grasped the rammer and struck out blindly until it was shivered to pieces.

A man threw his arm around his neck and bore him to the ground, but he

throttled him and raised himself on his knees. He saw a comrade seize the

cannon, and fall across it with his skull crushed in; he saw the colonel

tumble clean out of his saddle into the mud; then consciousness fled.

When he came to himself, he was lying on the embankment among the twisted

rails. On every side huddled men who cried out and cursed and fled away

into the fog, and he staggered to his feet and followed them. Once he

stopped to help a comrade with a bandaged jaw, who could not speak but

clung to his arm for a time and then fell dead in the freezing mire; and

again he aided another, who groaned: "Trent, c'est moi--Philippe," until a

sudden volley in the midst relieved him of his charge.

An icy wind swept down from the heights, cutting the fog into shreds. For

an instant, with an evil leer the sun peered through the naked woods of

Vincennes, sank like a blood-clot in the battery smoke, lower, lower, into

the blood-soaked plain.

When midnight sounded from the belfry of St. Sulpice the gates of Paris

were still choked with fragments of what had once been an army.

They entered with the night, a sullen horde, spattered with slime, faint

with hunger and exhaustion. There was little disorder at first, and the

throng at the gates parted silently as the troops tramped along the

freezing streets. Confusion came as the hours passed. Swiftly and more

swiftly, crowding squadron after squadron and battery on battery, horses

plunging and caissons jolting, the remnants from the front surged through

the gates, a chaos of cavalry and artillery struggling for the right of

way. Close upon them stumbled the infantry; here a skeleton of a regiment

marching with a desperate attempt at order, there a riotous mob of Mobiles

crushing their way to the streets, then a turmoil of horsemen, cannon,

troops without, officers, officers without men, then again a line of

ambulances, 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 the

ragged throng whimpered and shivered by the barriers. At noon the crowd

was increased ten-fold, filling the squares about the gates, and swarming

over the inner fortifications.

At four o'clock in the afternoon the German batteries suddenly wreathed

themselves in smoke, and the shells fell fast on Montparnasse. At twenty

minutes after four two projectiles struck a house in the rue de Bac, and a

moment 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 to

pay us a visit to-night."

Braith jumped out of bed and bundled himself into a garment which had once

been an overcoat.

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

lining.

"No. Colette is barricaded in the cellar, and the concierge ran away to

the fortifications. There will be a rough gang there if the bombardment

keeps up. You might help us--"

"Of course," said Braith; but it was not until they had reached the rue

Serpente and had turned in the passage which led to West's cellar, that

the latter cried: "Have you seen Jack Trent, to-day?"

"No," replied Braith, looking troubled, "he was not at Ambulance

Headquarters."

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

A bomb came crashing through the roof of a house at the end of the alley

and burst in the basement, showering the street with slate and plaster. A

second struck a chimney and plunged into the garden, followed by an

avalanche of bricks, and another exploded with a deafening report in the

next street.

They hurried along the passage to the steps which led to the cellar. Here

again Braith stopped.

"Don't you think I had better run up to see if Jack and Sylvia are well

entrenched? 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 sprang

up 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 a

heavy 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 blows

rained on it from without. West glanced anxiously at Colette, who

displayed no agitation, and this comforted him.

"I don't believe they will spend much time here," said Braith; "they only

rummage 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 blow

after blow shook the doors, until there came a sharp snap, a clinking of

metal and a triangular bit of iron fell inwards, leaving a hole through

which struggled a ray of light.

Instantly West knelt, and shoving his revolver through the aperture fired

every cartridge. For a moment the alley resounded with the racket of the

revolver, then absolute silence followed.

Presently a single questioning blow fell upon the door, and a moment later

another and another, and then a sudden crack zigzagged across the iron

plate.

"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 of

the cellar. The spot of light came from a barred man-hole above. West

motioned Braith to mount on his shoulders.

"Push it over. You _must_!"

With little effort Braith lifted the barred cover, scrambled out on his

stomach, 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. The

cellar was flooded with a yellow light, and the air reeked with the stench

of petroleum torches. The iron door still held, but a whole plate of metal

was gone, and now as they looked a figure came creeping through, holding a

torch.

"Quick!" whispered Braith. "Jump!" and West hung dangling until Colette

grasped him by the collar, and he was dragged out. Then her nerves gave

way and she wept hysterically, but West threw his arm around her and led

her across the gardens into the next street, where Braith, after replacing

the man-hole cover and piling some stone slabs from the wall over it,

rejoined them. It was almost dark. They hurried through the street, now

only lighted by burning buildings, or the swift glare of the shells. They

gave wide berth to the fires, but at a distance saw the flitting forms of

pillagers among the _debris_. Sometimes they passed a female fury crazed

with drink shrieking anathemas upon the world, or some slouching lout

whose blackened face and hands betrayed his share in the work of

destruction. At last they reached the Seine and passed the bridge, and

then Braith said: "I must go back. I am not sure of Jack and Sylvia." As

he 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 West

caught the measured tread of a platoon. A lantern passed, a file of

bayonets, then another lantern which glimmered on a deathly face behind,

and Colette gasped, "Hartman!" and he was gone. They peered fearfully

across the embankment, holding their breath. There was a shuffle of feet

on the quay, and the gate of the barracks slammed. A lantern shone for a

moment at the postern, the crowd pressed to the grille, then came the

clang of the volley from the stone parade.

One by one the petroleum torches flared up along the embankment, and now

the whole square was in motion. Down from the Champs Elysees and across

the Place de la Concorde straggled the fragments of the battle, a company

here, and a mob there. They poured in from every street followed by women

and children, and a great murmur, borne on the icy wind, swept through the

Arc de Triomphe and down the dark avenue,--"Perdus! perdus!"

A ragged end of a battalion was pressing past, the spectre of

annihilation. West groaned. Then a figure sprang from the shadowy ranks

and called West's name, and when he saw it was Trent he cried out. Trent

seized him, white with terror.

"Sylvia?"

West stared speechless, but Colette moaned, "Oh, Sylvia! Sylvia!--and they

are shelling the Quarter!"

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

them.

The bombardment ceased as Trent crossed the Boulevard St. Germain, but the

entrance 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 a

wreck of splinters and glass, the book-store tottered, ripped from roof to

basement, and the little bakery, long since closed, bulged outward above a

mass 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 bank

wall, beneath a shattered gas lamp, a child was writing with a bit of

cinder.

"HERE FELL THE FIRST SHELL."

The letters stared him in the face. The rat-killer finished and stepped

back to view his work, but catching sight of Trent's bayonet, screamed and

fled, and as Trent staggered across the shattered street, from holes and

crannies 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 he

felt along the wall and reached the door. A lantern burned in the

concierge's lodge and the old man lay dead beside it. Faint with fright he

leaned a moment on his rifle, then, snatching the lantern, sprang up the

stairs. He tried to call, but his tongue hardly moved. On the second floor

he saw plaster on the stairway, and on the third the floor was torn and

the concierge lay in a pool of blood across the landing. The next floor

was his, _theirs_. The door hung from its hinges, the walls gaped. He

crept in and sank down by the bed, and there two arms were flung around

his 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?"

THE STREET OF OUR LADY OF THE FIELDS

"Et tout les jours passes dans la tristesse

Nous sont comptes comme des jours heureux!"

The street is not fashionable, neither is it shabby. It is a pariah among

streets--a street without a Quarter. It is generally understood to lie

outside the pale of the aristocratic Avenue de l'Observatoire. The

students of the Montparnasse Quarter consider it swell and will have none

of it. The Latin Quarter, from the Luxembourg, its northern frontier,

sneers at its respectability and regards with disfavour the correctly

costumed students who haunt it. Few strangers go into it. At times,

however, the Latin Quarter students use it as a thoroughfare between the

rue de Rennes and the Bullier, but except for that and the weekly

afternoon visits of parents and guardians to the Convent near the rue

Vavin, the street of Our Lady of the Fields is as quiet as a Passy

boulevard. Perhaps the most respectable portion lies between the rue de la

Grande Chaumiere and the rue Vavin, at least this was the conclusion

arrived at by the Reverend Joel Byram, as he rambled through it with

Hastings in charge. To Hastings the street looked pleasant in the bright

June weather, and he had begun to hope for its selection when the Reverend

Byram shied violently at the cross on the Convent opposite.

"Jesuits," he muttered.

"Well," said Hastings wearily, "I imagine we won't find anything better.

You say yourself that vice is triumphant in Paris, and it seems to me that

in every street we find Jesuits or something worse."

After a moment he repeated, "Or something worse, which of course I would

not notice except for your kindness in warning me."

Dr. Byram sucked in his lips and looked about him. He was impressed by the

evident respectability of the surroundings. Then frowning at the Convent

he took Hastings' arm and shuffled across the street to an iron gateway

which bore the number 201 _bis_ painted in white on a blue ground. Below

this was a notice printed in English:

1. For Porter please oppress once.

2. For Servant please oppress twice.

3. For Parlour please oppress thrice.

Hastings touched the electric button three times, and they were ushered

through the garden and into the parlour by a trim maid. The dining-room

door, just beyond, was open, and from the table in plain view a stout

woman hastily arose and came toward them. Hastings caught a glimpse of a

young man with a big head and several snuffy old gentlemen at breakfast,

before the door closed and the stout woman waddled into the room, bringing

with her an aroma of coffee and a black poodle."

"It ees a plaisir to you receive!" she cried. "Monsieur is Anglish? No?

Americain? Off course. My pension it ees for Americains surtout. Here all

spik Angleesh, c'est a dire, ze personnel; ze sairvants do spik, plus ou

moins, a little. I am happy to have you comme pensionnaires--"

"Madame," began Dr. Byram, but was cut short again.

"Ah, yess, I know, ah! mon Dieu! you do not spik Frainch but you have come

to lairne! My husband does spik Frainch wiss ze pensionnaires. We have at

ze moment a family Americaine who learn of my husband Frainch--"

Here the poodle growled at Dr. Byram and was promptly cuffed by his

mistress.

"Veux tu!" she cried, with a slap, "veux tu! Oh! le vilain, oh! le

vilain!"

"Mais, madame," said Hastings, smiling, "il n'a pas l'air tres feroce."

The poodle fled, and his mistress cried, "Ah, ze accent charming! He does

spik already Frainch like a Parisien young gentleman!"

Then Dr. Byram managed to get in a word or two and gathered more or less

information with regard to prices.

"It ees a pension serieux; my clientele ees of ze best, indeed a pension

de famille where one ees at 'ome."

Then they went upstairs to examine Hastings' future quarters, test the

bed-springs and arrange for the weekly towel allowance. Dr. Byram appeared

satisfied.

Madame Marotte accompanied them to the door and rang for the maid, but as

Hastings stepped out into the gravel walk, his guide and mentor paused a

moment and fixed Madame with his watery eyes.

"You understand," he said, "that he is a youth of most careful bringing

up, and his character and morals are without a stain. He is young and has

never been abroad, never even seen a large city, and his parents have

requested me, as an old family friend living in Paris, to see that he is

placed under good influences. He is to study art, but on no account would

his parents wish him to live in the Latin Quarter if they knew of the

immorality which is rife there."

A sound like the click of a latch interrupted him and he raised his eyes,

but not in time to see the maid slap the big-headed young man behind the

parlour-door.

Madame coughed, cast a deadly glance behind her and then beamed on Dr.

Byram.

"It ees well zat he come here. The pension more serious, il n'en existe

pas, eet ees not any!" she announced with conviction.

So, as there was nothing more to add, Dr. Byram joined Hastings at the

gate.

"I trust," he said, eyeing the Convent, "that you will make no

acquaintances among Jesuits!"

Hastings looked at the Convent until a pretty girl passed before the gray

facade, and then he looked at her. A young fellow with a paint-box and

canvas came swinging along, stopped before the pretty girl, said something

during a brief but vigorous handshake at which they both laughed, and he

went his way, calling back, "A demain Valentine!" as in the same breath

she cried, "A demain!"

"Valentine," thought Hastings, "what a quaint name;" and he started to

follow the Reverend Joel Byram, who was shuffling towards the nearest

tramway station.

"An' you are pleas wiz Paris, Monsieur' Astang?" demanded Madame Marotte

the next morning as Hastings came into the breakfast-room of the pension,

rosy from his plunge in the limited bath above.

"I am sure I shall like it," he replied, wondering at his own depression

of spirits.

The maid brought him coffee and rolls. He returned the vacant glance of

the big-headed young man and acknowledged diffidently the salutes of the

snuffy old gentlemen. He did not try to finish his coffee, and sat

crumbling a roll, unconscious of the sympathetic glances of Madame

Marotte, who had tact enough not to bother him.

Presently a maid entered with a tray on which were balanced two bowls of

chocolate, and the snuffy old gentlemen leered at her ankles. The maid

deposited the chocolate at a table near the window and smiled at Hastings.

Then a thin young lady, followed by her counterpart in all except years,

marched into the room and took the table near the window. They were

evidently American, but Hastings, if he expected any sign of recognition,

was disappointed. To be ignored by compatriots intensified his depression.

He fumbled with his knife and looked at his plate.

The thin young lady was talkative enough. She was quite aware of Hastings'

presence, ready to be flattered if he looked at her, but on the other hand

she felt her superiority, for she had been three weeks in Paris and he, it

was easy to see, had not yet unpacked his steamer-trunk.

Her conversation was complacent. She argued with her mother upon the

relative merits of the Louvre and the Bon Marche, but her mother's part of

the discussion was mostly confined to the observation, "Why, Susie!"

The snuffy old gentlemen had left the room in a body, outwardly polite and

inwardly raging. They could not endure the Americans, who filled the room

with their chatter.

The big-headed young man looked after them with a knowing cough,

murmuring, "Gay old birds!"

"They look like bad old men, Mr. Bladen," said the girl.

To this Mr. Bladen smiled and said, "They've had their day," in a tone

which implied that he was now having his.

"And that's why they all have baggy eyes," cried the girl. "I think it's a

shame for young gentlemen--"

"Why, Susie!" said the mother, and the conversation lagged.

After a while Mr. Bladen threw down the _Petit Journal_, which he daily

studied at the expense of the house, and turning to Hastings, started to

make himself agreeable. He began by saying, "I see you are American."

To this brilliant and original opening, Hastings, deadly homesick, replied

gratefully, and the conversation was judiciously nourished by observations

from Miss Susie Byng distinctly addressed to Mr. Bladen. In the course of

events Miss Susie, forgetting to address herself exclusively to Mr.

Bladen, and Hastings replying to her general question, the _entente

cordiale_ was established, and Susie and her mother extended a

protectorate over what was clearly neutral territory.

"Mr. Hastings, you must not desert the pension every evening as Mr. Bladen

does. Paris is an awful place for young gentlemen, and Mr. Bladen is a

horrid cynic."

Mr. Bladen looked gratified.

Hastings answered, "I shall be at the studio all day, and I imagine I

shall be glad enough to come back at night."

Mr. Bladen, who, at a salary of fifteen dollars a week, acted as agent for

the Pewly Manufacturing Company of Troy, N.Y., smiled a sceptical smile

and withdrew to keep an appointment with a customer on the Boulevard

Magenta.

Hastings walked into the garden with Mrs. Byng and Susie, and, at their

invitation, sat down in the shade before the iron gate.

The chestnut trees still bore their fragrant spikes of pink and white, and

the bees hummed among the roses, trellised on the white-walled house.

A faint freshness was in the air. The watering carts moved up and down the

street, and a clear stream bubbled over the spotless gutters of the rue de

la Grande Chaumiere. The sparrows were merry along the curb-stones, taking

bath after bath in the water and ruffling their feathers with delight. In

a walled garden across the street a pair of blackbirds whistled among the

almond trees.

Hastings swallowed the lump in his throat, for the song of the birds and

the ripple of water in a Paris gutter brought back to him the sunny

meadows of Millbrook.

"That's a blackbird," observed Miss Byng; "see him there on the bush with

pink blossoms. He's all black except his bill, and that looks as if it had

been dipped in an omelet, as some Frenchman says--"

"Why, Susie!" said Mrs. Byng.

"That garden belongs to a studio inhabited by two Americans," continued

the girl serenely, "and I often see them pass. They seem to need a great

many models, mostly young and feminine--"

"Why, Susie!"

"Perhaps they prefer painting that kind, but I don't see why they should

invite five, with three more young gentlemen, and all get into two cabs

and drive away singing. This street," she continued, "is dull. There is

nothing to see except the garden and a glimpse of the Boulevard

Montparnasse through the rue de la Grande Chaumiere. No one ever passes

except a policeman. There is a convent on the corner."

"I thought it was a Jesuit College," began Hastings, but was at once

overwhelmed with a Baedecker description of the place, ending with, "On

one side stand the palatial hotels of Jean Paul Laurens and Guillaume

Bouguereau, and opposite, in the little Passage Stanislas, Carolus Duran

paints the masterpieces which charm the world."

The blackbird burst into a ripple of golden throaty notes, and from some

distant green spot in the city an unknown wild-bird answered with a frenzy

of liquid trills until the sparrows paused in their ablutions to look up

with restless chirps.

Then a butterfly came and sat on a cluster of heliotrope and waved his

crimson-banded wings in the hot sunshine. Hastings knew him for a friend,

and before his eyes there came a vision of tall mulleins and scented

milkweed alive with painted wings, a vision of a white house and

woodbine-covered piazza,--a glimpse of a man reading and a woman leaning

over the pansy bed,--and his heart was full. He was startled a moment

later by Miss Byng.

"I believe you are homesick!" Hastings blushed. Miss Byng looked at him

with a sympathetic sigh and continued: "Whenever I felt homesick at first

I used to go with mamma and walk in the Luxembourg Gardens. I don't know

why it is, but those old-fashioned gardens seemed to bring me nearer home

than anything in this artificial city."

"But they are full of marble statues," said Mrs. Byng mildly; "I don't see

the resemblance myself."

"Where is the Luxembourg?" inquired Hastings after a silence.

"Come with me to the gate," said Miss Byng. He rose and followed her, and

she pointed out the rue Vavin at the foot of the street.

"You pass by the convent to the right," she smiled; and Hastings went.

III

The Luxembourg was a blaze of flowers. He walked slowly through the long

avenues of trees, past mossy marbles and old-time columns, and threading

the grove by the bronze lion, came upon the tree-crowned terrace above the

fountain. Below lay the basin shining in the sunlight. Flowering almonds

encircled the terrace, and, in a greater spiral, groves of chestnuts wound

in and out and down among the moist thickets by the western palace wing.

At one end of the avenue of trees the Observatory rose, its white domes

piled up like an eastern mosque; at the other end stood the heavy palace,

with every window-pane ablaze in the fierce sun of June.

Around the fountain, children and white-capped nurses armed with bamboo

poles were pushing toy boats, whose sails hung limp in the sunshine. A

dark policeman, wearing red epaulettes and a dress sword, watched them for

a while and then went away to remonstrate with a young man who had

unchained his dog. The dog was pleasantly occupied in rubbing grass and

dirt into his back while his legs waved into the air.

The policeman pointed at the dog. He was speechless with indignation.

"Well, Captain," smiled the young fellow.

"Well, Monsieur Student," growled the policeman.

"What do you come and complain to me for?"

"If you don't chain him I'll take him," shouted the policeman.

"What's that to me, mon capitaine?"

"Wha--t! Isn't that bull-dog yours?"

"If it was, don't you suppose I'd chain him?"

The officer glared for a moment in silence, then deciding that as he was a

student he was wicked, grabbed at the dog, who promptly dodged. Around and

around the flower-beds they raced, and when the officer came too near for

comfort, the bull-dog cut across a flower-bed, which perhaps was not

playing fair.

The young man was amused, and the dog also seemed to enjoy the exercise.

The policeman noticed this and decided to strike at the fountain-head of

the evil. He stormed up to the student and said, "As the owner of this

public nuisance I arrest you!"

"But," objected the other, "I disclaim the dog."

That was a poser. It was useless to attempt to catch the dog until three

gardeners lent a hand, but then the dog simply ran away and disappeared in

the rue de Medici.

The policeman shambled off to find consolation among the white-capped

nurses, and the student, looking at his watch, stood up yawning. Then

catching sight of Hastings, he smiled and bowed. Hastings walked over to

the marble, laughing.

"Why, Clifford," he said, "I didn't recognize you."

"It's my moustache," sighed the other. "I sacrificed it to humour a whim

of--of--a friend. What do you think of my dog?"

"Then he is yours?" cried Hastings.

"Of course. It's a pleasant change for him, this playing tag with

policemen, but he is known now and I'll have to stop it. He's gone home.

He always does when the gardeners take a hand. It's a pity; he's fond of

rolling on lawns." Then they chatted for a moment of Hastings' prospects,

and Clifford politely offered to stand his sponsor at the studio.

"You see, old tabby, I mean Dr. Byram, told me about you before I met

you," explained Clifford, "and Elliott and I will be glad to do anything

we can." Then looking at his watch again, he muttered, "I have just ten

minutes to catch the Versailles train; au revoir," and started to go, but

catching sight of a girl advancing by the fountain, took off his hat with

a confused smile.

"Why are you not at Versailles?" she said, with an almost imperceptible

acknowledgment of Hastings' presence.

"I--I'm going," murmured Clifford.

For a moment they faced each other, and then Clifford, very red,

stammered, "With your permission I have the honour of presenting to you my

friend, Monsieur Hastings."

Hastings bowed low. She smiled very sweetly, but there was something of

malice in the quiet inclination of her small Parisienne head.

"I could have wished," she said, "that Monsieur Clifford might spare me

more time when he brings with him so charming an American."

"Must--must I go, Valentine?" began Clifford.

"Certainly," she replied.

Clifford took his leave with very bad grace, wincing, when she added, "And

give my dearest love to Cecile!" As he disappeared in the rue d'Assas, the

girl turned as if to go, but then suddenly remembering Hastings, looked at

him and shook her head.

"Monsieur Clifford is so perfectly harebrained," she smiled, "it is

embarrassing sometimes. You have heard, of course, all about his success

at the Salon?"

He looked puzzled and she noticed it.

"You have been to the Salon, of course?"

"Why, no," he answered, "I only arrived in Paris three days ago."

She seemed to pay little heed to his explanation, but continued: "Nobody

imagined he had the energy to do anything good, but on varnishing day the

Salon was astonished by the entrance of Monsieur Clifford, who strolled

about as bland as you please with an orchid in his buttonhole, and a

beautiful picture on the line."

She smiled to herself at the reminiscence, and looked at the fountain.

"Monsieur Bouguereau told me that Monsieur Julian was so astonished that

he only shook hands with Monsieur Clifford in a dazed manner, and actually

forgot to pat him on the back! Fancy," she continued with much merriment,

"fancy papa Julian forgetting to pat one on the back."

Hastings, wondering at her acquaintance with the great Bouguereau, looked

at her with respect. "May I ask," he said diffidently, "whether you are a

pupil of Bouguereau?"

"I?" she said in some surprise. Then she looked at him curiously. Was he

permitting himself the liberty of joking on such short acquaintance?

His pleasant serious face questioned hers.

"Tiens," she thought, "what a droll man!"

"You surely study art?" he said.

She leaned back on the crooked stick of her parasol, and looked at him.

"Why do you think so?"

"Because you speak as if you did."

"You are making fun of me," she said, "and it is not good taste."

She stopped, confused, as he coloured to the roots of his hair.

"How long have you been in Paris?" she said at length.

"Three days," he replied gravely.

"But--but--surely you are not a nouveau! You speak French too well!"

Then after a pause, "Really are you a nouveau?"

"I am," he said.

She sat down on the marble bench lately occupied by Clifford, and tilting

her parasol over her small head looked at him.

"I don't believe it."

He felt the compliment, and for a moment hesitated to declare himself one

of the despised. Then mustering up his courage, he told her how new and

green he was, and all with a frankness which made her blue eyes open very

wide and her lips part in the sweetest of smiles.

"You have never seen a studio?"

"Never."

"Nor a model?"

"No."

"How funny," she said solemnly. Then they both laughed.

"And you," he said, "have seen studios?"

"Hundreds."

"And models?"

"Millions."

"And you know Bouguereau?"

"Yes, and Henner, and Constant and Laurens, and Puvis de Chavannes and

Dagnan and Courtois, and--and all the rest of them!"

"And yet you say you are not an artist."

"Pardon," she said gravely, "did I say I was not?"

"Won't you tell me?" he hesitated.

At first she looked at him, shaking her head and smiling, then of a sudden

her eyes fell and she began tracing figures with her parasol in the gravel

at her feet. Hastings had taken a place on the seat, and now, with his

elbows on his knees, sat watching the spray drifting above the fountain

jet. A small boy, dressed as a sailor, stood poking his yacht and crying,

"I won't go home! I won't go home!" His nurse raised her hands to Heaven.

"Just like a little American boy," thought Hastings, and a pang of

homesickness shot through him.

Presently the nurse captured the boat, and the small boy stood at bay.

"Monsieur Rene, when you decide to come here you may have your boat."

The boy backed away scowling.

"Give me my boat, I say," he cried, "and don't call me Rene, for my

name's Randall and you know it!"

"Hello!" said Hastings,--"Randall?--that's English."

"I am American," announced the boy in perfectly good English, turning to

look at Hastings, "and she's such a fool she calls me Rene because mamma

calls me Ranny--"

Here he dodged the exasperated nurse and took up his station behind

Hastings, who laughed, and catching him around the waist lifted him into

his lap.

"One of my countrymen," he said to the girl beside him. He smiled while he

spoke, but there was a queer feeling in his throat.

"Don't you see the stars and stripes on my yacht?" demanded Randall. Sure

enough, the American colours hung limply under the nurse's arm.

"Oh," cried the girl, "he is charming," and impulsively stooped to kiss

him, but the infant Randall wriggled out of Hastings' arms, and his nurse

pounced upon him with an angry glance at the girl.

She reddened and then bit her lips as the nurse, with eyes still fixed on

her, dragged the child away and ostentatiously wiped his lips with her

handkerchief.

Then she stole a look at Hastings and bit her lip again.

"What an ill-tempered woman!" he said. "In America, most nurses are

flattered when people kiss their children."

For an instant she tipped the parasol to hide her face, then closed it

with a snap and looked at him defiantly.

"Do you think it strange that she objected?"

"Why not?" he said in surprise.

Again she looked at him with quick searching eyes.

His eyes were clear and bright, and he smiled back, repeating, "Why not?"

"You _are_ droll," she murmured, bending her head.

"Why?"

But she made no answer, and sat silent, tracing curves and circles in the

dust with her parasol. After a while he said--"I am glad to see that young

people have so much liberty here. I understood that the French were not at

all like us. You know in America--or at least where I live in Milbrook,

girls have every liberty,--go out alone and receive their friends alone,

and I was afraid I should miss it here. But I see how it is now, and I am

glad I was mistaken."

She raised her eyes to his and kept them there.

He continued pleasantly--"Since I have sat here I have seen a lot of

pretty girls walking alone on the terrace there,--and then _you_ are alone

too. Tell me, for I do not know French customs,--do you have the liberty

of going to the theatre without a chaperone?"

For a long time she studied his face, and then with a trembling smile

said, "Why do you ask me?"

"Because you must know, of course," he said gaily.

"Yes," she replied indifferently, "I know."

He waited for an answer, but getting none, decided that perhaps she had

misunderstood him.

"I hope you don't think I mean to presume on our short acquaintance," he

began,--"in fact it is very odd but I don't know your name. When Mr.

Clifford presented me he only mentioned mine. Is that the custom in

France?"

"It is the custom in the Latin Quarter," she said with a queer light in

her eyes. Then suddenly she began talking almost feverishly.

"You must know, Monsieur Hastings, that we are all _un peu sans gene_ here

in the Latin Quarter. We are very Bohemian, and etiquette and ceremony are

out of place. It was for that Monsieur Clifford presented you to me with

small ceremony, and left us together with less,--only for that, and I am

his friend, and I have many friends in the Latin Quarter, and we all know

each other very well--and I am not studying art, but--but--"

"But what?" he said, bewildered.

"I shall not tell you,--it is a secret," she said with an uncertain smile.

On both cheeks a pink spot was burning, and her eyes were very bright.

Then in a moment her face fell. "Do you know Monsieur Clifford very

intimately?"

"Not very."

After a while she turned to him, grave and a little pale.

"My name is Valentine--Valentine Tissot. Might--might I ask a service of

you on such very short acquaintance?"

"Oh," he cried, "I should be honoured."

"It is only this," she said gently, "it is not much. Promise me not to

speak to Monsieur Clifford about me. Promise me that you will speak to no

one about me."

"I promise," he said, greatly puzzled.

She laughed nervously. "I wish to remain a mystery. It is a caprice."

"But," he began, "I had wished, I had hoped that you might give Monsieur

Clifford permission to bring me, to present me at your house."

"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.

"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--"

"I don't," said Clifford, very red.

"You do, and it becomes you," she retorted with a faint smile. Then again,

very quietly, "I am in your power, but I know I am in the power of a

friend. I have come to acknowledge it to you here,--and it is because of

that that I am here to beg of you--a--a favour."

Clifford opened his eyes, but said nothing.

"I am in--great distress of mind. It is Monsieur Hastings."

"Well?" said Clifford, in some astonishment.

"I want to ask you," she continued in a low voice, "I want to ask you

to--to--in case you should speak of me before him,--not to say,--not to

say,--"

"I shall not speak of you to him," he said quietly.

"Can--can you prevent others?"

"I might if I was present. May I ask why?"

"That is not fair," she murmured; "you know how--how he considers me,--as

he considers every woman. You know how different he is from you and the

rest. I have never seen a man,--such a man as Monsieur Hastings."

He let his cigarette go out unnoticed.

"I am almost afraid of him--afraid he should know--what we all are in the

Quarter. Oh, I do not wish him to know! I do not wish him to--to turn from

me--to cease from speaking to me as he does! You--you and the rest cannot

know what it has been to me. I could not believe him,--I could not believe

he was so good and--and noble. I do not wish him to know--so soon. He will

find out--sooner or later, he will find out for himself, and then he will

turn away from me. Why!" she cried passionately, "why should he turn from

me and not from _you_?"

Clifford, much embarrassed, eyed his cigarette.

The girl rose, very white. "He is your friend--you have a right to warn

him."

"He is my friend," he said at length.

They looked at each other in silence.

Then she cried, "By all that I hold to me most sacred, you need not warn

him!"

"I shall trust your word," he said pleasantly.

The month passed quickly for Hastings, and left few definite impressions

after it. It did leave some, however. One was a painful impression of

meeting Mr. Bladen on the Boulevard des Capucines in company with a very

pronounced young person whose laugh dismayed him, and when at last he

escaped from the cafe where Mr. Bladen had hauled him to join them in a

_bock_ he felt as if the whole boulevard was looking at him, and judging

him by his company. Later, an instinctive conviction regarding the young

person with Mr. Bladen sent the hot blood into his cheek, and he returned

to the pension in such a miserable state of mind that Miss Byng was

alarmed and advised him to conquer his homesickness at once.

Another impression was equally vivid. One Saturday morning, feeling

lonely, his wanderings about the city brought him to the Gare St. Lazare.

It was early for breakfast, but he entered the Hotel Terminus and took a

table near the window. As he wheeled about to give his order, a man

passing rapidly along the aisle collided with his head, and looking up to

receive the expected apology, he was met instead by a slap on the shoulder

and a hearty, "What the deuce are you doing here, old chap?" It was

Rowden, who seized him and told him to come along. So, mildly protesting,

he was ushered into a private dining-room where Clifford, rather red,

jumped up from the table and welcomed him with a startled air which was

softened by the unaffected glee of Rowden and the extreme courtesy of

Elliott. The latter presented him to three bewitching girls who welcomed

him so charmingly and seconded Rowden in his demand that Hastings should

make one of the party, that he consented at once. While Elliott briefly

outlined the projected excursion to La Roche, Hastings delightedly ate his

omelet, and returned the smiles of encouragement from Cecile and Colette

and Jacqueline. Meantime Clifford in a bland whisper was telling Rowden

what an ass he was. Poor Rowden looked miserable until Elliott, divining

how affairs were turning, frowned on Clifford and found a moment to let

Rowden know that they were all going to make the best of it.

"You shut up," he observed to Clifford, "it's fate, and that settles it."

"It's Rowden, and that settles it," murmured Clifford, concealing a grin.

For after all he was not Hastings' wet nurse. So it came about that the

train which left the Gare St. Lazare at 9.15 a.m. stopped a moment in its

career towards Havre and deposited at the red-roofed station of La Roche a

merry party, armed with sunshades, trout-rods, and one cane, carried by

the non-combatant, Hastings. Then, when they had established their camp in

a grove of sycamores which bordered the little river Ept, Clifford, the

acknowledged master of all that pertained to sportsmanship, took command.

"You, Rowden," he said, "divide your flies with Elliott and keep an eye on

him or else he'll be trying to put on a float and sinker. Prevent him by

force from grubbing about for worms."

Elliott protested, but was forced to smile in the general laugh.

"You make me ill," he asserted; "do you think this is my first trout?"

"I shall be delighted to see your first trout," said Clifford, and dodging

a fly hook, hurled with intent to hit, proceeded to sort and equip three

slender rods destined to bring joy and fish to Cecil, Colette, and

Jacqueline. With perfect gravity he ornamented each line with four split

shot, a small hook, and a brilliant quill float.

"_I_ shall never touch the worms," announced Cecile with a shudder.

Jacqueline and Colette hastened to sustain her, and Hastings pleasantly

offered to act in the capacity of general baiter and taker-off of fish.

But Cecile, doubtless fascinated by the gaudy flies in Clifford's book,

decided to accept lessons from him in the true art, and presently

disappeared up the Ept with Clifford in tow.

Elliott looked doubtfully at Colette.

"I prefer gudgeons," said that damsel with decision, "and you and Monsieur

Rowden may go away when you please; may they not, Jacqueline?"

"Certainly," responded Jacqueline.

Elliott, undecided, examined his rod and reel.

"You've got your reel on wrong side up," observed Rowden.

Elliott wavered, and stole a glance at Colette.

"I--I--have almost decided to--er--not to flip the flies about just now,"

he began. "There's the pole that Cecile left--"

"Don't call it a pole," corrected Rowden.

"_Rod_, then," continued Elliott, and started off in the wake of the two

girls, but was promptly collared by Rowden.

"No, you don't! Fancy a man fishing with a float and sinker when he has a

fly rod in his hand! You come along!"

Where the placid little Ept flows down between its thickets to the Seine,

a grassy bank shadows the haunt of the gudgeon, and on this bank sat

Colette and Jacqueline and chattered and laughed and watched the swerving

of the scarlet quills, while Hastings, his hat over his eyes, his head on

a bank of moss, listened to their soft voices and gallantly unhooked the

small and indignant gudgeon when a flash of a rod and a half-suppressed

scream announced a catch. The sunlight filtered through the leafy thickets

awaking to song the forest birds. Magpies in spotless black and white

flirted past, alighting near by with a hop and bound and twitch of the

tail. Blue and white jays with rosy breasts shrieked through the trees,

and a low-sailing hawk wheeled among the fields of ripening wheat, putting

to flight flocks of twittering hedge birds.

Across the Seine a gull dropped on the water like a plume. The air was

pure and still. Scarcely a leaf moved. Sounds from a distant farm came

faintly, the shrill cock-crow and dull baying. Now and then a steam-tug

with big raking smoke-pipe, bearing the name "Guepe 27," ploughed up the

river dragging its interminable train of barges, or a sailboat dropped

down with the current toward sleepy Rouen.

A faint fresh odour of earth and water hung in the air, and through the

sunlight, orange-tipped butterflies danced above the marsh grass, soft

velvety butterflies flapped through the mossy woods.

Hastings was thinking of Valentine. It was two o'clock when Elliott

strolled back, and frankly admitting that he had eluded Rowden, sat down

beside Colette and prepared to doze with satisfaction.

"Where are your trout?" said Colette severely.

"They still live," murmured Elliott, and went fast asleep.

Rowden returned shortly after, and casting a scornful glance at the

slumbering one, displayed three crimson-flecked trout.

"And that," smiled Hastings lazily, "that is the holy end to which the

faithful plod,--the slaughter of these small fish with a bit of silk and

feather."

Rowden disdained to answer him. Colette caught another gudgeon and awoke

Elliott, who protested and gazed about for the lunch baskets, as Clifford

and Cecile came up demanding instant refreshment. Cecile's skirts were

soaked, and her gloves torn, but she was happy, and Clifford, dragging out

a two-pound trout, stood still to receive the applause of the company.

"Where the deuce did you get that?" demanded Elliott.

Cecile, wet and enthusiastic, recounted the battle, and then Clifford

eulogized her powers with the fly, and, in proof, produced from his creel

a defunct chub, which, he observed, just missed being a trout.

They were all very happy at luncheon, and Hastings was voted "charming."

He enjoyed it immensely,--only it seemed to him at moments that flirtation

went further in France than in Millbrook, Connecticut, and he thought that

Cecile might be a little less enthusiastic about Clifford, that perhaps it

would be quite as well if Jacqueline sat further away from Rowden, and

that possibly Colette could have, for a moment at least, taken her eyes

from Elliott's face. Still he enjoyed it--except when his thoughts drifted

to Valentine, and then he felt that he was very far away from her. La

Roche is at least an hour and a half from Paris. It is also true that he

felt a happiness, a quick heart-beat when, at eight o'clock that night the

train which bore them from La Roche rolled into the Gare St. Lazare and he

was once more in the city of Valentine.

"Good-night," they said, pressing around him. "You must come with us next

time!"

He promised, and watched them, two by two, drift into the darkening city,

and stood so long that, when again he raised his eyes, the vast Boulevard

was twinkling with gas-jets through which the electric lights stared like

moons.

It was with another quick heart-beat that he awoke next morning, for his

first thought was of Valentine.

The sun already gilded the towers of Notre Dame, the clatter of workmen's

sabots awoke sharp echoes in the street below, and across the way a

blackbird in a pink almond tree was going into an ecstasy of trills.

He determined to awake Clifford for a brisk walk in the country, hoping

later to beguile that gentleman into the American church for his soul's

sake. He found Alfred the gimlet-eyed washing the asphalt walk which led

to the studio.

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

pas_."

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

"Monsieur Clifford," said the concierge with fine irony, "will be pleased

to see you, as he retired early; in fact he has just come in."

Hastings hesitated while the concierge pronounced a fine eulogy on people

who never stayed out all night and then came battering at the lodge gate

during hours which even a gendarme held sacred to sleep. He also

discoursed eloquently upon the beauties of temperance, and took an

ostentatious 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 to

see Monsieur Clifford. He possibly needs aid. Me he drives forth with

hair-brushes and boots. It is a mercy if he has not set fire to something

with his candle."

Hastings hesitated for an instant, but swallowing his dislike of such a

mission, walked slowly through the ivy-covered alley and across the inner

garden 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 into

the 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, and

did not appear astonished to see Hastings.

"Good-morning, do you use Pears' soap?" he inquired with a vague wave of

his 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 a

shoe 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 which

feeds--feeds--er--sparrows an' that sort of thing watcheth over the

intemperate wanderer--"

"Where is Elliott?"

But Clifford only wagged his head and waved his arm about. "He's out

there,--somewhere about." Then suddenly feeling a desire to see his

missing 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 up

and rose with great precaution.

"Ole chap," he observed, "do you want to see er--er miracle? Well, here

goes. 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 his

balance, 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 would

have rung enthusiastic yells of applause from Elliott had he been there to

assist _en connaisseur_. But he was not. He had not yet reached the

studio. He was on his way, however, and smiled with magnificent

condescension on Hastings, who, half an hour later, found him reclining

upon a bench in the Luxembourg. He permitted himself to be aroused, dusted

and escorted to the gate. Here, however, he refused all further

assistance, and bestowing a patronizing bow upon Hastings, steered a

tolerably true course for the rue Vavin.

Hastings watched him out of sight, and then slowly retraced his steps

toward the fountain. At first he felt gloomy and depressed, but gradually

the clear air of the morning lifted the pressure from his heart, and he

sat 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-hued

breasts, flashing in and out of the spray or nestling almost to the neck

along the polished basin. The sparrows, too, were abroad in force, soaking

their dust-coloured feathers in the limpid pool and chirping with might

and main. Under the sycamores which surrounded the duck-pond opposite the

fountain of Marie de Medici, the water-fowl cropped the herbage, or

waddled in rows down the bank to embark on some solemn aimless cruise.

Butterflies, somewhat lame from a chilly night's repose under the lilac

leaves, crawled over and over the white phlox, or took a rheumatic flight

toward some sun-warmed shrub. The bees were already busy among the

heliotrope, and one or two grey flies with brick-coloured eyes sat in a

spot of sunlight beside the marble seat, or chased each other about, only

to return again to the spot of sunshine and rub their fore-legs, exulting.

The sentries paced briskly before the painted boxes, pausing at times to

look toward the guard-house for their relief.

They came at last, with a shuffle of feet and click of bayonets, the word

was 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 bell

of St. Sulpice echoed the stroke. Hastings sat dreaming in the shadow of

the god, and while he mused somebody came and sat down beside him. At

first he did not raise his head. It was only when she spoke that he sprang

up.

"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 seemed

to 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 time

they were mute, acknowledging by silence the happiness of being together.

And after all their silence was eloquent, for faint smiles, and glances

born of their thoughts, crossed and recrossed, until lips moved and words

were formed, which seemed almost superfluous. What they said was not very

profound. Perhaps the most valuable jewel that fell from Hastings' lips

bore direct reference to breakfast.

"I have not yet had my chocolate," she confessed, "but what a material man

you are."

"Valentine," he said impulsively, "I wish,--I do wish that you

would,--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 gone

she 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 blue

outside, and neat and clean as a whistle inside. The auburn-haired young

woman 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 a

basket full of crisp, fresh croissons.

The primrose-coloured pats of butter, each stamped with a shamrock in

relief, seemed saturated with the fragrance of Normandy pastures.

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

coincidence.

"With but a single thought," he began.

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

croisson."

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

Then they had a quarrel; she accusing him of behaviour unworthy of a child

in arms, and he denying it, and bringing counter charges, until

Mademoiselle Murphy laughed in sympathy, and the last croisson was eaten

under a flag of truce. Then they rose, and she took his arm with a bright

nod 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 noisy

thoroughfare, drew up before the Gare Montparnasse. They were just in time

for a train and scampered up the stairway and out to the cars as the last

note from the starting-gong rang through the arched station. The guard

slammed the door of their compartment, a whistle sounded, answered by a

screech from the locomotive, and the long train glided from the station,

faster, faster, and sped out into the morning sunshine. The summer wind

blew in their faces from the open window, and sent the soft hair dancing

on the girl's forehead.

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

She leaned against the cushioned window-seat, her eyes bright and wide

open, her lips parted. The wind lifted her hat, and fluttered the ribbons

under her chin. With a quick movement she untied them, and, drawing a long

hat-pin from her hat, laid it down on the seat beside her. The train was

flying.

The colour surged in her cheeks, and, with each quick-drawn breath, her

breath 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, but

fled before them as they fled.

Was it the horizon, cut now by the grim fortress on the hill, now by the

cross of a country chapel? Was it the summer moon, ghost-like, slipping

through 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 emerald

torrent. He caught the excitement, and his faced glowed.

"Oh," she cried, and with an unconscious movement caught his hand, drawing

him 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 in

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

Below, through the ties of the trestle, a broad river flashed into view

and out again, as the train thundered along a tunnel, and away once more

through the freshest of green fields. The wind roared about them. The girl

was 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 of

the 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 about

her. Then she raised her eyes to his. The car shook and the windows

rattled. They were dashing through a forest now, and the sun swept the

dewy branches with running flashes of fire. He looked into her troubled

eyes; he drew her to him and kissed the half-parted lips, and she cried

out, a bitter, hopeless cry, "Not that--not that!"

But he held her close and strong, whispering words of honest love and

passion, and when she sobbed--"Not that--not that--I have promised! You

must--you must know--I am--not--worthy--" In the purity of his own heart

her words were, to him, meaningless then, meaningless for ever after.

Presently her voice ceased, and her head rested on his breast. He leaned

against the window, his ears swept by the furious wind, his heart in a

joyous tumult. The forest was passed, and the sun slipped from behind the

trees, flooding the earth again with brightness. She raised her eyes and

looked out into the world from the window. Then she began to speak, but

her voice was faint, and he bent his head close to hers and listened. "I

cannot turn from you; I am too weak. You were long ago my master--master

of my heart and soul. I have broken my word to one who trusted me, but I

have told you all;--what matters the rest?" He smiled at her innocence and

she worshipped his. She spoke again: "Take me or cast me away;--what

matters it? Now with a word you can kill me, and it might be easier to die

than to look upon happiness as great as mine."

He took her in his arms, "Hush, what are you saying? Look,--look out at

the sunlight, the meadows and the streams. We shall be very happy in so

bright a world."

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

fair to her.

Trembling with happiness, she sighed: "Is this the world? Then I have

never known it"

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

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

RUE BARREE

"For let Philosopher and Doctor preach

Of what they will and what they will not,--each

Is but one link in an eternal chain

That none can slip nor break nor over-reach."

"Crimson nor yellow roses nor

The savour of the mounting sea

Are worth the perfume I adore

That clings to thee.

The languid-headed lilies tire,

The changeless waters weary me;

I ache with passionate desire

Of thine and thee.

There are but these things in the world--

Thy mouth of fire,

Thy breasts, thy hands, thy hair upcurled

And my desire."

One morning at Julian's, a student said to Selby, "That is Foxhall

Clifford," pointing with his brushes at a young man who sat before an

easel, doing nothing.

Selby, shy and nervous, walked over and began: "My name is Selby,--I have

just arrived in Paris, and bring a letter of introduction--" His voice was

lost in the crash of a falling easel, the owner of which promptly

assaulted his neighbour, and for a time the noise of battle rolled through

the studios of MM. Boulanger and Lefebvre, presently subsiding into a

scuffle on the stairs outside. Selby, apprehensive as to his own reception

in the studio, looked at Clifford, who sat serenely watching the fight.

"It's a little noisy here," said Clifford, "but you will like the fellows

when you know them." His unaffected manner delighted Selby. Then with a

simplicity that won his heart, he presented him to half a dozen students

of as many nationalities. Some were cordial, all were polite. Even the

majestic creature who held the position of Massier, unbent enough to say:

"My friend, when a man speaks French as well as you do, and is also a

friend of Monsieur Clifford, he will have no trouble in this studio. You

expect, of course, to fill the stove until the next new man comes?"

"Of course."

"And you don't mind chaff?"

"No," replied Selby, who hated it.

Clifford, much amused, put on his hat, saying, "You must expect lots of it

at first."

Selby placed his own hat on his head and followed him to the door.

As they passed the model stand there was a furious cry of "Chapeau!

Chapeau!" and a student sprang from his easel menacing Selby, who reddened

but looked at Clifford.

"Take off your hat for them," said the latter, laughing.

A little embarrassed, he turned and saluted the studio.

"Et moi?" cried the model.

"You are charming," replied Selby, astonished at his own audacity, but the

studio rose as one man, shouting: "He has done well! he's all right!"

while the model, laughing, kissed her hand to him and cried: "A demain

beau jeune homme!"

All that week Selby worked at the studio unmolested. The French students

christened him "l'Enfant Prodigue," which was freely translated, "The

Prodigious Infant," "The Kid," "Kid Selby," and "Kidby." But the disease

soon ran its course from "Kidby" to "Kidney," and then naturally to

"Tidbits," where it was arrested by Clifford's authority and ultimately

relapsed to "Kid."

Wednesday came, and with it M. Boulanger. For three hours the students

writhed under his biting sarcasms,--among the others Clifford, who was

informed that he knew even less about a work of art than he did about the

art of work. Selby was more fortunate. The professor examined his drawing

in silence, looked at him sharply, and passed on with a non-committal

gesture. He presently departed arm in arm with Bouguereau, to the relief

of Clifford, who was then at liberty to jam his hat on his head and

depart.

The next day he did not appear, and Selby, who had counted on seeing him

at the studio, a thing which he learned later it was vanity to count on,

wandered back to the Latin Quarter alone.

Paris was still strange and new to him. He was vaguely troubled by its

splendour. No tender memories stirred his American bosom at the Place du

Chatelet, nor even by Notre Dame. The Palais de Justice with its clock and

turrets and stalking sentinels in blue and vermilion, the Place St. Michel

with its jumble of omnibuses and ugly water-spitting griffins, the hill of

the Boulevard St. Michel, the tooting trams, the policemen dawdling two by

two, and the table-lined terraces of the Cafe Vacehett were nothing to

him, as yet, nor did he even know, when he stepped from the stones of the

Place St. Michel to the asphalt of the Boulevard, that he had crossed the

frontier and entered the student zone,--the famous Latin Quarter.

A cabman hailed him as "bourgeois," and urged the superiority of driving

over walking. A gamin, with an appearance of great concern, requested the

latest telegraphic news from London, and then, standing on his head,

invited Selby to feats of strength. A pretty girl gave him a glance from a

pair of violet eyes. He did not see her, but she, catching her own

reflection in a window, wondered at the colour burning in her cheeks.

Turning to resume her course, she met Foxhall Clifford, and hurried on.

Clifford, open-mouthed, followed her with his eyes; then he looked after

Selby, who had turned into the Boulevard St. Germain toward the rue de

Seine. Then he examined himself in the shop window. The result seemed to

be unsatisfactory.

"I'm not a beauty," he mused, "but neither am I a hobgoblin. What does she

mean by blushing at Selby? I never before saw her look at a fellow in my

life,--neither has any one in the Quarter. Anyway, I can swear she never

looks at me, and goodness knows I have done all that respectful adoration

can do."

He sighed, and murmuring a prophecy concerning the salvation of his

immortal soul swung into that graceful lounge which at all times

characterized Clifford. With no apparent exertion, he overtook Selby at

the corner, and together they crossed the sunlit Boulevard and sat down

under the awning of the Cafe du Cercle. Clifford bowed to everybody on the

terrace, saying, "You shall meet them all later, but now let me present

you to two of the sights of Paris, Mr. Richard Elliott and Mr. Stanley

Rowden."

The "sights" looked amiable, and took vermouth.

"You cut the studio to-day," said Elliott, suddenly turning on Clifford,

who avoided his eyes.

"To commune with nature?" observed Rowden.

"What's her name this time?" asked Elliott, and Rowden answered promptly,

"Name, Yvette; nationality, Breton--"

"Wrong," replied Clifford blandly, "it's Rue Barree."

The subject changed instantly, and Selby listened in surprise to names

which were new to him, and eulogies on the latest Prix de Rome winner. He

was delighted to hear opinions boldly expressed and points honestly

debated, although the vehicle was mostly slang, both English and French.

He longed for the time when he too should be plunged into the strife for

fame.

The bells of St. Sulpice struck the hour, and the Palace of the Luxembourg

answered chime on chime. With a glance at the sun, dipping low in the

golden dust behind the Palais Bourbon, they rose, and turning to the east,

crossed the Boulevard St. Germain and sauntered toward the Ecole de

Medecine. At the corner a girl passed them, walking hurriedly. Clifford

smirked, Elliot and Rowden were agitated, but they all bowed, and, without

raising her eyes, she returned their salute. But Selby, who had lagged

behind, fascinated by some gay shop window, looked up to meet two of the

bluest eyes he had ever seen. The eyes were dropped in an instant, and the

young fellow hastened to overtake the others.

"By Jove," he said, "do you fellows know I have just seen the prettiest

girl--" An exclamation broke from the trio, gloomy, foreboding, like the

chorus in a Greek play.

"Rue Barree!"

"What!" cried Selby, bewildered.

The only answer was a vague gesture from Clifford.

Two hours later, during dinner, Clifford turned to Selby and said, "You

want to ask me something; I can tell by the way you fidget about."

"Yes, I do," he said, innocently enough; "it's about that girl. Who is

she?"

In Rowden's smile there was pity, in Elliott's bitterness.

"Her name," said Clifford solemnly, "is unknown to any one, at least," he

added with much conscientiousness, "as far as I can learn. Every fellow in

the Quarter bows to her and she returns the salute gravely, but no man has

ever been known to obtain more than that. Her profession, judging from her

music-roll, is that of a pianist. Her residence is in a small and humble

street which is kept in a perpetual process of repair by the city

authorities, and from the black letters painted on the barrier which

defends the street from traffic, she has taken the name by which we know

her,--Rue Barree. Mr. Rowden, in his imperfect knowledge of the French

tongue, called our attention to it as Roo Barry--"

"I didn't," said Rowden hotly.

"And Roo Barry, or Rue Barree, is to-day an object of adoration to every

rapin in the Quarter--"

"We are not rapins," corrected Elliott.

"_I_ am not," returned Clifford, "and I beg to call to your attention,

Selby, that these two gentlemen have at various and apparently unfortunate

moments, offered to lay down life and limb at the feet of Rue Barree. The

lady possesses a chilling smile which she uses on such occasions and,"

here he became gloomily impressive, "I have been forced to believe that

neither the scholarly grace of my friend Elliott nor the buxom beauty of

my friend Rowden have touched that heart of ice."

Elliott and Rowden, boiling with indignation, cried out, "And you!"

"I," said Clifford blandly, "do fear to tread where you rush in."

Twenty-four hours later Selby had completely forgotten Rue Barree. During

the week he worked with might and main at the studio, and Saturday night

found him so tired that he went to bed before dinner and had a nightmare

about a river of yellow ochre in which he was drowning. Sunday morning,

apropos of nothing at all, he thought of Rue Barree, and ten seconds

afterwards he saw her. It was at the flower-market on the marble bridge.

She was examining a pot of pansies. The gardener had evidently thrown

heart and soul into the transaction, but Rue Barree shook her head.

It is a question whether Selby would have stopped then and there to

inspect a cabbage-rose had not Clifford unwound for him the yarn of the

previous Tuesday. It is possible that his curiosity was piqued, for with

the exception of a hen-turkey, a boy of nineteen is the most openly

curious 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. Under

a cloudless sky the flowers were packed and heaped along the marble bridge

to the parapet. The air was soft, the sun spun a shadowy lacework among

the palms and glowed in the hearts of a thousand roses. Spring had

come,--was in full tide. The watering carts and sprinklers spread

freshness over the Boulevard, the sparrows had become vulgarly obtrusive,

and the credulous Seine angler anxiously followed his gaudy quill floating

among the soapsuds of the lavoirs. The white-spiked chestnuts clad in

tender green vibrated with the hum of bees. Shoddy butterflies flaunted

their winter rags among the heliotrope. There was a smell of fresh earth

in the air, an echo of the woodland brook in the ripple of the Seine, and

swallows soared and skimmed among the anchored river craft. Somewhere in a

window a caged bird was singing its heart out to the sky.

Selby looked at the cabbage-rose and then at the sky. Something in the

song of the caged bird may have moved him, or perhaps it was that

dangerous sweetness in the air of May.

At first he was hardly conscious that he had stopped then he was scarcely

conscious why he had stopped, then he thought he would move on, then he

thought he wouldn't, then he looked at Rue Barree.

The gardener said, "Mademoiselle, this is undoubtedly a fine pot of

pansies."

Rue Barree shook her head.

The gardener smiled. She evidently did not want the pansies. She had

bought many pots of pansies there, two or three every spring, and never

argued. What did she want then? The pansies were evidently a feeler toward

a more important transaction. The gardener rubbed his hands and gazed

about him.

"These tulips are magnificent," he observed, "and these hyacinths--" He

fell into a trance at the mere sight of the scented thickets.

"That," murmured Rue, pointing to a splendid rose-bush with her furled

parasol, but in spite of her, her voice trembled a little. Selby noticed

it, 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 him

justice, he did not add a centime to the honest value of the plant, for

after 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 his

prize,--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 worn

purse. Then she looked up. A tear-drop stood in the way refracting the

light like a diamond, but as it rolled into a little corner by her nose a

vision of Selby replaced it, and when a brush of the handkerchief had

cleared the startled blue eyes, Selby himself appeared, very much

embarrassed. He instantly looked up into the sky, apparently devoured with

a thirst for astronomical research, and as he continued his investigations

for fully five minutes, the gardener looked up too, and so did a

policeman. Then Selby looked at the tips of his boots, the gardener looked

at 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 gardener

was electrified. Never before had he sold so many flowers, never at such

satisfying prices, and never, never with such absolute unanimity of

opinion with a customer. But he missed the bargaining, the arguing, the

calling 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 most

Englishmen."

"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 sudden

cool self-possession took the place of his momentary confusion and he held

the 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 the

gardener--"don't you dare say from whom they came." The gardener's eyes

were like saucers, but Selby, calm and victorious, said: "Send the others

to the Hotel du Senat, 7 rue de Tournon. I will leave directions with the

concierge."

Then he buttoned his glove with much dignity and stalked off, but when

well around the corner and hidden from the gardener's view, the conviction

that he was an idiot came home to him in a furious blush. Ten minutes

later he sat in his room in the Hotel du Senat repeating with an imbecile

smile: "What an ass I am, what an ass!"

An hour later found him in the same chair, in the same position, his hat

and gloves still on, his stick in his hand, but he was silent, apparently

lost in contemplation of his boot toes, and his smile was less imbecile

and even a bit retrospective.

III

About five o'clock that afternoon, the little sad-eyed woman who fills the

position of concierge at the Hotel du Senat held up her hands in amazement

to see a wagon-load of flower-bearing shrubs draw up before the doorway.

She called Joseph, the intemperate garcon, who, while calculating the

value of the flowers in _petits verres_, gloomily disclaimed any knowledge

as to their destination.

"_Voyons_," said the little concierge, "_cherchons la femme_!"

"You?" he suggested.

The little woman stood a moment pensive and then sighed. Joseph caressed

his nose, a nose which for gaudiness could vie with any floral display.

Then the gardener came in, hat in hand, and a few minutes later Selby

stood in the middle of his room, his coat off, his shirt-sleeves rolled

up. The chamber originally contained, besides the furniture, about two

square feet of walking room, and now this was occupied by a cactus. The

bed groaned under crates of pansies, lilies and heliotrope, the lounge was

covered with hyacinths and tulips, and the washstand supported a species

of young tree warranted to bear flowers at some time or other.

Clifford came in a little later, fell over a box of sweet peas, swore a

little, apologized, and then, as the full splendour of the floral _fete_

burst upon him, sat down in astonishment upon a geranium. The geranium was

a wreck, but Selby said, "Don't mind," and glared at the cactus.

"Are you going to give a ball?" demanded Clifford.

"N--no,--I'm very fond of flowers," said Selby, but the statement lacked

enthusiasm.

"I should imagine so." Then, after a silence, "That's a fine cactus."

Selby contemplated the cactus, touched it with the air of a connoisseur,

and pricked his thumb.

Clifford poked a pansy with his stick. Then Joseph came in with the bill,

announcing the sum total in a loud voice, partly to impress Clifford,

partly to intimidate Selby into disgorging a _pourboire_ which he would

share, if he chose, with the gardener. Clifford tried to pretend that he

had not heard, while Selby paid bill and tribute without a murmur. Then he

lounged back into the room with an attempt at indifference which failed

entirely when he tore his trousers on the cactus.

Clifford made some commonplace remark, lighted a cigarette and looked out

of the window to give Selby a chance. Selby tried to take it, but getting

as far as--"Yes, spring is here at last," froze solid. He looked at the

back of Clifford's head. It expressed volumes. Those little perked-up ears

seemed tingling with suppressed glee. He made a desperate effort to master

the situation, and jumped up to reach for some Russian cigarettes as an

incentive to conversation, but was foiled by the cactus, to whom again he

fell a prey. The last straw was added.

"Damn the cactus." This observation was wrung from Selby against his

will,--against his own instinct of self-preservation, but the thorns on

the cactus were long and sharp, and at their repeated prick his pent-up

wrath escaped. It was too late now; it was done, and Clifford had wheeled

around.

"See here, Selby, why the deuce did you buy those flowers?"

"I'm fond of them," said Selby.

"What are you going to do with them? You can't sleep here."

"I could, if you'd help me take the pansies off the bed."

"Where can you put them?"

"Couldn't I give them to the concierge?"

As soon as he said it he regretted it. What in Heaven's name would

Clifford think of him! He had heard the amount of the bill. Would he

believe that he had invested in these luxuries as a timid declaration to

his concierge? And would the Latin Quarter comment upon it in their own

brutal fashion? He dreaded ridicule and he knew Clifford's reputation.

Then somebody knocked.

Selby looked at Clifford with a hunted expression which touched that young

man's heart. It was a confession and at the same time a supplication.

Clifford jumped up, threaded his way through the floral labyrinth, and

putting an eye to the crack of the door, said, "Who the devil is it?"

This graceful style of reception is indigenous to the Quarter.

"It's Elliott," he said, looking back, "and Rowden too, and their

bulldogs." Then he addressed them through the crack.

"Sit down on the stairs; Selby and I are coming out directly."

Discretion is a virtue. The Latin Quarter possesses few, and discretion

seldom figures on the list. They sat down and began to whistle.

Presently Rowden called out, "I smell flowers. They feast within!"

"You ought to know Selby better than that," growled Clifford behind the

door, while the other hurriedly exchanged his torn trousers for others.

"_We_ know Selby," said Elliott with emphasis.

"Yes," said Rowden, "he gives receptions with floral decorations and

invites Clifford, while we sit on the stairs."

"Yes, while the youth and beauty of the Quarter revel," suggested Rowden;

then, with sudden misgiving; "Is Odette there?"

"See here," demanded Elliott, "is Colette there?"

Then he raised his voice in a plaintive howl, "Are you there, Colette,

while I'm kicking my heels on these tiles?"

"Clifford is capable of anything," said Rowden; "his nature is soured

since Rue Barree sat on him."

Elliott raised his voice: "I say, you fellows, we saw some flowers carried

into Rue Barree's house at noon."

"Posies and roses," specified Rowden.

"Probably for her," added Elliott, caressing his bulldog.

Clifford turned with sudden suspicion upon Selby. The latter hummed a

tune, selected a pair of gloves and, choosing a dozen cigarettes, placed

them in a case. Then walking over to the cactus, he deliberately detached

a blossom, drew it through his buttonhole, and picking up hat and stick,

smiled upon Clifford, at which the latter was mightily troubled.

Monday morning at Julian's, students fought for places; students with

prior claims drove away others who had been anxiously squatting on coveted

tabourets since the door was opened in hopes of appropriating them at

roll-call; students squabbled over palettes, brushes, portfolios, or rent

the air with demands for Ciceri and bread. The former, a dirty ex-model,

who had in palmier days posed as Judas, now dispensed stale bread at one

sou and made enough to keep himself in cigarettes. Monsieur Julian walked

in, smiled a fatherly smile and walked out. His disappearance was followed

by the apparition of the clerk, a foxy creature who flitted through the

battling hordes in search of prey.

Three men who had not paid dues were caught and summoned. A fourth was

scented, followed, outflanked, his retreat towards the door cut off, and

finally captured behind the stove. About that time, the revolution

assuming an acute form, howls rose for "Jules!"

Jules came, umpired two fights with a sad resignation in his big brown

eyes, shook hands with everybody and melted away in the throng, leaving an

atmosphere of peace and good-will. The lions sat down with the lambs, the

massiers marked the best places for themselves and friends, and, mounting

the model stands, opened the roll-calls.

The word was passed, "They begin with C this week."

They did.

"Clisson!"

Clisson jumped like a flash and marked his name on the floor in chalk

before a front seat.

"Caron!"

Caron galloped away to secure his place. Bang! went an easel. "_Nom de

Dieu_!" in French,--"Where in h--l are you goin'!" in English. Crash! a

paintbox fell with brushes and all on board. "_Dieu de Dieu de_--" spat! A

blow, a short rush, a clinch and scuffle, and the voice of the massier,

stern and reproachful:

"Cochon!"

Then the roll-call was resumed.

"Clifford!"

The massier paused and looked up, one finger between the leaves of the

ledger.

"Clifford!"

Clifford was not there. He was about three miles away in a direct line and

every instant increased the distance. Not that he was walking fast,--on

the contrary, he was strolling with that leisurely gait peculiar to

himself. Elliott was beside him and two bulldogs covered the rear. Elliott

was reading the "Gil Blas," from which he seemed to extract amusement, but

deeming boisterous mirth unsuitable to Clifford's state of mind, subdued

his amusement to a series of discreet smiles. The latter, moodily aware of

this, said nothing, but leading the way into the Luxembourg Gardens

installed himself upon a bench by the northern terrace and surveyed the

landscape with disfavour. Elliott, according to the Luxembourg

regulations, tied the two dogs and then, with an interrogative glance

toward his friend, resumed the "Gil Blas" and the discreet smiles.

The day was perfect. The sun hung over Notre Dame, setting the city in a

glitter. The tender foliage of the chestnuts cast a shadow over the

terrace and flecked the paths and walks with tracery so blue that Clifford

might here have found encouragement for his violent "impressions" had he

but looked; but as usual in this period of his career, his thoughts were

anywhere except in his profession. Around about, the sparrows quarrelled

and chattered their courtship songs, the big rosy pigeons sailed from tree

to tree, the flies whirled in the sunbeams and the flowers exhaled a

thousand perfumes which stirred Clifford with languorous wistfulness.

Under this influence he spoke.

"Elliott, you are a true friend--"

"You make me ill," replied the latter, folding his paper. "It's just as I

thought,--you are tagging after some new petticoat again. And," he

continued wrathfully, "if this is what you've kept me away from Julian's

for,--if it's to fill me up with the perfections of some little idiot--"

"Not idiot," remonstrated Clifford gently.

"See here," cried Elliott, "have you the nerve to try to tell me that you

are in love again?"

"Again?"

"Yes, again and again and again and--by George have you?"

"This," observed Clifford sadly, "is serious."

For a moment Elliott would have laid hands on him, then he laughed from

sheer helplessness. "Oh, go on, go on; let's see, there's Clemence and

Marie Tellec and Cosette and Fifine, Colette, Marie Verdier--"

"All of whom are charming, most charming, but I never was serious--"

"So help me, Moses," said Elliott, solemnly, "each and every one of those

named have separately and in turn torn your heart with anguish and have

also made me lose my place at Julian's in this same manner; each and every

one, separately and in turn. Do you deny it?"

"What you say may be founded on facts--in a way--but give me the credit of

being faithful to one at a time--"

"Until the next came along."

"But this,--this is really very different. Elliott, believe me, I am all

broken up."

Then there being nothing else to do, Elliott gnashed his teeth and

listened.

"It's--it's Rue Barree."

"Well," observed Elliott, with scorn, "if you are moping and moaning over

_that_ girl,--the girl who has given you and myself every reason to wish

that the ground would open and engulf us,--well, go on!"

"I'm going on,--I don't care; timidity has fled--"

"Yes, your native timidity."

"I'm desperate, Elliott. Am I in love? Never, never did I feel so d--n

miserable. I can't sleep; honestly, I'm incapable of eating properly."

"Same symptoms noticed in the case of Colette."

"Listen, will you?"

"Hold on a moment, I know the rest by heart. Now let me ask you something.

Is it your belief that Rue Barree is a pure girl?"

"Yes," said Clifford, turning red.

"Do you love her,--not as you dangle and tiptoe after every pretty

inanity--I mean, do you honestly love her?"

"Yes," said the other doggedly, "I would--"

"Hold on a moment; would you marry her?"

Clifford turned scarlet. "Yes," he muttered.

"Pleasant news for your family," growled Elliott in suppressed fury.

"'Dear father, I have just married a charming grisette whom I'm sure

you'll welcome with open arms, in company with her mother, a most

estimable and cleanly washlady.' Good heavens! This seems to have gone a

little further than the rest. Thank your stars, young man, that my head is

level enough for us both. Still, in this case, I have no fear. Rue Barree

sat on your aspirations in a manner unmistakably final."

"Rue Barree," began Clifford, drawing himself up, but he suddenly ceased,

for there where the dappled sunlight glowed in spots of gold, along the

sun-flecked path, tripped Rue Barree. Her gown was spotless, and her big

straw hat, tipped a little from the white forehead, threw a shadow across

her eyes.

Elliott stood up and bowed. Clifford removed his head-covering with an air

so plaintive, so appealing, so utterly humble that Rue Barree smiled.

The smile was delicious and when Clifford, incapable of sustaining himself

on his legs from sheer astonishment, toppled slightly, she smiled again in

spite of herself. A few moments later she took a chair on the terrace and

drawing a book from her music-roll, turned the pages, found the place, and

then placing it open downwards in her lap, sighed a little, smiled a

little, and looked out over the city. She had entirely forgotten Foxhall

Clifford.

After a while she took up her book again, but instead of reading began to

adjust a rose in her corsage. The rose was big and red. It glowed like

fire there over her heart, and like fire it warmed her heart, now

fluttering under the silken petals. Rue Barree sighed again. She was very

happy. The sky was so blue, the air so soft and perfumed, the sunshine so

caressing, and her heart sang within her, sang to the rose in her breast.

This is what it sang: "Out of the throng of passers-by, out of the world

of yesterday, out of the millions passing, one has turned aside to me."

So her heart sang under his rose on her breast. Then two big

mouse-coloured pigeons came whistling by and alighted on the terrace,

where they bowed and strutted and bobbed and turned until Rue Barree

laughed in delight, and looking up beheld Clifford before her. His hat was

in his hand and his face was wreathed in a series of appealing smiles

which would have touched the heart of a Bengal tiger.

For an instant Rue Barree frowned, then she looked curiously at Clifford,

then when she saw the resemblance between his bows and the bobbing

pigeons, in spite of herself, her lips parted in the most bewitching

laugh. Was this Rue Barree? So changed, so changed that she did not know

herself; but oh! that song in her heart which drowned all else, which

trembled on her lips, struggling for utterance, which rippled forth in a

laugh at nothing,--at a strutting pigeon,--and Mr. Clifford.

"And you think, because I return the salute of the students in the

Quarter, that you may be received in particular as a friend? I do not know

you, Monsieur, but vanity is man's other name;--be content, Monsieur

Vanity, I shall be punctilious--oh, most punctilious in returning your

salute."

"But I beg--I implore you to let me render you that homage which has so

long--"

"Oh dear; I don't care for homage."

"Let me only be permitted to speak to you now and then,--occasionally--very

occasionally."

"And if _you_, why not another?"

"Not at all,--I will be discretion itself."

"Discretion--why?"

Her eyes were very clear, and Clifford winced for a moment, but only for a

moment. Then the devil of recklessness seizing him, he sat down and

offered himself, soul and body, goods and chattels. And all the time he

knew he was a fool and that infatuation is not love, and that each word he

uttered bound him in honour from which there was no escape. And all the

time Elliott was scowling down on the fountain plaza and savagely checking

both bulldogs from their desire to rush to Clifford's rescue,--for even

they felt there was something wrong, as Elliott stormed within himself and

growled maledictions.

When Clifford finished, he finished in a glow of excitement, but Rue

Barree's response was long in coming and his ardour cooled while the

situation slowly assumed its just proportions. Then regret began to creep

in, but he put that aside and broke out again in protestations. At the

first word Rue Barree checked him.

"I thank you," she said, speaking very gravely. "No man has ever before

offered me marriage." She turned and looked out over the city. After a

while she spoke again. "You offer me a great deal. I am alone, I have

nothing, I am nothing." She turned again and looked at Paris, brilliant,

fair, in the sunshine of a perfect day. He followed her eyes.

"Oh," she murmured, "it is hard,--hard to work always--always alone with

never a friend you can have in honour, and the love that is offered means

the streets, the boulevard--when passion is dead. I know it,--_we_ know

it,--we others who have nothing,--have no one, and who give ourselves,

unquestioning--when we love,--yes, unquestioning--heart and soul, knowing

the end."

She touched the rose at her breast. For a moment she seemed to forget him,

then quietly--"I thank you, I am very grateful." She opened the book and,

plucking a petal from the rose, dropped it between the leaves. Then

looking up she said gently, "I cannot accept."

It took Clifford a month to entirely recover, although at the end of the

first week he was pronounced convalescent by Elliott, who was an

authority, and his convalescence was aided by the cordiality with which

Rue Barree acknowledged his solemn salutes. Forty times a day he blessed

Rue Barree for her refusal, and thanked his lucky stars, and at the same

time, oh, wondrous heart of ours!--he suffered the tortures of the

blighted.

Elliott was annoyed, partly by Clifford's reticence, partly by the

unexplainable thaw in the frigidity of Rue Barree. At their frequent

encounters, when she, tripping along the rue de Seine, with music-roll and

big straw hat would pass Clifford and his familiars steering an easterly

course to the Cafe Vachette, and at the respectful uncovering of the band

would colour and smile at Clifford, Elliott's slumbering suspicions awoke.

But he never found out anything, and finally gave it up as beyond his

comprehension, merely qualifying Clifford as an idiot and reserving his

opinion of Rue Barree. And all this time Selby was jealous. At first he

refused to acknowledge it to himself, and cut the studio for a day in the

country, but the woods and fields of course aggravated his case, and the

brooks babbled of Rue Barree and the mowers calling to each other across

the meadow ended in a quavering "Rue Bar-ree-e!" That day spent in the

country made him angry for a week, and he worked sulkily at Julian's, all

the time tormented by a desire to know where Clifford was and what he

might be doing. This culminated in an erratic stroll on Sunday which ended

at the flower-market on the Pont au Change, began again, was gloomily

extended to the morgue, and again ended at the marble bridge. It would

never do, and Selby felt it, so he went to see Clifford, who was

convalescing on mint juleps in his garden.

They sat down together and discussed morals and human happiness, and each

found the other most entertaining, only Selby failed to pump Clifford, to

the other's unfeigned amusement. But the juleps spread balm on the sting

of jealousy, and trickled hope to the blighted, and when Selby said he

must go, Clifford went too, and when Selby, not to be outdone, insisted on

accompanying Clifford back to his door, Clifford determined to see Selby

back half way, and then finding it hard to part, they decided to dine

together and "flit." To flit, a verb applied to Clifford's nocturnal

prowls, expressed, perhaps, as well as anything, the gaiety proposed.

Dinner was ordered at Mignon's, and while Selby interviewed the chef,

Clifford kept a fatherly eye on the butler. The dinner was a success, or

was of the sort generally termed a success. Toward the dessert Selby heard

some one say as at a great distance, "Kid Selby, drunk as a lord."

A group of men passed near them; it seemed to him that he shook hands and

laughed a great deal, and that everybody was very witty. There was

Clifford opposite swearing undying confidence in his chum Selby, and there

seemed to be others there, either seated beside them or continually

passing with the swish of skirts on the polished floor. The perfume of

roses, the rustle of fans, the touch of rounded arms and the laughter grew

vaguer and vaguer. The room seemed enveloped in mist. Then, all in a

moment each object stood out painfully distinct, only forms and visages

were distorted and voices piercing. He drew himself up, calm, grave, for

the moment master of himself, but very drunk. He knew he was drunk, and

was as guarded and alert, as keenly suspicious of himself as he would have

been of a thief at his elbow. His self-command enabled Clifford to hold

his head safely under some running water, and repair to the street

considerably the worse for wear, but never suspecting that his companion

was drunk. For a time he kept his self-command. His face was only a bit

paler, a bit tighter than usual; he was only a trifle slower and more

fastidious in his speech. It was midnight when he left Clifford peacefully

slumbering in somebody's arm-chair, with a long suede glove dangling in

his hand and a plumy boa twisted about his neck to protect his throat from

drafts. He walked through the hall and down the stairs, and found himself

on the sidewalk in a quarter he did not know. Mechanically he looked up at

the name of the street. The name was not familiar. He turned and steered

his course toward some lights clustered at the end of the street. They

proved farther away than he had anticipated, and after a long quest he

came to the conclusion that his eyes had been mysteriously removed from

their proper places and had been reset on either side of his head like

those of a bird. It grieved him to think of the inconvenience this

transformation might occasion him, and he attempted to cock up his head,

hen-like, to test the mobility of his neck. Then an immense despair stole

over him,--tears gathered in the tear-ducts, his heart melted, and he

collided with a tree. This shocked him into comprehension; he stifled the

violent tenderness in his breast, picked up his hat and moved on more

briskly. His mouth was white and drawn, his teeth tightly clinched. He

held his course pretty well and strayed but little, and after an

apparently interminable length of time found himself passing a line of

cabs. The brilliant lamps, red, yellow, and green annoyed him, and he felt

it might be pleasant to demolish them with his cane, but mastering this

impulse he passed on. Later an idea struck him that it would save fatigue

to take a cab, and he started back with that intention, but the cabs

seemed already so far away and the lanterns were so bright and confusing

that he gave it up, and pulling himself together looked around.

A shadow, a mass, huge, undefined, rose to his right. He recognized the

Arc de Triomphe and gravely shook his cane at it. Its size annoyed him. He

felt it was too big. Then he heard something fall clattering to the

pavement and thought probably it was his cane but it didn't much matter.

When he had mastered himself and regained control of his right leg, which

betrayed symptoms of insubordination, he found himself traversing the

Place de la Concorde at a pace which threatened to land him at the

Madeleine. This would never do. He turned sharply to the right and

crossing the bridge passed the Palais Bourbon at a trot and wheeled into

the Boulevard St. Germain. He got on well enough although the size of the

War Office struck him as a personal insult, and he missed his cane, which

it would have been pleasant to drag along the iron railings as he passed.

It occurred to him, however, to substitute his hat, but when he found it

he forgot what he wanted it for and replaced it upon his head with

gravity. Then he was obliged to battle with a violent inclination to sit

down and weep. This lasted until he came to the rue de Rennes, but there

he became absorbed in contemplating the dragon on the balcony overhanging

the Cour du Dragon, and time slipped away until he remembered vaguely that

he had no business there, and marched off again. It was slow work. The

inclination to sit down and weep had given place to a desire for solitary

and deep reflection. Here his right leg forgot its obedience and attacking

the left, outflanked it and brought him up against a wooden board which

seemed to bar his path. He tried to walk around it, but found the street

closed. He tried to push it over, and found he couldn't. Then he noticed a

red lantern standing on a pile of paving-stones inside the barrier. This

was pleasant. How was he to get home if the boulevard was blocked? But he

was not on the boulevard. His treacherous right leg had beguiled him into

a detour, for there, behind him lay the boulevard with its endless line of

lamps,--and here, what was this narrow dilapidated street piled up with

earth and mortar and heaps of stone? He looked up. Written in staring

black letters on the barrier was

RUE BARREE.

He sat down. Two policemen whom he knew came by and advised him to get up,

but he argued the question from a standpoint of personal taste, and they

passed on, laughing. For he was at that moment absorbed in a problem. It

was, how to see Rue Barree. She was somewhere or other in that big house

with the iron balconies, and the door was locked, but what of that? The

simple idea struck him to shout until she came. This idea was replaced by

another equally lucid,--to hammer on the door until she came; but finally

rejecting both of these as too uncertain, he decided to climb into the

balcony, and opening a window politely inquire for Rue Barree. There was

but one lighted window in the house that he could see. It was on the

second floor, and toward this he cast his eyes. Then mounting the wooden

barrier and clambering over the piles of stones, he reached the sidewalk

and looked up at the facade for a foothold. It seemed impossible. But a

sudden fury seized him, a blind, drunken obstinacy, and the blood rushed

to his head, leaping, beating in his ears like the dull thunder of an

ocean. He set his teeth, and springing at a window-sill, dragged himself

up and hung to the iron bars. Then reason fled; there surged in his brain

the sound of many voices, his heart leaped up beating a mad tattoo, and

gripping at cornice and ledge he worked his way along the facade, clung to

pipes and shutters, and dragged himself up, over and into the balcony by

the lighted window. His hat fell off and rolled against the pane. For a

moment he leaned breathless against the railing--then the window was

slowly opened from within.

They stared at each other for some time. Presently the girl took two

unsteady steps back into the room. He saw her face,--all crimsoned

now,--he saw her sink into a chair by the lamplit table, and without a

word he followed her into the room, closing the big door-like panes behind

him. Then they looked at each other in silence.

The room was small and white; everything was white about it,--the

curtained bed, the little wash-stand in the corner, the bare walls, the

china lamp,--and his own face,--had he known it, but the face and neck of

Rue were surging in the colour that dyed the blossoming rose-tree there on

the hearth beside her. It did not occur to him to speak. She seemed not to

expect it. His mind was struggling with the impressions of the room. The

whiteness, the extreme purity of everything occupied him--began to trouble

him. As his eye became accustomed to the light, other objects grew from

the surroundings and took their places in the circle of lamplight. There

was a piano and a coal-scuttle and a little iron trunk and a bath-tub.

Then there was a row of wooden pegs against the door, with a white chintz

curtain covering the clothes underneath. On the bed lay an umbrella and a

big straw hat, and on the table, a music-roll unfurled, an ink-stand, and

sheets of ruled paper. Behind him stood a wardrobe faced with a mirror,

but somehow he did not care to see his own face just then. He was

sobering.

The girl sat looking at him without a word. Her face was expressionless,

yet the lips at times trembled almost imperceptibly. Her eyes, so

wonderfully blue in the daylight, seemed dark and soft as velvet, and the

colour on her neck deepened and whitened with every breath. She seemed

smaller and more slender than when he had seen her in the street, and

there was now something in the curve of her cheek almost infantine. When

at last he turned and caught his own reflection in the mirror behind him,

a shock passed through him as though he had seen a shameful thing, and his

clouded mind and his clouded thoughts grew clearer. For a moment their

eyes met then his sought the floor, his lips tightened, and the struggle

within him bowed his head and strained every nerve to the breaking. And

now it was over, for the voice within had spoken. He listened, dully

interested but already knowing the end,--indeed it little mattered;--the

end would always be the same for him;--he understood now--always the same

for him, and he listened, dully interested, to a voice which grew within

him. After a while he stood up, and she rose at once, one small hand

resting on the table. Presently he opened the window, picked up his hat,

and shut it again. Then he went over to the rosebush and touched the

blossoms with his face. One was standing in a glass of water on the table

and mechanically the girl drew it out, pressed it with her lips and laid

it on the table beside him. He took it without a word and crossing the

room, opened the door. The landing was dark and silent, but the girl

lifted the lamp and gliding past him slipped down the polished stairs to

the hallway. Then unchaining the bolts, she drew open the iron wicket.

Through this he passed with his rose.

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