The King in Yellow
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 “Guêpe 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 Cécile came up demanding instant refreshment. Cécile’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.
Cécile, 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 Cécile 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.
VI
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 _déjeuner_—”
“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 Crémerie 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 _tête-à-tête_ 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.