The King in Yellow
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 Barrée sat on him.”
Elliott raised his voice: “I say, you fellows, we saw some flowers
carried into Rue Barrée’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.
IV
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 Clémence 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 Barrée.”
“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 Barrée 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 Barrée sat on your aspirations in a manner unmistakably final.”
“Rue Barrée,” 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 Barrée. 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 Barrée
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 Barrée 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