The King in Yellow

by Robert W. Chambers

  II

  "It is fortunate," said Severn, sitting up and stretching, "that we havetided over the dinner hour, for I have nothing to offer you for supper butwhat 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 preferbeef? Of course,--and I shall try an egg and some white bread. Now for thewines. Milk for you? Good. I shall take a little water, fresh from thewood," with a motion toward the bucket in the sink.

  He put on his hat and left the room. The cat followed to the door, andafter he had closed it behind him, she settled down, smelling at thecracks, and cocking one ear at every creak from the crazy old building.

  The door below opened and shut. The cat looked serious, for a momentdoubtful, and her ears flattened in nervous expectation. Presently sherose with a jerk of her tail and started on a noiseless tour of thestudio. She sneezed at a pot of turpentine, hastily retreating to thetable, which she presently mounted, and having satisfied her curiosityconcerning a roll of red modelling wax, returned to the door and sat downwith her eyes on the crack over the threshold Then she lifted her voice ina thin plaint.

  When Severn returned he looked grave, but the cat, joyous anddemonstrative, marched around him, rubbing her gaunt body against hislegs, driving her head enthusiastically into his hand, and purring untilher voice mounted to a squeal.

  He placed a bit of meat, wrapped in brown paper, upon the table, and witha penknife cut it into shreds. The milk he took from a bottle which hadserved 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 withthe shredded meat, and when he had finished, and had filled and emptied acup of water from the bucket in the sink, he sat down, taking her into hislap, where she at once curled up and began her toilet. He began to speakagain, touching her caressingly at times by way of emphasis.

  "Cat, I have found out where your mistress lives. It is not very faraway;--it is here, under this same leaky roof, but in the north wing whichI had supposed was uninhabited. My janitor tells me this. By chance, he isalmost sober this evening. The butcher on the rue de Seine, where I boughtyour meat, knows you, and old Cabane the baker identified you withneedless sarcasm. They tell me hard tales of your mistress which I shallnot believe. They say she is idle and vain and pleasure-loving; they sayshe 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 firsttime, although we have always bowed to each other. He said she was verygood and very beautiful. He has only seen her once, and does not know hername. I thanked him;--I don't know why I thanked him so warmly. Cabanesaid, 'Into this cursed Street of the Four Winds, the four winds blow allthings evil.' The sculptor looked confused, but when he went out with hisrolls, he said to me, 'I am sure, Monsieur, that she is as good as she isbeautiful.'"

  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 thegarter held it for a moment in his hands. After a while he said: "There isa name engraved upon the silver clasp beneath the buckle. It is a prettyname, 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. Iknow the little town of Elven, for there I met Fate face to face and Fatewas unkind. But do you know that in Elven Fate had another name, and thatname was Sylvia?"

  He replaced the garter and stood up looking down at the cat crouchedbefore the closed door.

  "The name of Elven has a charm for me. It tells me of meadows and clearrivers. 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 notmy Sylvia; the world is wide and Elven is not unknown. Yet in the darknessand filth of poorer Paris, in the sad shadows of this ancient house, thesenames are very pleasant to me."

  He lifted her in his arms and strode through the silent corridors to thestairs. Down five flights and into the moonlit court, past the littlesculptor's den, and then again in at the gate of the north wing and up theworm-eaten stairs he passed, until he came to a closed door. When he hadstood knocking for a long time, something moved behind the door; it openedand he went in. The room was dark. As he crossed the threshold, the catsprang from his arms into the shadows. He listened but heard nothing. Thesilence was oppressive and he struck a match. At his elbow stood a tableand on the table a candle in a gilded candlestick. This he lighted, thenlooked around. The chamber was vast, the hangings heavy with embroidery.Over the fireplace towered a carved mantel, grey with the ashes of deadfires. In a recess by the deep-set windows stood a bed, from which thebedclothes, soft and fine as lace, trailed to the polished floor. Helifted the candle above his head. A handkerchief lay at his feet. It wasfaintly 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 oflace-like garments, white and delicate as spiders' meshes, long, crumpledgloves, and, on the floor beneath, the stockings, the little pointedshoes, and one garter of rosy silk, quaintly flowered and fitted with asilver clasp. Wondering, he stepped forward and drew the heavy curtainsfrom the bed. For a moment the candle flared in his hand; then his eyesmet two other eyes, wide open, smiling, and the candle-flame flashed overhair heavy as gold.

  She was pale, but not as white as he; her eyes were untroubled as achild's; but he stared, trembling from head to foot, while the candleflickered 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 throughthe long watches of the night the cat purred on his knee, tightening andrelaxing her padded claws, until the sky paled above the Street of theFour Winds.