The King in Yellow

by Robert W. Chambers

  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 littleremained of the December daylight. The girl drew her chair nearer thewindow, and choosing a large needle, threaded it, knotting the thread overher fingers. Then she smoothed the baby garment across her knees, andbending, bit off the thread and drew the smaller needle from where itrested in the hem. When she had brushed away the stray threads and bits oflace, she laid it again over her knees caressingly. Then she slipped thethreaded needle from her corsage and passed it through a button, but asthe button spun down the thread, her hand faltered, the thread snapped,and the button rolled across the floor. She raised her head. Her eyes werefixed on a strip of waning light above the chimneys. From somewhere in thecity came sounds like the distant beating of drums, and beyond, farbeyond, a vague muttering, now growing, swelling, rumbling in the distancelike the pounding of surf upon the rocks, now like the surf again,receding, growling, menacing. The cold had become intense, a bitterpiercing cold which strained and snapped at joist and beam and turned theslush of yesterday to flint. From the street below every sound broke sharpand metallic--the clatter of sabots, the rattle of shutters or the raresound of a human voice. The air was heavy, weighted with the black cold aswith a pall. To breathe was painful, to move an effort.

  In the desolate sky there was something that wearied, in the broodingclouds, something that saddened. It penetrated the freezing city cut bythe freezing river, the splendid city with its towers and domes, its quaysand bridges and its thousand spires. It entered the squares, it seized theavenues and the palaces, stole across bridges and crept among the narrowstreets of the Latin Quarter, grey under the grey of the December sky.Sadness, utter sadness. A fine icy sleet was falling, powdering thepavement with a tiny crystalline dust. It sifted against the window-panesand drifted in heaps along the sill. The light at the window had nearlyfailed, and the girl bent low over her work. Presently she raised herhead, 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 floorin front of the stove. His head and shoulders were in the shadow, but thefirelight fell across his knees and glimmered red on the blade of thepalette-knife. Full in the firelight beside him stood a colour-box. On thelid 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 anddiamonds, then, melting from the warmer air within, ran down and frozeagain in fern-like traceries.

  A dog whined and the patter of small paws sounded on the zinc behind thestove.

  "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'shungry 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 screamof a shell tearing through the clouds overhead.

  "That is the nearest yet," she murmured.

  "Oh, no," he answered cheerfully, "it probably fell way over byMontmartre," and as she did not answer, he said again with exaggeratedunconcern, "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 totake me to see Monsieur West's statues?"

  "I will bet," he said, throwing down his palette and walking over to thewindow beside her, "that Colette has been here to-day."

  "Why?" she asked, opening her eyes very wide. Then, "Oh, it's toobad!--really, men are tiresome when they think they know everything! And Iwarn 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 toget 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 frockafter them, and putting both arms about his neck drew him down into herlap.

  "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 struckthe 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 tobe late to dinner. If you knew what I suffer! I--I--cannot help it, andyou 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 itand 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 byyours. 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 heragain, saying: "Don't worry, dearest."

  When he had reached the last flight of stairs on his way to the street awoman 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 heisn'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 fellowsin.

  "Yours faithfully,

  "West.

  "P.S.--Fallowby has shaken Hartman and his gang, thank the Lord! There issomething 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 notcare a straw for me."

  "All right," said Trent, with a smile, to the concierge; "but tell me, howis Papa Cottard?"

  The old woman shook her head and pointed to the curtained bed in thelodge.

  "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 lyingamong the tumbled sheets.

  "Better?" smiled Trent.

  "Better," repeated the man wearily; and, after a pause, "Have you anynews, Monsieur Jack?"

  "I haven't been out to-day. I will bring you any rumour I may hear, thoughgoodness knows I've got enough of rumours," he muttered to himself. Thenaloud: "Cheer up; you're looking better."

  "And the sortie?"

  "Oh, the sortie, that's for this week. General Trochu sent orders lastnight."

  "It will be terrible."

  "It will be sickening," thought Trent as he went not into the street andturned 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 militarycapes crept along the frozen pavement, and a wretchedly clad gamin hoveredover the sewer-hole on the corner of the Boulevard. A rope around hiswaist held his rags together. From the r
ope hung a rat, still warm andbleeding.

  "There's another in there," he yelled at Trent; "I hit him but he gotaway."

  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 thepalm of his hand and looked cunningly at Trent.

  "Last week you could buy a rat for six francs, but," and here he sworevilely, "the rats have quit the rue de Seine and they kill them now overby the new hospital. I'll let you have this for seven francs; I can sellit for ten in the Isle St. Louis."

  "You lie," said Trent, "and let me tell you that if you try to swindleanybody in this quarter the people will make short work of you and yourrats."

  He stood a moment eyeing the gamin, who pretended to snivel. Then hetossed him a franc, laughing. The child caught it, and thrusting it intohis mouth wheeled about to the sewer-hole. For a second he crouched,motionless, alert, his eyes on the bars of the drain, then leaping forwardhe hurled a stone into the gutter, and Trent left him to finish a fiercegrey rat that writhed squealing at the mouth of the sewer.

  "Suppose Braith should come to that," he thought; "poor little chap;" andhurrying, he turned in the dirty passage des Beaux Arts and entered thethird house to the left.

  "Monsieur is at home," quavered the old concierge.

  Home? A garret absolutely bare, save for the iron bedstead in the cornerand the iron basin and pitcher on the floor.

  West appeared at the door, winking with much mystery, and motioned Trentto 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 thecannon."

  Trent sat down on the bed.

  "Where on earth did you get that?" he demanded, pointing to ahalf-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'sexploits," but was cut short by West, who said he would tell the storyhimself.

  "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, judgingit 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 mestanding in the hallway, which I did not like, so I entered the first roomI 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 athome, 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 mycard on to the empty plate, and addressing Buttons as a species ofPrussian 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 ownconclusions," continued West. "Now about this chicken, half of it is forBraith and myself, and half for Colette, but of course you will help meeat my part because I'm not hungry."

  "Neither am I," began Braith, but Trent, with a smile at the pinched facesbefore him, shook his head saying, "What nonsense! You know I'm neverhungry!"

  West hesitated, reddened, and then slicing off Braith's portion, but noteating any himself, said good-night, and hurried away to number 470 rueSerpente, where lived a pretty girl named Colette, orphan after Sedan, andHeaven alone knew where she got the roses in her cheeks, for the siegecame hard on the poor.

  "That chicken will delight her, but I really believe she's in love withWest," said Trent. Then walking over to the bed: "See here, old man, nododging, 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 friendwith a simplicity that touched him.

  "Seven sons," he counted; "you make me tired! Why on earth don't you cometo me? I take it d----d ill, Braith! How many times must I go over the samething and explain to you that because I have money it is my duty to shareit, and your duty and the duty of every American to share it with me? Youcan't get a cent, the city's blockaded, and the American Minister has hishands full with all the German riff-raff and deuce knows what! Why don'tyou act sensibly?"

  "I--I will, Trent, but it's an obligation that perhaps I can never even inpart repay, I'm poor and--"

  "Of course you'll pay me! If I were a usurer I would take your talent forsecurity. 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 underthe 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, andI have the rights of a grandfather as far as you are concerned. You'll doas I say until you're twenty-one."

  "The siege will be over then, I hope," said Braith, trying to laugh, butthe prayer in their hearts: "How long, O Lord, how long!" was answered bythe swift scream of a shell soaring among the storm-clouds of thatDecember night.