The King in Yellow

by Robert W. Chambers

  II

  West, standing in the doorway of a house in the rue Serpentine, wasspeaking 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 ofthat kind of American. You come loafing about Colette with your pocketsstuffed with white bread and beef, and a bottle of wine at thirty francsand you can't really afford to give a dollar to the American Ambulance andPublic Assistance, which Braith does, and he's half starved!"

  Hartman retreated to the curbstone, but West followed him, his face like athunder-cloud. "Don't you dare to call yourself a countryman of mine," hegrowled,--"no,--nor an artist either! Artists don't worm themselves intothe service of the Public Defence where they do nothing but feed like ratson the people's food! And I'll tell you now," he continued dropping hisvoice, for Hartman had started as though stung, "you might better keepaway 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 handstraight at West's face. West had him by the throat in a second, andforcing him against the dead wall shook him wickedly.

  "Now you listen to me," he muttered, through his clenched teeth. "You arealready a suspect and--I swear--I believe you are a paid spy! It isn't mybusiness to detect such vermin, and I don't intend to denounce you, butunderstand this! Colette don't like you and I can't stand you, and if Icatch 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 fromhim and hurled him into the gutter. A gamin who had seen this burst into apeal of laughter, which rattled harshly in the silent street. Theneverywhere windows were raised and rows of haggard faces appeareddemanding 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 lookwhich he never forgot, and walked away without a word. Trent, who suddenlyappeared at the corner, glanced curiously at West, who merely noddedtoward his door saying, "Come in; Fallowby's upstairs."

  "What are you doing with that knife?" demanded Fallowby, as he and Trententered the studio.

  West looked at his wounded hand, which still clutched the knife, butsaying, "Cut myself by accident," tossed it into a corner and washed theblood from his fingers.

  Fallowby, fat and lazy, watched him without comment, but Trent, halfdivining 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, butTrent, 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 ofcontrition.

  "Where is it?"

  Fallowby began a series of intricate explanations, which were soon cutshort by Trent.

  "I know; you blew it in;--you always blow it in. I don't care a rap whatyou did before the siege: I know you are rich and have a right to disposeof your money as you wish to, and I also know that, generally speaking, itis none of my business. But _now_ it is my business, as I have to supplythe funds until you get some more, which you won't until the siege isended one way or another. I wish to share what I have, but I won't see itthrown 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 yourfriends, old man, that you will not be worse off for a little abstinencefrom fleshly pleasures. You are positively a freak in this famine-cursedcity 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 atleast a dozen times!"

  Then laughing, he presented Fallowby with a roll of twenty franc piecessaying: "If these go for luxuries you must live on your own flesh," andwent 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 mustexplain 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 tothe stairway.

  "The poor little thing," said West, "just think, not a splinter offirewood for a week and wouldn't tell me because she thought I neededit for my clay figure. Whew! When I heard it I smashed that smirkingclay nymph to pieces, and the rest can freeze and be hanged!" After amoment he added timidly: "Won't you call on your way down and say _bonsoir_? 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 overthe 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 blushingfuriously, "Oh, I see you have heard! Oh, thank you so much for yourwishes, and I'm sure we love each other very much,--and I'm dying to seeSylvia 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 Georgeto come and dine with us to-night. It's a little treat,--you see to-morrowis Sylvia's _fete_. She will be nineteen. I have written to Thorne, andthe Guernalecs will come with their cousin Odile. Fallowby has engaged notto bring anybody but himself."

  The girl accepted shyly, charging him with loads of loving messages toSylvia, and he said good-night.

  He started up the street, walking swiftly, for it was bitter cold, andcutting across the rue de la Lune he entered the rue de Seine. The earlywinter night had fallen, almost without warning, but the sky was clear andmyriads of stars glittered in the heavens. The bombardment had becomefurious--a steady rolling thunder from the Prussian cannon punctuated bythe heavy shocks from Mont Valerien.

  The shells streamed across the sky leaving trails like shooting stars, andnow, as he turned to look back, rockets blue and red flared above thehorizon from the Fort of Issy, and the Fortress of the North flamed like abonfire.

  "Good news!" a man shouted over by the Boulevard St. Germain. As if bymagic the streets were filled with people,--shivering, chattering peoplewith 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 theSeine? They say one can see the signals of the Army of the Loire from thePont 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 manswaying, stumbling, his shrivelled hands crushed to his breast, mutteringas if insane.

  "Could it be true? Who has heard the news? The shoemaker on the rue deBuci had it from a Mobile who had heard a Franctireur repeat it to acaptain 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 cannonclanged, and the batteries on Montparnasse joined in with a crash. Thebridge 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 deTriomphe sprang into black relief against the flash of a cannon. The boomof the gun rolled along the quay and the old bridge vibrated.

  Again over by the Point du Jour a flash and heavy explosion shook thebridge, and then the whole eastern bastion of the fortifications blazedand 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 theyheroes,--these Parisians? Answer me, Trent!"

  The American Ambulance surgeon turned about and scanned the parapets ofthe 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'mso harried and worried that I don't know what to do. After the last sortiewe had the work of fifty ambulances on our poor little corps. To-morrowthere's another sortie, and I wish you fellows could come over toheadquarters. We may need volunteers. How is madame?" he added abruptly.

  "Well," replied Trent, "but she seems to grow more nervous every day. Iought 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, "Poordevils!"

  Trent leaned over the parapet and blinked at the black river surgingthrough the arches. Dark objects, carried swiftly on the breast of thecurrent, struck with a grinding tearing noise against the stone piers,spun around for an instant, and hurried away into the darkness. The icefrom 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 foryou!"

  "Trent, I have something to tell you. Don't stay here,--don't believe inthe Army of the Loire:" and the _attache_ of the American Legation slippedhis 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 whatI have to say. Something happened this afternoon. The Alsatian Brasseriewas visited and an American named Hartman has been arrested. Do you knowhim?"

  "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, butthe evidence seems conclusive."

  "Is he a spy?"

  "Well, the papers seized in his rooms are pretty damning proofs, andbesides he was caught, they say, swindling the Public Food Committee. Hedrew rations for fifty, how, I don't know. He claims to be an Americanartist here, and we have been obliged to take notice of it at theLegation. 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 aprecious privilege when every goggle-eyed German--" His anger choked him.

  Southwark shook hands with him warmly. "It can't be helped, we must ownthe carrion. I am afraid you may be called upon to identify him as anAmerican 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. Seveno'clock. "Sylvia will be anxious," he thought, and hurried back to theriver. The crowd still huddled shivering on the bridge, a sombre pitifulcongregation, peering out into the night for the signals of the Army ofthe Loire: and their hearts beat time to the pounding of the guns, theireyes lighted with each flash from the bastions, and hope rose with thedrifting rockets.

  A black cloud hung over the fortifications. From horizon to horizon thecannon smoke stretched in wavering bands, now capping the spires and domeswith cloud, now blowing in streamers and shreds along the streets, nowdescending from the housetops, enveloping quays, bridges, and river, in asulphurous mist. And through the smoke pall the lightning of the cannonplayed, while from time to time a rift above showed a fathomless blackvault set with stars.

  He turned again into the rue de Seine, that sad abandoned street, with itsrows of closed shutters and desolate ranks of unlighted lamps. He was alittle nervous and wished once or twice for a revolver, but the slinkingforms which passed him in the darkness were too weak with hunger to bedangerous, he thought, and he passed on unmolested to his doorway. Butthere somebody sprang at his throat. Over and over the icy pavement herolled with his assailant, tearing at the noose about his neck, and thenwith a wrench sprang to his feet.

  "Get up," he cried to the other.

  Slowly and with great deliberation, a small gamin picked himself out ofthe gutter and surveyed Trent with disgust.

  "That's a nice clean trick," said Trent; "a whelp of your age! You'llfinish 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 ofthe 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'sbreath away.

  "Do you know, you young strangler," he gasped, "that they shoot thieves ofyour 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 andfelt about in the darkness for the door. From his studio came the sound ofvoices, West's hearty laugh and Fallowby's chuckle, and at last he foundthe knob and, pushing back the door, stood a moment confused by the light.

  "Hello, Jack!" cried West, "you're a pleasant creature, inviting people todine 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 duPere 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 thebombardment. Were you anxious, Sylvia?"

  She smiled and murmured, "Oh, no!" but her hand dropped into his andtightened convulsively.

  "To the table!" shouted Fallowby, and uttered a joyous whoop.

  "Take it easy," observed Thorne, with a remnant of manners; "you are notthe host, you know."

  Marie Guernalec, who had been chattering with Colette, jumped up and tookThorne's arm and Monsieur Guernalec drew Odile's arm through his.

  Trent, bowing gravely, offered his own arm to Colette, West took inSylvia, 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 beatstime."

  Fallowby suggested that they could sing after dinner, but his protest wasdrowned 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 thetable, consoling himself a little with the hope that the exercise wouldincrease his appetite. Hercules, the black and tan, fled under the bed,from which retreat he yapped and whined until
dragged out by Guernalec andplaced in Odile's lap.

  "And now," said Trent gravely, when everybody was seated, "listen!" and heread 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'ttaste 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 savingthis for the concierge." Fallowby transferred his eyes to the fish.

  The sardines, hot from the grille, were a great success. While the otherswere eating Sylvia ran downstairs with the soup for the old concierge andher husband, and when she hurried back, flushed and breathless, and hadslipped 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 andthought 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 hishead to the terror of Odile and Colette, his neighbours, and Thorne, Westand Guernalec refilled their glasses three times before the storm ofapplause which the toast of Sylvia had provoked, subsided.

  Three times the glasses were filled and emptied to Sylvia, and again toTrent, 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 drunkamid 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, whileTrent bowed to West.

  The beef was eaten in comparative calm, but when it was finished and aportion of it set aside for the old people below, Trent cried: "Drink toParis! May she rise from her ruins and crush the invader!" and the cheersrang out, drowning for a moment the monotonous thunder of the Prussianguns.

  Pipes and cigarettes were lighted, and Trent listened an instant to theanimated chatter around him, broken by ripples of laughter from the girlsor the mellow chuckle of Fallowby. Then he turned to West.

  "There is going to be a sortie to-night," he said. "I saw the AmericanAmbulance surgeon just before I came in and he asked me to speak to youfellows. Any aid we can give him will not come amiss."

  Then dropping his voice and speaking in English, "As for me, I shall goout 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 offeredassistance, and Fallowby volunteered with a groan.

  "All right," said Trent rapidly,--"no more now, but meet me at Ambulanceheadquarters to-morrow morning at eight."

  Sylvia and Colette, who were becoming uneasy at the conversation inEnglish, 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 thebeauties of Greek sculpture in his mother tongue, without being openlysuspected."

  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," saidMarie 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 thehall-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 havereceived a dispatch from the American Minister to go at once and identifyand claim, as a fellow-countryman and a brother artist, a rascally thiefand 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 andsupported her to a chair, saying calmly, "Sylvia has fainted,--it's thehot room,--bring some water."

  Trent brought it at once.

  Sylvia opened her eyes, and after a moment rose, and supported by MarieGuernalec and Trent, passed into the bedroom.

  It was the signal for breaking up, and everybody came and shook hands withTrent, saying they hoped Sylvia would sleep it off and that it would benothing.

  When Marie Guernalec took leave of him, she avoided his eyes, but he spoketo her cordially and thanked her for her aid.

  "Anything I can do, Jack?" inquired West, lingering, and then hurrieddownstairs 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 impatientmovement, "I am crazy!" he muttered, and lighting a candle, went into thebedroom. Sylvia was lying on the bed. He bent over her, smoothing thecurly hair on her forehead.

  "Are you better, dear Sylvia?"

  She did not answer, but raised her eyes to his. For an instant he met hergaze, but what he read there sent a chill to his heart and he sat downcovering his face with his hands.

  At last she spoke in a voice, changed and strained,--a voice which he hadnever heard, and he dropped his hands and listened, bolt upright in hischair.

  "Jack, it has come at last. I have feared it and trembled,--ah! how oftenhave I lain awake at night with this on my heart and prayed that I mightdie before you should ever know of it! For I love you, Jack, and if you goaway 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 andspoke 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--fearingthat you would go away; and since then my love has grown--grown--and oh! Isuffered!--but I dared not tell you. And now you know, but you do not knowthe 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 wasdark.

  The bells of St. Sulpice tolled the hour, and she started up, speakingwith feverish haste,--"I must finish! When you told me you lovedme--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 youand me! For there _is another_ whom he has claimed, and is good to. Hemust not die,--they cannot shoot him, for that _other's_ sake!"

&
nbsp; Trent sat motionless, but his thoughts ran on in an interminable whirl.

  Sylvia, little Sylvia, who shared with him his student life,--who borewith him the dreary desolation of the siege without complaint,--thisslender blue-eyed girl whom he was so quietly fond of, whom he teased orcaressed as the whim suited, who sometimes made him the least bitimpatient with her passionate devotion to him,--could this be the sameSylvia who lay weeping there in the darkness?

  Then he clinched his teeth. "Let him die! Let him die!"--but then,--forSylvia'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 bewhat he had been to her, and yet a vague terror seized him, now all wassaid. Trembling, he struck a light.

  She lay there, her curly hair tumbled about her face, her small whitehands pressed to her breast.

  He could not leave her, and he could not stay. He never knew before thathe loved her. She had been a mere comrade, this girl wife of his. Ah! heloved her now with all his heart and soul, and he knew it, only when itwas too late. Too late? Why? Then he thought of that _other_ one, bindingher, 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 wasit that he pressed it back,--locked it,--and flung himself on his kneesbeside the bed, knowing that he dared not for his life's sake leave whatwas his all in life.