The King in Yellow

by Robert W. Chambers

  RUE BARREE

  "For let Philosopher and Doctor preach Of what they will and what they will not,--each Is but one link in an eternal chain That none can slip nor break nor over-reach."

  "Crimson nor yellow roses nor The savour of the mounting sea Are worth the perfume I adore That clings to thee. The languid-headed lilies tire, The changeless waters weary me; I ache with passionate desire Of thine and thee. There are but these things in the world-- Thy mouth of fire, Thy breasts, thy hands, thy hair upcurled And my desire."

  I

  One morning at Julian's, a student said to Selby, "That is FoxhallClifford," pointing with his brushes at a young man who sat before aneasel, doing nothing.

  Selby, shy and nervous, walked over and began: "My name is Selby,--I havejust arrived in Paris, and bring a letter of introduction--" His voice waslost in the crash of a falling easel, the owner of which promptlyassaulted his neighbour, and for a time the noise of battle rolled throughthe studios of MM. Boulanger and Lefebvre, presently subsiding into ascuffle on the stairs outside. Selby, apprehensive as to his own receptionin the studio, looked at Clifford, who sat serenely watching the fight.

  "It's a little noisy here," said Clifford, "but you will like the fellowswhen you know them." His unaffected manner delighted Selby. Then with asimplicity that won his heart, he presented him to half a dozen studentsof as many nationalities. Some were cordial, all were polite. Even themajestic creature who held the position of Massier, unbent enough to say:"My friend, when a man speaks French as well as you do, and is also afriend of Monsieur Clifford, he will have no trouble in this studio. Youexpect, of course, to fill the stove until the next new man comes?"

  "Of course."

  "And you don't mind chaff?"

  "No," replied Selby, who hated it.

  Clifford, much amused, put on his hat, saying, "You must expect lots of itat first."

  Selby placed his own hat on his head and followed him to the door.

  As they passed the model stand there was a furious cry of "Chapeau!Chapeau!" and a student sprang from his easel menacing Selby, who reddenedbut looked at Clifford.

  "Take off your hat for them," said the latter, laughing.

  A little embarrassed, he turned and saluted the studio.

  "Et moi?" cried the model.

  "You are charming," replied Selby, astonished at his own audacity, but thestudio rose as one man, shouting: "He has done well! he's all right!"while the model, laughing, kissed her hand to him and cried: "A demainbeau jeune homme!"

  All that week Selby worked at the studio unmolested. The French studentschristened him "l'Enfant Prodigue," which was freely translated, "TheProdigious Infant," "The Kid," "Kid Selby," and "Kidby." But the diseasesoon ran its course from "Kidby" to "Kidney," and then naturally to"Tidbits," where it was arrested by Clifford's authority and ultimatelyrelapsed to "Kid."

  Wednesday came, and with it M. Boulanger. For three hours the studentswrithed under his biting sarcasms,--among the others Clifford, who wasinformed that he knew even less about a work of art than he did about theart of work. Selby was more fortunate. The professor examined his drawingin silence, looked at him sharply, and passed on with a non-committalgesture. He presently departed arm in arm with Bouguereau, to the reliefof Clifford, who was then at liberty to jam his hat on his head anddepart.

  The next day he did not appear, and Selby, who had counted on seeing himat the studio, a thing which he learned later it was vanity to count on,wandered back to the Latin Quarter alone.

  Paris was still strange and new to him. He was vaguely troubled by itssplendour. No tender memories stirred his American bosom at the Place duChatelet, nor even by Notre Dame. The Palais de Justice with its clock andturrets and stalking sentinels in blue and vermilion, the Place St. Michelwith its jumble of omnibuses and ugly water-spitting griffins, the hill ofthe Boulevard St. Michel, the tooting trams, the policemen dawdling two bytwo, and the table-lined terraces of the Cafe Vacehett were nothing tohim, as yet, nor did he even know, when he stepped from the stones of thePlace St. Michel to the asphalt of the Boulevard, that he had crossed thefrontier and entered the student zone,--the famous Latin Quarter.

  A cabman hailed him as "bourgeois," and urged the superiority of drivingover walking. A gamin, with an appearance of great concern, requested thelatest telegraphic news from London, and then, standing on his head,invited Selby to feats of strength. A pretty girl gave him a glance from apair of violet eyes. He did not see her, but she, catching her ownreflection in a window, wondered at the colour burning in her cheeks.Turning to resume her course, she met Foxhall Clifford, and hurried on.Clifford, open-mouthed, followed her with his eyes; then he looked afterSelby, who had turned into the Boulevard St. Germain toward the rue deSeine. Then he examined himself in the shop window. The result seemed tobe unsatisfactory.

  "I'm not a beauty," he mused, "but neither am I a hobgoblin. What does shemean by blushing at Selby? I never before saw her look at a fellow in mylife,--neither has any one in the Quarter. Anyway, I can swear she neverlooks at me, and goodness knows I have done all that respectful adorationcan do."

  He sighed, and murmuring a prophecy concerning the salvation of hisimmortal soul swung into that graceful lounge which at all timescharacterized Clifford. With no apparent exertion, he overtook Selby atthe corner, and together they crossed the sunlit Boulevard and sat downunder the awning of the Cafe du Cercle. Clifford bowed to everybody on theterrace, saying, "You shall meet them all later, but now let me presentyou to two of the sights of Paris, Mr. Richard Elliott and Mr. StanleyRowden."

  The "sights" looked amiable, and took vermouth.

  "You cut the studio to-day," said Elliott, suddenly turning on Clifford,who avoided his eyes.

  "To commune with nature?" observed Rowden.

  "What's her name this time?" asked Elliott, and Rowden answered promptly,"Name, Yvette; nationality, Breton--"

  "Wrong," replied Clifford blandly, "it's Rue Barree."

  The subject changed instantly, and Selby listened in surprise to nameswhich were new to him, and eulogies on the latest Prix de Rome winner. Hewas delighted to hear opinions boldly expressed and points honestlydebated, although the vehicle was mostly slang, both English and French.He longed for the time when he too should be plunged into the strife forfame.

  The bells of St. Sulpice struck the hour, and the Palace of the Luxembourganswered chime on chime. With a glance at the sun, dipping low in thegolden dust behind the Palais Bourbon, they rose, and turning to the east,crossed the Boulevard St. Germain and sauntered toward the Ecole deMedecine. At the corner a girl passed them, walking hurriedly. Cliffordsmirked, Elliot and Rowden were agitated, but they all bowed, and, withoutraising her eyes, she returned their salute. But Selby, who had laggedbehind, fascinated by some gay shop window, looked up to meet two of thebluest eyes he had ever seen. The eyes were dropped in an instant, and theyoung fellow hastened to overtake the others.

  "By Jove," he said, "do you fellows know I have just seen the prettiestgirl--" An exclamation broke from the trio, gloomy, foreboding, like thechorus in a Greek play.

  "Rue Barree!"

  "What!" cried Selby, bewildered.

  The only answer was a vague gesture from Clifford.

  Two hours later, during dinner, Clifford turned to Selby and said, "Youwant to ask me something; I can tell by the way you fidget about."

  "Yes, I do," he said, innocently enough; "it's about that girl. Who isshe?"

  In Rowden's smile there was pity, in Elliott's bitterness.

  "Her name," said Clifford solemnly, "is unknown to any one, at least," headded with much conscientiousness, "as far as I can learn. Every fellow inthe Quarter bows to her and she returns the salute gravely, but no man hasever been known to obtain more than that. Her profession, judging from hermusic-roll, is that of a pianist. Her residence is in a small and humblestreet which is kept in a perpetual process of repair by the cityauthorities, and from the black letters painted on
the barrier whichdefends the street from traffic, she has taken the name by which we knowher,--Rue Barree. Mr. Rowden, in his imperfect knowledge of the Frenchtongue, called our attention to it as Roo Barry--"

  "I didn't," said Rowden hotly.

  "And Roo Barry, or Rue Barree, is to-day an object of adoration to everyrapin in the Quarter--"

  "We are not rapins," corrected Elliott.

  "_I_ am not," returned Clifford, "and I beg to call to your attention,Selby, that these two gentlemen have at various and apparently unfortunatemoments, offered to lay down life and limb at the feet of Rue Barree. Thelady possesses a chilling smile which she uses on such occasions and,"here he became gloomily impressive, "I have been forced to believe thatneither the scholarly grace of my friend Elliott nor the buxom beauty ofmy friend Rowden have touched that heart of ice."

  Elliott and Rowden, boiling with indignation, cried out, "And you!"

  "I," said Clifford blandly, "do fear to tread where you rush in."