A great wave struck Barris and he fell, another washed him up on the pebbles, another whirled him back into the water and then – and then the thing fell over him – and I fainted.
This, then, is all that I know concerning Yue-Laou and the Xin. I do not fear the ridicule of scientists or of the press for I have told the truth. Barris is gone and the thing that killed him is alive today in the Lake of the Stars while the spiderlike satellites roam through the Cardinal Woods. The game has fled, the forests around the lake are empty of any living creatures save the reptiles that creep when the Xin moves in the depths of the lake.
General Drummond knows what he has lost in Barris, and we, Pierpont and I, know what we have lost also. His will we found in the drawer, the key of which he had handed me. It was wrapped in a bit of paper on which was written:
‘Yue-Laou the sorcerer is here in the Cardinal Woods. I must kill him or he will kill me. He made and gave to me the woman I love – he made her – I saw him – he made her out of a white water-lotus bud. When our child was born, he came again before me and demanded from me the woman I loved. Then, when I refused, he went away, and that night my wife and child vanished from my side, and I found upon her pillow a white lotus bud. Roy, the woman of your dream, Ysonde, may be my child. God help you if you love her for Yue-Laou will give – and take away, as though he were Xangi, which is God. I will kill Yue-Laou before I leave this forest – or he will kill me.
‘FRANKLYN BARRIS.’
Now the world knows what Barris thought of the Kuen-Yuin and of Yue-Laou. I see that the newspapers are just becoming excited over the glimpses that Li-Hung-Chang has afforded them of Black Cathay and the demons of the Kuen-Yuin. The Kuen-Yuin are on the move.
Pierpont and I have dismantled the shooting box in the Cardinal Woods. We hold ourselves ready at a moment’s notice to join and lead the first Government party to drag the Lake of the Stars and cleanse the forest of the crab reptiles. But it will be necessary that a large force assembles, a well-armed force, for we have never found the body of Yue-Laou, and, living or dead, I fear him. Is he living?
Pierpont, who found Ysonde and myself lying unconscious on the lake shore, the morning after, saw no trace of corpse or blood on the sands. He may have fallen into the lake, but I fear and Ysonde fears that he is still alive. We never were able to find either her dwelling place or the glade and the fountain again. The only thing that remains to her of her former life is the gold serpent in the Metropolitan Museum and her golden globe, the symbol of the Kuen-Yuin; but the latter no longer changes color.
THE MASK
CAMILLA: You sir, should unmask.
STRANGER: Indeed?
CASSILDA: Indeed it’s time. We all have laid aside disguise but you.
STRANGER: I wear no mask.
CAMILLA: (Terrified, aside to Cassilda.) No mask? No mask!
THE KING IN YELLOW: Act I – Scene 2d
I
Although I knew nothing of chemistry, I listened fascinated. He picked up an Easter lily which Geneviève had brought that morning from Notre Dame and dropped it into the basin. Instantly the liquid lost its crystalline clearness. For a second the lily was enveloped in a milk-white foam, which disappeared, leaving the fluid opalescent. Changing tints of orange and crimson played over the surface, and then what seemed to be a ray of pure sunlight struck through from the bottom where the lily was resting. At the same instant he plunged his hand into the basin and drew out the flower. ‘There is no danger,’ he explained, ‘if you choose the right moment. That golden ray is the signal.’
He held the lily toward me and I took it in my hand. It had turned to stone, to the purest marble.
‘You see,’ he said, ‘it is without a flaw. What sculptor could reproduce it?’
The marble was white as snow, but in its depths the veins of the lily were tinged with palest azure, and a faint flush lingered deep in its heart.
‘Don’t ask me the reason of that,’ he smiled, noticing my wonder. ‘I have no idea why the veins and the heart are tinted, but they always are. Yesterday I tried one of Geneviève’s gold fish – there it is.’
The fish looked as if sculptured in marble. But if you held it to the light the stone was beautifully veined with a faint blue, and from somewhere within came a rosy light like the tint which slumbers in an opal. I looked into the basin. Once more it seemed filled with clearest crystal.
‘If I should touch it now?’ I demanded.
‘I don’t know,’ he replied, ‘but you had better not try.’
‘There is one thing I’m curious about,’ I said, ‘and that is where the ray of sunlight came from.’
‘It looked like a sunbeam, true enough,’ he said. ‘I don’t know, it always comes when I immerse any living thing. Perhaps,’ he continued smiling, ‘perhaps it is the vital spark of the creature escaping to the source from whence it came.’
I saw he was mocking and threatened him with a mahl-stick, but he only laughed and changed the subject.
‘Stay to lunch. Geneviève will be here directly.’
‘I saw her going to early mass,’ I said, ‘and she looked as fresh and sweet as that lily – before you destroyed it.’
‘Do you think I destroyed it?’ said Boris gravely.
‘Destroyed, preserved, how can we tell?’
We sat in the corner of a studio near his unfinished group of ‘The Fates’. He leaned back on the sofa, twirling a sculptor’s chisel and squinting at his work.
‘By the way, I have finished pointing up that old academic “Ariadne” and I suppose it will have to go to the Salon. It’s all I have ready this year, but after the success the “Madonna” brought me I feel ashamed to send a thing like that.’
The ‘Madonna’, an exquisite marble for which Geneviève had sat, had been the sensation of last year’s Salon. I looked at the ‘Ariadne’. It was a magnificent piece of technical work, but I agreed with Boris that the world would expect something better of him than that. Still it was impossible now to think of finishing in time for the Salon, that splendid terrible group half shrouded in the marble behind me. ‘The Fates’ would have to wait.
We were proud of Boris Yvain. We claimed him and he claimed us on the strength of his having been born in America, although his father was French and his mother was a Russian. Every one in the Beaux Arts called him Boris. And yet there were only two of us whom he addressed in the same familiar way – Jack Scott and myself.
Perhaps my being in love with Geneviève had something to do with his affection for me. Not that it had ever been acknowledged between us. But after all was settled, and she had told me with tears in her eyes that it was Boris whom she loved, I went over to his house and congratulated him. The perfect cordiality of that interview did not deceive either of us, I always believed, although to one at least it was a great comfort. I do not think he and Geneviève ever spoke of the matter together, but Boris knew.
Geneviève was lovely. The Madonna-like purity of her face might have been inspired by the ‘Sanctus’ in Gounod’s Mass. But I was always glad when she changed that mood for what we called her ‘April Manoeuvres’. She was often as variable as an April day. In the morning grave, dignified and sweet; at noon laughing, capricious; at evening whatever one least expected. I preferred her so rather than in that Madonna-like tranquility which stirred the depths of my heart. I was dreaming of Geneviève when he spoke again.
‘What do you think of my discovery, Alec?’
‘I think it wonderful.’
‘I shall make no use of it, you know, beyond satisfying my own curiosity so far as may be and the secret will die with me.’
‘It would be rather a blow to sculpture, would it not? We painters lose more than we ever gain by photography.’
Boris nodded, playing with the edge of the chisel.
‘This new vicious discovery would corrupt the world of art. No, I shall never confide the secret to any one,’ he said slowly.
It would be hard to find any
one less informed about such phenomena than myself; but of course I had heard of mineral springs so saturated with silica that the leaves and twigs which fell into them were turned to stone after a time. I dimly comprehended the process, how the silica replaced the vegetable matter, atom by atom, and the result was a duplicate of the object in stone. This I confess had never interested me greatly, and as for the ancient fossils thus produced, they disgusted me. Boris, it appeared, feeling curiosity instead of repugnance, had investigated the subject, and had accidentally stumbled on a solution which, attacking the immersed object with a ferocity unheard of, in a second did the work of years. This was all I could make out of the strange story he had just been telling. He spoke again after a long silence.
‘I am almost frightened when I think what I have found. Scientists would go mad over the discovery. It was so simple too; it discovered itself. When I think of that formula, and that new element precipitated in metallic scales—’
‘What new element?’
‘Oh, I haven’t thought of naming it, and I don’t believe I ever shall. There are enough precious metals now in the world to cut throats over.’
I pricked up my ears. ‘Have you struck gold, Boris?’
‘No, better; but see here, Alec!’ he laughed, starting up. ‘You and I have all we need in this world. Ah! how sinister and covetous you look already!’ I laughed too, and told him I was devoured by the desire for gold, and we had better talk of something else; so when Geneviève came in shortly after, we had turned our backs on alchemy.
Geneviève was dressed in silvery gray from head to foot. The light glinted along the soft curves of her fair hair as she turned her cheek to Boris; then she saw me and returned my greeting. She had never before failed to blow me a kiss from the tips of her white fingers, and I promptly complained of the omission. She smiled and held out her hand which dropped almost before it had touched mine; then she said, looking at Boris: ‘You must ask Alec to stay for luncheon.’
This also was something new. She had always asked me herself until today.
‘I did,’ said Boris shortly.
‘And you said yes, I hope,’ she turned to me with a charming conventional smile. I might have been an acquaintance of the day before yesterday. I made her a low bow. ‘J’avais bien l’honneur, madame,’ but refusing to take up our usual bantering tone she murmured a hospitable commonplace and disappeared. Boris and I looked at one another.
‘I had better go home, don’t you think?’ I asked.
‘Hanged if I know,’ he replied frankly.
While we were discussing the advisability of my departure Geneviève reappeared in the doorway without her bonnet. She was wonderfully beautiful, but her color was too deep and her lovely eyes were too bright. She came straight up to me and took my arm.
‘Luncheon is ready. Was I cross, Alec? I thought I had a headache but I haven’t. Come here, Boris,’ and she slipped her other arm through his. ‘Alec knows that after you there is no one in the world whom I like as well as I like him, so if he sometimes feels snubbed it won’t hurt him.’
‘À la bonheur!’ I cried, ‘who says there are no thunderstorms in April?’
‘Are you ready?’ chanted Boris. ‘Aye ready’; and arm in arm we raced into the dining-room scandalizing the servants. After all we were not so much to blame; Geneviève was eighteen, Boris was twenty-three and I not quite twenty-one.
II
Some work that I was doing about this time on the decorations for Geneviève’s boudoir kept me constantly at the quaint little hotel in the rue Sainte-Cécile. Boris and I in those days labored hard but as we pleased, which was fitfully, and we all three, with Jack Scott, idled a great deal together.
One quiet afternoon I had been wandering alone over the house examining curios, prying into odd corners, bringing out sweetmeats and cigars from strange hiding-places, and at last I stopped in the bathing-room. Boris, all over clay, stood there washing his hands.
The room was built of rose-colored marble excepting the floor which was tessellated in rose and gray. In the centre was a square pool sunken below the surface of the floor; steps led down into it, sculptured pillars supported a frescoed ceiling. A delicious marble Cupid appeared to have just alighted on his pedestal at the upper end of the room. The whole interior was Boris’ work and mine. Boris, in his working clothes of white canvas, scraped the traces of clay and red modelling wax from his handsome hands, and coquetted over his shoulder with the Cupid.
‘I see you,’ he insisted, ‘don’t try to look the other way and pretend not to see me. You know who made you, little humbug!’
It was always my rôle to interpret Cupid’s sentiments in these conversations, and when my turn came I responded in such a manner, that Boris seized my arm and dragged me toward the pool, declaring he would duck me. Next instant he dropped my arm and turned pale. ‘Good God!’ he said, ‘I forgot the pool is full of the solution!’
I shivered a little, and drily advised him to remember better where he had stored the precious liquid.
‘In Heaven’s name why do you keep a small lake of that gruesome stuff here of all places?’ I asked.
‘I want to experiment on something large,’ he replied.
‘On me, for instance!’
‘Ah! that came too close for jesting; but I do want to watch the action of that solution on a more highly organized living body; there is that big white rabbit,’ he said, following me into the studio.
Jack Scott, wearing a paint-stained jacket, came wandering in, appropriated all the Oriental sweetmeats he could lay his hand on, looted the cigarette case, and finally he and Boris disappeared together to visit the Luxembourg gallery, where a new silver bronze by Rodin and a landscape of Monet’s were claiming the exclusive attention of artistic France. I went back to the studio, and resumed my work. It was a Renaissance screen, which Boris wanted me to paint for Geneviève’s boudoir. But the small boy who was unwillingly dawdling through a series of poses for it, today refused all bribes to be good. He never rested an instant in the same position, and inside of five minutes, I had as many different outlines of the little beggar.
‘Are you posing, or are you executing a song and dance, my friend?’ I inquired.
‘Whichever monsieur pleases,’ he replied with an angelic smile.
Of course I dismissed him for the day, and of course I paid him for the full time, that being the way we spoil our models.
After the young imp had gone, I made a few perfunctory daubs at my work, but was so thoroughly out of humor, that it took me the rest of the afternoon to undo the damage I had done, so at last I scraped my palette, stuck my brushes in a bowl of black soap, and strolled into the smoking-room. I really believe that, excepting Geneviève’s apartments, no room in the house was so free from the perfume of tobacco as this one. It was a queer chaos of odds and ends hung with threadbare tapestry. A sweet-toned old spinet in good repair stood by the window. There were stands of weapons, some old and dull, others bright and modern, festoons of Indian and Turkish armor over the mantel, two or three good pictures, and a pipe-rack. It was here that we used to come for new sensations in smoking. I doubt if any type of pipe ever existed which was not represented in that rack. When we had selected one, we immediately carried it somewhere else and smoked it; for the place was, on the whole, more gloomy and less inviting than any in the house. But this afternoon, the twilight was very soothing, the rugs and skins on the floor looked brown and soft and drowsy; the big couch was piled with cushions.
I found my pipe and curled up there for an unaccustomed smoke in the smoking-room. I had chosen one with a long flexible stem, and lighting it fell to dreaming. After a while it went out, but I did not stir. I dreamed on and presently fell asleep.
I awoke to the saddest music I had ever heard. The room was quite dark, I had no idea what time it was. A ray of moonlight silvered one edge of the old spinet, and the polished wood seemed to exhale the sounds as perfume floats above a box of sandal wood.
Someone rose in the darkness, and came away weeping quietly, and I was fool enough to cry out ‘Geneviève!’
She dropped at my voice, and I had time to curse myself while I made a light and tried to raise her from the floor. She shrank away with a murmur of pain. She was very quiet, and asked for Boris. I carried her to the divan, and went to look for him, but he was not in the house, and the servants were gone to bed. Perplexed and anxious, I hurried back to Geneviève. She lay where I left her, looking very white.
‘I can’t find Boris nor any of the servants,’ I said.
‘I know,’ she answered faintly, ‘Boris has gone to Ept with Mr Scott. I did not remember when I sent you for him just now.’
‘But he can’t get back in that case before tomorrow afternoon, and – are you hurt? Did I frighten you into falling? What an awful fool I am, but I was only half awake.’
‘Boris thought you had gone home before dinner. Do please excuse us for letting you stay here all this time.’
‘I have had a long nap,’ I laughed, ‘so sound that I did not know whether I was still asleep or not when I found myself staring at a figure that was moving toward me, and called out your name. Have you been trying the old spinet? You must have played very softly.’
I would tell a thousand more lies worse than that one to see the look of relief that came into her face. She smiled adorably and said in her natural voice: ‘Alec, I tripped on that wolf’s head, and I think my ankle is sprained. Please call Marie and then go home.’
I did as she bade me and left her there when the maid came in.
III
At noon next day when I called, I found Boris walking restlessly about his studio.
‘Geneviève is asleep just now,’ he told me, ‘the sprain is nothing, but why should she have such a high fever? The doctor can’t account for it; or else he will not,’ he muttered.
Out of the Dark Page 13