The Yellow Sign & Other Stories

by Robert W. Chambers

  “Hundreds.”

  “And models?”

  “Millions.”

  “And you know Bouguerear?”

  “Yes, and Henner, and Constant and Laurens, and Puvis de Chavannes and Dagan and Courtois and—and all the rest of them!” “And yet you say you are not an artist.”

  “Pardon,” she said gravely, “did I say I was not?”

  “Won’t you tell me?” he hesitated.

  At first she looked at him, shaking her head and smiling, then of a sudden her eyes fell and she began tracing figures with her parasol in the gravel at her feet. Hastings had taken a place on the seat and now, with his elbows on his knees, sat watching the spray drifting above the fountain jet. A small boy dressed as a sailor, stood poking his yacht and crying, “I won’t go home!” His nurse raised her hands to Heaven.

  “Just like a little American boy,” thought Hastings, and a pang of homesickness shot through him.

  Presently the nurse captured the boat and the small boy stood at bay.

  “Monsieur René, when you decide to come here you may have your boat.”

  The boy backed away scowling.

  “Give me my boat I say,” he cried, “and don’t call me René, for my name’s Randall and you know it!”

  “Hello!” said Hastings,—”Randall?—that’s English.” “I am American,” announced the boy in perfectly good English, turning to look at Hastings, “and she’s such a fool she calls me René because mamma calls me Ranny—”

  Here he dodged the exasperated nurse and took up a station behind Hastings, who laughed, and catching him around the waist lifted him into his lap.

  “One of my countrymen,” he said to the girl beside him. He smiled while he spoke, but there was a queer feeling in his throat. “Don’t you see the stars and striped on my yacht?” demanded Randall. Sure enough, the American colors hung limply under the nurse’s arm.

  “Oh,” cried the girl, “he is charming,” and impulsively stooped to kiss him, but the infant Randall wriggled out of Hastings’ arms and his nurse pounced upon him with an angry glance at the girl.

  She reddened and then bit her lips as the nurse, with eyes still fixed on her, dragged the child away and ostentatiously wiped his lips with her handkerchief.

  Then she stole a look at Hastings and bit her lip again. “What an ill-tempered woman,” he said. “In America, most nurses are flattened with people kiss their children.”

  For an instant she tipped the parasol to hide her face, then closed it with a snap and looked at him defiantly. “Do you think it strange that she objected?”

  “Why not?” he said in surprise.

  Again she looked at him with quick searching eyes.

  His eyes were clear and bright and he smiled back, repeating, “Why not?” “You are droll,” she murmured bending her head.

  “Why?”

  But she made no answer, and sat silent, tracing curves and circles in the dust with her parasol. After a while he said—”I am glad to see that young people have so much liberty here. I understood that the French were not at all like us. You know in America—or at least where I live in Millbrook, girls have every liberty,—to out alone and receive their friends alone, and I was afraid I should miss it here. But I see how it is now, and I am glad I was mistaken.”

  She raised her eyes to his and kept them there. He continued pleasantly— “Since I have sat here I have seen a lot of pretty girls walking alone on the terrace there,—and then you are alone too. Tell me, for I do not know French customs,—do you have the liberty of going to the theatre without a chaperone?”

  For a long time she studied his face, and then with a trembling smile said, “Why do you ask me?” “Because you must know, of course,” he said gaily.

  “Yes,” she replied indifferently, “I know.”

  He waited for an answer, but getting none, decided that perhaps she had misunderstood him. “I hope you don’t think I mean to presume on our short acquaintance,” he began,—”in fact it is very odd but I don’t know your name. When Mr. Clifford presented me he only mentioned mine. Is that the custom in France?”

  “It is the custom in the Latin Quarter,” she said with a queer light in her eyes. Then suddenly she began talking almost feverishly. “You must know, Monsieur Hastings, that we are all un peu sans gêe;ne here in the Latin Quarter. We are very Bohemian and etiquette and ceremony are out of place. It was for that Monsieur Clifford presented you to me with small ceremony, and left us together with less,—only for that, I am his friend, and I have many friends in the Latin Quarter, and we all know each other very well—and I am not studying art but—but—”

  “But what?” he said, bewildered. “I shall not tell you,—it is a secret,” she said with an uncertain smile. On both cheeks a pink spot was burning, and her eyes were very bright.

  Then in a moment her face fell. “Do you know Monsieur Clifford very intimately?” “Not very.”

  After a while she turned to him, grave and a little pale.

  “My name is Valentine—Valentine Tissot. Might—might I ask a service of you on such very short acquaintance?”

  “Oh,” he cried, “I should be honored.” “It is only this,” she said gently, “it is not much. Promise me not to speak to Monsieur Clifford about me. Promise me that you will speak to no one about me.”

  “I promise,” he said, greatly puzzled.

  She laughed nervously. “I wish to remain a mystery. It is a caprice.” “But,” he began, “I had wished, I had hoped that you might give Monsieur Clifford permission to bring me, to present me at your house.”

  “My—my house!” she repeated.

  “I mean, where you live, in fact, to present me to you family.” The change in the girl’s face shocked him.

  “I beg your pardon,” he cried, “I have hurt you.”

  And as quick as a flash she understood him because she was a woman. “My parents are dead,” she said.

  Presently he began again, very gently.

  “Would it displease you if I beg you to receive me? Is it the custom?”

  “I cannot,” she answered. Then glancing up at him, “I am sorry; I should like to; but believe me, I cannot.”

  He bowed seriously and looked vaguely uneasy.

  “It isn’t because I don’t wish to. I—I like you; you are very kind to me.”

  “Kind?” he cried, surprised and puzzled.

  “I like you,” she said slowly, “and we will see each other sometimes if you will.” “At friends’ houses?”

  “No, not at friends’ houses.”

  “Where?”

  “Here,” she said with defiant eyes.

  “Why,” he cried, “in Paris you are much more liberal in your views than we are.” She looked at him curiously.

  “Yes, we are very Bohemian.”

  “I think it is charming,” he declared.

  “You see, we shall be in the best of society,” she ventured timidly,

  with a pretty gesture toward the statues of the dead queens, ranged in stately ranks above the terrace.

  He looked at her, delighted, and she brightened at the success of her innocent little pleasantry. “Indeed,” she smiled, “I shall be well chaperoned, because you see we are under the protection of the gods themselves; look, there are Apollo, and Juno, and Venus, on their pedestals,” counting them on her small gloved fingers, “and Ceres, Hercules, and—but I can’t make out—”

  Hastings turned to look up at the winged god under whose shadows they were seated. “Why, it’s Love,” he said.

  IV

  “There is a nouveau here,” drawled Laffat, leaning around his easel and addressing his friend Bowles, “there is a nouveau here who is so tender and green and appetizing that Heaven help him if he should fall into a salad bowl.”

  “Hayseed?” inquired Bowled, plastering in a background with a broken palette-knife and squinting at the effect with approval. “Yes, Squeedunk or Oshkosh, and how he ever grew up among the
daisies and escaped the cows, Heaven alone knows!” Bowles rubbed his thumb across the outlines of his study to “throw in a little atmosphere,” as he said, glared at the model, pulled at his pipe and finding it out struck a match on his neighbor’s back to relight it.

  “His name,” continued Laffat, hurling a bit of bread at the hatrack, “his name is Hastings. He is a berry. He knows no more about the world,”—and here Mr. Laffat’s face spoke volumes for his own knowledge of that planet,—”than a maiden cat on its first moonlight stroll.”

  Bowles now having succeeded in lighting his pipe, repeated the thumb touch on the other edge of the study and said “Ah!” “Yes,” continued his friend, “and would you imagine it, he seems to think that everything here goes on as it does in his d—d little back- woods ranch at home; talks about the pretty girls who walk alone in the street; says how sensible it is; and how French parents are misrepresented inAmerica; says that for his part he finds French girls,—and he confessed to only knowing one,—as jolly asAmerican girls. I tried to set him right, tried to give him a pointer as to what sort of ladies walk about alone or with students, and he was either too stupid or too innocent to catch on. Then I gave it to him straight, and he said I was a vile-minded fool and marched off.”

  “Did you assist him with your shoe?” inquired Bowles, languidly interested. “Well, no.”

  “He called you a vile-minded fool.”

  “He was correct,” said Clifford from his easel in front. “What—what do you mean!” demanded Laffat, turning red. “That,” replied Clifford.

  “Who spoke to you? Is this your business?” sneered Bowles, but nearly lost his balance as Clifford swung about and eyed him. “Yes,” he said slowly, “it’s my business.”

  No one spoke for some time.

  Then Clifford sang out, “I say, Hastings!”

  And when Hastings left his easel and came around, he nodded toward the astonished Laffat. “This man has been disagreeable to you, and I want to tell you that any time you feel inclined to kick him, why I will hold the other creature.”

  Hastings, embarrassed, said, “Why no, I don’t agree with his ideas, nothing more.” Clifford said “Naturally,” and slipping his arm through Hastings’, strolled about with him, and introduced him to several of his own friends, at which all the nouveaux opened their eyes with envy, and the studio were given to understand that Hastings, although prepared to do menial work as the latest nouveau, was already within the charmed circle of the old, respected and feared, the truly great.

  The rest finished, the model resumed his place and work went on in a chorus of songs and yells and every ear-splitting noise which the art student utters when studying the beautiful.

  Five o’clock struck,—the model yawned, stretched and climbed into his trousers, and the noisy contents of six studios crowded through the hall and down into the street. Ten minutes later, Hastings found himself on top of a Montrouge tram and shortly afterward was joined by Clifford.

  They climbed down at the rue Gay Lussac.

  “I always stop here,” observed Clifford, “I like the walk through the Luxembourg.”

  “By the way,” said Hastings, “how can I call on you when I don’t know where you live?”

  “Why, I live opposite you.”

  “What—the studio in the garden where the almond trees are and the blackbirds—”

  “Exactly,” said Clifford. “I’m with my friend Elliott.” Hastings thought of the description of the two American artists which he had heard from Miss Susie Byng, and looked blank. Clifford continued, “Perhaps you had better let me know when you think of coming so,—so that I will be sure to—to be there,” he ended rather lamely.

  “I shouldn’t care to meet any of your model friends there,” said Hastings smiling. “You know—my ideas are rather straight laced,—I suppose you would say, Puritanical. I shouldn’t enjoy it and wouldn’t know how to behave.”

  “Oh, I understand,” said Clifford, but added with great cordiality,—”I’m sure we’ll be friends although you may not approve of me and my set, but you will like Severn and Selby because—because, well they are like yourself, old chap.”

  After a moment he continued, “There is something I want to speak about. You see when I introduced you, last week, in the Luxembourg, to Valentine—”

  “Not a word!” cried Hastings, smiling, “you must not tell me a word of her!”

  “Why—” “No—not a word!” he said gaily—”I insist,—promise me upon your word of honor you will not speak of her until I give you permission; promise!”

  “I promise,” said Clifford, amazed.

  “She is a charming girl,—we had such a delightful chat after you left, and I thank you for presenting me, but not another word about her until I give you permission.”

  “Oh,” murmured Clifford.

  “Remember your promise,” he smiled, as he turned into his gateway.

  Clifford strolled across the street and traversing the ivy-covered alley, entered his garden.

  He felt for his studio key, muttering, “I wonder—I wonder,—but of course he doesn’t!”

  He entered the hallway, and fitting the key into the door, stood staring at the two cards tacked over the panels.

  FOXHALL CLIFFORD

  RICHARD OSBORNE ELLIOTT

  “Why the devil doesn’t he want me to speak of her?” He opened the door, and, discouraging the caresses of two brindle bull-dogs, sank down on the sofa.

  Elliott sat smoking and sketching with a piece of charcoal by the window.

  “Hello,” he said, without looking around. Clifford gazed absently at the back of his head, murmuring, “I’m afraid, I’m afraid that man is too innocent. I say, Elliott,” he said, at last, “Hastings—you know the chap that old Tabby Byram came around here to tell us about—the day you had to hide Colette in the armoire—”

  “Yes, what’s up?”

  “Oh, nothing. He’s a brick.”

  “Yes,” said Elliott, without enthusiasm.

  “Don’t you think so?” demanded Clifford.

  “Why yes, but he is going to have a tough time when some of his illusions are dispelled.”

  “More shame to those who dispel ‘em!”

  “Yes,—wait until he comes to pay his call on us, unexpectedly, of course—”

  Clifford looked virtuous and lighted a cigar. “I was just going to say,” he observed, “that I have asked him not to come without letting us know, so I can postpone any orgie you may have intended—”

  “Ah!” cried Elliott indignantly, “I suppose you put it to him in that way.” “Not exactly,” grinned Clifford. Then more seriously, “I don’t want anything to occur here to bother him. He’s a brick and it’s a pity we can’t be more like him.”

  “I am,” observed Elliott complacently, “only living with you—” “Listen!” cried the other, “I have managed to put my foot in it in great style. Do you know what I’ve done? Well—the first time I met him in the street,—or rather, it was in the Luxembourg, I introduced him to Valentine.”

  “Did he object?” “Believe me,” said Clifford, solemnly, “this rustic Hastings has no more idea that Valentine is—is—in fact is Valentine, than he has that he himself is a beautiful example of moral decency in a Quarter where morals are as rare as elephants. I heard enough in a conversation between that blackguard Laffat and the little immoral eruption, Bowles, to open my eyes. I tell you Hastings is a trump! He’s a healthy, clean minded young fellow, bred in a small country village, brought up with the idea that saloons are way stations to hell—and as for women—”

  “Well,” demanded Elliott.

  “Well,” said Clifford, “his idea of the dangerous woman is probably a painted Jezabel.”

  “Probably, replied the other.

  “He’s a trump!” said Clifford, “and if he swears the world is as good and pure as his own heart, I’ll swear he’s right.” Elliott sat smoking and sketching with a piece of charcoal and turne
d to his sketch saying, “he will never hear any pessimism from Richard Osborne E.”

  “He’s a lesson to me,” said Clifford. Then he unfolded a small perfumed note, written on rose-colored paper, which had been lying on the table before him.

  He read it, smiled, whistled a bar or two from “Miss Helyett,” and sat down to answer it on his best cream-laid note-paper. When it was written and sealed, he picked up his stick and marched up and down the studio two or three times, whistling.

  “Going out?” inquired the other, without turning.

  “Yes,” he said, but lingered a moment over Elliott’s shoulder, watching him pick out the lights in his sketch with a bit of bread. “To-morrow is Sunday,” he observed after a moment’s silence. “Well?” inquired Elliott.

  “Have you seen Colette?”

  “No, I will to-night. She and Rowden and Jacquette are coming to Boulant’s. I suppose you and Cécile will be there?”

  “Well, no,” replied Clifford. “Cécile dines at home tonight, and I—I had an idea of going to Mignon’s.”

  Elliott looked at him with disapproval.

  “You can make all the arrangements for La Roche without me,” he continued, avoiding Elliott’s eyes. “What are you up to now?”

  “Nothing,” protested Clifford.

  “Don’t tell me,” replied his chum, with scorn, “fellows don’t rush off to Mignon’s when the set dine at Boulant’s. Who is it now?—but no, I won’t ask that,—what’s the use!” Then he lifted up his voice in complaint and beat upon the table with his pipe. “What’s the use of ever trying to keep track of you? What will Cécile say,—oh, yes, what will she say? It’s a pity you can’t be constant two months, yes, by Jove! and the Quarter is indulgent, but you abuse its good-nature and mine too!”

  Presently, he arose, and jamming his hat on his head, marched to the door. “Heaven alone knows why any one puts up with your antics, but they all do and so do I. If I was Cécile or any of the other pretty fools after whom you have toddled and will, in all human probabilities, continue to toddle, I say, if I were Cécile I’d spank you! Now I’m going to Boulant’s, and as usual I shall make excuses for you and arrange the affair, and I don’t care a continental where you are going, but, by the skull of the studio skeleton! if you don’t turn up to-morrow with your sketching-kit under one arm and Cécile under the other,—if you don’t turn up on good shape, I’m done with you, and the rest can think what they please. Good-night.”