The Yellow Sign & Other Stories

by Robert W. Chambers

  Clifford said good-night with as pleasant a smile as he could muster, and then sat down with his eyes on the door. He took out his watch and gave Elliott ten minutes to vanish, then rang the concierge’s call, murmuring, “Oh, dear, oh, dear, why the devil do I do it?”

  “Alfred,” he said, as that gimlet-eyed person answered the call, “make yourself clean and proper, Alfred, and replace your sabots with a pair of shoes. Then put on your best hat and take this letter to the big white house in the rue de Dragon. There is no answer, mon petit Alfred.”

  The concierge departed with a snort in which unwillingness for the errand and affection for M. Clifford were blended. Then with great care the young fellow arrayed himself in all the beauties of his and Elliott’s wardrobe. He took his time about it, and occasionally interrupted his toilet to play his banjo or make pleasing diversion for the bull-dogs by gamboling about on all fours. “I’ve got two hours before me,” he thought, and borrowed a pair of Elliott’s silken footgear, with which he and the dogs played ball until he decided to put them on. Then he lighted a cigarette and inspected his dress-coat. When he had emptied it of four handkerchiefs, a fan, and a pair of crumpled gloves as long as his arm, he decided it was not suited to add éclat to his charms and cast about in his mind for a substitute. Elliott was too thin, and, anyway, his coats were now under lock and key. Rowden probably was as badly off as himself. Hastings! Hastings was the man! But when he threw on a smoking-jacket and sauntered over to Hastings’ house, he was informed that he had been gone over an hour.

  “Now, where in the name of all that’s reasonable could he have gone!” muttered Clifford, looking down the street.

  The maid didn’t know, so he bestowed upon her a fascinating smile and lounged back to the studio. Hastings was not far away. The Luxembourg is within five min - utes’ walk of the rue Nôtre Dame des Camps, and there he sat under the shadow of a winged god, and there he had sat for an hour, poking holes in the dust and watching the steps which lead from the northern terrace to the fountain. The sun hung, a purple globe, above the misty hills of Meudon. Long streamers of clouds touched with rose swept low on the western sky and the dome of the distant Invalides burned like an opal through the haze. Behind the Palace the smoke from a high chimney mounted straight into the air, purple until it crossed the sun where it changed to a bar of smouldering fire. High above the darkening foliage of the chestnuts the twin towers of St. Sulpice rose, an ever-deepening silhouette.

  A sleepy blackbird was carolling in some near thicket and pigeons passed and repassed with the whisper of soft winds in their wings. The light on ht ePalace windows had died away, and the dome of the Pantheon swam aglow above the northern terrace, a fiery Val- halla in the sky, while below in grim array along the terrace ranged, the marble ranks of queens, looked out into the west.

  From the end of the long walk by the northern façade of the Palace came the noise of omnibuses and the cries of the street. Hastings looked at the Palace clock. Six, and as his own watch agreed with it, he fell to poking holes in the gravel again. A constant stream of people passed between the Odeon and the fountain. Priests in black, with silver-buckled shoes, line soldiers, slouchy and rakish, neat girls without hats bearing milliner’s boxes, students with black portfolios and high hats, students with bérets and big canes, nervous, quickstepping officers, symphonies in turquoise and silver, ponderous jan- gling cavalrymen all over dust, pastry cooks’ boys skipping along with utter disregard for the safety of the basket balanced in the impish head, and then the lean outcast, the shambling Paris tramp, slouching with shoulders bent and little eye furtively scanning the ground for smokers’ refuse;—all these moved in a steady stream across the fountain circle and out into the city by the Odeon, whose long arcades were now beginning to flicker with gas-jets. The melancholy bells of St. Sulpice struck the hour and the clock-tower of the Palace lighted up. Then hurried steps sounded across the gravel and Hastings raised his head.

  “How late you are,” he said, but his voice was hoarse and only his flushed face told how long had seemed the waiting.

  She said, “I was kept—indeed, I was so much annoyed—and— and I may only stay a moment.”

  She sat down beside him casting a furtive glance over her shoulder at the god upon his pedestal.

  “What a nuisance, that intruding cupid still there?”

  “Wings and arrows too,” said Hastings, unheeding her motion to be seated. “Wings,” she murmured, “oh, yes—to fly away with when he’s tired of his play. Of course it was a man who conceived the idea of wings, otherwise Cupid would have been unsupportable.”

  “Do you think so?”

  “Ma foi, it’s what men think.”

  “And women?”

  “Oh,” she said, with a toss of her small head, “I really forget what we were speaking of.”

  “We were speaking of love,” said Hastings. “I was not,” said the girl. “Then looking up at the marble god, “I don’t care for this one at all. I don’t believe he knows how to shoot his arrows—no indeed, he is a coward;—he creeps up like an assas- sin in the twilight. I don’t approve of cowardice,” she announced, and turned her back on the statue.

  “I think,” said Hastings quietly, “that he does shoot fairly—yes, and even gives one warning.” “Is it your experience, Monsieur Hastings?”

  He looked straight into her eyes and said, “He is warning me.”

  “Heed the warning then,” she cried, with a nervous laugh. As she spoke she stripped off her gloves, and then carefully proceeded to draw them on again. When this was accomplished she glanced at the Palace clock, saying, “Oh, dear, how late it is!” furled her umbrella then unfurled it, and finally looked at him.

  “No,” he said, “I shall not heed his warning.” “Oh, dear,” she sighed again, “still talking about that tiresome statue!” Then stealing a glance at his face, “I suppose—I suppose you are in love.”

  “I don’t know,” he muttered, “I suppose I am.” She raised her head with a quick gesture. “You seem delighted at this idea,” she said, but bit her lip and trembled as his eyes met hers. Then sudden fear came over her and she sprang up, staring into the gathering shadows.

  “Are you cold?” he said, but she only answered, “Oh, dear, oh, dear, it is late—so late. I must go—good-night.”

  She gave him her gloved hand a moment and then withdrew it with a start. “What is it?” he insisted, “are you frightened?”

  She looked at him strangely.

  “No—no—not frightened,—you are very good to me—”

  “By Jove!” he burst out, “what do you mean by saying I’m good to you! That’s at least the third time, and I don’t understand!” The sound of a drum from the guard-house at the palace cut him short. “Listen,” she whispered, “they are going to close. It’s late, oh, so late!”

  The rolling of the drum came nearer and nearer, and then the silhouette of the drummer cut the sky above the eastern terrace. The fading light lingered a moment on his belt and bayonet, then he passed into the shadows, drumming the echoes awake. The roll became fainter along the eastern terrace, then grew and grew and rattled with increasing sharpness when he passed the avenue by the bronze lion and turned down the western terrace walk. Louder and louder the drum sounded and the echoes struck back the notes from the gray palace wall; and now the drummer loomed up before them—his red trousers a dull spot in the gathering gloom, the brass of his drum and bayonet touched on his shoulders. He passed, leaving the crash of the drum in their ears, and far into the alley of trees they saw his little tin cup shining on his haversack. Then the sentinels began the monotonous cry: “on ferme! on ferme!” and the bugle blew from the barracks in the rue de Tournon.

  “On ferme! on ferme!”

  “Good-night,” she whispered, “I must return alone tonight.”

  He watched her until she reached the northern terrace, and then sat down on the marble seat until a hand on his shoulder and a glimmer of bayonets warne
d him away.

  She passed on through the grove, and turning into the rue de Medici, traversed it to the Boulevard. At the corner she bought a bunch of violets and walked on along the Boulevard to the rue des Ecoles. A cab was drawn up before Boulant’s and a pretty girl aided by Elliot jumped out.

  “Valentine!” cried the girl, “come with us!”

  “I can’t,” she said, stopping a moment—”I have a rendezvous at Mignon’s.” “Not Victor?” cried the girl laughing, but she passed with a little shiver, nodding good-night, then turning into the Boulevard St. Germain, she walked a little faster to escape a gay party sitting before the Café Cluny who called to her to join them. At the door of the Restaurant Mignon stood a coal-black negro in buttons. He took off his peaked cap as she mounted the carpeted stairs.

  “Send Eugene to me,” she said at the office, and passing through the hallway to the right of the dining-room stopped before a row of panelled doors. A saiter passed and she repeated her demand for Eugene, who presently appeared, noiselessly skipping, and bowed murmuring, “Madame.”

  “Who is here?” “No one in the cabinets, madame; in the hall Madame Madelon and Monsieur Gay, Monsieur de Clamart, Monsieur Clisson, Monsieur Marie and their set.” Then he looked around and bowing again murmured. “Monsieur awaits Madame since half an hour,” and he knocked at one of the panelled doors bearing the number six.

  Clifford opened the door and the girl entered.

  The garçon bowed her in and whispering, “will Monsieur have the goodness to ring,” vanished. He helped her off with her jacket and took her hat and umbrella. When she was seated at the little table with Clifford opposite, she smiled and leaned forward on both elbows looking him in the face.

  “What are you doing here?” she demanded.

  “Waiting,” he replied, in accents of adoration.

  For an instant she turned and examined herself in the glass. The wide blue eyes, the curling hair, the straight nose and short curled lip flashed in the mirror an instant only, and then, its depths reflected her pretty neck and back. “Thus do I turn my back on vanity,” she said, and then leaning forward again, “what are you doing here?”

  “Waiting for you,” repeated Clifford, slightly troubled. “And Cécile.”

  “Now don’t, Valentine—”

  “Do you know,” she said calmly, “I dislike your conduct?”

  He was a little disconcerted, and rang for Eugene to cover his confusion. The soup was bisque, and the wine Pommery, and the courses followed each other with the usual regularity until Eugene brought coffee, and there was nothing left on the table but a small silver lamp.

  “Valentine,” said Clifford, after having obtained permission to smoke, “is it the Vaudeville or the Eldorado—or both, or the Nou- veau Cirque, or—”

  “It is here,” said Valentine.

  “Well,” he said, greatly flattered, “I’m afraid I couldn’t amuse you—”

  “Oh, yes, you are funnier than the Eldorado.”

  “Now see here, don’t guy me, Valentine. You always do, and, and,—you know what they say,—a good laugh kills—” “What?”

  “Er—er—love and all that.”

  She laughed until her eyes were moist with tears. “Tiens,” she cried, “he is dead, then!” Clifford eyed her with growing alarm.

  “Do you know why I came?” she said.

  “No,” he replied uneasily, “I don’t.”

  “How long have you made love to me?”

  “Well,” he admitted, somewhat startled,— “I should say,—for about a year. “It is a year, I think. Are you not tired?”

  He did not answer.

  “Don’t you know that I like you too well to—to ever fall in love

  with you?” she said. “Don’t you know that we are too good comrades,—too old friends for that?And were we not,—do you think that I do not know your history, Monsieur Clifford?”

  “Don’t be,—don’t be so sarcastic,” he urged, “don’t be unkind, Valentine.” “I’m not. I’m kind. I’m very kind,—to you and to Cécile.” “Cécile is tired of me.”

  “I hope she is,” said the girl, “for she deserves a better fate. Tiens, do you know your reputation in the Quarter? Of the inconstant, the most inconstant,—utterly incorrigible and no more serious than a goat on a summer night. Poor Cécile!”

  Clifford looked so uncomfortable that she spoke more kindly. “I like you. You know that. Everybody does. You are a spoiled child here. Everything is permitted you and every one makes allowance, but every one cannot be a victim to caprice.”

  “Caprice!” he cried. “By Jove, if the girls of the Latin Quarter are not capricious—” “Never mind,—never mind about that! You must not sit in judg - ment—you of all men. Why are you here to-night? Oh,” she cried, “I will tell you why! Monsieur receives a little note; he sends a little answer; he dresses in his conquering raiment—”

  “I don’t,” said Clifford, very red. “You do, and it becomes you,” she retorted with a faint smile. Then again, very quietly, “I am in your power, but I know I am in the power of a friend. I have come to acknowledge it to you here,—and it is because of that that I am here to beg of you—a—a favor.”

  Clifford opened his eyes, but said nothing.

  “I am in—great distress of mind. It is Monsieur Hastings.” “Well,” said Clifford, in some astonishment.

  “I want to ask you,” she continued in a low voice, “I want to ask you to—to—in case you should speak of me before him,—not to say,—not to say—”

  “I shall not speak of you to him,” he said quietly.

  “Can—can you prevent others?”

  “I might if I was present. May I ask why?”

  “That is not fair,” she murmured, “you know how—how he con - siders me,—as he considers every woman. You know how different he is from you and the rest. I have never seen a man,—such a man as Monsieur Hastings.”

  He let his cigarette go out unnoticed. “I am almost afraid of him—afraid he should know what we all are in the Quarter. Oh, I do not wish him to know! I do not wich him to—to turn from me—to cease from speaking to me as he does! You—you and the rest cannot know what it has been to me. I could not believe him,—I could not believe he was so good and—and no- ble. I do not wish him to know,—so soon. He will find out—sooner or later, he will find out for himself, and then he will turn away from me. Why!” she cried passionately, “why should he turn from me and not from you?”

  Clifford, much embarrassed, eyed his cigarette.

  The girl rose, very white. “He is your friend—you have a right to warn him.” “He is my friend,” he said at length.

  They looked at each other in silence.

  Then she cried, “by all that I hold to me most sacred, you need not warn him!”

  “I shall trust your word,” he said pleasantly.

  V The month passed quickly for Hastings, and left few definite im - pressions after it. It did leave some, however. One was a painful impression of meeting Mr. Bladen on the Boulevard des Capucines in company with a very pronounced young person whose laugh dismayed him, and when at last he escaped from the bock he felt as if the whole boulevard was looking at him, and judging him by his company. Later, an instinctive conviction regarding the young person with Mr. Bladen sent the hot blood into his cheek and he returned to the pension in such a miserable state of mind that Miss Byng was alarmed and advised him to conquer his homesickness at once.

  Another impression was equally vivid. One Saturday morning feeling lonely, his wanderings about the city brought him to the Gare St. Lazare. It was early for breakfast, but he entered the Hotel Terminus and took a table near the window. As he wheeled about to give his order, a man passing rapidly along the aisle collided with his head, and looking up to receive the expected apology, he was met instgead by a slap on the shoulder and a hearty, “what the deuce are you doing here, old chap?” It was Rowden, who seized him and told him to come along. So, mildly pro
testing, he was ushered into a private dining-room where Clifford, rather red, jumped up from the table and welcomed him with a startled air which was softened by the unaffected glee of Rowden and the extreme courtesy of Elliott. The latter presented him to three bewitching girls who welcomed him so charmingly and seconded Rowden in his demand that Hastings should make one of the party that he consented at once. While Elliott briefly out- lined the projected excursion to La Roche, Hastings delightedly ate his omelet, and returned the smiles of encouragement from Cécile and Colette and Jacqueline. Meantime Clifford in a bland whisper was telling Rowden what an ass he was. Poor Rowden looked miserable until Elliott, divining how affairs were turning, frowned on Clifford and found a moment to let Rowden know that they were all going to make the best of it.

  “You shut up,” he observed to Clifford, “it’s fate, and that settles it.” “It’s Rowden and that settles it,” murmured Clifford, concealing a grin. For after all he was not Hastings’ wet nurse. So it came about that the train which left the Gare St. Lazare at 9:15 A.M. stopped a moment in its career towards Havre and desposited at the red-roofed station of La Roche a merry part, armed with sunshades, trout rods, and one cane, carried by the non-combatant, Hastings. Then, when they had established their camp in a grove of sycamores which bordered the little river Ept, Clifford, the acknowledged master of all that pertained to sportsmanship, took command.

  “You, Rowden,” he said, “divide your flies with Elliott and keep an eye on him or else he’ll be trying to put on a float and sinker. Pre- vent him by force from grubbing about for worms.”

  Elliott protested, but was forced to smile in the general laugh. “You make me ill,” he asserted; do you think this is my first trout?” “I shall be delighted to see your first trout,” said Clifford, and dodging a fly hook, hurled with intent to hit, proceeded to sort and equip three slender rods destined to bring joy and fish to Cécile, Co- lette, and Jacqueline. With perfect gravity he ornamented each line with four split shot, a small hook, and a brilliant quill float.