The Yellow Sign & Other Stories

by Robert W. Chambers

  “I shall never touch the worms,” announced Cécile with a shudder. Jacqueline and Colette hastened to sustain her, and Hastings pleasantly offered to act in the capacity of general baiter and taker off of fish. But Cécile, doubtless fascinated by the gaudy flies in Clifford’s book, decided to accept lessons from him in the true art, and presently disappeared up the Ept with Clifford in tow.

  Elliott looked doubtfully at Colette. “I prefer gudgeons,” said that damsel with decision, “and you and Monsieur Rowden may go away when you please; may they not, Jacqueline?”

  “Certainly,” responded Jacqueline.

  Elliott, undecided, examined his rod and reel.

  “You’ve got your reel on wrong side up,” observed Rowden. Elliott wavered, and stole a glance at Colette.

  “I—I—have almost decided to—er—not to flip the flies about just now,” he began. “There’s the pole that Cécile left—” “Don’t call it a pole,” corrected Rowden.

  “Rod then,” continued Elliott, and started off in the wake of the two girls, but was promptly collared by Rowden.

  “No you don’t! Fancy a man fishing with a float and sinker when he has a fly rod in his hand! You come along!” Where the placid little Ept flows down between the thickets to the Seine, a grassy bank shadows the haunt of the gudgeon, and on this bank sat Colette and Jacqueline and chattered and laughed and watched the swerving of the scarlet quills, while Hastings, his hat over his eyes, his head on a bank of moss, listened to their soft voices and gallantly unhooked the small and indignant gudgeon when a flash of a rod and a half suppressed scream announced a catch. The sunlight filtered through the leafy thickets awaking to song the forest birds. Magpies on spotless black and white flirted past, alighting near by with a hop and bound and twitch of the tail. Blue and white jays with rosy breasts shrieked through the trees, and a low-sailing hawk wheeled among the fields of ripening wheat, putting to flight flocks of twittering hedge birds.

  Across the Seine a gull dropped on the water like a plume. The air was pure and still. Scarcely a leaf moved. Sounds from a distant farm came faintly, the shrill cock-crow and dull baying. Now and then a steam-tug with big raking smoke-pipe, bearing the name, “Guève 27,” ploughed up the river dragging its interminable train of barges, or a sailboat dropped down with the current toward sleepy Rouen.

  A faint fresh odor of earth and water hung in the air, and through the sunlight, orange-tipped butterflies danced above the marsh grass, soft velvety butterflies flapped through the mossy woods.

  Hastings was thinking of Valentine. It was two o’clock when Elliott strolled back, and frankly admitted that he had eluded Rowden, sat down beside Colette and prepared to doze with satisfaction.

  “Where are your trout?” said Colette severely.

  “They still live,” murmured Elliott and went fast asleep.

  Rowden returned shortly after, and casting a scornful glance at the slumbering one, displayed three crimson-flocked trout. “And that,” smiled Hastings lazily, “that is the holy end to which the faithful plod,—the slaughter of these small fish with a bit of silk and feather.”

  Rowden disdained to answer him. Colette caught another gudgeon and awoke Elliott who protested and gazed about for the lunch baskets, as Clifford and Cécile came up demanding instant refreshment. Cécile’s skirts were soaked, and her gloves torn but she was happy, and Clifford, dragging out a two pound trout, stood still to receive the applause of the company.

  “Where the deuce did you get that,” demanded Elliott. Cécile, wet and enthusiastic, recounted the battle, and then Clifford eulogized her powers with the fly, and, in proof, produced from his creel a defunct chub, which, he observed, just missed being a trout.

  They were all very merry at luncheon and Hastings was voted “charming.” He enjoyed it immensely,—only it seemed to him at mo- ments that flirtation went further in France than in Millbrook, Con- necticut, and he thought that Cécile might be a little less enthusiastic about Clifford, that perhaps it would be quire as well if Jacqueline sat further away from Rowden and that possibly Colette could have, for a moment, at least, taken her eyes from Elliott’s face. Still he enjoyed it—except when his thoughts drifted to Valentine and then he felt that he was very far away from her. La Roche is at least an hour and a half from Paris. It is also true that he felt a happiness, a quick heart-beat when, at eight o’clock that night the train which bore them from La Roche rolled into the Gare St. Lazare and he was once more in the city of Valentine.

  “Good-night,” they said, pressing around him. “You must come with us next time!” He promised, and watched them, two by two, drift into the darkening city, and stood so long that, when again he raised his eyes, the vast Boulevard was twinkling with gasjets through which the electric lights stared like moons.

  VI

  It was with another quick heart-beat that he awoke next morning, for his first thought was of Valentine. The sun already gilded the towers of Notre Dame, the clatter of workmen’s sabots awoke sharp echoes in the street below, and across the way a blackbird in a pink almond tree was going into an ecstasy of trills.

  He determined to awake Clifford for a brisk walk in the country, hoping later to beguile that gentleman into the American church for his soul’s sake. He found Alfred the gimlet-eyed, washing the asphalt walk which led to the studio.

  “Monsieur Elliott?” he replied to the perfunctory inquiry, “je ne sais pas.”

  “And Monsieur Clifford,”—began Hastings somewhat aston- ished.

  “Monsieur Clifford,” said the concierge with fine irony, “will be pleased to see you, as he retired early; in fact he has just come in.” Hastings hesitated while the concierge pronounced a fiery eulo - gy on people who never stayed out all night and then came battering at the lodge gate during hours which even a gendarme held sacred to sleep. He also discourse eloquently upon the beauties of temperance, and took an ostentatious draught from the fountain in the court.

  “I do not think I will come in,” said Hastings. “Pardon, Monsieur,” growled the concierge, “perhaps it would be well to see Monsieur Clifford. He possibly needs aid. Me he drives forth with hair-brushes and boots. It is a mercy if he has not set fire to something with his candle.” Hastings hesitated for an instant, but swallowing his dislike of such a mission, walked slowly through the ivy-covered alley and across the inner garden to the studio. He knocked. Perfect silence. Then he knocked again and this time something struck the door from within with a crush.

  “That,” said the concierge, “was a boot.” He fitted his duplicate key into the lock and ushered Hastings in. Clifford, in disordered evening dress, sat on the rug in the middle of the room. He held in his hand a shoe, and did not appear astonished to see Hastings.

  “Good-morning, do you use Pears’ soap?” he inquired with a vague wave of his hand and a vaguer smile.

  Hastings’ heart sank. “For Heaven’s sake,” he said; “Clifford, go to bed.”

  “Not while that—that Alfred pokes his shaggy head in here an’ I have a shoe left.” Hastings blew out the candle, picked up Clifford’s hat and cane, and said, with an emotion he could not conceal, “this is terrible, Clifford,—I—never knew you did this sort of thing.”

  “Well, I do,” said Clifford.

  “Where is Elliott?”

  “Ole chap,” returned Clifford, becoming maudlin, “Providence which feeds—feeds—er—sparrows an’ that sort of thing watcheth over the intemperate wanderer—”

  “Where is Elliott?” But Clifford only wagged his head and waved his arm about. “He’s out there,—somewhere about.” Then suddenly feeling a desire to see his missing chum, lifted up his voice and howled for him.

  Hastings, thoroughly shocked, sat down in the lounge without a word. Presently, after shedding several scalding tears, Clifford brightened up and rose with great precaution.

  “Ole chap,” he observed, “do you want to see er—er miracle? Well, here goes. I’m goin’ to begin.” He paused, beaming
at vacancy.

  “Er miracle,” he repeated.

  Hastings supposed he was alluding to the miracle of his keeping his balance and said nothing.

  “I’m goin’ to bed,” he announced, “poor ole Clifford’s goin’ to bed, an’ that’s er miracle!” And he did with a nice calculation of distance and equilibrium which would have rung enthusiastic yells of applause from Elliott had he been there to assist en connaisseur. But he was not. He had not yet reached the studio. He was on his way, however, and smiled with magnificent condescension on Hastings, who, half an hour later, found him reclining upon a bench in the Luxembourg. He permitted himself to be aroused, dusted and escorted to the gate. Here, however, he refused all further assistance, and bestowing a patronizing bow upon Hastings, steered a tolerably true course for the rue Vavin.

  Hastings watched him out of sight, and then slowly retraced his steps toward the fountain. At first he felt gloomy and depressed, but gradually the clear air of the morning lifted the pressure from his heart, and he sat down on the marble seat under the shadow of the winged god.

  The air was fresh and sweet with perfume from the orange flow - ers. Everywhere pigeons were bathing, dashing the water over their iris-hued breasts, flashing in and out of the spray or nestling almost to the neck along the polished basin. The sparrows, too, were abroad in force, soaking their dust-colored feathers in the limpid pool and chirping with might and main. Under the sycamores which surround the duck pond opposite the fountain of Marie de Medici, the waterfowl cropped the herbage, or waddled in rows down the bank to embark on some solemn aimless cruise.

  Butterflies, somewhat lame from a chilly night’s repose under the lilac leaves, crawled over and over the white phlox, or took a rheumatic flight toward some sun-warmed shrub. The bees were already busy among the heliotrope and one or two great gray flies with brickcolored eyes sat in a spot of sunlight beside the marble seat, or chased each other about, only to return again to the spot of sunshine and rub their forelegs, exulting.

  The sentries paced briskly before the painted boxes, pausing at times to look toward the guard-house for their relief. They came at last, with a shuffle of feet and click of bayonets, the word was passed, the relief fell out, and away they went, crunch, crunch, across the gravel.

  A mellow chime floated from the clock-tower of the palace, the deep bell of St. Sulpice, echoed the stroke. Hastings sat dreaming in the shadow of the god, and while he mused, somebody came and sat down beside him. At first he did not raise his head. It was only when she spoke that he sprang up.

  “You! At this hour?”

  “I was restless, I could not sleep.” Then in a low happy voice— ”and you! at this hour?”

  “I—I slept, but the sun awoke me.” “I could not sleep,” she said, and her eyes seemed, for a moment, touched with an indefinable shadow. Then, smiling, “I am so glad—I seemed to know you were coming. Don’t laugh, I believe in dreams.”

  “Did you really dream of,—of my being here?” “I think I was awake when I dreamed it,” she admitted. Then for a time they were mute, acknowledging by silence the happiness of being together. And after all their silence was eloquent, for faint smiles, and glances born of their thoughts, crossed and recrossed, until lips moved and words were formed, which seemed almost superfluous. What they said was not very profound. Perhaps the most valuable jewel that fell from Hastings’ lips bore direct reference to breakfast.

  “I have not yet had my chocolate,” she confessed, “but what a material man you are.” “Valentine,” he said impulsively, “I wish,—I do wish that you would,—just for this once,—give me the whole day,—just for this once.”

  “Oh dear,” she smiled, “not only material but selfish.” “Not selfish, hungry,” he said, looking at her.

  “A cannibal too, oh dear!”

  “Will you, Valentine?”

  “But my chocolate—”

  “Take it with me.”

  “But déjeuner—”

  “Together, at St. Cloud.”

  “But I can’t—”

  “Together,—all day,—all day long; will you Valentine?” She was silent.

  “Only for this once.”

  Again that indefinable shadow fell across her eyes, and when it was gone she sighed. “Yes,—together, only for this once.” “All day?” he said, doubting his happiness.

  “All day,” she smiled, “and oh, I am so hungry.”

  He laughed, enchanted.

  “What a material young lady it is.”

  On the Boulevard St. Michel there is a Crémerie painted white and blue outside, and neat and clean as a whistle inside. The auburnhaired young woman who speaks French like a native, and rejoices in the name of Murphy, smiled at them as they entered, and tossing a fresh napkin over the zinc tête-à-tête table, whisked before them two cups of chocolate and a basket full of crisp, fresh croissons.

  The primrose-colored pats of butter each stamped with a shamrock in relief, seemed saturated with the fragrance of Normandy pastures.

  “How delicious,” they said in the same breath, and then laughed at the coincidence.

  “With but a single thought,” he began.

  “How absurd,” she cried with cheeks all rosy, “I’m thinking I’d like a croisson.”

  “So am I,” he replied triumphant, “that proves it.” Then they had a quarrel; she accusing him of behavior unworthy of a child in arms, and he denying it, and bringing counter charges, until Mademoiselle Murphy laughed in sympathy, and the last croisson was eaten under a flag of truce. Then they rose, and she took his arm with a bright nod to Mlle. Murphy, who cried them a merry: “Bonjour, Madame! bonjour, Monsieur!” and watched them hail a passing cab and drive away. “Dieu! qu’il est beau,” she sighed, adding after a moment, “Do they be married, I dunno,—ma foi ils ont bien l’air.”

  The cab swung around the rue de Medici, turned into the rue de Vaugirard, followed it to where it crosses the rue de Rennes, and taking that noisy thoroughfare, drew up before the Gare Montparnasse. They were just in time for a train and scampered up the stairway and out to the cars as the last note from the starting gong rang through the arched station. The guard slammed the door of their compartment, a whistle sounded, answered by a screech from the locomotive, and the long train glided from the station, faster, faster, and sped out into the morning sunshine. The summer wind blew in their faces from the open window, and sent the soft hair dancing on the girl’s forehead.

  “We have the compartment to ourselves,” said Hastings. She leaned against the cushioned windowseat, her eyes bright and wide open, her lips parted. The wind lifted her hat, and fluttered the ribbons under her chin. With a quick movement she untied them and drawing a long hat pin from her hat, laid it down on the seat beside her. The train was flying.

  The color surged in her cheeks and with each quick-drawn breath, her breast rose and fell under the cluster of lilies at her throat. Trees, houses, ponds, danced past, cut by a mist of telegraph poles.

  “Faster! Faster!” she cried. His eyes never left her, but hers, wide open and blue as the summer sky, seemed fixed on something far ahead,—something which came no nearer, but fled before them as they fled.

  Was it the horizon, cut now by the grim fortress on the hill, now by the cross of a country chapel? Was it the summer moon, ghostlike, slipping through the vaguer blue above?

  “Faster! Faster!” she cried.

  Her parted lips burned scarlet.

  The car shook and shivered and the fields streamed by like an em- erald torrent. He caught the excitement and his face glowed. “Oh,” she cried, and with an unconscious movement caught his hand, drawing him to the window beside her. “Look! lean out with me!”

  He only saw her lips move; her voice was drowned in the roar of a trestle, but his hand close din hers and he clung to the sill. The wind whistled in their ears. “Not so far out, Valentine, take care!” he gasped.

  Below, through the ties of the trestle, a broad river flashed in
to view and out again, as the train thundered along a tunnel, and away once more through the freshet of green fields. The wind roared about them. The girl was leaning far out from the window, and he caught her by the waist, crying, “Not too far!” but she only murmured, “Faster! faster! away out of the city, out of the land, faster, faster! away out of the world!”

  “What are you saying all to yourself,” he said, but his voice was broken, and the wind whirled it back into his throat. She heard him, and, turning from the window looked down at his arm about her. Then she raised her eyes to his. The car shook and the windows rattled. They were dashing through a forest now, and the sun swept the dewy branches with running flashes of fire. He looked into her troubled eyes; he drew her to him and kissed the half-parted lips, and she cried out, a bitter, hopeless cry. “—Not that—not that!”

  But he held her close and strong, whispering words of honest love and passion, and when she sobbed—”Not that—not that—I have promised! You must—you must know—I am—not—worthy—” In the purity of his own heart her words were, to him, meaningless then, meaningless forever after. Presently her voice ceased, and her head rested on his breast. He leaned against the window, his ears swept by the furious wind, his heart in a joyous tumult. The forest was passed, and the sun slipped from behind the trees, flooding the earth again with brightness. She raised her eyes and looked out into the world from the window. Then she began to speak, but her voice was faint and he bent his head close to hers and listened. “I cannot turn from you; I am too weak. You were long ago my master—master of my heart and soul. I have broken my word to one who trusted me, but I have told you all,—what matters the rest?” He smiled at her inno- cence and she worshipped his. She spoke again: “Take me or cast me away;—what matters it? Now with a word you can kill me, and it might be easier to die than to look upon happiness as great as mine.”