Роберт Чамберс: The King in Yellow and Other Horror Stories

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 auburn-haired 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, ghost-like, 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 emerald 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 into 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 innocence 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.”