The King in Yellow, Robert W. Chambers [best short novels .TXT] 📗

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 honoured.”

“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 your 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? It is 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 shadow 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 Bowles, 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 neighbour’s back to relight it.

“His name,” continued Laffat, hurling a bit of bread at the hat-rack, “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 damned little backwoods 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 in America; says that for his part he finds French girls⁠—and he confessed to only knowing one⁠—as jolly as American 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 earsplitting 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