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

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 Nouveau 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 gnat 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 everyone makes allowance, but everyone 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 judgment⁠—you of all men. Why are you here tonight? 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 favour.”

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 considers 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 wish 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 noble. 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 impressions 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 café where Mr. Bladen had hauled him to join them in a 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 Hôtel 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 instead 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 protesting, 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