The King in Yellow/Rue Barrée - Wikisource, the free online library (2023)

RUE BARRÉE[edit]

"For let Philosopher and Doctor preach
Of what they will and what they will not,--each
Is but one link in an eternal chain
That none can slip nor break nor over-reach."

"Crimson nor yellow roses nor
The savour of the mounting sea
Are worth the perfume I adore
That clings to thee.
The languid-headed lilies tire,
The changeless waters weary me;
I ache with passionate desire
Of thine and thee.
There are but these things in the world--
Thy mouth of fire,
Thy breasts, thy hands, thy hair upcurled
And my desire."

I[edit]

One morning at Julian's, a student said to Selby, "That is FoxhallClifford," pointing with his brushes at a young man who sat before aneasel, doing nothing.

Selby, shy and nervous, walked over and began: "My name is Selby,--I havejust arrived in Paris, and bring a letter of introduction--" His voice waslost in the crash of a falling easel, the owner of which promptlyassaulted his neighbour, and for a time the noise of battle rolled throughthe studios of MM. Boulanger and Lefebvre, presently subsiding into ascuffle on the stairs outside. Selby, apprehensive as to his own receptionin the studio, looked at Clifford, who sat serenely watching the fight.

"It's a little noisy here," said Clifford, "but you will like the fellowswhen you know them." His unaffected manner delighted Selby. Then with asimplicity that won his heart, he presented him to half a dozen studentsof as many nationalities. Some were cordial, all were polite. Even themajestic creature who held the position of Massier, unbent enough to say:"My friend, when a man speaks French as well as you do, and is also afriend of Monsieur Clifford, he will have no trouble in this studio. Youexpect, of course, to fill the stove until the next new man comes?"

"Of course."

"And you don't mind chaff?"

"No," replied Selby, who hated it.

Clifford, much amused, put on his hat, saying, "You must expect lots of itat first."

Selby placed his own hat on his head and followed him to the door.

As they passed the model stand there was a furious cry of "Chapeau!Chapeau!" and a student sprang from his easel menacing Selby, who reddenedbut looked at Clifford.

"Take off your hat for them," said the latter, laughing.

A little embarrassed, he turned and saluted the studio.

"Et moi?" cried the model.

"You are charming," replied Selby, astonished at his own audacity, but thestudio rose as one man, shouting: "He has done well! he's all right!"while the model, laughing, kissed her hand to him and cried: "À demainbeau jeune homme!"

All that week Selby worked at the studio unmolested. The French studentschristened him "l'Enfant Prodigue," which was freely translated, "TheProdigious Infant," "The Kid," "Kid Selby," and "Kidby." But the diseasesoon ran its course from "Kidby" to "Kidney," and then naturally to"Tidbits," where it was arrested by Clifford's authority and ultimatelyrelapsed to "Kid."

Wednesday came, and with it M. Boulanger. For three hours the studentswrithed under his biting sarcasms,--among the others Clifford, who wasinformed that he knew even less about a work of art than he did about theart of work. Selby was more fortunate. The professor examined his drawingin silence, looked at him sharply, and passed on with a non-committalgesture. He presently departed arm in arm with Bouguereau, to the reliefof Clifford, who was then at liberty to jam his hat on his head anddepart.

The next day he did not appear, and Selby, who had counted on seeing himat the studio, a thing which he learned later it was vanity to count on,wandered back to the Latin Quarter alone.

Paris was still strange and new to him. He was vaguely troubled by itssplendour. No tender memories stirred his American bosom at the Place duChâtelet, nor even by Notre Dame. The Palais de Justice with its clock andturrets and stalking sentinels in blue and vermilion, the Place St. Michelwith its jumble of omnibuses and ugly water-spitting griffins, the hill ofthe Boulevard St. Michel, the tooting trams, the policemen dawdling two bytwo, and the table-lined terraces of the Café Vacehett were nothing tohim, as yet, nor did he even know, when he stepped from the stones of thePlace St. Michel to the asphalt of the Boulevard, that he had crossed thefrontier and entered the student zone,--the famous Latin Quarter.

A cabman hailed him as "bourgeois," and urged the superiority of drivingover walking. A gamin, with an appearance of great concern, requested thelatest telegraphic news from London, and then, standing on his head,invited Selby to feats of strength. A pretty girl gave him a glance from apair of violet eyes. He did not see her, but she, catching her ownreflection in a window, wondered at the colour burning in her cheeks.Turning to resume her course, she met Foxhall Clifford, and hurried on.Clifford, open-mouthed, followed her with his eyes; then he looked afterSelby, who had turned into the Boulevard St. Germain toward the rue deSeine. Then he examined himself in the shop window. The result seemed tobe unsatisfactory.

"I'm not a beauty," he mused, "but neither am I a hobgoblin. What does shemean by blushing at Selby? I never before saw her look at a fellow in mylife,--neither has any one in the Quarter. Anyway, I can swear she neverlooks at me, and goodness knows I have done all that respectful adorationcan do."

He sighed, and murmuring a prophecy concerning the salvation of hisimmortal soul swung into that graceful lounge which at all timescharacterized Clifford. With no apparent exertion, he overtook Selby atthe corner, and together they crossed the sunlit Boulevard and sat downunder the awning of the Café du Cercle. Clifford bowed to everybody on theterrace, saying, "You shall meet them all later, but now let me presentyou to two of the sights of Paris, Mr. Richard Elliott and Mr. StanleyRowden."

The "sights" looked amiable, and took vermouth.

"You cut the studio to-day," said Elliott, suddenly turning on Clifford,who avoided his eyes.

"To commune with nature?" observed Rowden.

"What's her name this time?" asked Elliott, and Rowden answered promptly,"Name, Yvette; nationality, Breton--"

"Wrong," replied Clifford blandly, "it's Rue Barrée."

The subject changed instantly, and Selby listened in surprise to nameswhich were new to him, and eulogies on the latest Prix de Rome winner. Hewas delighted to hear opinions boldly expressed and points honestlydebated, although the vehicle was mostly slang, both English and French.He longed for the time when he too should be plunged into the strife forfame.

The bells of St. Sulpice struck the hour, and the Palace of the Luxembourganswered chime on chime. With a glance at the sun, dipping low in thegolden dust behind the Palais Bourbon, they rose, and turning to the east,crossed the Boulevard St. Germain and sauntered toward the École deMédecine. At the corner a girl passed them, walking hurriedly. Cliffordsmirked, Elliot and Rowden were agitated, but they all bowed, and, withoutraising her eyes, she returned their salute. But Selby, who had laggedbehind, fascinated by some gay shop window, looked up to meet two of thebluest eyes he had ever seen. The eyes were dropped in an instant, and theyoung fellow hastened to overtake the others.

"By Jove," he said, "do you fellows know I have just seen the prettiestgirl--" An exclamation broke from the trio, gloomy, foreboding, like thechorus in a Greek play.

"Rue Barrée!"

"What!" cried Selby, bewildered.

The only answer was a vague gesture from Clifford.

Two hours later, during dinner, Clifford turned to Selby and said, "Youwant to ask me something; I can tell by the way you fidget about."

"Yes, I do," he said, innocently enough; "it's about that girl. Who isshe?"

In Rowden's smile there was pity, in Elliott's bitterness.

"Her name," said Clifford solemnly, "is unknown to any one, at least," headded with much conscientiousness, "as far as I can learn. Every fellow inthe Quarter bows to her and she returns the salute gravely, but no man hasever been known to obtain more than that. Her profession, judging from hermusic-roll, is that of a pianist. Her residence is in a small and humblestreet which is kept in a perpetual process of repair by the cityauthorities, and from the black letters painted on the barrier whichdefends the street from traffic, she has taken the name by which we knowher,--Rue Barrée. Mr. Rowden, in his imperfect knowledge of the Frenchtongue, called our attention to it as Roo Barry--"

"I didn't," said Rowden hotly.

"And Roo Barry, or Rue Barrée, is to-day an object of adoration to everyrapin in the Quarter--"

"We are not rapins," corrected Elliott.

"I am not," returned Clifford, "and I beg to call to your attention,Selby, that these two gentlemen have at various and apparently unfortunatemoments, offered to lay down life and limb at the feet of Rue Barrée. Thelady possesses a chilling smile which she uses on such occasions and,"here he became gloomily impressive, "I have been forced to believe thatneither the scholarly grace of my friend Elliott nor the buxom beauty ofmy friend Rowden have touched that heart of ice."

Elliott and Rowden, boiling with indignation, cried out, "And you!"

"I," said Clifford blandly, "do fear to tread where you rush in."

II[edit]

Twenty-four hours later Selby had completely forgotten Rue Barrée. Duringthe week he worked with might and main at the studio, and Saturday nightfound him so tired that he went to bed before dinner and had a nightmareabout a river of yellow ochre in which he was drowning. Sunday morning,apropos of nothing at all, he thought of Rue Barrée, and ten secondsafterwards he saw her. It was at the flower-market on the marble bridge.She was examining a pot of pansies. The gardener had evidently thrownheart and soul into the transaction, but Rue Barrée shook her head.

It is a question whether Selby would have stopped then and there toinspect a cabbage-rose had not Clifford unwound for him the yarn of theprevious Tuesday. It is possible that his curiosity was piqued, for withthe exception of a hen-turkey, a boy of nineteen is the most openlycurious biped alive. From twenty until death he tries to conceal it. But,to be fair to Selby, it is also true that the market was attractive. Undera cloudless sky the flowers were packed and heaped along the marble bridgeto the parapet. The air was soft, the sun spun a shadowy lacework amongthe palms and glowed in the hearts of a thousand roses. Spring hadcome,--was in full tide. The watering carts and sprinklers spreadfreshness over the Boulevard, the sparrows had become vulgarly obtrusive,and the credulous Seine angler anxiously followed his gaudy quill floatingamong the soapsuds of the lavoirs. The white-spiked chestnuts clad intender green vibrated with the hum of bees. Shoddy butterflies flauntedtheir winter rags among the heliotrope. There was a smell of fresh earthin the air, an echo of the woodland brook in the ripple of the Seine, andswallows soared and skimmed among the anchored river craft. Somewhere in awindow a caged bird was singing its heart out to the sky.

Selby looked at the cabbage-rose and then at the sky. Something in thesong of the caged bird may have moved him, or perhaps it was thatdangerous sweetness in the air of May.

At first he was hardly conscious that he had stopped then he was scarcelyconscious why he had stopped, then he thought he would move on, then hethought he wouldn't, then he looked at Rue Barrée.

The gardener said, "Mademoiselle, this is undoubtedly a fine pot ofpansies."

Rue Barrée shook her head.

The gardener smiled. She evidently did not want the pansies. She hadbought many pots of pansies there, two or three every spring, and neverargued. What did she want then? The pansies were evidently a feeler towarda more important transaction. The gardener rubbed his hands and gazedabout him.

"These tulips are magnificent," he observed, "and these hyacinths--" Hefell into a trance at the mere sight of the scented thickets.

"That," murmured Rue, pointing to a splendid rose-bush with her furledparasol, but in spite of her, her voice trembled a little. Selby noticedit, more shame to him that he was listening, and the gardener noticed it,and, burying his nose in the roses, scented a bargain. Still, to do himjustice, he did not add a centime to the honest value of the plant, forafter all, Rue was probably poor, and any one could see she was charming.

"Fifty francs, Mademoiselle."

The gardener's tone was grave. Rue felt that argument would be wasted.They both stood silent for a moment. The gardener did not eulogize hisprize,--the rose-tree was gorgeous and any one could see it.

"I will take the pansies," said the girl, and drew two francs from a wornpurse. Then she looked up. A tear-drop stood in the way refracting thelight like a diamond, but as it rolled into a little corner by her nose avision of Selby replaced it, and when a brush of the handkerchief hadcleared the startled blue eyes, Selby himself appeared, very muchembarrassed. He instantly looked up into the sky, apparently devoured witha thirst for astronomical research, and as he continued his investigationsfor fully five minutes, the gardener looked up too, and so did apoliceman. Then Selby looked at the tips of his boots, the gardener lookedat him and the policeman slouched on. Rue Barrée had been gone some time.

"What," said the gardener, "may I offer Monsieur?"

Selby never knew why, but he suddenly began to buy flowers. The gardenerwas electrified. Never before had he sold so many flowers, never at suchsatisfying prices, and never, never with such absolute unanimity ofopinion with a customer. But he missed the bargaining, the arguing, thecalling of Heaven to witness. The transaction lacked spice.

"These tulips are magnificent!"

"They are!" cried Selby warmly.

"But alas, they are dear."

"I will take them."

"Dieu!" murmured the gardener in a perspiration, "he's madder than mostEnglishmen."

"This cactus--"

"Is gorgeous!"

"Alas--"

"Send it with the rest."

The gardener braced himself against the river wall.

"That splendid rose-bush," he began faintly.

"That is a beauty. I believe it is fifty francs--"

He stopped, very red. The gardener relished his confusion. Then a suddencool self-possession took the place of his momentary confusion and he heldthe gardener with his eye, and bullied him.

"I'll take that bush. Why did not the young lady buy it?"

"Mademoiselle is not wealthy."

"How do you know?"

"Dame, I sell her many pansies; pansies are not expensive."

"Those are the pansies she bought?"

"These, Monsieur, the blue and gold."

"Then you intend to send them to her?"

"At mid-day after the market."

"Take this rose-bush with them, and"--here he glared at thegardener--"don't you dare say from whom they came." The gardener's eyeswere like saucers, but Selby, calm and victorious, said: "Send the othersto the Hôtel du Sénat, 7 rue de Tournon. I will leave directions with theconcierge."

Then he buttoned his glove with much dignity and stalked off, but whenwell around the corner and hidden from the gardener's view, the convictionthat he was an idiot came home to him in a furious blush. Ten minuteslater he sat in his room in the Hôtel du Sénat repeating with an imbecilesmile: "What an ass I am, what an ass!"

An hour later found him in the same chair, in the same position, his hatand gloves still on, his stick in his hand, but he was silent, apparentlylost in contemplation of his boot toes, and his smile was less imbecileand even a bit retrospective.

III[edit]

About five o'clock that afternoon, the little sad-eyed woman who fills theposition of concierge at the Hôtel du Sénat held up her hands in amazementto see a wagon-load of flower-bearing shrubs draw up before the doorway.She called Joseph, the intemperate garçon, who, while calculating thevalue of the flowers in petits verres, gloomily disclaimed any knowledgeas to their destination.

"Voyons," said the little concierge, "cherchons la femme!"

"You?" he suggested.

The little woman stood a moment pensive and then sighed. Joseph caressedhis nose, a nose which for gaudiness could vie with any floral display.

Then the gardener came in, hat in hand, and a few minutes later Selbystood in the middle of his room, his coat off, his shirt-sleeves rolledup. The chamber originally contained, besides the furniture, about twosquare feet of walking room, and now this was occupied by a cactus. Thebed groaned under crates of pansies, lilies and heliotrope, the lounge wascovered with hyacinths and tulips, and the washstand supported a speciesof young tree warranted to bear flowers at some time or other.

Clifford came in a little later, fell over a box of sweet peas, swore alittle, apologized, and then, as the full splendour of the floral fêteburst upon him, sat down in astonishment upon a geranium. The geranium wasa wreck, but Selby said, "Don't mind," and glared at the cactus.

"Are you going to give a ball?" demanded Clifford.

"N--no,--I'm very fond of flowers," said Selby, but the statement lackedenthusiasm.

"I should imagine so." Then, after a silence, "That's a fine cactus."

Selby contemplated the cactus, touched it with the air of a connoisseur,and pricked his thumb.

Clifford poked a pansy with his stick. Then Joseph came in with the bill,announcing the sum total in a loud voice, partly to impress Clifford,partly to intimidate Selby into disgorging a pourboire which he wouldshare, if he chose, with the gardener. Clifford tried to pretend that hehad not heard, while Selby paid bill and tribute without a murmur. Then helounged back into the room with an attempt at indifference which failedentirely when he tore his trousers on the cactus.

Clifford made some commonplace remark, lighted a cigarette and looked outof the window to give Selby a chance. Selby tried to take it, but gettingas far as--"Yes, spring is here at last," froze solid. He looked at theback of Clifford's head. It expressed volumes. Those little perked-up earsseemed tingling with suppressed glee. He made a desperate effort to masterthe situation, and jumped up to reach for some Russian cigarettes as anincentive to conversation, but was foiled by the cactus, to whom again hefell a prey. The last straw was added.

"Damn the cactus." This observation was wrung from Selby against hiswill,--against his own instinct of self-preservation, but the thorns onthe cactus were long and sharp, and at their repeated prick his pent-upwrath escaped. It was too late now; it was done, and Clifford had wheeledaround.

"See here, Selby, why the deuce did you buy those flowers?"

"I'm fond of them," said Selby.

"What are you going to do with them? You can't sleep here."

"I could, if you'd help me take the pansies off the bed."

"Where can you put them?"

"Couldn't I give them to the concierge?"

As soon as he said it he regretted it. What in Heaven's name wouldClifford think of him! He had heard the amount of the bill. Would hebelieve that he had invested in these luxuries as a timid declaration tohis concierge? And would the Latin Quarter comment upon it in their ownbrutal fashion? He dreaded ridicule and he knew Clifford's reputation.

Then somebody knocked.

Selby looked at Clifford with a hunted expression which touched that youngman's heart. It was a confession and at the same time a supplication.Clifford jumped up, threaded his way through the floral labyrinth, andputting an eye to the crack of the door, said, "Who the devil is it?"

This graceful style of reception is indigenous to the Quarter.

"It's Elliott," he said, looking back, "and Rowden too, and theirbulldogs." Then he addressed them through the crack.

"Sit down on the stairs; Selby and I are coming out directly."

Discretion is a virtue. The Latin Quarter possesses few, and discretionseldom figures on the list. They sat down and began to whistle.

Presently Rowden called out, "I smell flowers. They feast within!"

"You ought to know Selby better than that," growled Clifford behind thedoor, while the other hurriedly exchanged his torn trousers for others.

"We know Selby," said Elliott with emphasis.

"Yes," said Rowden, "he gives receptions with floral decorations andinvites Clifford, while we sit on the stairs."

"Yes, while the youth and beauty of the Quarter revel," suggested Rowden;then, with sudden misgiving; "Is Odette there?"

"See here," demanded Elliott, "is Colette there?"

Then he raised his voice in a plaintive howl, "Are you there, Colette,while I'm kicking my heels on these tiles?"

"Clifford is capable of anything," said Rowden; "his nature is souredsince Rue Barrée sat on him."

Elliott raised his voice: "I say, you fellows, we saw some flowers carriedinto Rue Barrée's house at noon."

"Posies and roses," specified Rowden.

"Probably for her," added Elliott, caressing his bulldog.

Clifford turned with sudden suspicion upon Selby. The latter hummed atune, selected a pair of gloves and, choosing a dozen cigarettes, placedthem in a case. Then walking over to the cactus, he deliberately detacheda blossom, drew it through his buttonhole, and picking up hat and stick,smiled upon Clifford, at which the latter was mightily troubled.

IV[edit]

Monday morning at Julian's, students fought for places; students withprior claims drove away others who had been anxiously squatting on covetedtabourets since the door was opened in hopes of appropriating them atroll-call; students squabbled over palettes, brushes, portfolios, or rentthe air with demands for Ciceri and bread. The former, a dirty ex-model,who had in palmier days posed as Judas, now dispensed stale bread at onesou and made enough to keep himself in cigarettes. Monsieur Julian walkedin, smiled a fatherly smile and walked out. His disappearance was followedby the apparition of the clerk, a foxy creature who flitted through thebattling hordes in search of prey.

Three men who had not paid dues were caught and summoned. A fourth wasscented, followed, outflanked, his retreat towards the door cut off, andfinally captured behind the stove. About that time, the revolutionassuming an acute form, howls rose for "Jules!"

Jules came, umpired two fights with a sad resignation in his big browneyes, shook hands with everybody and melted away in the throng, leaving anatmosphere of peace and good-will. The lions sat down with the lambs, themassiers marked the best places for themselves and friends, and, mountingthe model stands, opened the roll-calls.

The word was passed, "They begin with C this week."

They did.

"Clisson!"

Clisson jumped like a flash and marked his name on the floor in chalkbefore a front seat.

"Caron!"

Caron galloped away to secure his place. Bang! went an easel. "Nom de Dieu!" in French,--"Where in h--l are you goin'!" in English. Crash! apaintbox fell with brushes and all on board. "Dieu de Dieu de--" spat! Ablow, a short rush, a clinch and scuffle, and the voice of the massier,stern and reproachful:

"Cochon!"

Then the roll-call was resumed.

"Clifford!"

The massier paused and looked up, one finger between the leaves of theledger.

"Clifford!"

Clifford was not there. He was about three miles away in a direct line andevery instant increased the distance. Not that he was walking fast,--onthe contrary, he was strolling with that leisurely gait peculiar tohimself. Elliott was beside him and two bulldogs covered the rear. Elliottwas reading the "Gil Blas," from which he seemed to extract amusement, butdeeming boisterous mirth unsuitable to Clifford's state of mind, subduedhis amusement to a series of discreet smiles. The latter, moodily aware ofthis, said nothing, but leading the way into the Luxembourg Gardensinstalled himself upon a bench by the northern terrace and surveyed thelandscape with disfavour. Elliott, according to the Luxembourgregulations, tied the two dogs and then, with an interrogative glancetoward his friend, resumed the "Gil Blas" and the discreet smiles.

The day was perfect. The sun hung over Notre Dame, setting the city in aglitter. The tender foliage of the chestnuts cast a shadow over theterrace and flecked the paths and walks with tracery so blue that Cliffordmight here have found encouragement for his violent "impressions" had hebut looked; but as usual in this period of his career, his thoughts wereanywhere except in his profession. Around about, the sparrows quarrelledand chattered their courtship songs, the big rosy pigeons sailed from treeto tree, the flies whirled in the sunbeams and the flowers exhaled athousand perfumes which stirred Clifford with languorous wistfulness.Under this influence he spoke.

"Elliott, you are a true friend--"

"You make me ill," replied the latter, folding his paper. "It's just as Ithought,--you are tagging after some new petticoat again. And," hecontinued wrathfully, "if this is what you've kept me away from Julian'sfor,--if it's to fill me up with the perfections of some little idiot--"

"Not idiot," remonstrated Clifford gently.

"See here," cried Elliott, "have you the nerve to try to tell me that youare in love again?"

"Again?"

"Yes, again and again and again and--by George have you?"

"This," observed Clifford sadly, "is serious."

For a moment Elliott would have laid hands on him, then he laughed fromsheer helplessness. "Oh, go on, go on; let's see, there's Clémence andMarie Tellec and Cosette and Fifine, Colette, Marie Verdier--"

"All of whom are charming, most charming, but I never was serious--"

"So help me, Moses," said Elliott, solemnly, "each and every one of thosenamed have separately and in turn torn your heart with anguish and havealso made me lose my place at Julian's in this same manner; each and everyone, separately and in turn. Do you deny it?"

"What you say may be founded on facts--in a way--but give me the credit ofbeing faithful to one at a time--"

"Until the next came along."

"But this,--this is really very different. Elliott, believe me, I am allbroken up."

Then there being nothing else to do, Elliott gnashed his teeth andlistened.

"It's--it's Rue Barrée."

"Well," observed Elliott, with scorn, "if you are moping and moaning overthat girl,--the girl who has given you and myself every reason to wishthat the ground would open and engulf us,--well, go on!"

"I'm going on,--I don't care; timidity has fled--"

"Yes, your native timidity."

"I'm desperate, Elliott. Am I in love? Never, never did I feel so d--nmiserable. I can't sleep; honestly, I'm incapable of eating properly."

"Same symptoms noticed in the case of Colette."

"Listen, will you?"

"Hold on a moment, I know the rest by heart. Now let me ask you something.Is it your belief that Rue Barrée is a pure girl?"

"Yes," said Clifford, turning red.

"Do you love her,--not as you dangle and tiptoe after every prettyinanity--I mean, do you honestly love her?"

"Yes," said the other doggedly, "I would--"

"Hold on a moment; would you marry her?"

Clifford turned scarlet. "Yes," he muttered.

"Pleasant news for your family," growled Elliott in suppressed fury."'Dear father, I have just married a charming grisette whom I'm sureyou'll welcome with open arms, in company with her mother, a mostestimable and cleanly washlady.' Good heavens! This seems to have gone alittle further than the rest. Thank your stars, young man, that my head islevel enough for us both. Still, in this case, I have no fear. Rue Barréesat on your aspirations in a manner unmistakably final."

"Rue Barrée," began Clifford, drawing himself up, but he suddenly ceased,for there where the dappled sunlight glowed in spots of gold, along thesun-flecked path, tripped Rue Barrée. Her gown was spotless, and her bigstraw hat, tipped a little from the white forehead, threw a shadow acrossher eyes.

Elliott stood up and bowed. Clifford removed his head-covering with an airso plaintive, so appealing, so utterly humble that Rue Barrée smiled.

The smile was delicious and when Clifford, incapable of sustaining himselfon his legs from sheer astonishment, toppled slightly, she smiled again inspite of herself. A few moments later she took a chair on the terrace anddrawing a book from her music-roll, turned the pages, found the place, andthen placing it open downwards in her lap, sighed a little, smiled alittle, and looked out over the city. She had entirely forgotten FoxhallClifford.

After a while she took up her book again, but instead of reading began toadjust a rose in her corsage. The rose was big and red. It glowed likefire there over her heart, and like fire it warmed her heart, nowfluttering under the silken petals. Rue Barrée sighed again. She was veryhappy. The sky was so blue, the air so soft and perfumed, the sunshine socaressing, and her heart sang within her, sang to the rose in her breast.This is what it sang: "Out of the throng of passers-by, out of the worldof yesterday, out of the millions passing, one has turned aside to me."

So her heart sang under his rose on her breast. Then two bigmouse-coloured pigeons came whistling by and alighted on the terrace,where they bowed and strutted and bobbed and turned until Rue Barréelaughed in delight, and looking up beheld Clifford before her. His hat wasin his hand and his face was wreathed in a series of appealing smileswhich would have touched the heart of a Bengal tiger.

For an instant Rue Barrée frowned, then she looked curiously at Clifford,then when she saw the resemblance between his bows and the bobbingpigeons, in spite of herself, her lips parted in the most bewitchinglaugh. Was this Rue Barrée? So changed, so changed that she did not knowherself; but oh! that song in her heart which drowned all else, whichtrembled on her lips, struggling for utterance, which rippled forth in alaugh at nothing,--at a strutting pigeon,--and Mr. Clifford.

"And you think, because I return the salute of the students in theQuarter, that you may be received in particular as a friend? I do not knowyou, Monsieur, but vanity is man's other name;--be content, MonsieurVanity, I shall be punctilious--oh, most punctilious in returning yoursalute."

"But I beg--I implore you to let me render you that homage which has solong--"

"Oh dear; I don't care for homage."

"Let me only be permitted to speak to you now and then,--occasionally--veryoccasionally."

"And if you, why not another?"

"Not at all,--I will be discretion itself."

"Discretion--why?"

Her eyes were very clear, and Clifford winced for a moment, but only for amoment. Then the devil of recklessness seizing him, he sat down andoffered himself, soul and body, goods and chattels. And all the time heknew he was a fool and that infatuation is not love, and that each word heuttered bound him in honour from which there was no escape. And all thetime Elliott was scowling down on the fountain plaza and savagely checkingboth bulldogs from their desire to rush to Clifford's rescue,--for eventhey felt there was something wrong, as Elliott stormed within himself andgrowled maledictions.

When Clifford finished, he finished in a glow of excitement, but RueBarrée's response was long in coming and his ardour cooled while thesituation slowly assumed its just proportions. Then regret began to creepin, but he put that aside and broke out again in protestations. At thefirst word Rue Barrée checked him.

"I thank you," she said, speaking very gravely. "No man has ever beforeoffered me marriage." She turned and looked out over the city. After awhile she spoke again. "You offer me a great deal. I am alone, I havenothing, I am nothing." She turned again and looked at Paris, brilliant,fair, in the sunshine of a perfect day. He followed her eyes.

"Oh," she murmured, "it is hard,--hard to work always--always alone withnever a friend you can have in honour, and the love that is offered meansthe streets, the boulevard--when passion is dead. I know it,--we knowit,--we others who have nothing,--have no one, and who give ourselves,unquestioning--when we love,--yes, unquestioning--heart and soul, knowingthe end."

She touched the rose at her breast. For a moment she seemed to forget him,then quietly--"I thank you, I am very grateful." She opened the book and,plucking a petal from the rose, dropped it between the leaves. Thenlooking up she said gently, "I cannot accept."

V[edit]

It took Clifford a month to entirely recover, although at the end of thefirst week he was pronounced convalescent by Elliott, who was anauthority, and his convalescence was aided by the cordiality with whichRue Barrée acknowledged his solemn salutes. Forty times a day he blessedRue Barrée for her refusal, and thanked his lucky stars, and at the sametime, oh, wondrous heart of ours!--he suffered the tortures of theblighted.

Elliott was annoyed, partly by Clifford's reticence, partly by theunexplainable thaw in the frigidity of Rue Barrée. At their frequentencounters, when she, tripping along the rue de Seine, with music-roll andbig straw hat would pass Clifford and his familiars steering an easterlycourse to the Café Vachette, and at the respectful uncovering of the bandwould colour and smile at Clifford, Elliott's slumbering suspicions awoke.But he never found out anything, and finally gave it up as beyond hiscomprehension, merely qualifying Clifford as an idiot and reserving hisopinion of Rue Barrée. And all this time Selby was jealous. At first herefused to acknowledge it to himself, and cut the studio for a day in thecountry, but the woods and fields of course aggravated his case, and thebrooks babbled of Rue Barrée and the mowers calling to each other acrossthe meadow ended in a quavering "Rue Bar-rée-e!" That day spent in thecountry made him angry for a week, and he worked sulkily at Julian's, allthe time tormented by a desire to know where Clifford was and what hemight be doing. This culminated in an erratic stroll on Sunday which endedat the flower-market on the Pont au Change, began again, was gloomilyextended to the morgue, and again ended at the marble bridge. It wouldnever do, and Selby felt it, so he went to see Clifford, who wasconvalescing on mint juleps in his garden.

They sat down together and discussed morals and human happiness, and eachfound the other most entertaining, only Selby failed to pump Clifford, tothe other's unfeigned amusement. But the juleps spread balm on the stingof jealousy, and trickled hope to the blighted, and when Selby said hemust go, Clifford went too, and when Selby, not to be outdone, insisted onaccompanying Clifford back to his door, Clifford determined to see Selbyback half way, and then finding it hard to part, they decided to dinetogether and "flit." To flit, a verb applied to Clifford's nocturnalprowls, expressed, perhaps, as well as anything, the gaiety proposed.Dinner was ordered at Mignon's, and while Selby interviewed the chef,Clifford kept a fatherly eye on the butler. The dinner was a success, orwas of the sort generally termed a success. Toward the dessert Selby heardsome one say as at a great distance, "Kid Selby, drunk as a lord."

A group of men passed near them; it seemed to him that he shook hands andlaughed a great deal, and that everybody was very witty. There wasClifford opposite swearing undying confidence in his chum Selby, and thereseemed to be others there, either seated beside them or continuallypassing with the swish of skirts on the polished floor. The perfume ofroses, the rustle of fans, the touch of rounded arms and the laughter grewvaguer and vaguer. The room seemed enveloped in mist. Then, all in amoment each object stood out painfully distinct, only forms and visageswere distorted and voices piercing. He drew himself up, calm, grave, forthe moment master of himself, but very drunk. He knew he was drunk, andwas as guarded and alert, as keenly suspicious of himself as he would havebeen of a thief at his elbow. His self-command enabled Clifford to holdhis head safely under some running water, and repair to the streetconsiderably the worse for wear, but never suspecting that his companionwas drunk. For a time he kept his self-command. His face was only a bitpaler, a bit tighter than usual; he was only a trifle slower and morefastidious in his speech. It was midnight when he left Clifford peacefullyslumbering in somebody's arm-chair, with a long suede glove dangling inhis hand and a plumy boa twisted about his neck to protect his throat fromdrafts. He walked through the hall and down the stairs, and found himselfon the sidewalk in a quarter he did not know. Mechanically he looked up atthe name of the street. The name was not familiar. He turned and steeredhis course toward some lights clustered at the end of the street. Theyproved farther away than he had anticipated, and after a long quest hecame to the conclusion that his eyes had been mysteriously removed fromtheir proper places and had been reset on either side of his head likethose of a bird. It grieved him to think of the inconvenience thistransformation might occasion him, and he attempted to cock up his head,hen-like, to test the mobility of his neck. Then an immense despair stoleover him,--tears gathered in the tear-ducts, his heart melted, and hecollided with a tree. This shocked him into comprehension; he stifled theviolent tenderness in his breast, picked up his hat and moved on morebriskly. His mouth was white and drawn, his teeth tightly clinched. Heheld his course pretty well and strayed but little, and after anapparently interminable length of time found himself passing a line ofcabs. The brilliant lamps, red, yellow, and green annoyed him, and he feltit might be pleasant to demolish them with his cane, but mastering thisimpulse he passed on. Later an idea struck him that it would save fatigueto take a cab, and he started back with that intention, but the cabsseemed already so far away and the lanterns were so bright and confusingthat he gave it up, and pulling himself together looked around.

A shadow, a mass, huge, undefined, rose to his right. He recognized theArc de Triomphe and gravely shook his cane at it. Its size annoyed him. Hefelt it was too big. Then he heard something fall clattering to thepavement and thought probably it was his cane but it didn't much matter.When he had mastered himself and regained control of his right leg, whichbetrayed symptoms of insubordination, he found himself traversing thePlace de la Concorde at a pace which threatened to land him at theMadeleine. This would never do. He turned sharply to the right andcrossing the bridge passed the Palais Bourbon at a trot and wheeled intothe Boulevard St. Germain. He got on well enough although the size of theWar Office struck him as a personal insult, and he missed his cane, whichit would have been pleasant to drag along the iron railings as he passed.It occurred to him, however, to substitute his hat, but when he found ithe forgot what he wanted it for and replaced it upon his head withgravity. Then he was obliged to battle with a violent inclination to sitdown and weep. This lasted until he came to the rue de Rennes, but therehe became absorbed in contemplating the dragon on the balcony overhangingthe Cour du Dragon, and time slipped away until he remembered vaguely thathe had no business there, and marched off again. It was slow work. Theinclination to sit down and weep had given place to a desire for solitaryand deep reflection. Here his right leg forgot its obedience and attackingthe left, outflanked it and brought him up against a wooden board whichseemed to bar his path. He tried to walk around it, but found the streetclosed. He tried to push it over, and found he couldn't. Then he noticed ared lantern standing on a pile of paving-stones inside the barrier. Thiswas pleasant. How was he to get home if the boulevard was blocked? But hewas not on the boulevard. His treacherous right leg had beguiled him intoa detour, for there, behind him lay the boulevard with its endless line oflamps,--and here, what was this narrow dilapidated street piled up withearth and mortar and heaps of stone? He looked up. Written in staringblack letters on the barrier was

RUE BARRÉE.

He sat down. Two policemen whom he knew came by and advised him to get up,but he argued the question from a standpoint of personal taste, and theypassed on, laughing. For he was at that moment absorbed in a problem. Itwas, how to see Rue Barrée. She was somewhere or other in that big housewith the iron balconies, and the door was locked, but what of that? Thesimple idea struck him to shout until she came. This idea was replaced byanother equally lucid,--to hammer on the door until she came; but finallyrejecting both of these as too uncertain, he decided to climb into thebalcony, and opening a window politely inquire for Rue Barrée. There wasbut one lighted window in the house that he could see. It was on thesecond floor, and toward this he cast his eyes. Then mounting the woodenbarrier and clambering over the piles of stones, he reached the sidewalkand looked up at the façade for a foothold. It seemed impossible. But asudden fury seized him, a blind, drunken obstinacy, and the blood rushedto his head, leaping, beating in his ears like the dull thunder of anocean. He set his teeth, and springing at a window-sill, dragged himselfup and hung to the iron bars. Then reason fled; there surged in his brainthe sound of many voices, his heart leaped up beating a mad tattoo, andgripping at cornice and ledge he worked his way along the façade, clung topipes and shutters, and dragged himself up, over and into the balcony bythe lighted window. His hat fell off and rolled against the pane. For amoment he leaned breathless against the railing--then the window wasslowly opened from within.

They stared at each other for some time. Presently the girl took twounsteady steps back into the room. He saw her face,--all crimsonednow,--he saw her sink into a chair by the lamplit table, and without aword he followed her into the room, closing the big door-like panes behindhim. Then they looked at each other in silence.

The room was small and white; everything was white about it,--thecurtained bed, the little wash-stand in the corner, the bare walls, thechina lamp,--and his own face,--had he known it, but the face and neck ofRue were surging in the colour that dyed the blossoming rose-tree there onthe hearth beside her. It did not occur to him to speak. She seemed not toexpect it. His mind was struggling with the impressions of the room. Thewhiteness, the extreme purity of everything occupied him--began to troublehim. As his eye became accustomed to the light, other objects grew fromthe surroundings and took their places in the circle of lamplight. Therewas a piano and a coal-scuttle and a little iron trunk and a bath-tub.Then there was a row of wooden pegs against the door, with a white chintzcurtain covering the clothes underneath. On the bed lay an umbrella and abig straw hat, and on the table, a music-roll unfurled, an ink-stand, andsheets of ruled paper. Behind him stood a wardrobe faced with a mirror,but somehow he did not care to see his own face just then. He wassobering.

The girl sat looking at him without a word. Her face was expressionless,yet the lips at times trembled almost imperceptibly. Her eyes, sowonderfully blue in the daylight, seemed dark and soft as velvet, and thecolour on her neck deepened and whitened with every breath. She seemedsmaller and more slender than when he had seen her in the street, andthere was now something in the curve of her cheek almost infantine. Whenat last he turned and caught his own reflection in the mirror behind him,a shock passed through him as though he had seen a shameful thing, and hisclouded mind and his clouded thoughts grew clearer. For a moment theireyes met then his sought the floor, his lips tightened, and the strugglewithin him bowed his head and strained every nerve to the breaking. Andnow it was over, for the voice within had spoken. He listened, dullyinterested but already knowing the end,--indeed it little mattered;--theend would always be the same for him;--he understood now--always the samefor him, and he listened, dully interested, to a voice which grew withinhim. After a while he stood up, and she rose at once, one small handresting on the table. Presently he opened the window, picked up his hat,and shut it again. Then he went over to the rosebush and touched theblossoms with his face. One was standing in a glass of water on the tableand mechanically the girl drew it out, pressed it with her lips and laidit on the table beside him. He took it without a word and crossing theroom, opened the door. The landing was dark and silent, but the girllifted the lamp and gliding past him slipped down the polished stairs tothe hallway. Then unchaining the bolts, she drew open the iron wicket.

Through this he passed with his rose.