The King in Yellow Chapter 20: Part 20

had no right to awaken her with the sudden shock which the avowal of my own love would bring to her, sat silent, hardly daring to breathe. “You will come very often?” she asked. “Very often,” I said. “Every day?” “Every day.” “Oh,” she sighed, “I am very happy. Come and see my hawks.” She rose and took my hand again with a childlike innocence of possession, and we walked through the garden and fruit trees to a grassy lawn which was bordered by a brook. Over the lawn were scattered fifteen or twenty stumps of trees—partially imbedded in the grass—and upon all of these except two sat falcons. They were attached to the stumps by thongs which were in turn fastened with steel rivets to their legs just above the talons. A little stream of pure spring water flowed in a winding course within easy distance of each perch. The birds set up a clamour when the girl appeared, but she went from one to another, caressing some, taking others for an instant upon her wrist, or stooping to adjust their jesses. “Are they not pretty?” she said. “See, here is a falcon-gentil. We call it ‘ignoble,’ because it takes the quarry in direct chase. This is a blue falcon. In falconry we call it ‘noble’ because it rises over the quarry, and wheeling, drops upon it from above. This white bird is a gerfalcon from the north. It is also ‘noble!’ Here is a merlin, and this tiercelet is a falcon-heroner.” I asked her how she had learned the old language of falconry. She did not remember, but thought her father must have taught it to her when she was very young. Then she led me away and showed me the young falcons still in the nest. “They are termed _niais_ in falconry,” she explained. “A _branchier_ is the young bird which is just able to leave the nest and hop from branch to branch. A young bird which has not yet moulted is called a _sors_, and a _mué_ is a hawk which has moulted in captivity. When we catch a wild falcon which has changed its plumage we term it a _hagard_. Raoul first taught me to dress a falcon. Shall I teach you how it is done?” She seated herself on the bank of the stream among the falcons and I threw myself at her feet to listen. Then the Demoiselle d’Ys held up one rosy-tipped finger and began very gravely. “First one must catch the falcon.” “I am caught,” I answered. She laughed very prettily and told me my _dressage_ would perhaps be difficult, as I was noble. “I am already tamed,” I replied; “jessed and belled.” She laughed, delighted. “Oh, my brave falcon; then you will return at my call?” “I am yours,” I answered gravely. She sat silent for a moment. Then the colour heightened in her cheeks and she held up her finger again, saying, “Listen; I wish to speak of falconry—” “I listen, Countess Jeanne d’Ys.” But again she fell into the reverie, and her eyes seemed fixed on something beyond the summer clouds. “Philip,” she said at last. “Jeanne,” I whispered. “That is all,—that is what I wished,” she sighed,—“Philip and Jeanne.” She held her hand toward me and I touched it with my lips. “Win me,” she said, but this time it was the body and soul which spoke in unison. After a while she began again: “Let us speak of falconry.” “Begin,” I replied; “we have caught the falcon.” Then Jeanne d’Ys took my hand in both of hers and told me how with infinite patience the young falcon was taught to perch upon the wrist, how little by little it became used to the belled jesses and the _chaperon à cornette_. “They must first have a good appetite,” she said; “then little by little I reduce their nourishment; which in falconry we call _pât_. When, after many nights passed _au bloc_ as these birds are now, I prevail upon the _hagard_ to stay quietly on the wrist, then the bird is ready to be taught to come for its food. I fix the _pât_ to the end of a thong, or _leurre_, and teach the bird to come to me as soon as I begin to whirl the cord in circles about my head. At first I drop the _pât_ when the falcon comes, and he eats the food on the ground. After a little he will learn to seize the _leurre_ in motion as I whirl it around my head or drag it over the ground. After this it is easy to teach the falcon to strike at game, always remembering to _‘faire courtoisie á l’oiseau’_, that is, to allow the bird to taste the quarry.” A squeal from one of the falcons interrupted her, and she arose to adjust the _longe_ which had become whipped about the _bloc_, but the bird still flapped its wings and screamed. “What _is_ the matter?” she said. “Philip, can you see?” I looked around and at first saw nothing to cause the commotion, which was now heightened by the screams and flapping of all the birds. Then my eye fell upon the flat rock beside the stream from which the girl had risen. A grey serpent was moving slowly across the surface of the boulder, and the eyes in its flat triangular head sparkled like jet. “A couleuvre,” she said quietly. “It is harmless, is it not?” I asked. She pointed to the black V-shaped figure on the neck. “It is certain death,” she said; “it is a viper.” We watched the reptile moving slowly over the smooth rock to where the sunlight fell in a broad warm patch. I started forward to examine it, but she clung to my arm crying, “Don’t, Philip, I am afraid.” “For me?” “For you, Philip,—I love you.” Then I took her in my arms and kissed her on the lips, but all I could say was: “Jeanne, Jeanne, Jeanne.” And as she lay trembling on my breast, something struck my foot in the grass below, but I did not heed it. Then again something struck my ankle, and a sharp pain shot through me. I looked into the sweet face of Jeanne d’Ys and kissed her, and with all my strength lifted her in my arms and flung her from me. Then bending, I tore the viper from my ankle and set my heel upon its head. I remember feeling weak and numb,—I remember falling to the ground. Through my slowly glazing eyes I saw Jeanne’s white face bending close to mine, and when the light in my eyes went out I still felt her arms about my neck, and her soft cheek against my drawn lips. * * * * * When I opened my eyes, I looked around in terror. Jeanne was gone. I saw the stream and the flat rock; I saw the crushed viper in the grass beside me, but the hawks and _blocs_ had disappeared. I sprang to my feet. The garden, the fruit trees, the drawbridge and the walled court were gone. I stared stupidly at a heap of crumbling ruins, ivy-covered and grey, through which great trees had pushed their way. I crept forward, dragging my numbed foot, and as I moved, a falcon sailed from the tree-tops among the ruins, and soaring, mounting in narrowing circles, faded and vanished in the clouds above. “Jeanne, Jeanne,” I cried, but my voice died on my lips, and I fell on my knees among the weeds. And as God willed it, I, not knowing, had fallen kneeling before a crumbling shrine carved in stone for our Mother of Sorrows. I saw the sad face of the Virgin wrought in the cold stone. I saw the cross and thorns at her feet, and beneath it I read: “PRAY FOR THE SOUL OF THE DEMOISELLE JEANNE D’Ys, WHO DIED IN HER YOUTH FOR LOVE OF PHILIP, A STRANGER. A.D. 1573.” But upon the icy slab lay a woman’s glove still warm and fragrant. THE PROPHETS’ PARADISE “If but the Vine and Love Abjuring Band Are in the Prophets’ Paradise to stand, Alack, I doubt the Prophets’ Paradise, Were empty as the hollow of one’s hand.” THE STUDIO He smiled, saying, “Seek her throughout the world.” I said, “Why tell me of the world? My world is here, between these walls and the sheet of glass above; here among gilded flagons and dull jewelled arms, tarnished frames and canvasses, black chests and high-backed chairs, quaintly carved and stained in blue and gold.” “For whom do you wait?” he said, and I answered, “When she comes I shall know her.” On my hearth a tongue of flame whispered secrets to the whitening ashes. In the street below I heard footsteps, a voice, and a song. “For whom then do you wait?” he said, and I answered, “I shall know her.” Footsteps, a voice, and a song in the street below, and I knew the song but neither the steps nor the voice. “Fool!” he cried, “the song is the same, the voice and steps have but changed with years!” On the hearth a tongue of flame whispered above the whitening ashes: “Wait no more; they have passed, the steps and the voice in the street below.” Then he smiled, saying, “For whom do you wait? Seek her throughout the world!” I answered, “My world is here, between these walls and the sheet of glass above; here among gilded flagons and dull jewelled arms, tarnished frames and canvasses, black chests and high-backed chairs, quaintly carved and stained in blue and gold.” THE PHANTOM The Phantom of the Past would go no further. “If it is true,” she sighed, “that you find in me a friend, let us turn back together. You will forget, here, under the summer sky.” I held her close, pleading, caressing; I seized her, white with anger, but she resisted. “If it is true,” she sighed, “that you find in me a friend, let us turn back together.” The Phantom of the Past would go no further. THE SACRIFICE I went into a field of flowers, whose petals are whiter than snow and whose hearts are pure gold. Far afield a woman cried, “I have killed him I loved!” and from a jar she poured blood upon the flowers whose petals are whiter than snow and whose hearts are pure gold. Far afield I followed, and on the jar I read a thousand names, while from within the fresh blood bubbled to the brim. “I have killed him I loved!” she cried. “The world’s athirst; now let it drink!” She passed, and far afield I watched her pouring