The King in Yellow Chapter 31: Part 31

him. “Why do you think so?” “Because you speak as if you did.” “You are making fun of me,” she said, “and it is not good taste.” She stopped, confused, as he coloured to the roots of his hair. “How long have you been in Paris?” she said at length. “Three days,” he replied gravely. “But—but—surely you are not a nouveau! You speak French too well!” Then after a pause, “Really are you a nouveau?” “I am,” he said. She sat down on the marble bench lately occupied by Clifford, and tilting her parasol over her small head looked at him. “I don’t believe it.” He felt the compliment, and for a moment hesitated to declare himself one of the despised. Then mustering up his courage, he told her how new and green he was, and all with a frankness which made her blue eyes open very wide and her lips part in the sweetest of smiles. “You have never seen a studio?” “Never.” “Nor a model?” “No.” “How funny,” she said solemnly. Then they both laughed. “And you,” he said, “have seen studios?” “Hundreds.” “And models?” “Millions.” “And you know Bouguereau?” “Yes, and Henner, and Constant and Laurens, and Puvis de Chavannes and Dagnan and Courtois, and—and all the rest of them!” “And yet you say you are not an artist.” “Pardon,” she said gravely, “did I say I was not?” “Won’t you tell me?” he hesitated. At first she looked at him, shaking her head and smiling, then of a sudden her eyes fell and she began tracing figures with her parasol in the gravel at her feet. Hastings had taken a place on the seat, and now, with his elbows on his knees, sat watching the spray drifting above the fountain jet. A small boy, dressed as a sailor, stood poking his yacht and crying, “I won’t go home! I won’t go home!” His nurse raised her hands to Heaven. “Just like a little American boy,” thought Hastings, and a pang of homesickness shot through him. Presently the nurse captured the boat, and the small boy stood at bay. “Monsieur René, when you decide to come here you may have your boat.” The boy backed away scowling. “Give me my boat, I say,” he cried, “and don’t call me René, for my name’s Randall and you know it!” “Hello!” said Hastings,—“Randall?—that’s English.” “I am American,” announced the boy in perfectly good English, turning to look at Hastings, “and she’s such a fool she calls me René because mamma calls me Ranny—” Here he dodged the exasperated nurse and took up his station behind Hastings, who laughed, and catching him around the waist lifted him into his lap. “One of my countrymen,” he said to the girl beside him. He smiled while he spoke, but there was a queer feeling in his throat. “Don’t you see the stars and stripes on my yacht?” demanded Randall. Sure enough, the American colours hung limply under the nurse’s arm. “Oh,” cried the girl, “he is charming,” and impulsively stooped to kiss him, but the infant Randall wriggled out of Hastings’ arms, and his nurse pounced upon him with an angry glance at the girl. She reddened and then bit her lips as the nurse, with eyes still fixed on her, dragged the child away and ostentatiously wiped his lips with her handkerchief. Then she stole a look at Hastings and bit her lip again. “What an ill-tempered woman!” he said. “In America, most nurses are flattered when people kiss their children.” For an instant she tipped the parasol to hide her face, then closed it with a snap and looked at him defiantly. “Do you think it strange that she objected?” “Why not?” he said in surprise. Again she looked at him with quick searching eyes. His eyes were clear and bright, and he smiled back, repeating, “Why not?” “You _are_ droll,” she murmured, bending her head. “Why?” But she made no answer, and sat silent, tracing curves and circles in the dust with her parasol. After a while he said—“I am glad to see that young people have so much liberty here. I understood that the French were not at all like us. You know in America—or at least where I live in Milbrook, girls have every liberty,—go out alone and receive their friends alone, and I was afraid I should miss it here. But I see how it is now, and I am glad I was mistaken.” She raised her eyes to his and kept them there. He continued pleasantly—“Since I have sat here I have seen a lot of pretty girls walking alone on the terrace there,—and then _you_ are alone too. Tell me, for I do not know French customs,—do you have the liberty of going to the theatre without a chaperone?” For a long time she studied his face, and then with a trembling smile said, “Why do you ask me?” “Because you must know, of course,” he said gaily. “Yes,” she replied indifferently, “I know.” He waited for an answer, but getting none, decided that perhaps she had misunderstood him. “I hope you don’t think I mean to presume on our short acquaintance,” he began,—“in fact it is very odd but I don’t know your name. When Mr. Clifford presented me he only mentioned mine. Is that the custom in France?” “It is the custom in the Latin Quarter,” she said with a queer light in her eyes. Then suddenly she began talking almost feverishly. “You must know, Monsieur Hastings, that we are all _un peu sans gêne_ here in the Latin Quarter. We are very Bohemian, and etiquette and ceremony are out of place. It was for that Monsieur Clifford presented you to me with small ceremony, and left us together with less,—only for that, and I am his friend, and I have many friends in 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 d——d 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