The King in Yellow Chapter 38: Part 38

originally contained, besides the furniture, about two square feet of walking room, and now this was occupied by a cactus. The bed groaned under crates of pansies, lilies and heliotrope, the lounge was covered with hyacinths and tulips, and the washstand supported a species of 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 a little, apologized, and then, as the full splendour of the floral _fête_ burst upon him, sat down in astonishment upon a geranium. The geranium was a 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 lacked enthusiasm. “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 would share, if he chose, with the gardener. Clifford tried to pretend that he had not heard, while Selby paid bill and tribute without a murmur. Then he lounged back into the room with an attempt at indifference which failed entirely when he tore his trousers on the cactus. Clifford made some commonplace remark, lighted a cigarette and looked out of the window to give Selby a chance. Selby tried to take it, but getting as far as—“Yes, spring is here at last,” froze solid. He looked at the back of Clifford’s head. It expressed volumes. Those little perked-up ears seemed tingling with suppressed glee. He made a desperate effort to master the situation, and jumped up to reach for some Russian cigarettes as an incentive to conversation, but was foiled by the cactus, to whom again he fell a prey. The last straw was added. “Damn the cactus.” This observation was wrung from Selby against his will,—against his own instinct of self-preservation, but the thorns on the cactus were long and sharp, and at their repeated prick his pent-up wrath escaped. It was too late now; it was done, and Clifford had wheeled around. “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 would Clifford think of him! He had heard the amount of the bill. Would he believe that he had invested in these luxuries as a timid declaration to his concierge? And would the Latin Quarter comment upon it in their own brutal fashion? He dreaded ridicule and he knew Clifford’s reputation. Then somebody knocked. Selby looked at Clifford with a hunted expression which touched that young man’s heart. It was a confession and at the same time a supplication. Clifford jumped up, threaded his way through the floral labyrinth, and putting 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 their bulldogs.” 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 discretion seldom 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 the door, 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 and invites 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 soured since Rue Barrée sat on him.” Elliott raised his voice: “I say, you fellows, we saw some flowers carried into 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 a tune, selected a pair of gloves and, choosing a dozen cigarettes, placed them in a case. Then walking over to the cactus, he deliberately detached a blossom, drew it through his buttonhole, and picking up hat and stick, smiled upon Clifford, at which the latter was mightily troubled. IV Monday morning at Julian’s, students fought for places; students with prior claims drove away others who had been anxiously squatting on coveted tabourets since the door was opened in hopes of appropriating them at roll-call; students squabbled over palettes, brushes, portfolios, or rent the 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 one sou and made enough to keep himself in cigarettes. Monsieur Julian walked in, smiled a fatherly smile and walked out. His disappearance was followed by the apparition of the clerk, a foxy creature who flitted through the battling hordes in search of prey. Three men who had not paid dues were caught and summoned. A fourth was scented, followed, outflanked, his retreat towards the door cut off, and finally captured behind the stove. About that time, the revolution assuming an acute form, howls rose for “Jules!” Jules came, umpired two fights with a sad resignation in his big brown eyes, shook hands with everybody and melted away in the throng, leaving an atmosphere of peace and good-will. The lions sat down with the lambs, the massiers marked the best places for themselves and friends, and, mounting the 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 chalk before 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! a paintbox fell with brushes and all on board. “_Dieu de Dieu de_—” spat! A blow, 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 the ledger. “Clifford!” Clifford was not there. He was about three miles away in a direct line and every instant increased the distance. Not that he was walking fast,—on the contrary, he was strolling with that leisurely gait peculiar to himself. Elliott was beside him and two bulldogs covered the rear. Elliott was reading the “Gil Blas,” from which he seemed to extract amusement, but deeming boisterous mirth unsuitable to Clifford’s state of mind, subdued his amusement to a series of discreet smiles. The latter, moodily aware of this, said nothing, but leading the way into the Luxembourg Gardens installed himself upon a bench by the northern terrace and surveyed the landscape with disfavour. Elliott, according to the Luxembourg regulations, tied the two dogs and then, with an interrogative glance toward his friend, resumed the “Gil Blas” and the discreet smiles. The day was perfect. The sun hung over Notre Dame, setting the city in a glitter. The tender foliage of the chestnuts cast a shadow over the terrace and flecked the paths and walks with tracery so blue that Clifford might here have found encouragement for his violent “impressions” had he but looked; but as usual in this period of his career, his thoughts were anywhere except in his profession. Around about, the sparrows quarrelled and chattered their courtship songs, the big rosy pigeons sailed from tree to tree, the flies whirled in the sunbeams and the flowers exhaled a thousand 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 I thought,—you are tagging after some new petticoat again. And,” he continued wrathfully, “if this is what you’ve kept me away from Julian’s for,—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 you are 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 from sheer helplessness. “Oh, go on, go on; let’s see, there’s Clémence and Marie 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 those named have separately and in turn torn your heart with anguish and have also made me lose my place at Julian’s in this same manner; each and every one, separately and in turn. Do you deny it?” “What you say may be founded on facts—in a way—but give me the credit of being faithful to one at a time—” “Until the next came along.” “But this,—this is really very different. Elliott, believe me, I am all broken up.” Then there being nothing else to do, Elliott gnashed his teeth and listened. “It’s—it’s Rue Barrée.” “Well,” observed Elliott, with scorn, “if you are moping and moaning over _that_ girl,—the girl who has given you and myself every reason to wish that 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—n miserable. 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 pretty inanity—I mean, do you honestly love her?” “Yes,” said the other doggedly, “I would—”