Complete weird tales of.., p.1262
Complete Weird Tales of Robert W Chambers, page 1262
Sometimes they played together, Skeene and this slender girl, like young foxes in the snow. She would often hide, too, in the hollow of a great swamp-oak, and when he came home she would call: “Jim! Jim! find me!”
But God lives, and the world spins, and the hare turns white in winter, and the routine of the beginning and the end never varies.
And so it came about that Skeene, laughing up at Lois in the hollow swamp-oak, glanced over his shoulder and saw six black dots clustered upon the frozen lake to the southward. He said nothing but looked into the north. There were more dots there, more also on the ice in the west. For a moment he thought the east was still open; after a while he heard the scrape of a snow-shoe very near. Lois also heard and her face was like death as she reached down and took the rifle from Skeene’s hand.’
When he had climbed up into the hollow tree beside her and looked out from the hole above the great branch, he saw Hale peering at him from a dead-fall.
“Come down,” said Hale.
Skeene clapped his rifle to his cheek and fired.
“Come down,” repeated Hale from behind his dead-fall. Lois, trembling at Skeene’s feet, shrank at the sombre voice from the woods. Skeene bent and kissed her and caressed her, muttering things she could not understand, but she caught his hand in hers and tore off the fur mitten and pressed it to her hot lips, moaning and sobbing.
“Come down for the last time, Jim Skeene,” said Hale slowly. Suddenly a rifle shot rang through the frozen forest. The hand that Lois held tightened against her lips, quivered, relaxed. Something outside fell clinking and clattering to the ground at the foot of the tree. It was Skeene’s rifle; and Skeene sank forward, hanging half out of the hole in the tree, head downward, like a dead squirrel.
And beside him, the other wild thing sobbed and whimpered and moaned among the branches while below the swift axes bit into the tree from which the dead game hung, head downward.
“Look in the hut for the woman!” bawled Hale. The tree swayed and crackled and fell crashing into the snow.
“Where’s that woman?” shouted Hale from the hut;—” G — d d — n her!” —
But when at last he found her he changed his mind and let her stay with Skeene there in the snow.
ENTER THE QUEEN
“VOTRE AMOUR ME ferait dieu.
M’aimez-vous, mademoiselle?
Soupirez un mois, dit-elle.
Un moisi C’est la mort! Adieu!”
Souvenir cher à mes pensées!
Grâce à la fraîcheur qu ‘il leur rend,
Je souris aux heures passées,
Je m’arrange du jour mourant.
BERANGER.
I
THE middle of the studio was occupied by a rug. The middle of the rug was occupied by Clifford. He sat on the floor playing a dirge on a brass cornet. Around him lay bureau drawers, empty trunks and satchels, flanked by cabinets and chests littered with palettes, underclothes, colour-tubes, pipes, and paint-rags.
When Elliott came in, an hour later, he found Clifford still performing on the cornet. He played “Hark! from the Tomb,” and “Death and The Maiden”; and while he played he winked ominously at Elliott.
Now, when Clifford played on his cornet, something was amiss. Elliott knew this and watched him sideways, sullenly removing overcoat and gloves. Every dismal bleat of the brass prophesied calamity. The hollow studio echoed with forebodings of disaster.
“Stop that,” said Elliott, flinging his hat on a chair; “what’s the matter with you?”
“O Commander of the Faithful,” said Clifford, “behold the end of the world! J’ai beau cherchai — je n’en trouve point—”
“Money?” asked Elliott, sitting down; “stop blowing into that cornet.”
“I know of no other way to raise the wind,” said Clifford,— “get your cornet and we’ll play duets.”
“You mean we are actually without means?” Clifford threaded his way through an abatis of easels, canvasses, books, and bird-cages to the Japanese tea-table.
“Have some tea?” he inquired.
“No, I won’t,” snapped Elliott, “and you can tell me where our funds have gone.”
Clifford poured himself a cup of tea, raised his eyes piously, sipped it, and looked at Elliott over the edge of the cup.
“Where’s our money?” repeated Elliott; “you had charge of the common account for the last three months—”
Clifford sighed, unrolled a sheet of paper, shoved it toward his confrère, and offered himself more tea. Elliott examined the figures anxiously.
“You hopeless ass!” he blurted out. “Why didn’t you draw the purse strings?”
“I can deny you nothing, my son,” protested Clifford, casting furtive glances toward his cornet again.
“But we’re ruined!” bawled Elliott in sudden fright.
“Utterly,” admitted Clifford pleasantly.
Through the broad glass roof the pale winter sunlight fell over piles of rugs and weapons on the floor; in the garden the sparrows chirped unceasingly around the frozen fountain. Elliott sat motionless, hypnotised by the column of figures before him. Clifford regarded his canary birds with vague reproach.
At last Elliott broke the silence:
“We had enough, — more than enough to live on decently; we threw our money away! Ass that I am, I didn’t realise I was such an ass.”
“I didn’t either,” said Clifford.
“Oh, you didn’t?” sneered Elliott; “who was it that spent five hundred francs on those idiot birds?” They frowned at the two dozen canaries. The birds hopped aimlessly from pole to perch and from perch to pole.
“I didn’t buy a coupé for a lady,” retorted Clifford. “No, but you gave garden parties with fireworks and Chinese lanterns, and the company broke windows and set the curtains ablaze, and the police fined us for shooting rockets without a permit—”
“Accidents,” observed Clifford; “our social position in the Latin Quarter required us to entertain.”
“Our social position on this planet will also require us to eat, — occasionally.”
“There’s the furniture.”
“I won’t! I won’t! You hear me, Clifford! I’ll not sell a chair. Isn’t there any money in any of those bureau drawers?”
“No, — look for yourself,” replied Clifford cheerfully.
“Now I’ll not mortgage our furniture,” said Elliott; “so you needn’t finger my carved chairs. We must pull through, — I don’t know how, — but we must pull through. I shall cut down my tobacco, I shall drink cheap wine, I shall see Colette at once—”
“Do you think she can stand the blow?” inquired Clifford.
“Your wit is unseasonable,” said Elliott haughtily; “how much can you get for your canaries?”
Clifford flatly refused to sell the birds and played a dirge on his cornet. Then the horror of poverty laid hold of Elliott and drove him out into the Luxembourg where he sat in the fading sunshine until the drums boomed from the southern terrace and the challenge of the sentinels, droning, monotonous, sounded and resounded across the windy park.
There was a hint of snow in the air as he passed out into the Place de Medici. He clinked the few gold pieces in his pocket as he walked. This appalled him, and he stepped more quickly.
On the Boulevard, a slim white-browed girl, exquisitely gowned, called to him from a coupé. When he motioned the coachman to stop and stepped to the curb, she buried her nose in a bunch of violets and laughed.
“Colette,” said Elliott gloomily, “Mr. Clifford and I are compelled to retire for the space of three months. Therefore, most charming and most wise Colette, — therefore—”
He raised one hand and opened his fingers as though releasing a butterfly.
II.
All that week Clifford roamed about the studio blowing melancholy blasts from his cornet. Elliott sold a picture to Solomon Moritz for twenty francs, regretted it, tried to get it back, beat Mr. Moritz with a mahl-stick and resisted an officer. To his horror the French Government insisted on entertaining him for a week at Mazas, whither Clifford visited his comrade daily until Saturday and freedom arrived.
“This is a hell of a country,” observed Elliott as he shook the dust of Mazas from his heels in company with Clifford. “It’s no place for the breadwinner; the Jews have the country by the throat.”
“They said,” observed Clifford, “that you had Moritz by the throat.”
“I did; the ruffian refused me thirty francs for my ‘Judgment of Solomon.’”
“Dear me!” exclaimed Clifford with an impudent gesture, “wasn’t it worth it?”
“You will refrain,” said Elliott furiously, “from poking me in the ribs, — now and hereafter.”
Half an hour later they entered the studio and sat down opposite each other in silence. The canaries filled the room with their imbecile twittering, and hopped and hopped until Elliott jumped up and seized his hat.
“Is this studio a bird-cage?” he demanded bitterly.
Clifford said something about jail-birds and picked up his cornet. For an hour he played “‘Tite Femme” and “Place aux Gosses.” But when he attacked “The Emperor’s Funeral March,” Elliott seized him.
“Let go,” said Clifford sullenly.
“No. See here, Clifford, let’s be friends and let’s try to be practical. We’ve got to make our living for the next three months. Let’s stop squabbling and hold a conference. Will you?”
“Yes,” replied Clifford amiably.
“Then where do we dine?”
“We haven’t lunched yet.”
“This is awful,” muttered Elliott, staring at the canaries; “do you suppose we could eat those birds?”
In the silence that ensued a piano began in the studio above, and a voice sang:
“Et qu’elle est folle dans sa joie,
Lorsq’elle chante le matin, —
Lorsqu’en tirant son bas de soie,
Elle fait; sur son flanc qui ploie,
Craquer son corset de satin!”
The piano ceased; there came a laugh, a double roll on a Tambour-Basque, and the clicking of castanets.
“Who’s that?” said Elliott morosely. Then with a sneer he paraphrased the last line of the song.
Clifford pricked up his ears but shook his head.
“Hear her laugh! I suppose she’s dined,” continued Elliott with a vicious eye on the birds. “Well, are we going to eat those cursed canaries?”
“I never heard you swear like that,” protested Clifford. “Has poverty weakened your intellect?”
“Yes,” said Elliott savagely.
“If we eat ’em our meal will cost five hundred francs.”
“Then you’ve got to sell them. They are no good, — yellow birds are always feeble-minded. Canaries are ridiculous.”
The castanets began again, and the voice took up the Spanish measure:
“My Picador! My Picador!
Thy Spanish customs I adore,
Thou garlic loving,
Cattle shoving,
Spick-and-spangled Picador!
* * * * *
I hear the mottled heifer roar,
My Picador!
The people pounding on the floor,
My Picador!
The ring is clear!
The cow is here?
They’ve had to haul her by the ear;
The Banderillos linger near!
Oh, Picador! My Picador!”
“She’s very gay,” observed Clifford, after another silence broken only by the distant click! click! click! of the castanets.” Hm! I — er — I suppose we ought to call—”
“Call,” repeated Elliott; “when I’m hollow!”
“If we call,” said Clifford briskly, “we maybe invited to dinner.” He smiled, whistled a bar or two, and poked the fire.”
“Don’t,” said the other, “you waste fuel.”
The wind showered the sleet across the great windows; in the twilight a chill crept in over the rugs; a distant shutter banged, rattled, and banged again. Elliott jumped up and paced the floor.
“We’ve got to do something,” he said, “and do it now. Where’s your watch?”
“You ought to know,” said Clifford reproachfully. “Yours is there too.”
After a moment he continued; “I’ve got those cuff-buttons you gave me—” He went into his bedroom and returned with the cuff-buttons. Elliott took them, jerked on his overcoat, nodded, and opened the door.
“I’ll be back in half an hour, — wait for me,” he said, and slammed the door behind him.
III.
“Now, what the mischief am I to do for half an hour,” mused Clifford, staring out of the blank window, both hands in his pockets, an empty pipe between his teeth. There was a vacancy in his stomach that bothered him, and the more he thought about it, the more it hurt. The canary birds were revelling in bird-seed; he eyed them enviously for a while, then walked up and down whistling. Every time he passed the big gilded cage he could hear the birds cracking and splitting the seeds, and the noise of the feast irritated him.
His neighbour on the floor above was singing away with heart and soul about bull-rings and toreadors, banging joyously upon the Basque drum or snapping and clicking the castanets.
“Dear! Dear!” he thought, “my neighbour is really very gay. She must have moved in to-day. I — I wonder what she’s like!”
He listened, sitting close to his dying fire. After a moment he heard her cross the room and open the piano again.
“Dear! Dear!” he said to himself, “what a musical young lady! Probably an embryo actress from the Conservatoire; — or — or—”
The piano began; it was scales this time. For an hour he sat huddled before the cold ashes, listening to the five-fingered acrobatic exercises, alternately yawning with hunger and cursing Elliott. When six o’clock struck from the concierge’s lodge he stood up, gazing dismally out into the night.
Suddenly he heard the scrape of feet outside, and he hurried to his door and opened it.
Through the lighted hallway a figure shuffled, carrying a large tray covered with a white napkin.
It was a waiter from the Café Rose-Croix and Clifford knew him.
“Bon soir, Monsieur Clifford,” he said doubtfully.
“Good evening, Placide, Placide, — er — is that little banquet for me? Oh, it’s all right! I suppose Monsieur Elliott paid for it—”
“But, Monsieur,” said the waiter, “this dinner is for a lady.”
“What’s that?” said Clifford sharply. Then he buttonholed Placide and hauled him inside the studio.
“Who is the lady? The one upstairs?”
“Yes — Mademoiselle Plessis — she awaits her dinner — let me go, Monsieur Clifford,” pleaded Placide.
“Oh, I’m not going to play tricks on you,” said Clifford, “here! hold on! — if you move I’ll tip the tray. Now all I want you to do is — is — er — dear me!”
The odour of a nicely browned fowl disturbed his thoughts; his mind wandered with his eyes. Placide gaped at him. He knew Clifford and he dreaded him. “Here you!” said that young gentleman, removing his eyes from the fowl with an effort, “do you think that because I do you the honour of conversing with you that I wish to rob you? Do I look like a man to interfere with a lady’s dinner? Placide, you know me?”
“I do, Monsieur,” replied the waiter despondently.
“Then listen! I am going to make you my confidant! Think of that, Placide!”
The waiter looked at him obliquely and did not appear to appreciate the honour in store.
“Placide!”
“Monsieur!”
“I am in love!”
“Doubtless — if it is Monsieur’s pleasure—”
“Silence! Idiot! I am about to bestow gifts; am about to—”
“The chicken, Monsieur, is becoming cold—”
“I am,” repeated Clifford majestically, “about to offer two dozen — twenty-four — canary birds to my adored. You may ask; what is that to you—”
“I do,” began Placide.
“Silence! Pig! These twenty-four canaries are to be carried to her by — think of it, Placide! — by you!”
Placide rolled his eyes, big with anguish. The chicken exhaled a delicious aroma.
Clifford drew in a long breath of the fragrance. Then he lifted the enormous gilt cage, and placed it in Placide’s hands. “Go up-stairs and take these cursed birds with the compliments of Foxhall Clifford, artist, American, 70 rue Bara, first floor, door on the right.”
“But — but my tray—”
“Imbecile! Do you think I’m going to eat your tray? Come back for it and — tell me what the lady says.”
Placide shuffled sullenly to the door; Clifford opened it.
“My tray—” began the unwilling waiter.
“Placide,” said Clifford, “I have not dined — er — re — cently and my temper is uncertain. You are discreet. I wish to dine. Do you understand?” Placide smirked.
“Then use your wits — and when I have ten francs — well — hasten, my good Placide.”
When the waiter had gone, Clifford tiptoed over to the tray and sniffed at the napkin.
“Dear! Dear!” he said, “what a wonderful congregation of perfumes. Now if she doesn’t shut the door on Placide’s nose — I — I hope — I delicately hope that I may receive my reward.”
He paced to and fro, whistling, but never taking his eyes from the tray. After a few minutes he heard Placide’s slippered tread on the stairs, and hastened to admit him.
“The young lady says,” began Placide, lifting the tray, “ — the young lady says that Monsieur is too amiable—”
Clifford’s heart sank.
“And,” pursued Placide with dreary deliberation, edging toward the staircase, “the young lady says that she hopes to see you” —
