IV

by Robert W. Chambers

That evening, I took the keys and stepped into the house I had once known so well. Everything was in its place, but the silence was overwhelming. I approached the door of the marble room twice, but I couldn’t bring myself to enter. It felt like an impossible task. Instead, I went to the smoking room and sat down at the spinet. A delicate lace handkerchief lay on the keys, and I turned away, choking back my emotions. It was clear that I couldn’t stay, so I locked every door, every window, and the three front and back gates before leaving.

The next morning, Alcide packed my suitcase. I left him in charge of my apartment and took the Orient Express to Constantinople. During the two years I wandered through the East, we initially avoided mentioning Geneviève and Boris in our letters. But gradually, their names slipped back into our correspondence. I particularly remember a passage from one of Jack’s letters in response to mine.

“What you tell me about seeing Boris leaning over you while you were ill, feeling his touch on your face, and hearing his voice troubles me. This must have happened a fortnight after he died. I tell myself you were dreaming, that it was part of your delirium, but that explanation doesn’t satisfy me, nor would it satisfy you.”

Toward the end of the second year, I received a letter from Jack that was so unlike him that I decided to return to Paris immediately. He wrote: “I’m well and selling all my paintings like artists do when they don’t need money. I have no worries of my own, but I’m more restless than if I did. I can’t shake off this strange anxiety about you. It’s not fear; it’s more like a breathless anticipation—of what, God knows! All I can say is that it’s wearing me down. Every night, I dream of you and Boris. I can never remember the details, but I wake up with my heart racing, and the excitement builds all day until I fall asleep again, only to have the same experience. I’m exhausted by it and have decided to break this morbid cycle. I need to see you. Should I come to Bombay, or will you come to Paris?”

I telegraphed him to expect me on the next steamer.

When we met, I thought he had changed very little; he insisted I looked in splendid health. It was comforting to hear his voice again, and as we sat and chatted about what life still had in store for us, we both felt grateful to be alive in the bright spring weather.

We spent a week together in Paris, and then I joined him for another week in Ept. But first, we visited the cemetery at Sèvres, where Boris was buried.

“Should we place the ‘Fates’ in the little grove above him?” Jack asked. I replied, “I think only the ‘Madonna’ should watch over Boris’s grave.” But Jack didn’t seem any better for my return. The dreams he couldn’t remember clearly continued, and he mentioned that sometimes the sense of breathless anticipation felt suffocating.

“You see, I do you more harm than good,” I said. “Try a change without me.” So he set off alone to explore the Channel Islands, while I returned to Paris. I hadn’t yet entered Boris’s house, which was now mine, since my return, but I knew it had to be done. Jack had kept it in order, and with servants still there, I decided to give up my own apartment and move in. Instead of the anxiety I had feared, I found I could paint there peacefully. I explored all the rooms—except one. I couldn’t bring myself to enter the marble room where Geneviève lay, yet the longing to see her face grew stronger each day, urging me to kneel beside her.

One April afternoon, I lay dreaming in the smoking room, just as I had two years before. Mechanically, I searched among the tawny Eastern rugs for the wolf-skin. Finally, I spotted the pointed ears and flat, cruel head, and I remembered my dream of Geneviève lying beside it. The helmets still hung against the threadbare tapestry, including the old Spanish morion that I recalled Geneviève wearing when we amused ourselves with the ancient bits of armor. I turned my gaze to the spinet; every yellow key seemed to echo her gentle touch. Drawn by the strength of my life’s passion, I approached the sealed door of the marble room.

With trembling hands, I pushed the heavy doors open. Sunlight poured through the window, gilding Cupid’s wings and casting a halo over the Madonna’s brow. Her tender face leaned down in compassion over a marble form so exquisitely pure that I knelt and crossed myself. Geneviève lay in the shadow beneath the Madonna, and yet, through her white arms, I could see the pale azure vein. Beneath her softly clasped hands, the folds of her dress were tinged with rose, as if illuminated by some faint warmth within her.

With a breaking heart, I bent down and pressed my lips to the marble drapery before retreating back into the silent house.

A maid entered and handed me a letter. I settled into the small conservatory to read it, but just as I was about to break the seal, I noticed the girl lingering by the door. I asked her what she needed.

She stammered something about a white rabbit that had been caught in the house and asked what I wanted her to do with it. I told her to release it in the walled garden behind the house and opened my letter. It was from Jack, but it was so jumbled that I thought he must have lost his mind. It was nothing but a series of pleas, begging me not to leave the house until he could return. He couldn’t explain why, only that there were dreams—he couldn’t elaborate, but he was certain I must stay in the Rue Sainte-Cécile.

As I finished reading, I looked up and saw the same maid standing in the doorway, holding a glass dish with two goldfish swimming inside. “Put them back in the tank and tell me why you’re interrupting me,” I said.

With a barely contained whimper, she poured the water and fish into an aquarium at the end of the conservatory. Then she turned to me and asked if she could leave my service. She explained that people were playing tricks on her, clearly trying to get her into trouble. The marble rabbit had been stolen, and a live one had been brought into the house. The two beautiful marble fish were gone, and she had just found those ordinary live ones flopping on the dining room floor. I reassured her and sent her away, promising I would look into it myself.

I walked into the studio, where I found nothing but my canvases and some casts, except for the marble of the Easter lily. I spotted it on a table across the room and strode over angrily. But when I lifted the flower from the table, it was fresh and delicate, filling the air with its sweet perfume.

Suddenly, it all clicked, and I dashed through the hallway to the marble room. The doors swung open, sunlight flooding my face, and through it, in a heavenly glow, the Madonna smiled as Geneviève lifted her flushed face from her marble couch and opened her sleepy eyes.

---

In the Church of St. Barnabé, vespers had just ended. The clergy left the altar, and the little choir boys hurried across the chancel to settle into their stalls. A Swiss guard in a rich uniform marched down the south aisle, striking his staff against the stone floor every fourth step, followed closely by the eloquent preacher and good man, Monseigneur C——.

I was seated near the chancel rail, and I turned to face the west end of the church. The others between the altar and the pulpit did the same. There was a slight rustling as the congregation settled back into their seats. The preacher climbed the pulpit stairs, and the organ music faded.

I had always found the organ playing at St. Barnabé fascinating. It was learned and scientific, perhaps too complex for my limited understanding, but it conveyed a vivid, if cold, intelligence. Moreover, it had that quintessential French quality of taste—self-controlled, dignified, and reserved.

However, today, from the very first chord, I sensed a troubling change. During vespers, the chancel organ had primarily supported the beautiful choir, but now, seemingly without reason, a heavy hand from the west gallery where the grand organ stood struck out against the serene harmony of those clear voices. It was more than just harsh and discordant; it showed no lack of skill. As it repeated, it made me think of what I had read in my architectural books about the custom in earlier times to consecrate the choir as soon as it was built, while the nave, often completed decades later, sometimes received no blessing at all. I idly wondered if that had been the case at St. Barnabé, and if something unusual, not typically found in a Christian church, might have slipped in unnoticed and taken over the west gallery. I had read about such occurrences, but not in architectural texts.

Then I remembered that St. Barnabé was barely a hundred years old and smiled at the absurdity of medieval superstitions being associated with that cheerful little piece of eighteenth-century rococo.

But now that vespers were over, I expected a few quiet chords to accompany our meditation as we waited for the sermon. Instead, the discord at the lower end of the church erupted with the departure of the clergy, as if nothing could contain it any longer.

I belong to a generation of children raised in simpler times, and I’ve never been one to search for deep psychological meanings in art. To me, music has always been about melody and harmony. But as I sat there, listening to the chaotic sounds spilling from the organ, I sensed something was being pursued. The pedals seemed to chase after it, while the manuals blared their approval. Poor guy! Whoever he was, he didn’t stand a chance of escaping.

My annoyance quickly turned to anger. Who was responsible for this? How dare he play like that during a sacred service? I glanced at the people around me; not one of them seemed bothered. The nuns, kneeling with their serene faces turned toward the altar, remained completely absorbed in their prayers, their white headscarves casting soft shadows. The fashionable woman beside me was eagerly watching Monseigneur C——. From her expression, you’d think the organ was serenading an Ave Maria.

Finally, the preacher made the sign of the cross and called for silence. I felt a wave of relief wash over me. Until that moment, I hadn’t found the peace I had hoped for when I entered St. Barnabé that afternoon.

I was exhausted from three nights filled with physical pain and mental turmoil; the last night had been the worst. I had come to my favorite church seeking solace, my body drained and my mind both numb and hyper-aware, all because I had been reading *The King in Yellow*.

“The sun rises; they gather themselves together and lay down in their dens.” Monseigneur C—— spoke calmly, surveying the congregation with a steady gaze. For reasons I couldn’t explain, my eyes drifted toward the back of the church. The organist was emerging from behind the pipes, making his way along the gallery toward a small door that led down to the street. He was a slender man, his face pale against his black coat. “Good riddance!” I thought. “With your wicked music! I hope your assistant plays the closing voluntary.”

Feeling a sense of relief—a deep, calming relief—I turned back to the gentle face in the pulpit and prepared to listen. At last, I could find the peace I craved.

“My children,” the preacher began, “there’s one truth that the human soul struggles to learn: it has nothing to fear. It can never truly understand that nothing can harm it.”

“What an interesting idea!” I thought. “For a Catholic priest. I wonder how he’ll reconcile that with the teachings of the Church.”

“Nothing can truly harm the soul,” he continued in his calm, clear voice, “because—”

But I never heard the rest. My gaze shifted away from his face, drawn inexplicably to the lower end of the church. The same man was coming out from behind the organ again, moving along the gallery in the same direction. But there hadn’t been enough time for him to return, and if he had, I would have seen him. A chill ran through me, and my heart sank. Still, his comings and goings were none of my concern. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from his dark figure and pale face. When he reached a point directly across from me, he turned and shot me a look filled with intense, deadly hatred. I had never seen anything like it before, and I hoped I would never see it again. Then he vanished through the same door I had watched him leave just a minute earlier.

I sat there, trying to gather my thoughts. My first reaction felt like that of a small child who has just been hurt, catching its breath before the tears come.

To suddenly find myself the target of such hatred was painfully exquisite, especially since this man was a complete stranger. Why would he hate me?—me, someone he had never seen before? For a moment, all other feelings faded into this one sharp pang; even fear took a backseat to my grief. But then, reason began to creep in, and I found a sense of the absurdity in my situation.

As I mentioned, St. Barnabé is a modern church. It’s small and well-lit; you can see almost everything at a glance. The organ gallery is flooded with bright light from a row of long windows in the clerestory, which don’t even have stained glass.

With the pulpit positioned in the center of the church, it was only natural that anything moving at the west end would catch my eye when I was facing it. When the organist passed by, it made sense that I noticed him; I had simply miscalculated the time between his first and second appearances. He must have come in again through the other side door. As for that look that had unsettled me so deeply, it was all in my head. I was just being a nervous fool.

I looked around. This seemed like a perfect spot for supernatural horrors! The clear, reasonable face of Monseigneur C——, his composed demeanor and graceful gestures, were hardly encouraging for the idea of a gruesome mystery. I glanced above his head and almost laughed. That flighty lady holding up one corner of the pulpit canopy, which looked like a fringed tablecloth caught in a gust of wind, would surely point her golden trumpet at any basilisk trying to perch up there in the organ loft and puff it out of existence! I chuckled to myself over this amusing thought, feeling a bit mischievous as I sat there, teasing myself and everything around me—from the old harpy outside the railing who had charged me ten centimes for my chair before letting me in (I told myself she was more like a basilisk than my organist with his pale complexion) to, yes, sadly, Monseigneur C—— himself. All sense of devotion had vanished. I had never felt this way before, but now I was overwhelmed by a desire to mock.

As for the sermon, I couldn’t hear a word over the jingle in my ears of “The skirts of St. Paul has reached. Having preached us those six Lent lectures, more unctuous than ever he preached,” which kept time with my most irreverent thoughts.

It was pointless to sit there any longer; I needed to get outside and shake off this wretched mood. I knew it was rude, but I stood up and left the church.

A spring sun shone down on Rue St. Honoré as I hurried down the church steps. On one corner, a vendor had a cart overflowing with yellow jonquils, pale Riviera violets, dark Russian violets, and white Roman hyacinths, all surrounded by a golden cloud of mimosa. The street buzzed with Sunday pleasure-seekers. I swung my cane and laughed along with them. Someone passed me, not bothering to look back, but I recognized the same deadly malice in his white profile that I had seen in his eyes. I watched him until he disappeared from view. His lithe figure radiated the same threat; every step he took away from me felt like it was leading him on some mission tied to my destruction.

I moved slowly, my feet almost refusing to cooperate. A sense of responsibility began to stir within me for something long buried. It felt as if I deserved whatever he threatened; it reached back a long, long way. It had lain dormant all these years, but it was there, waiting to rise and confront me. I tried to escape, stumbling as best I could into Rue de Rivoli, across Place de la Concorde, and onto the Quai. I looked at the sun, shining through the white foam of the fountain, cascading over the backs of the dark bronze river-gods, and the distant Arc, a structure shrouded in amethyst mist, surrounded by countless vistas of grey stems and bare branches faintly tinged with green. Then I spotted him again, walking down one of the chestnut-lined paths of Cours la Reine.

I left the riverside, blindly crossed to the Champs-Élysées, and headed toward the Arc. The setting sun cast its rays along the green grass of the Rond-point, where he sat on a bench, surrounded by children and young mothers. He looked like just another Sunday lounger, like everyone else, like me. I almost said the words out loud, all the while gazing at the malignant hatred etched on his face. But he wasn’t looking at me. I crept past, dragging my heavy feet up the Avenue. I knew that every time I encountered him, it brought him closer to fulfilling his purpose and sealing my fate. Still, I tried to save myself.

The last rays of sunset streamed through the great Arc. I passed beneath it and came face to face with him. I had left him far down the Champs-Élysées, yet he appeared among a crowd of people returning from the Bois de Boulogne. He came so close that he brushed against me. His slender frame felt like iron beneath its loose black covering. He showed no signs of haste, fatigue, or any human emotion. Everything about him radiated one thing: the will and power to bring me harm.

In anguish, I watched him as he walked down the bustling Avenue, alive with the sounds of wheels, horses, and the helmets of the Garde Républicaine.

He soon vanished from sight, and I turned and fled. I plunged into the Bois and wandered far beyond it—I had no idea where I was going, but after what felt like a long time, night fell, and I found myself sitting at a table outside a small café. I had somehow wandered back into the Bois. Hours had passed since I last saw him. Physical exhaustion and mental anguish had drained me of any ability to think or feel. I was so tired! I longed to retreat to my own space. I resolved to go home, but that felt like a long way off.

I live in the Court of the Dragon, a narrow passage that leads from Rue de Rennes to Rue du Dragon.

It was a dead end, only passable on foot. Above the entrance on Rue de Rennes, a balcony jutted out, held up by a wrought-iron dragon. Inside the courtyard, tall, old buildings loomed on either side, closing off the ends that opened onto the two streets. During the day, massive gates swung back into the walls of the deep archways, but after midnight, they shut tight, forcing anyone who needed to enter to ring a small door on the side. The sunken pavement collected unpleasant puddles, and steep staircases led down to doors that opened into the courtyard. The ground floors were filled with second-hand shops and ironworkers. All day long, the place echoed with the sound of hammers and the clanging of metal.

Despite the grimness below, there was a sense of cheerfulness, comfort, and honest labor above.

Five flights up were the studios of architects and painters, along with the hideaways of middle-aged students like me who preferred solitude. When I first moved in, I was young and not alone.

I had to wait a while before a cab finally appeared, but just as I was about to reach the Arc de Triomphe again, an empty carriage came into view, and I hopped in.

The drive from the Arc to Rue de Rennes took over half an hour, especially with a tired cab horse that had been worn out by Sunday revelers.

Before I passed under the dragon’s wings, I had plenty of time to confront my enemy again and again, yet I didn’t see him once. Now, though, I was close to safety.

At the wide entrance, a small group of children played. Our concierge and his wife strolled among them, their black poodle in tow, keeping things in order. A few couples were waltzing on the sidewalk. I nodded to them and hurried inside.

All the residents of the courtyard had spilled out onto the street. The place felt deserted, illuminated only by a few dim lanterns hung high above.

My apartment was at the top of a building halfway down the courtyard, accessible by a staircase that nearly descended into the street, with just a narrow passageway in between. As I stepped onto the threshold of my open door, the familiar, worn stairs rose before me, leading up to rest and safety. Glancing back over my shoulder, I spotted him, just ten paces away. He must have entered the courtyard right behind me.

He was walking straight toward me, neither slow nor fast, just coming directly at me. And now he was looking at me. For the first time since our eyes had locked across the church, they met again, and I knew the moment had arrived.

I started to back away down the courtyard, intending to escape through the entrance on Rue du Dragon. But his gaze told me I wouldn’t get away.

It felt like an eternity as we moved in silence—me retreating, him advancing—until I finally felt the shadow of the archway. The next step brought me into it. I had planned to turn and dash into the street, but the shadow wasn’t that of an archway; it was the shadow of a vault. The great doors on Rue du Dragon were closed. I sensed this from the darkness surrounding me, and in that instant, I saw it reflected in his face. How his features glimmered in the gloom as he drew closer! The deep vaults, the massive closed doors, their cold iron clamps were all on his side. The threat he had posed had materialized: it loomed over me from the endless shadows, ready to strike from those infernal eyes. Desperate, I pressed my back against the barred doors and faced him defiantly.

* * * * *

There was a scraping of chairs against the stone floor, followed by a rustling as the congregation stood up. I could hear the Suisse’s staff in the south aisle, leading Monseigneur C—— to the sacristy.

The kneeling nuns, pulled from their devout reverie, made their reverence and departed. The fashionable lady next to me also rose, her movements graceful and reserved. As she left, her glance flicked over my face, filled with disapproval.

Half dead, or so it felt, yet acutely aware of every detail, I sat among the slowly moving crowd before finally standing up and heading toward the door.

Had I slept through the sermon? I looked up and saw him passing along the gallery to his place. I only caught a glimpse of his side; the thin, bent arm in its black covering resembled one of those sinister, nameless instruments found in the forgotten torture chambers of medieval castles.

But I had escaped him, even if his eyes had insisted I wouldn’t. Had I truly escaped? The power he held over me returned from the depths of oblivion, where I had hoped to keep it. I recognized him now. Death and the dreadful realm of lost souls, where my weakness had long ago sent him—these had transformed him for everyone else, but not for me. I had known him almost from the start; I had never doubted his intentions. And now, while my body sat safely in the cheerful little church, he had been hunting my soul in the Court of the Dragon.

I quietly approached the door, and suddenly the organ erupted above me with a deafening sound. A brilliant light flooded the church, obscuring the altar from my view. The congregation faded away, the arches and the vaulted ceiling disappeared. I lifted my scorched eyes to the blinding brightness and glimpsed the dark stars hanging in the sky, while the chilly winds from Lake Hali brushed against my face.

In the distance, across vast stretches of turbulent clouds, I saw the moon glistening with mist; and beyond it, the towers of Carcosa emerged behind the moon.

Death and the terrifying realm of lost souls, to which my weakness had long ago condemned him, had transformed him in the eyes of everyone but me. Then I heard his voice, rising and swelling, booming through the brilliant light. As I fell, the radiance intensified, washing over me in waves of flame. I sank deeper, and I heard the King in Yellow whispering to my soul: “It is a dreadful thing to fall into the hands of the living God!”

THE YELLOW SIGN

“Let the red dawn anticipate What we shall do, When this blue starlight fades And all is done.”