V
by Robert W. Chambers
Clifford took a full month to recover completely, though by the end of the first week, Elliott, an expert in such matters, declared him convalescent. His recovery was bolstered by the warm acknowledgment Rue Barrée gave him each time he greeted her. He found himself thanking his lucky stars for her refusal, yet at the same time, his heart ached with unfulfilled longing.
Elliott was frustrated, not only by Cliffordâs silence but also by the inexplicable thaw in Rue BarrĂ©eâs previously icy demeanor. During their frequent encounters, when she would skip along the rue de Seine, music roll in hand and a large straw hat perched on her head, she would pass by Clifford and his friends as they made their way to the CafĂ© Vachette. Each time the band would play, she would blush and smile at Clifford, stirring Elliottâs dormant suspicions. Yet, no matter how hard he tried, he couldnât uncover the truth and eventually resigned himself to the idea that it was beyond his understanding, labeling Clifford an idiot while withholding judgment on Rue BarrĂ©e.
Meanwhile, Selby was consumed by jealousy. At first, he refused to admit it to himself and took off for a day in the countryside. But the woods and fields only intensified his feelings, and the babbling brooks seemed to whisper Rue BarrĂ©eâs name, while the mowers in the meadows called out to each other with a teasing âRue Bar-rĂ©e-e!â That day in the country left him irritable for a week, and he worked at Julianâs in a sulky mood, constantly tormented by thoughts of where Clifford might be and what he was doing. This culminated in a restless Sunday stroll that took him to the flower market on the Pont au Change, then meandered gloomily to the morgue, and finally ended at the marble bridge. Realizing this aimless wandering wouldnât do, Selby decided to visit Clifford, who was recovering in his garden with mint juleps.
They settled down together to discuss morals and the pursuit of happiness, finding each other surprisingly entertaining. However, Selby struggled to pry any information from Clifford, much to the latterâs genuine amusement. The juleps soothed the sting of jealousy and offered a glimmer of hope to Selbyâs troubled heart. When Selby announced he had to leave, Clifford insisted on walking him partway home. Finding it hard to say goodbye, they decided to have dinner together and âflit.â The term âflit,â which Clifford used to describe his late-night escapades, perfectly captured the lightheartedness of their plans.
Dinner was arranged at Mignonâs, and while Selby spoke with the chef, Clifford kept a watchful eye on the butler. The meal turned out to be a success, or at least what most would consider a success. As they neared dessert, Selby heard someone from a distance declare, âKid Selby, drunk as a lord.â
A group of men walked by, and he felt as if he was shaking hands and laughing a lot, surrounded by witty banter. There was Clifford, sitting across from him, swearing eternal loyalty to his friend Selby. Others were scattered around, either seated nearby or gliding past with the rustle of skirts on the polished floor. The scent of roses filled the air, mingling with the sound of fans fluttering and the warmth of soft arms brushing against him. But soon, everything began to blur. The room felt like it was shrouded in mist.
Then, in an instant, everything snapped into sharp focus. The shapes and faces around him became painfully clear, but their features were distorted, and the voices rang out like sharp bells. He straightened himself, trying to appear calm and serious, but he was very much drunk. He was aware of his state, and he felt as guarded and alert as someone watching for a thief at their side. His self-control allowed Clifford to keep his head above water, and they made their way outside, Clifford blissfully unaware of his companion's condition.
For a while, he managed to maintain his composure. His face was slightly paler, a bit tighter than usual, and his speech was a touch slower and more deliberate. It was midnight when he left Clifford peacefully dozing in someoneâs armchair, a long suede glove dangling from his hand and a fluffy boa wrapped around his neck to shield him from drafts.
He walked through the hall and down the stairs, stepping out onto a sidewalk in a neighborhood he didnât recognize. Automatically, he glanced up at the street sign, but the name was unfamiliar. He turned and headed toward some lights flickering at the end of the street. They turned out to be farther away than he had expected, and after what felt like an endless search, he concluded that his eyes had somehow been misplaced, set wide apart like a bird's. The thought of this awkward transformation saddened him, and he tilted his head, trying to test the flexibility of his neck.
Then a wave of despair washed over himâtears welled up in his eyes, and his heart ached as he bumped into a tree. The collision jolted him back to reality. He suppressed the overwhelming tenderness swelling inside him, picked up his hat, and moved on with more purpose. His mouth was pale and tight, his teeth clenched.
He managed to stay on course, wandering little, and after what felt like an eternity, he found himself passing a line of cabs. The bright red, yellow, and green lights irritated him, and for a moment, he thought about smashing them with his cane. But he pushed that impulse aside and continued walking. Then an idea struck him: it would be easier to take a cab. He turned back with that intention, but the cabs seemed so far away, and the lanterns were so bright and disorienting that he abandoned the thought. Taking a deep breath, he steadied himself and looked around.
A massive shadow loomed to his right, and he recognized the Arc de Triomphe. Irritated, he shook his cane at it. It felt too large, almost mocking him. Suddenly, he heard something clatter against the pavement and assumed it was his cane, but it didnât matter much.
Once he steadied himself and regained control of his rebellious right leg, he found himself crossing the Place de la Concorde at a pace that threatened to take him straight to the Madeleine. That wouldnât do at all. He turned sharply right, crossed the bridge, and trotted past the Palais Bourbon, then veered onto Boulevard St. Germain.
He managed to keep moving, though the size of the War Office felt like a personal affront. He missed his cane, which would have been nice to drag along the iron railings as he passed. An idea struck him to use his hat instead, but when he found it, he forgot what he intended to do and placed it back on his head with a serious expression.
He then had to fight against a strong urge to sit down and cry. This feeling lingered until he reached rue de Rennes, where he became absorbed in the dragon statue on the balcony overlooking the Cour du Dragon. Time slipped away until he vaguely remembered he had no business there and forced himself to move on.
Progress was slow. The urge to weep had shifted to a desire for deep, solitary reflection. Suddenly, his right leg betrayed him again, outpacing the left and leading him to a wooden barrier that blocked his path. He tried to walk around it but found the street closed. He attempted to push it over, but it wouldnât budge. Then he noticed a red lantern resting on a pile of paving stones inside the barrier. This was frustrating. How was he supposed to get home if the boulevard was blocked?
But he wasnât even on the boulevard. His treacherous right leg had led him astray, for behind him lay the boulevard with its endless line of lamps, while here was a narrow, crumbling street piled high with dirt and stones. He looked up and saw the words scrawled in bold black letters on the barrier:
RUE BARRĂE.
He sat down. Two policemen he recognized walked by and suggested he get up, but he argued from a personal standpoint and they moved on, chuckling. At that moment, he was lost in thought, pondering how to see Rue Barrée. She was somewhere in that large building with iron balconies, but the door was locked. So what?
A simple idea struck him: shout until she came. But then he thought better of it and considered hammering on the door instead. Ultimately, he dismissed both ideas as too uncertain and decided to climb up to the balcony and politely ask for Rue Barrée through the window.
There was only one lit window he could see, on the second floor. He focused on it, then climbed onto the wooden barrier and scrambled over the piles of stones to reach the sidewalk. Looking up at the façade, he searched for a foothold. It seemed impossible.
But then a sudden fury gripped him, a blind, reckless determination. Blood rushed to his head, pounding in his ears like the distant roar of the ocean. Gritting his teeth, he sprang at the window sill, pulling himself up and hanging onto the iron bars. Reason slipped away; a cacophony of voices filled his mind, and his heart raced, beating a wild rhythm. Gripping the cornice and ledges, he maneuvered along the façade, clinging to pipes and shutters, until he finally dragged himself up, over, and into the balcony by the lighted window.
His hat tumbled off and rolled against the glass. For a moment, he leaned breathless against the railing, and then the window slowly opened from inside.
They stared at each other for a long moment. Finally, the girl took two unsteady steps back into the room. He saw her face, flushed and startled, as she sank into a chair by the lamplit table. Without a word, he followed her into the room, closing the large door-like panes behind him. They looked at each other in silence.
The room was small and completely white. Everything around him was whiteâthe curtained bed, the little washstand in the corner, the bare walls, the china lampâand even his own face, though he didnât realize it. Rueâs face was flushed, the color mirroring the blooming rose on the hearth beside her. He didnât think to speak; she didnât seem to expect it. His mind wrestled with the starkness of the room. The overwhelming whiteness, the sheer purity of everything, began to unsettle him.
As his eyes adjusted to the light, other objects emerged from the background, illuminated by the glow of the lamp. There was a piano, a coal scuttle, a small iron trunk, and a bathtub. A row of wooden pegs lined the door, draped with a white chintz curtain that concealed the clothes hanging beneath. On the bed, an umbrella and a large straw hat rested, while the table held an unfurled music roll, an inkstand, and sheets of ruled paper. Behind him stood a wardrobe with a mirror, but he didnât feel like looking at his own reflection just then. He was sobering up.
Rue sat silently watching him. Her expression was blank, yet her lips trembled ever so slightly at times. Her eyes, which sparkled a brilliant blue in the daylight, now appeared dark and soft like velvet, and the color on her neck shifted with each breath. She seemed smaller and more delicate than he remembered seeing her on the street, and there was something almost childlike in the curve of her cheek.
When he finally turned to catch his reflection in the mirror, a jolt ran through him as if he had stumbled upon something shameful. His muddled thoughts began to clear. For a brief moment, their eyes met, but then he looked down, his lips pressed together tightly. The internal struggle weighed heavily on him, bowing his head and straining every nerve to its limit. But now it was over; the voice inside him had spoken. He listened, feeling a dull interest but already knowing the outcomeâit hardly mattered; the end would always be the same for him. He understood that nowâalways the same for him.
After a while, he stood up, and she immediately rose, one small hand resting on the table. He opened the window, picked up his hat, then closed it again. He walked over to the rosebush and brushed the blossoms with his face. One rose stood in a glass of water on the table, and without thinking, Rue picked it up, pressed it to her lips, and set it back down beside him. He took it wordlessly, crossed the room, and opened the door.
The landing was dark and silent, but Rue lifted the lamp and glided past him, descending the polished stairs into the hallway. She unchained the bolts and pulled open the iron gate.
He stepped through, holding the rose.