The King in Yellow – Day 57 of 87
She lay there, her curly hair tumbled about her face, her small white hands pressed to her breast.
He could not leave her, and he could not stay. He never knew before that he loved her. She had been a mere comrade, this girl wife of his. Ah! he loved her now with all his heart and soul, and he knew it, only when it was too late. Too late? Why? Then he thought of that other one, binding her, linking her forever to the creature, who stood in danger of his life. With an oath he sprang to the door, but the door would not open,–or was it that he pressed it back,–locked it,–and flung himself on his knees beside the bed, knowing that he dared not for his life’s sake leave what was his all in life.
III
It was four in the morning when he came out of the Prison of the Condemned with the Secretary of the American Legation. A knot of people had gathered around the American Minister’s carriage, which stood in front of the prison, the horses stamping and pawing in the icy street, the coachman huddled on the box, wrapped in furs. Southwark helped the Secretary into the carriage, and shook hands with Trent, thanking him for coming.
“How the scoundrel did stare,” he said; “your evidence was worse than a kick, but it saved his skin for the moment at least,–and prevented complications.”
The Secretary sighed. “We have done our part. Now let them prove him a spy and we wash our hands of him. Jump in, Captain! Come along, Trent!”
“I have a word to say to Captain Southwark, I won’t detain him,” said Trent hastily, and dropping his voice, “Southwark, help me now. You know the story from the blackguard. You know the–the child is at his rooms. Get it, and take it to my own apartment, and if he is shot, I will provide a home for it.”
“I understand,” said the Captain gravely.
“Will you do this at once?”
“At once,” he replied.
Their hands met in a warm clasp, and then Captain Southwark climbed into the carriage, motioning Trent to follow; but he shook his head saying, “Good-bye!” and the carriage rolled away.
He watched the carriage to the end of the street, then started toward his own quarter, but after a step or two hesitated, stopped, and finally turned away in the opposite direction. Something–perhaps it was the sight of the prisoner he had so recently confronted nauseated him. He felt the need of solitude and quiet to collect his thoughts. The events of the evening had shaken him terribly, but he would walk it off, forget, bury everything, and then go back to Sylvia. He started on swiftly, and for a time the bitter thoughts seemed to fade, but when he paused at last, breathless, under the Arc de Triomphe, the bitterness and the wretchedness of the whole thing–yes, of his whole misspent life came back with a pang. Then the face of the prisoner, stamped with the horrible grimace of fear, grew in the shadows before his eyes.
Sick at heart he wandered up and down under the great Arc, striving to occupy his mind, peering up at the sculptured cornices to read the names of the heroes and battles which he knew were engraved there, but always the ashen face of Hartman followed him, grinning with terror!–or was it terror?–was it not triumph?–At the thought he leaped like a man who feels a knife at his throat, but after a savage tramp around the square, came back again and sat down to battle with his misery.
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