Fluid Nexus
mobile messaging without the mobile phone network

Presentation at Piksel '11

I’ll be presenting on Fluid Nexus at Piksel ’11 in Bergen, Norway next week. A new version will be released, incorporating SQLCipher support along with other updates. Be sure to attend if you can!

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Two of the bags that mean the most to me in my collection are my special order Bottega Veneta Knot Clutches. Not only are both of my bags incredibly rare (Bottega Veneta made a small number of them for a group of PurseForum members), but they are totally stunning.

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35 Pics That Illustrate Hilary Duff’s Seemingly Endless Love for Chanel Bags

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Not only does Hilary specialize, but like a true bag lover, she wears her favorites with everything from gym clothes to cocktail dresses. Hilary might be famous, but she's also a working mom (you will see how cute her son is in many of the photos below), and that means she has the same functional needs as many of us do, and just as little time to switch out bags between parts of her day.

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I looked around and ended up seeing a few items I really loved from Bottega Veneta, and then a couple turned to five, which turned to eight. Focusing on evening bags and small bags, these are eight bags Bottega Veneta has right now that are worth a look.

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We've already spent a bit of time documenting Hilary's full collection, but today I'd like to shed a little proverbial ink on the brand that seems to be her favorite: Chanel. Her tastes stick almost exclusively to the brand's vaunted flap bags, but she seems to love the Classic Flap and Boy Bag equally; she has multiples of both and has carried them all time and again over the years. Curiously, she seems to have no love for the Reissue Flap.

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I’ve been drawn to the Chanel Boy Bag since its release in 2011, and I’ve found plenty of Boy renditions that I would have loved to add to my closet. When I saw the Chanel Iridescent Boy Bag, I knew it would be loved by many, myself included.

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Before I even kick this off, I want to start by saying I know many of you don’t like the Kardashian-Jenner clan. It’s not that I personally love them, but I don’t hate them either, and the ladies have some amazing handbags; for our purposes, that means they’re a natural fit for PurseBlog.

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The rich textures that make up a cold-weather wardrobe are undeniably more luxurious than the thin textiles and woven straws of the summer months, but anything that luxe comes with a price. Because we believe in looking for good values even when shopping high-end things, we're big fans of shearling, and this winter's crop of bags is full of it.

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The white textured leather is paired with ivory shearling and while that combo seems like it could be harsh, it is anything but. The overall dimensions aren’t big and the interior will fit just the essentials – think cell phone, keys and cards. There is a long shoulder strap that allows for crossbody wear and with fall upon us, this little bag will stand out against your autumnal hues. I not only love the style but I love the price! Buy via Net-A-Porter for $235.

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Thanks to shearling's relatively affordability (and, of course, every time we say "affordable," it is relative to average prices in the luxury market) as a manufacturing material, many contemporary brands have used it in their handbags to give them an extra note of tactile extravagance. Below, we've assembled a totally touchable lineup of ten shearling bags for your shopping pleasure, all under $700. (And, thankfully, most of them are far under that.

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We were never able to snag any runway detail shots of Chanel's Cruise 2016 show in Seoul, so our anticipation for the brand to release the Korea-inspired collection's lookbook has been building for months. Finally, we have something to show for our patience: Chanel's site has been updated with images and prices for many of the collection's bags, and they're just as pretty and detailed as we've come to expect from the brand.

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If you're a loyal PB reader, you might be able to guess which bag Reese Witherspoon loves enough to buy three of them, even though her handbag collection is vast. (See here and here.) But if you can't, we won't hold it against you. The bag enjoyed a surge of popularity right after its release in the summer of 2014, but it's a classic-looking style that's sure to withstand several seasons to come. Check out that, as well as Kylie Jenner with our favorite Chanel bag of late and more, below.

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Check out all the bags and their prices below and let us know what you think in the comments! Remember, you can also shop sunglasses and beauty online at Chanel's website--here's hoping handbags are next.

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Angelina Jolie has recently emerged from her Hollywood stronghold to promote her latest flick By The Sea, which she filmed during her honeymoon after she wed Brad Pitt last year. We saw her last week in LAX with a fetching tote from Alexander McQueen, and here she is in NYC carrying a brown leather Céline Classic Box Bag. You can get a better idea of what Angie likes in a handbag by mousing through The Many Bags of Angelina Jolie.

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Here's an extremely excited Behati Prinsloo, greeting the paps in NYC. She's carrying a black leather Balenciaga Cable Bag. I've probably pointed this out before, but I don't love this Balenciaga style, mainly because at first glance, it's easily mistaken for a shopping bag. Your mileage may vary.

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very sorry,�� she said. I told her she could rest while I applied rag and turpentine to the plague spot on my canvas, and she went off to smoke a cigarette and look over the illustrations in the Courier Fran?ais. I did not know whether it was something in the turpentine or a defect in the canvas, but the more I scrubbed the more that gangrene seemed to spread. I worked like a beaver to get it out, and yet the disease appeared to creep from limb to limb of the study before me. Alarmed I strove to arrest it, but now the color on the breast changed and the whole figure seemed to absorb the infection as a sponge soaks up water. Vigorously I plied palette knife, turpentine, and scraper, thinking all the time what a s��ance I should hold with Duval who had sold me the canvas; but soon I noticed that it was not the canvas which was defective nor yet the colors of Edward. ��It must be the turpentine,�� I thought angrily, ��or else my eyes have become so blurred and confused by the afternoon light that I can��t see straight.�� I called Tessie, the model. She came and leaned over my chair blowing rings of smoke into the air. ��What have you been doing to it?�� she exclaimed. ��Nothing,�� I growled, ��it must be this turpentine!�� ��What a horrible color it is now,�� she continued. ��Do you think my flesh resembles green cheese?�� ��No, I don��t,�� I said angrily, ��did you ever know me to paint like that before?�� ��No, indeed!�� ��Well, then!�� ��It must be the turpentine, or something,�� she admitted. She slipped on a Japanese robe and walked to the window. I scraped and rubbed until I was tired and finally picked up my brushes and hurled them through the canvas with a forcible expression, the tone alone of which reached Tessie��s ears. Nevertheless she promptly began: ��That��s it! Swear and act silly and ruin your brushes! You have been three weeks on that study, and now look! What��s the good of ripping the canvas? What creatures artists are!�� I felt about as much ashamed as I usually did after such an outbreak, and I turned the ruined canvas to the wall. Tessie helped me clean my brushes, and then danced away to dress. From the screen she regaled me with bits of advice concerning whole or partial loss of temper, until, thinking, perhaps, I had been tormented sufficiently, she came out to implore me to button her waist where she could not reach it on the shoulder. ��Everything went wrong from the time you came back from the window and talked about that horrid-looking man you saw in the churchyard,�� she announced. ��Yes, he probably bewitched the picture,�� I said, yawning. I looked at my watch. ��It��s after six, I know,�� said Tessie, adjusting her hat before the mirror. ��Yes,�� I replied, ��I didn��t mean to keep you so long.�� I leaned out of the window but recoiled with disgust, for the young man with the pasty face stood below in the churchyard. Tessie saw my gesture of disapproval and leaned from the window. ��Is that the man you don��t like?�� she whispered. I nodded. ��I can��t see his face, but he does look fat and soft. Someway or other,�� she continued, turning to look at me, ��he reminds me of a dream �� an awful dream I once had. Or,�� she mused, looking down at her shapely shoes, ��was it a dream after all?�� ��How should I know?�� I smiled. Tessie smiled in reply. ��You were in it,�� she said, ��so perhaps you might know something about it.�� ��Tessie! Tessie!�� I protested, ��don��t you dare flatter by saying you dream about me!�� ��But I did,�� she insisted; ��shall I tell you about it?�� ��Go ahead,�� I replied, lighting a cigarette. Tessie leaned back on the open window-sill and began very seriously. ��One night last winter I was lying in bed thinking about nothing at all in particular. I had been posing for you and I was tired out, yet it seemed impossible for me to sleep. I heard the bells in the city ring ten, eleven, and midnight. I must have fallen asleep about midnight because I don��t remember hearing the bells after that. It seemed to me that I had scarcely closed my eyes when I dreamed that something impelled me to go to the window. I rose, and raising the sash, leaned out. Twenty-fifth Street was deserted as far as I could see. I began to be afraid; everything outside seemed so �� so black and uncomfortable. Then the sound of wheels in the distance came to my ears, and it seemed to me as though that was what I must wait for. Very slowly the wheels approached, and, finally, I could make out a vehicle moving along the street. It came nearer and nearer, and when it passed beneath my window I saw it was a hearse. Then, as I trembled with fear, the driver turned and looked straight at me. When I awoke I was standing by the open window shivering with cold, but the black-plumed hearse and the driver were gone. I dreamed this dream again in March last, and again awoke beside the open window. Last night the dream came again. You remember how it was raining; when I awoke, standing at the open window, my nightdress was soaked.�� ��But where did I come into the dream?�� I asked. ��You �� you were in the coffin; but you were not dead.�� ��In the coffin?�� ��Yes.�� ��How did you know? Could you see me?�� ��No; I only knew you were there.�� ��Had you been eating Welsh rarebits, or lobster salad?�� I began laughing, but the girl interrupted me with a frightened cry. ��Hello! What��s up?�� I said, as she shrank into the embrasure by the window. ��The �� the man below in the churchyard; �� he drove the hearse.�� ��Nonsense,�� I said, but Tessie��s eyes were wide with terror. I went to the window and looked out. The man was gone. ��Come, Tessie,�� I urged, ��don��t be foolish. You have posed too long; you are nervous.�� ��Do you think I could forget that face?�� she murmured. ��Three times I saw the hearse pass below my window, and every

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time the driver turned and looked up at me. Oh, his face was so white and �� and soft? It looked dead �� it looked as if it had been dead a long time.�� I induced the girl to sit down and swallow a glass of Marsala. Then I sat down beside her, and tried to give her some advice. ��Look here, Tessie,�� I said, ��you go to the country for a week or two, and you��ll have no more dreams about hearses. You pose all day, and when night comes your nerves are upset. You can��t keep this up. Then again, instead of going to bed when your day��s work is done, you run off to picnics at Sulzer��s Park, or go to the Eldorado or Coney Island, and when you come down here next morning you are fagged out. There was no real hearse. That was a soft-shell-crab dream.�� She smiled faintly. ��What about the man in the churchyard?�� ��Oh, he��s only an ordinary unhealthy, everyday creature.�� ��As true as my name is Tessie Reardon, I swear to you, Mr. Scott, that the face of the man below in the churchyard is the face of the man who drove the hearse!�� ��What of it?�� I said. ��It��s an honest trade.�� ��Then you think I did see the hearse?�� ��Oh,�� I said, diplomatically, ��if you really did, it might not be unlikely that the man below drove it. There is nothing in that.�� Tessie rose, unrolled her scented handkerchief, and taking a bit of gum from a knot in the hem, placed it in her mouth. Then drawing on her gloves she offered me her hand, with a frank, ��Good-night, Mr. Scott,�� and walked out. II The next morning, Thomas, the bellboy, brought me the Herald and a bit of news. The church next door had been sold. I thanked Heaven for it, not that being a Catholic I had any repugnance for the congregation next door, but because my nerves were shattered by a blatant exhorter, whose every word echoed through the aisle of the church as if it had been my own rooms, and who insisted on his r��s with a nasal persistence which revolted my every instinct. Then, too, there was a fiend in human shape, an organist, who reeled off some of the grand old hymns with an interpretation of his own, and I longed for the blood of a creature who could play the doxology with an amendment of minor chords which one hears only in a quartet of very young undergraduates. I believe the minister was a good man, but when he bellowed: ��And the Lorrrrd said unto Moses, the Lorrrd is a man of war; the Lorrrd is his name. My wrath shall wax hot and I will kill you with the sworrrd!�� I wondered how many centuries of purgatory it would take to atone for such a sin. ��Who bought the property?�� I asked Thomas. ��Nobody that I knows, sir. They do say the gent wot owns this ��ere ��Amilton flats was lookin�� at it. ��E might be a bildin�� more studios.�� I walked to the window. The young man with the unhealthy face stood by the churchyard gate, and at the mere sight of him the same overwhelming repugnance took possession of me. ��By the way, Thomas,�� I said, ��who is that fellow down there?�� Thomas sniffed. ��That there worm, sir? ��E��s night-watchman of the church, sir. ��E maikes me tired a-sittin�� out all night on them steps and lookin�� at you insultin�� like. I��d a punched ��is ��ed, sir �� beg pardon, sir ���� ��Go on, Thomas.�� ��One night a comin�� ��ome with ��Arry, the other English boy, I sees ��im a sittin�� there on them steps. We ��ad Molly and Jen with us, sir, the two girls on the tray service, an�� ��e looks so insultin�� at us that I up and sez: ��Wat you looking hat, you fat slug?���� beg pardon, sir, but that��s ��ow I sez, sir. Then ��e don��t say nothin�� and I sez; ��Come out and I��ll punch that puddin�� ��ed.�� Then I hopens the gate an�� goes in, but ��e don��t say nothin��, only looks insultin�� like. Then I ��its ��im one, but, ugh! ��is ��ed was that cold and mushy it ud sicken you to touch ��im.�� ��What did he do then?�� I asked, curiously. ����Im? Nawthin��.�� ��And you, Thomas?�� The young fellow flushed with embarrassment and smiled uneasily. ��Mr. Scott, sir, I ain��t no coward an�� I can��t make it out at all why I run. I was in the 5th Lawncers, sir, bugler at Tel-el-Kebir, an�� was shot by the wells.�� ��You don��t mean to say you ran away?�� ��Yes, sir; I run.�� ��Why?�� ��That��s just what I want to know, sir. I grabbed Molly an�� run, an�� the rest was as frightened as I.�� ��But what were they frightened at?�� Thomas refused to answer for a while, but now my curiosity was aroused about the repulsive

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young man below and I pressed him. Three years�� sojourn in America had not only modified Thomas�� cockney dialect but had given him the American��s fear of ridicule. ��You won��t believe me, Mr. Scott, sir?�� ��Yes, I will.�� ��You will lawf at me, sir?�� ��Nonsense!�� He hesitated. ��Well, sir, it��s God��s truth that when I ��it ��im ��e grabbed me wrists, sir, and when I twisted ��is soft, mushy fist one of ��is fingers come off in me ��and.�� The utter loathing and horror of Thomas�� face must have been reflected in my own for he added: ��It��s orful, an�� now when I see ��im I just go away. ��E maikes me hill.�� When Thomas had gone I went to the window. The man stood beside the church-railing with both hands on the gate, but I hastily retreated to my easel again, sickened and horrified, for I saw that the middle finger of his right hand was missing. At nine o��clock Tessie appeared and vanished behind the screen with a merry ��Good-morning, Mr. Scott.�� While she had reappeared and taken her pose upon the model-stand I started a new canvas much to her delight. She remained silent as long as I was on the drawing, but as soon as the scrape of the charcoal ceased and I took up my fixative she began to chatter. ��Oh, I had such a lovely time last night. We went to Tony Pastor��s.�� ��Who are ��we��?�� I demanded. ��Oh, Maggie, you know, Mr. Whyte��s model, and Pinkie McCormick �� we call her Pinkie because she��s got that beautiful red hair you artists like so much �� and Lizzie Burke.�� I sent a shower of spray from the fixative over the canvas and said: ��Well, go on.�� ��We saw Kelly and Baby Barnes the skirt-dancer and �� and all the rest. I made a mash.�� ��Then you have gone back on me, Tessie?�� She laughed and shook her head. ��He��s Lizzie Burke��s brother, Ed. He��s a perfect gen��l��man.�� I felt constrained to give her some parental advice concerning mashing, which she took with a bright smile. ��Oh, I can take care of a strange mash,�� she said, examining her chewing gum, ��but Ed is different. Lizzie is my best friend.�� Then she related how Ed had come back from the stocking mill in Lowell, Massachusetts, to find her and Lizzie grown up, and what an accomplished young man he was, and how he thought nothing of squandering half a dollar for ice-cream and oysters to celebrate his entry as clerk into the woolen department of Macy��s. Before she finished I began to paint, and she resumed the pose, smiling and chattering like a sparrow. By noon I had the study fairly well rubbed in and Tessie came to look at it. ��That��s better,�� she said. I thought so too, and ate my lunch with a satisfied feeling that all was going well. Tessie spread her lunch on a drawing table opposite me and we drank our claret from the same bottle and lighted our cigarettes from the same match. I was very much attached to Tessie. I had watched her shoot up into a slender but exquisitely formed woman from a frail, awkward child. She had posed for me during the last three years, and among all my models she was my favorite. It would have troubled me very much indeed had she become ��tough�� or ��fly,�� as the phrase goes, but I never noticed any deterioration of her manner, and felt at heart that she was all right. She and I never discussed morals at all, and I had no intention of doing so, partly because I had none myself, and partly because I knew she would do what she liked in spite of me. Still I did hope she would steer clear of complications, because I wished her well, and then also I had a selfish desire to retain the best model I had. I knew that mashing, as she termed it, had no significance with girls like Tessie, and that such things in America did not resemble in the least the same things in Paris. Yet, having lived with my eyes open, I also knew that somebody would take Tessie away some day, in one manner or another, and though I professed to myself that marriage was nonsense, I sincerely hoped that, in this case, there would be a priest at the end of the vista. I am a Catholic. When I listen to high mass, when I sign myself, I feel that everything, including myself, is more cheerful, and when I confess, it does me good. A man who lives as much alone as I do, must confess to somebody. Then, again, Sylvia was Catholic, and it was reason enough for me. But I was speaking of Tessie, which is very different. Tessie also was Catholic and much more devout than I, so, taking it all in all, I had little fear for

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my pretty model until she should fall in love. But then I knew that fate alone would decide her future for her, and I prayed inwardly that fate would keep her away from men like me and throw into her path nothing but Ed Burkes and Jimmy McCormicks, bless her sweet face! Tessie sat blowing rings of smoke up to the ceiling and tinkling the ice in her tumbler. ��Do you know, Kid, that I also had a dream last night?�� I observed. I sometimes called her ��the Kid.�� ��Not about that man,�� she laughed. ��Exactly. A dream similar to yours, only much worse.�� It was foolish and thoughtless of me to say this, but you know how little tact the average painter has. ��I must have fallen asleep about 10 o��clock,�� I continued, ��and after awhile I dreamt that I awoke. So plainly did I hear the midnight bells, the wind in the tree-branches, and the whistle of steamers from the bay, that even now I can scarcely believe I was not awake. I seemed to be lying in a box which had a glass cover. Dimly I saw the street lamps as I passed, for I must tell you, Tessie, the box in which I reclined appeared to lie in a cushioned wagon which jolted me over a stony pavement. After a while I became impatient and tried to move but the box was too narrow. My hands were crossed on my breast so I could not raise them to help myself. I listened and then tried to call. My voice was gone. I could hear the trample of the horses attached to the wagon and even the breathing of the driver. Then another sound broke upon my ears like the raising of a window sash. I managed to turn my head a little, and found I could look, not only through the glass cover of my box, but also through the glass panes in the side of the covered vehicle. I saw houses, empty and silent, with neither light nor life about any of them excepting one. In that house a window was open on the first floor and a figure all in white stood looking down into the street. It was you.�� Tessie had turned her face away from me and leaned on the table with her elbow. ��I could see your face,�� I resumed, ��and it seemed to me to be very sorrowful. Then we passed on and turned into a narrow black lane. Presently the horses stopped. I waited and waited, closing my eyes with fear and impatience, but all was silent as the grave. After what seemed to me hours, I began to feel uncomfortable. A sense that somebody was close to me made me unclose my eyes. Then I saw the white face of the hearse-driver looking at me through the coffin-lid ���� A sob from Tessie interrupted me. She was trembling like a leaf. I saw I had made an ass of myself and attempted to repair the damage. ��Why, Tess,�� I said, ��I only told you this to show you what influence your story might have on another person��s dreams. You don��t suppose I really lay in a coffin, do you? What are you trembling for? Don��t you see that your dream and my unreasonable dislike for that inoffensive watchman of the church simply set my brain working as soon as I fell asleep?�� She laid her head between her arms and sobbed as if her heart would break. What a precious triple donkey I had made of myself! But I was about to break my record. I went over and put my arm about her. ��Tessie dear, forgive me,�� I said; ��I had no business to frighten you with such nonsense. You are too sensible a girl, too good a Catholic to believe in dreams.�� Her hand tightened on mine and her head fell back upon my shoulder, but she still trembled and I petted her and comforted her. ��Come, Tess, open your eyes and smile.�� Her eyes opened with a slow languid movement and met mine, but their expression was so queer that I hastened to reassure her again. ��It��s all humbug, Tessie, you surely are not afraid that any harm will come to you because of that.�� ��No,�� she said, but her scarlet lips quivered. ��Then what��s the matter? Are you afraid?�� ��Yes. Not for myself.�� ��For me, then?�� I demanded gayly. ��For you,�� she murmured in a voice almost inaudible, ��I�� I care �� for you.�� At first I started to laugh, but when I understood her, a shock passed through me and I sat like one turned to stone. This was the crowning bit of idiocy I had committed. During the moment which elapsed between her reply and my answer I thought of a thousand responses to that innocent confession. I could pass it by with a laugh, I could misunderstand her and reassure

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her as to my health, I could simply point out that it was impossible she could love me. But my reply was quicker than my thoughts, and I might think and think now when it was too late, for I had kissed her on the mouth. That evening I took my usual walk in Washington Park, pondering over the occurrences of the day. I was thoroughly committed. There was no backing out now, and I stared the future straight in the face. I was not good, not even scrupulous, but I had no idea of deceiving either myself or Tessie. The one passion of my life lay buried in the sunlit forests of Brittany. Was it buried forever? Hope cried ��No!�� For three years I had been listening to the voice of Hope, and for three years I had waited for a footstep on my threshold. Had Sylvia forgotten? ��No!�� cried Hope. I said that I was not good. That is true, but still I was not exactly a comic opera villain. I had led an easy-going reckless life, taking what invited me of pleasure, deploring and sometimes bitterly regretting consequences. In one thing alone, except my painting, was I serious, and that was something which lay hidden if not lost in the Breton forests. It was too late now for me to regret what had occurred during the day. Whatever it had been, pity, a sudden tenderness for sorrow, or the more brutal instinct of gratified vanity, it was all the same now, and unless I wished to bruise an innocent heart my path lay marked before me. The fire and strength, the depth of passion of a love which I had never even suspected, with all my imagined experience in the world, left me no alternative but to respond or send her away. Whether because I am so cowardly about giving pain to others, or whether it was that I have little of the gloomy Puritan in me, I do not know, but I shrank from disclaiming responsibility for that thoughtless kiss, and in fact had no time to do so before the gates of her heart opened and the flood poured forth. Others who habitually do their duty and find a sullen satisfaction in making themselves and everybody else unhappy, might have withstood it. I did not. I dared not. After the storm had abated I did tell her that she might better have loved Ed Burke and worn a plain gold ring, but she would not hear of it, and I thought perhaps that as long as she had decided to love somebody she could not marry, it had better be me. I, at least, could treat her with an intelligent affection, and whenever she became tired of her infatuation she could go none the worse for it. For I was decided on that point although I knew how hard it would be. I remembered the usual termination of Platonic liaisons and thought how disgusted I had been whenever I heard of one. I knew I was undertaking a great deal for so unscrupulous a man as I was, and I dreaded the future, but never for one moment did I doubt that she was safe with me. Had it been anybody but Tessie I should not have bothered my head about scruples. For it did not occur to me to sacrifice Tessie as I would have sacrificed a woman of the world. I looked the future squarely in the face and saw the several probable endings to the affair. She would either tire of the whole thing, or become so unhappy that I should have either to marry her or go away. If I married her we would be unhappy. I with a wife unsuited to me, and she with a husband unsuitable for any woman. For my past life could scarcely entitle me to marry. If I went away she might either fall ill, recover, and marry some Eddie Burke, or she might recklessly or deliberately go and do something foolish. On the other hand if she tired of me, then her whole life would be before her with beautiful vistas of Eddie Burkes and marriage rings and twins and Harlem flats and Heaven knows what. As I strolled along through the trees by the Washington Arch, I decided that she should find a substantial friend in me anyway and the future could take care of itself. Then I went into the house and put on my evening dress for the little faintly perfumed note on my dresser said, ��Have a cab at the stage door at eleven,�� and the note was signed ��Edith Carmichael, Metropolitan Theater, June 19th, 189 ��.�� I took supper that night, or rather we took supper, Miss Carmichel and I, at Solari��s and the dawn was just beginning to gild the cross on

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the Memorial Church as I entered Washington Square after leaving Edith at the Brunswick. There was not a soul in the park as I passed among the trees and took the walk which leads from the Garibaldi statue to the Hamilton Apartment House, but as I passed the churchyard I saw a figure sitting on the stone steps. In spite of myself a chill crept over me at the sight of the white puffy face, and I hastened to pass. Then he said something which might have been addressed to me or might merely have been a mutter to himself, but a sudden furious anger flamed up within me that such a creature should address me. For an instant I felt like wheeling about and smashing my stick over his head, but I walked on, and entering the Hamilton went to my apartment. For some time I tossed about the bed trying to get the sound of his voice out of my ears, but could not. It filled my head, that muttering sound, like thick oily smoke from a fat-rendering vat or an odor of noisome decay. And as I lay and tossed about, the voice in my ears seemed more distinct, and I began to understand the words he had muttered. They came to me slowly as if I had forgotten them, and at last I could make some sense out of the sounds. It was this: ��Have you found the Yellow Sign?�� ��Have you found the Yellow Sign?�� ��Have you found the Yellow Sign?�� I was furious. What did he mean by that? Then with a curse upon him and his I rolled over and went to sleep, but when I awoke later I looked pale and haggard, for I had dreamed the dream of the night before and it troubled me more than I cared to think. I dressed and went down into my studio. Tessie sat by the window, but as I came in she rose and put both arms around my neck for an innocent kiss. She looked so sweet and dainty that I kissed her again and then sat down before the easel. ��Hello! Where��s the study I began yesterday?�� I asked. Tessie looked conscious, but did not answer. I began to hunt among the piles of canvases, saying, ��Hurry up, Tess, and get ready; we must take advantage of the morning light.�� When at last I gave up the search among the other canvases and turned to look around the room for the missing study I noticed Tessie standing by the screen with her clothes still on. ��What��s the matter,�� I asked, ��don��t you feel well?�� ��Yes.�� ��Then hurry.�� ��Do you want me to pose as �� as I have always posed?�� Then I understood. Here was a new complication. I had lost, of course, the best nude model I had ever seen. I looked at Tessie. Her face was scarlet. Alas! Alas! We had eaten of the tree of knowledge, and Eden and native innocence were dreams of the past �� I mean �� for her. I suppose she noticed the disappointment on my face, for she said: ��I will pose if you wish. The study is behind the screen here where I put it.�� ��No,�� I said, ��we will begin something new;�� and I went into my wardrobe and picked out a Moorish costume which fairly blazed with tinsel. It was a genuine costume, and Tessie retired to the screen with it enchanted. When she came forth again I was astonished. Her long black hair was bound above her forehead with a circlet of turquoises, and the ends curled about her glittering girdle. Her feet were encased in the embroidered pointed slippers and the skirt of her costume, curiously wrought with arabesques in silver, fell to her ankles. The deep metallic blue vest embroidered with silver and the short Mauresque jacket spangled and sewn with turquoises became her wonderfully. She came up to me and held up her face smiling. I slipped my hand into my pocket and drawing out a gold chain with a cross attached, dropped it over her head. ��It��s yours, Tessie.�� ��Mine?�� she faltered. ��Yours. Now go and pose.�� Then with a radiant smile she ran behind the screen and presently reappeared with a little box on which was written my name. ��I had intended to give it to you when I went home tonight,�� she said, ��but I can��t wait now.�� I opened the box. On the pink cotton inside lay a clasp of black onyx, on which was inlaid a curious symbol or letter in gold. It was neither Arabic nor Chinese, nor as I found afterwards did it belong to any human script. ��It��s all I had to give you for a keepsake,�� she said, timidly. I was annoyed, but I told her how much I should prize it, and promised to wear it always. She fastened it on my coat beneath the lapel. ��How foolish,

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Tess, to go and buy me such a beautiful thing as this,�� I said. ��I did not buy it,�� she laughed. ��Where did you get it?�� Then she told me how she had found it one day while coming from the Aquarium in the Battery, how she had advertised it and watched the papers, but at last gave up all hopes of finding the owner. ��That was last winter,�� she said, ��the very day I had the first horrid dream about the hearse.�� I remembered my dream of the previous night but said nothing, and presently my charcoal was flying over a new canvas, and Tessie stood motionless on the model-stand. III The day following was a disastrous one for me. While moving a framed canvas from one easel to another my foot slipped on the polished floor and I fell heavily on both wrists. They were so badly sprained that it was useless to attempt to hold a brush, and I was obliged to wander about the studio, glaring at unfinished drawings and sketches until despair seized me and I sat down to smoke and twiddle my thumbs with rage. The rain blew against the windows and rattled on the roof of the church, driving me into a nervous fit with its interminable patter. Tessie sat sewing by the window, and every now and then raised her head and looked at me with such innocent compassion that I began to feel ashamed of my irritation and looked about for something to occupy me. I had read all the papers and all the books in the library, but for the sake of something to do I went to the bookcases and shoved them open with my elbow. I knew every volume by its color and examined them all, passing slowly around the library and whistling to keep up my spirits. I was turning to go into the dining-room when my eye fell upon a book bound in yellow, standing in a corner of the top shelf of the last bookcase. I did not remember it and from the floor could not decipher the pale lettering on the back, so I went to the smoking-room and called Tessie. She came in from the studio and climbed up to reach the book. ��What is it?�� I asked. ��The King in Yellow.�� I was dumbfounded. Who had placed it there? How came it in my rooms? I had long ago decided that I should never open that book, and nothing on earth could have persuaded me to buy it. Fearful lest curiosity might tempt me to open it, I had never even looked at it in book-stores. If I ever had had any curiosity to read it, the awful tragedy of young Castaigne, whom I knew, prevented me from exploring its wicked pages. I had always refused to listen to any description of it, and indeed, nobody ever ventured to discuss the second part aloud, so I had absolutely no knowledge of what those leaves might reveal. I stared at the poisonous yellow binding as I would at a snake. ��Don��t touch it, Tessie,�� I said, ��come down.�� Of course my admonition was enough to arouse her curiosity, and before I could prevent it she took the book and, laughing, danced away into the studio with it. I called to her but she slipped away with a tormenting smile at my helpless hands, and I followed her with some impatience. ��Tessie!�� I cried, entering the library, ��listen, I am serious. Put that book away. I do not wish you to open it!�� The library was empty. I went into both drawing-rooms, then into the bedrooms, laundry, kitchen, and finally returned to the library and began a systematic search. She had hidden herself so well that it was half an hour later when I discovered her crouching white and silent by the latticed window in the store-room above. At the first glance I saw she had been punished for her foolishness. The King in Yellow lay at her feet, but the book was open at the second part. I looked at Tessie and saw it was too late. She had opened The King in Yellow. Then I took her by the hand and led her into the studio. She seemed dazed, and when I told her to lie down on the sofa she obeyed me without a word. After a while she closed her eyes and her breathing became regular and deep, but I could not determine whether or not she slept. For a long while I sat silently beside her, but she neither stirred nor spoke, and at last I rose and entering the unused store-room took the yellow book in my least injured hand. It seemed heavy as lead, but I carried it into the studio again, and sitting down on the rug beside the sofa, opened it and read it through

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from beginning to end. When, faint with the excess of my emotions, I dropped the volume and leaned wearily back against the sofa, Tessie opened her eyes and looked at me. We had been speaking for some time in a dull monotonous strain before I realized that we were discussing The King in Yellow. Oh the sin of writing such words �� words which are clear as crystal, limpid and musical as bubbling springs, words which sparkle and glow like the poisoned diamonds of the Medicis! Oh the wickedness, the hopeless damnation of a soul who could fascinate and paralyze human creatures with such words �� words understood by the ignorant and wise alike, words which are more precious than jewels, more soothing than Heavenly music, more awful than death itself. We talked on, unmindful of the gathering shadows, and she was begging me to throw away the clasp of black onyx quaintly inlaid with what we now knew to be the Yellow Sign. I never shall know why I refused, though even at this hour, here in my bedroom as I write this confession, I should be glad to know what it was that prevented me from tearing the Yellow Sign from my breast and casting it into the fire. I am sure I wished to do so, but Tessie pleaded with me in vain. Night fell and the hours dragged on, but still we murmured to each other of the King and the Pallid Mask, and midnight sounded from the misty spires in the fog-wrapped city. We spoke of Hastur and of Cassilda, while outside the fog rolled against the blank window-panes as the cloud waves roll and break on the shores of Hali. The house was very silent now and not a sound from the misty streets broke the silence. Tessie lay among the cushions, her face a gray blot in the gloom, but her hands were clasped in mine and I knew that she knew and read my thoughts as I read hers, for we had understood the mystery of the Hyades and the Phantom of Truth was laid. Then as we answered each other, swiftly, silently, thought on thought, the shadows stirred in the gloom about us, and far in the distant streets we heard a sound. Nearer and nearer it came, the dull crunching of wheels, nearer and yet nearer, and now, outside before the door it ceased, and I dragged myself to the window and saw a black-plumed hearse. The gate below opened and shut, and I crept shaking to my door and bolted it, but I knew no bolts, no locks, could keep that creature out who was coming for the Yellow Sign. And now I heard him moving very softly along the hall. Now he was at the door, and the bolts rotted at his touch. Now he had entered. With eyes starting from my head I peered into the darkness, but when he came into the room I did not see him. It was only when I felt him envelop me in his cold soft grasp that I cried out and struggled with deadly fury, but my hands were useless and he tore the onyx clasp from my coat and struck me full in the face. Then, as I fell, I heard Tessie��s soft cry and her spirit fled to God, and even while falling I longed to follow her, for I knew that the King in Yellow had opened his tattered mantle and there was only Christ to cry to now. I could tell more, but I cannot see what help it will be to the world. As for me I am past human help or hope. As I lie here, writing, careless even whether or not I die before I finish, I can see the doctor gathering up his powders and phials with a vague gesture to the good priest beside me, which I understand. They will be very curious to know the tragedy �� they of the outside world who write books and print millions of newspapers, but I shall write no more, and the father confessor will seal my last words with the seal of sanctity when his holy office is done. They of the outside world may send their creatures into wrecked homes and death-smitten firesides, and their newspapers will batten on blood and tears, but with me their spies must halt before the confessional. They know that Tessie is dead and that I am dying. They know how the people in the house, aroused by an infernal scream, rushed into my room and found one living and two dead, but they do not know what I shall tell them now; they do not know that the doctor said as he pointed to a horrible decomposed heap on the floor �� the livid corpse of the watchman from the church:

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��I have no theory, no explanation. That man must have been dead for months!��
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Along the shore the cloud waves break. The twin suns sink behind the lake. The shadows lengthen In Carcosa. Strange is the night where black stars rise. And strange moons circle through the skies. But stranger still is Lost Carcosa. Songs that the Hyades shall sing. Where flap the tatters of the King. Must die unheard in Dim Carcosa. Song of my soul, my voice is dead. Die thou, unsung, as tears unshed Shall dry and die in Lost Carcosa. Cassilda��s Song in The King in Yellow. Act 1. Scene 2. Being the Contents of an Unsigned Letter Sent to the Author There are so many things which are impossible to explain! Why should certain chords in music make me think of the brown and golden tints of autumn foliage? Why should the Mass of Sainte C��cile send my thoughts wandering among caverns whose walls blaze with ragged masses of virgin silver? What was it in the roar and turmoil of Broadway at six o��clock that flashed before my eyes the picture of a still Breton forest where sunlight filtered through spring foliage and Silvia bent, half curiously, half tenderly, over a small green lizard, murmuring: ��To think that this also is a little ward of God!�� When I first saw the watchman his back was toward me. I looked at him indifferently until he went into the church. I paid no more attention to him than I had to any other man who lounged through Washington Square that morning, and when I shut my window and turned back into my studio I had forgotten him. Late in the afternoon, the day being warm, I raised the window again and leaned out to get a sniff of air. A man was standing in the courtyard of the church, and I noticed him again with as little interest as I had that morning. I looked across the square to where the fountain was playing and then, with my mind filled with vague impressions of trees, asphalt drives, and the moving groups of nursemaids and holidaymakers, I started to walk back to my easel. As I turned, my listless glance included the man below in the churchyard. His face was toward me now, and with a perfectly involuntary movement I bent to see it. At the same moment he raised his head and looked at me. Instantly I thought of a coffin-worm. Whatever it was about the man that repelled me I did not know, but the impression of a plump white grave-worm was so intense and nauseating that I must have shown it in my expression, for he turned his puffy face away with a movement which made me think of a disturbed grub in a chestnut. I went back to my easel and motioned the model to resume her pose. After working awhile I was satisfied that I was spoiling what I had done as rapidly as possible, and I took up a palette knife and scraped the color out again. The flesh tones were sallow and unhealthy, and I did not understand how I could have painted such sickly color into a study which before that had glowed with healthy tones. I looked at Tessie. She had not changed, and the clear flush of health dyed her neck and cheeks as I frowned. ��Is it something I��ve done?�� she said. ��No �� I��ve made a mess of this arm, and for the life of me I can��t see how I came to paint such mud as that into the canvas,�� I replied. ��Don��t I pose well?�� she insisted. ��Of course, perfectly.�� ��Then it��s not my fault?�� ��No. It��s my own.�� ��I��m

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very sorry,�� she said. I told her she could rest while I applied rag and turpentine to the plague spot on my canvas, and she went off to smoke a cigarette and look over the illustrations in the Courier Fran?ais. I did not know whether it was something in the turpentine or a defect in the canvas, but the more I scrubbed the more that gangrene seemed to spread. I worked like a beaver to get it out, and yet the disease appeared to creep from limb to limb of the study before me. Alarmed I strove to arrest it, but now the color on the breast changed and the whole figure seemed to absorb the infection as a sponge soaks up water. Vigorously I plied palette knife, turpentine, and scraper, thinking all the time what a s��ance I should hold with Duval who had sold me the canvas; but soon I noticed that it was not the canvas which was defective nor yet the colors of Edward. ��It must be the turpentine,�� I thought angrily, ��or else my eyes have become so blurred and confused by the afternoon light that I can��t see straight.�� I called Tessie, the model. She came and leaned over my chair blowing rings of smoke into the air. ��What have you been doing to it?�� she exclaimed. ��Nothing,�� I growled, ��it must be this turpentine!�� ��What a horrible color it is now,�� she continued. ��Do you think my flesh resembles green cheese?�� ��No, I don��t,�� I said angrily, ��did you ever know me to paint like that before?�� ��No, indeed!�� ��Well, then!�� ��It must be the turpentine, or something,�� she admitted. She slipped on a Japanese robe and walked to the window. I scraped and rubbed until I was tired and finally picked up my brushes and hurled them through the canvas with a forcible expression, the tone alone of which reached Tessie��s ears. Nevertheless she promptly began: ��That��s it! Swear and act silly and ruin your brushes! You have been three weeks on that study, and now look! What��s the good of ripping the canvas? What creatures artists are!�� I felt about as much ashamed as I usually did after such an outbreak, and I turned the ruined canvas to the wall. Tessie helped me clean my brushes, and then danced away to dress. From the screen she regaled me with bits of advice concerning whole or partial loss of temper, until, thinking, perhaps, I had been tormented sufficiently, she came out to implore me to button her waist where she could not reach it on the shoulder. ��Everything went wrong from the time you came back from the window and talked about that horrid-looking man you saw in the churchyard,�� she announced. ��Yes, he probably bewitched the picture,�� I said, yawning. I looked at my watch. ��It��s after six, I know,�� said Tessie, adjusting her hat before the mirror. ��Yes,�� I replied, ��I didn��t mean to keep you so long.�� I leaned out of the window but recoiled with disgust, for the young man with the pasty face stood below in the churchyard. Tessie saw my gesture of disapproval and leaned from the window. ��Is that the man you don��t like?�� she whispered. I nodded. ��I can��t see his face, but he does look fat and soft. Someway or other,�� she continued, turning to look at me, ��he reminds me of a dream �� an awful dream I once had. Or,�� she mused, looking down at her shapely shoes, ��was it a dream after all?�� ��How should I know?�� I smiled. Tessie smiled in reply. ��You were in it,�� she said, ��so perhaps you might know something about it.�� ��Tessie! Tessie!�� I protested, ��don��t you dare flatter by saying you dream about me!�� ��But I did,�� she insisted; ��shall I tell you about it?�� ��Go ahead,�� I replied, lighting a cigarette. Tessie leaned back on the open window-sill and began very seriously. ��One night last winter I was lying in bed thinking about nothing at all in particular. I had been posing for you and I was tired out, yet it seemed impossible for me to sleep. I heard the bells in the city ring ten, eleven, and midnight. I must have fallen asleep about midnight because I don��t remember hearing the bells after that. It seemed to me that I had scarcely closed my eyes when I dreamed that something impelled me to go to the window. I rose, and raising the sash, leaned out. Twenty-fifth Street was deserted as far as I could see. I began to be afraid; everything outside seemed so �� so black and uncomfortable. Then the sound of wheels in the distance came to my ears, and it seemed to me as though that was what I must wait for. Very slowly the wheels approached, and, finally, I could make out a vehicle moving along the street. It came nearer and nearer, and when it passed beneath my window I saw it was a hearse. Then, as I trembled with fear, the driver turned and looked straight at me. When I awoke I was standing by the open window shivering with cold, but the black-plumed hearse and the driver were gone. I dreamed this dream again in March last, and again awoke beside the open window. Last night the dream came again. You remember how it was raining; when I awoke, standing at the open window, my nightdress was soaked.�� ��But where did I come into the dream?�� I asked. ��You �� you were in the coffin; but you were not dead.�� ��In the coffin?�� ��Yes.�� ��How did you know? Could you see me?�� ��No; I only knew you were there.�� ��Had you been eating Welsh rarebits, or lobster salad?�� I began laughing, but the girl interrupted me with a frightened cry. ��Hello! What��s up?�� I said, as she shrank into the embrasure by the window. ��The �� the man below in the churchyard; �� he drove the hearse.�� ��Nonsense,�� I said, but Tessie��s eyes were wide with terror. I went to the window and looked out. The man was gone. ��Come, Tessie,�� I urged, ��don��t be foolish. You have posed too long; you are nervous.�� ��Do you think I could forget that face?�� she murmured. ��Three times I saw the hearse pass below my window, and every

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time the driver turned and looked up at me. Oh, his face was so white and �� and soft? It looked dead �� it looked as if it had been dead a long time.�� I induced the girl to sit down and swallow a glass of Marsala. Then I sat down beside her, and tried to give her some advice. ��Look here, Tessie,�� I said, ��you go to the country for a week or two, and you��ll have no more dreams about hearses. You pose all day, and when night comes your nerves are upset. You can��t keep this up. Then again, instead of going to bed when your day��s work is done, you run off to picnics at Sulzer��s Park, or go to the Eldorado or Coney Island, and when you come down here next morning you are fagged out. There was no real hearse. That was a soft-shell-crab dream.�� She smiled faintly. ��What about the man in the churchyard?�� ��Oh, he��s only an ordinary unhealthy, everyday creature.�� ��As true as my name is Tessie Reardon, I swear to you, Mr. Scott, that the face of the man below in the churchyard is the face of the man who drove the hearse!�� ��What of it?�� I said. ��It��s an honest trade.�� ��Then you think I did see the hearse?�� ��Oh,�� I said, diplomatically, ��if you really did, it might not be unlikely that the man below drove it. There is nothing in that.�� Tessie rose, unrolled her scented handkerchief, and taking a bit of gum from a knot in the hem, placed it in her mouth. Then drawing on her gloves she offered me her hand, with a frank, ��Good-night, Mr. Scott,�� and walked out. II The next morning, Thomas, the bellboy, brought me the Herald and a bit of news. The church next door had been sold. I thanked Heaven for it, not that being a Catholic I had any repugnance for the congregation next door, but because my nerves were shattered by a blatant exhorter, whose every word echoed through the aisle of the church as if it had been my own rooms, and who insisted on his r��s with a nasal persistence which revolted my every instinct. Then, too, there was a fiend in human shape, an organist, who reeled off some of the grand old hymns with an interpretation of his own, and I longed for the blood of a creature who could play the doxology with an amendment of minor chords which one hears only in a quartet of very young undergraduates. I believe the minister was a good man, but when he bellowed: ��And the Lorrrrd said unto Moses, the Lorrrd is a man of war; the Lorrrd is his name. My wrath shall wax hot and I will kill you with the sworrrd!�� I wondered how many centuries of purgatory it would take to atone for such a sin. ��Who bought the property?�� I asked Thomas. ��Nobody that I knows, sir. They do say the gent wot owns this ��ere ��Amilton flats was lookin�� at it. ��E might be a bildin�� more studios.�� I walked to the window. The young man with the unhealthy face stood by the churchyard gate, and at the mere sight of him the same overwhelming repugnance took possession of me. ��By the way, Thomas,�� I said, ��who is that fellow down there?�� Thomas sniffed. ��That there worm, sir? ��E��s night-watchman of the church, sir. ��E maikes me tired a-sittin�� out all night on them steps and lookin�� at you insultin�� like. I��d a punched ��is ��ed, sir �� beg pardon, sir ���� ��Go on, Thomas.�� ��One night a comin�� ��ome with ��Arry, the other English boy, I sees ��im a sittin�� there on them steps. We ��ad Molly and Jen with us, sir, the two girls on the tray service, an�� ��e looks so insultin�� at us that I up and sez: ��Wat you looking hat, you fat slug?���� beg pardon, sir, but that��s ��ow I sez, sir. Then ��e don��t say nothin�� and I sez; ��Come out and I��ll punch that puddin�� ��ed.�� Then I hopens the gate an�� goes in, but ��e don��t say nothin��, only looks insultin�� like. Then I ��its ��im one, but, ugh! ��is ��ed was that cold and mushy it ud sicken you to touch ��im.�� ��What did he do then?�� I asked, curiously. ����Im? Nawthin��.�� ��And you, Thomas?�� The young fellow flushed with embarrassment and smiled uneasily. ��Mr. Scott, sir, I ain��t no coward an�� I can��t make it out at all why I run. I was in the 5th Lawncers, sir, bugler at Tel-el-Kebir, an�� was shot by the wells.�� ��You don��t mean to say you ran away?�� ��Yes, sir; I run.�� ��Why?�� ��That��s just what I want to know, sir. I grabbed Molly an�� run, an�� the rest was as frightened as I.�� ��But what were they frightened at?�� Thomas refused to answer for a while, but now my curiosity was aroused about the repulsive

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young man below and I pressed him. Three years�� sojourn in America had not only modified Thomas�� cockney dialect but had given him the American��s fear of ridicule. ��You won��t believe me, Mr. Scott, sir?�� ��Yes, I will.�� ��You will lawf at me, sir?�� ��Nonsense!�� He hesitated. ��Well, sir, it��s God��s truth that when I ��it ��im ��e grabbed me wrists, sir, and when I twisted ��is soft, mushy fist one of ��is fingers come off in me ��and.�� The utter loathing and horror of Thomas�� face must have been reflected in my own for he added: ��It��s orful, an�� now when I see ��im I just go away. ��E maikes me hill.�� When Thomas had gone I went to the window. The man stood beside the church-railing with both hands on the gate, but I hastily retreated to my easel again, sickened and horrified, for I saw that the middle finger of his right hand was missing. At nine o��clock Tessie appeared and vanished behind the screen with a merry ��Good-morning, Mr. Scott.�� While she had reappeared and taken her pose upon the model-stand I started a new canvas much to her delight. She remained silent as long as I was on the drawing, but as soon as the scrape of the charcoal ceased and I took up my fixative she began to chatter. ��Oh, I had such a lovely time last night. We went to Tony Pastor��s.�� ��Who are ��we��?�� I demanded. ��Oh, Maggie, you know, Mr. Whyte��s model, and Pinkie McCormick �� we call her Pinkie because she��s got that beautiful red hair you artists like so much �� and Lizzie Burke.�� I sent a shower of spray from the fixative over the canvas and said: ��Well, go on.�� ��We saw Kelly and Baby Barnes the skirt-dancer and �� and all the rest. I made a mash.�� ��Then you have gone back on me, Tessie?�� She laughed and shook her head. ��He��s Lizzie Burke��s brother, Ed. He��s a perfect gen��l��man.�� I felt constrained to give her some parental advice concerning mashing, which she took with a bright smile. ��Oh, I can take care of a strange mash,�� she said, examining her chewing gum, ��but Ed is different. Lizzie is my best friend.�� Then she related how Ed had come back from the stocking mill in Lowell, Massachusetts, to find her and Lizzie grown up, and what an accomplished young man he was, and how he thought nothing of squandering half a dollar for ice-cream and oysters to celebrate his entry as clerk into the woolen department of Macy��s. Before she finished I began to paint, and she resumed the pose, smiling and chattering like a sparrow. By noon I had the study fairly well rubbed in and Tessie came to look at it. ��That��s better,�� she said. I thought so too, and ate my lunch with a satisfied feeling that all was going well. Tessie spread her lunch on a drawing table opposite me and we drank our claret from the same bottle and lighted our cigarettes from the same match. I was very much attached to Tessie. I had watched her shoot up into a slender but exquisitely formed woman from a frail, awkward child. She had posed for me during the last three years, and among all my models she was my favorite. It would have troubled me very much indeed had she become ��tough�� or ��fly,�� as the phrase goes, but I never noticed any deterioration of her manner, and felt at heart that she was all right. She and I never discussed morals at all, and I had no intention of doing so, partly because I had none myself, and partly because I knew she would do what she liked in spite of me. Still I did hope she would steer clear of complications, because I wished her well, and then also I had a selfish desire to retain the best model I had. I knew that mashing, as she termed it, had no significance with girls like Tessie, and that such things in America did not resemble in the least the same things in Paris. Yet, having lived with my eyes open, I also knew that somebody would take Tessie away some day, in one manner or another, and though I professed to myself that marriage was nonsense, I sincerely hoped that, in this case, there would be a priest at the end of the vista. I am a Catholic. When I listen to high mass, when I sign myself, I feel that everything, including myself, is more cheerful, and when I confess, it does me good. A man who lives as much alone as I do, must confess to somebody. Then, again, Sylvia was Catholic, and it was reason enough for me. But I was speaking of Tessie, which is very different. Tessie also was Catholic and much more devout than I, so, taking it all in all, I had little fear for

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my pretty model until she should fall in love. But then I knew that fate alone would decide her future for her, and I prayed inwardly that fate would keep her away from men like me and throw into her path nothing but Ed Burkes and Jimmy McCormicks, bless her sweet face! Tessie sat blowing rings of smoke up to the ceiling and tinkling the ice in her tumbler. ��Do you know, Kid, that I also had a dream last night?�� I observed. I sometimes called her ��the Kid.�� ��Not about that man,�� she laughed. ��Exactly. A dream similar to yours, only much worse.�� It was foolish and thoughtless of me to say this, but you know how little tact the average painter has. ��I must have fallen asleep about 10 o��clock,�� I continued, ��and after awhile I dreamt that I awoke. So plainly did I hear the midnight bells, the wind in the tree-branches, and the whistle of steamers from the bay, that even now I can scarcely believe I was not awake. I seemed to be lying in a box which had a glass cover. Dimly I saw the street lamps as I passed, for I must tell you, Tessie, the box in which I reclined appeared to lie in a cushioned wagon which jolted me over a stony pavement. After a while I became impatient and tried to move but the box was too narrow. My hands were crossed on my breast so I could not raise them to help myself. I listened and then tried to call. My voice was gone. I could hear the trample of the horses attached to the wagon and even the breathing of the driver. Then another sound broke upon my ears like the raising of a window sash. I managed to turn my head a little, and found I could look, not only through the glass cover of my box, but also through the glass panes in the side of the covered vehicle. I saw houses, empty and silent, with neither light nor life about any of them excepting one. In that house a window was open on the first floor and a figure all in white stood looking down into the street. It was you.�� Tessie had turned her face away from me and leaned on the table with her elbow. ��I could see your face,�� I resumed, ��and it seemed to me to be very sorrowful. Then we passed on and turned into a narrow black lane. Presently the horses stopped. I waited and waited, closing my eyes with fear and impatience, but all was silent as the grave. After what seemed to me hours, I began to feel uncomfortable. A sense that somebody was close to me made me unclose my eyes. Then I saw the white face of the hearse-driver looking at me through the coffin-lid ���� A sob from Tessie interrupted me. She was trembling like a leaf. I saw I had made an ass of myself and attempted to repair the damage. ��Why, Tess,�� I said, ��I only told you this to show you what influence your story might have on another person��s dreams. You don��t suppose I really lay in a coffin, do you? What are you trembling for? Don��t you see that your dream and my unreasonable dislike for that inoffensive watchman of the church simply set my brain working as soon as I fell asleep?�� She laid her head between her arms and sobbed as if her heart would break. What a precious triple donkey I had made of myself! But I was about to break my record. I went over and put my arm about her. ��Tessie dear, forgive me,�� I said; ��I had no business to frighten you with such nonsense. You are too sensible a girl, too good a Catholic to believe in dreams.�� Her hand tightened on mine and her head fell back upon my shoulder, but she still trembled and I petted her and comforted her. ��Come, Tess, open your eyes and smile.�� Her eyes opened with a slow languid movement and met mine, but their expression was so queer that I hastened to reassure her again. ��It��s all humbug, Tessie, you surely are not afraid that any harm will come to you because of that.�� ��No,�� she said, but her scarlet lips quivered. ��Then what��s the matter? Are you afraid?�� ��Yes. Not for myself.�� ��For me, then?�� I demanded gayly. ��For you,�� she murmured in a voice almost inaudible, ��I�� I care �� for you.�� At first I started to laugh, but when I understood her, a shock passed through me and I sat like one turned to stone. This was the crowning bit of idiocy I had committed. During the moment which elapsed between her reply and my answer I thought of a thousand responses to that innocent confession. I could pass it by with a laugh, I could misunderstand her and reassure

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her as to my health, I could simply point out that it was impossible she could love me. But my reply was quicker than my thoughts, and I might think and think now when it was too late, for I had kissed her on the mouth. That evening I took my usual walk in Washington Park, pondering over the occurrences of the day. I was thoroughly committed. There was no backing out now, and I stared the future straight in the face. I was not good, not even scrupulous, but I had no idea of deceiving either myself or Tessie. The one passion of my life lay buried in the sunlit forests of Brittany. Was it buried forever? Hope cried ��No!�� For three years I had been listening to the voice of Hope, and for three years I had waited for a footstep on my threshold. Had Sylvia forgotten? ��No!�� cried Hope. I said that I was not good. That is true, but still I was not exactly a comic opera villain. I had led an easy-going reckless life, taking what invited me of pleasure, deploring and sometimes bitterly regretting consequences. In one thing alone, except my painting, was I serious, and that was something which lay hidden if not lost in the Breton forests. It was too late now for me to regret what had occurred during the day. Whatever it had been, pity, a sudden tenderness for sorrow, or the more brutal instinct of gratified vanity, it was all the same now, and unless I wished to bruise an innocent heart my path lay marked before me. The fire and strength, the depth of passion of a love which I had never even suspected, with all my imagined experience in the world, left me no alternative but to respond or send her away. Whether because I am so cowardly about giving pain to others, or whether it was that I have little of the gloomy Puritan in me, I do not know, but I shrank from disclaiming responsibility for that thoughtless kiss, and in fact had no time to do so before the gates of her heart opened and the flood poured forth. Others who habitually do their duty and find a sullen satisfaction in making themselves and everybody else unhappy, might have withstood it. I did not. I dared not. After the storm had abated I did tell her that she might better have loved Ed Burke and worn a plain gold ring, but she would not hear of it, and I thought perhaps that as long as she had decided to love somebody she could not marry, it had better be me. I, at least, could treat her with an intelligent affection, and whenever she became tired of her infatuation she could go none the worse for it. For I was decided on that point although I knew how hard it would be. I remembered the usual termination of Platonic liaisons and thought how disgusted I had been whenever I heard of one. I knew I was undertaking a great deal for so unscrupulous a man as I was, and I dreaded the future, but never for one moment did I doubt that she was safe with me. Had it been anybody but Tessie I should not have bothered my head about scruples. For it did not occur to me to sacrifice Tessie as I would have sacrificed a woman of the world. I looked the future squarely in the face and saw the several probable endings to the affair. She would either tire of the whole thing, or become so unhappy that I should have either to marry her or go away. If I married her we would be unhappy. I with a wife unsuited to me, and she with a husband unsuitable for any woman. For my past life could scarcely entitle me to marry. If I went away she might either fall ill, recover, and marry some Eddie Burke, or she might recklessly or deliberately go and do something foolish. On the other hand if she tired of me, then her whole life would be before her with beautiful vistas of Eddie Burkes and marriage rings and twins and Harlem flats and Heaven knows what. As I strolled along through the trees by the Washington Arch, I decided that she should find a substantial friend in me anyway and the future could take care of itself. Then I went into the house and put on my evening dress for the little faintly perfumed note on my dresser said, ��Have a cab at the stage door at eleven,�� and the note was signed ��Edith Carmichael, Metropolitan Theater, June 19th, 189 ��.�� I took supper that night, or rather we took supper, Miss Carmichel and I, at Solari��s and the dawn was just beginning to gild the cross on

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the Memorial Church as I entered Washington Square after leaving Edith at the Brunswick. There was not a soul in the park as I passed among the trees and took the walk which leads from the Garibaldi statue to the Hamilton Apartment House, but as I passed the churchyard I saw a figure sitting on the stone steps. In spite of myself a chill crept over me at the sight of the white puffy face, and I hastened to pass. Then he said something which might have been addressed to me or might merely have been a mutter to himself, but a sudden furious anger flamed up within me that such a creature should address me. For an instant I felt like wheeling about and smashing my stick over his head, but I walked on, and entering the Hamilton went to my apartment. For some time I tossed about the bed trying to get the sound of his voice out of my ears, but could not. It filled my head, that muttering sound, like thick oily smoke from a fat-rendering vat or an odor of noisome decay. And as I lay and tossed about, the voice in my ears seemed more distinct, and I began to understand the words he had muttered. They came to me slowly as if I had forgotten them, and at last I could make some sense out of the sounds. It was this: ��Have you found the Yellow Sign?�� ��Have you found the Yellow Sign?�� ��Have you found the Yellow Sign?�� I was furious. What did he mean by that? Then with a curse upon him and his I rolled over and went to sleep, but when I awoke later I looked pale and haggard, for I had dreamed the dream of the night before and it troubled me more than I cared to think. I dressed and went down into my studio. Tessie sat by the window, but as I came in she rose and put both arms around my neck for an innocent kiss. She looked so sweet and dainty that I kissed her again and then sat down before the easel. ��Hello! Where��s the study I began yesterday?�� I asked. Tessie looked conscious, but did not answer. I began to hunt among the piles of canvases, saying, ��Hurry up, Tess, and get ready; we must take advantage of the morning light.�� When at last I gave up the search among the other canvases and turned to look around the room for the missing study I noticed Tessie standing by the screen with her clothes still on. ��What��s the matter,�� I asked, ��don��t you feel well?�� ��Yes.�� ��Then hurry.�� ��Do you want me to pose as �� as I have always posed?�� Then I understood. Here was a new complication. I had lost, of course, the best nude model I had ever seen. I looked at Tessie. Her face was scarlet. Alas! Alas! We had eaten of the tree of knowledge, and Eden and native innocence were dreams of the past �� I mean �� for her. I suppose she noticed the disappointment on my face, for she said: ��I will pose if you wish. The study is behind the screen here where I put it.�� ��No,�� I said, ��we will begin something new;�� and I went into my wardrobe and picked out a Moorish costume which fairly blazed with tinsel. It was a genuine costume, and Tessie retired to the screen with it enchanted. When she came forth again I was astonished. Her long black hair was bound above her forehead with a circlet of turquoises, and the ends curled about her glittering girdle. Her feet were encased in the embroidered pointed slippers and the skirt of her costume, curiously wrought with arabesques in silver, fell to her ankles. The deep metallic blue vest embroidered with silver and the short Mauresque jacket spangled and sewn with turquoises became her wonderfully. She came up to me and held up her face smiling. I slipped my hand into my pocket and drawing out a gold chain with a cross attached, dropped it over her head. ��It��s yours, Tessie.�� ��Mine?�� she faltered. ��Yours. Now go and pose.�� Then with a radiant smile she ran behind the screen and presently reappeared with a little box on which was written my name. ��I had intended to give it to you when I went home tonight,�� she said, ��but I can��t wait now.�� I opened the box. On the pink cotton inside lay a clasp of black onyx, on which was inlaid a curious symbol or letter in gold. It was neither Arabic nor Chinese, nor as I found afterwards did it belong to any human script. ��It��s all I had to give you for a keepsake,�� she said, timidly. I was annoyed, but I told her how much I should prize it, and promised to wear it always. She fastened it on my coat beneath the lapel. ��How foolish,

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Tess, to go and buy me such a beautiful thing as this,�� I said. ��I did not buy it,�� she laughed. ��Where did you get it?�� Then she told me how she had found it one day while coming from the Aquarium in the Battery, how she had advertised it and watched the papers, but at last gave up all hopes of finding the owner. ��That was last winter,�� she said, ��the very day I had the first horrid dream about the hearse.�� I remembered my dream of the previous night but said nothing, and presently my charcoal was flying over a new canvas, and Tessie stood motionless on the model-stand. III The day following was a disastrous one for me. While moving a framed canvas from one easel to another my foot slipped on the polished floor and I fell heavily on both wrists. They were so badly sprained that it was useless to attempt to hold a brush, and I was obliged to wander about the studio, glaring at unfinished drawings and sketches until despair seized me and I sat down to smoke and twiddle my thumbs with rage. The rain blew against the windows and rattled on the roof of the church, driving me into a nervous fit with its interminable patter. Tessie sat sewing by the window, and every now and then raised her head and looked at me with such innocent compassion that I began to feel ashamed of my irritation and looked about for something to occupy me. I had read all the papers and all the books in the library, but for the sake of something to do I went to the bookcases and shoved them open with my elbow. I knew every volume by its color and examined them all, passing slowly around the library and whistling to keep up my spirits. I was turning to go into the dining-room when my eye fell upon a book bound in yellow, standing in a corner of the top shelf of the last bookcase. I did not remember it and from the floor could not decipher the pale lettering on the back, so I went to the smoking-room and called Tessie. She came in from the studio and climbed up to reach the book. ��What is it?�� I asked. ��The King in Yellow.�� I was dumbfounded. Who had placed it there? How came it in my rooms? I had long ago decided that I should never open that book, and nothing on earth could have persuaded me to buy it. Fearful lest curiosity might tempt me to open it, I had never even looked at it in book-stores. If I ever had had any curiosity to read it, the awful tragedy of young Castaigne, whom I knew, prevented me from exploring its wicked pages. I had always refused to listen to any description of it, and indeed, nobody ever ventured to discuss the second part aloud, so I had absolutely no knowledge of what those leaves might reveal. I stared at the poisonous yellow binding as I would at a snake. ��Don��t touch it, Tessie,�� I said, ��come down.�� Of course my admonition was enough to arouse her curiosity, and before I could prevent it she took the book and, laughing, danced away into the studio with it. I called to her but she slipped away with a tormenting smile at my helpless hands, and I followed her with some impatience. ��Tessie!�� I cried, entering the library, ��listen, I am serious. Put that book away. I do not wish you to open it!�� The library was empty. I went into both drawing-rooms, then into the bedrooms, laundry, kitchen, and finally returned to the library and began a systematic search. She had hidden herself so well that it was half an hour later when I discovered her crouching white and silent by the latticed window in the store-room above. At the first glance I saw she had been punished for her foolishness. The King in Yellow lay at her feet, but the book was open at the second part. I looked at Tessie and saw it was too late. She had opened The King in Yellow. Then I took her by the hand and led her into the studio. She seemed dazed, and when I told her to lie down on the sofa she obeyed me without a word. After a while she closed her eyes and her breathing became regular and deep, but I could not determine whether or not she slept. For a long while I sat silently beside her, but she neither stirred nor spoke, and at last I rose and entering the unused store-room took the yellow book in my least injured hand. It seemed heavy as lead, but I carried it into the studio again, and sitting down on the rug beside the sofa, opened it and read it through

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from beginning to end. When, faint with the excess of my emotions, I dropped the volume and leaned wearily back against the sofa, Tessie opened her eyes and looked at me. We had been speaking for some time in a dull monotonous strain before I realized that we were discussing The King in Yellow. Oh the sin of writing such words �� words which are clear as crystal, limpid and musical as bubbling springs, words which sparkle and glow like the poisoned diamonds of the Medicis! Oh the wickedness, the hopeless damnation of a soul who could fascinate and paralyze human creatures with such words �� words understood by the ignorant and wise alike, words which are more precious than jewels, more soothing than Heavenly music, more awful than death itself. We talked on, unmindful of the gathering shadows, and she was begging me to throw away the clasp of black onyx quaintly inlaid with what we now knew to be the Yellow Sign. I never shall know why I refused, though even at this hour, here in my bedroom as I write this confession, I should be glad to know what it was that prevented me from tearing the Yellow Sign from my breast and casting it into the fire. I am sure I wished to do so, but Tessie pleaded with me in vain. Night fell and the hours dragged on, but still we murmured to each other of the King and the Pallid Mask, and midnight sounded from the misty spires in the fog-wrapped city. We spoke of Hastur and of Cassilda, while outside the fog rolled against the blank window-panes as the cloud waves roll and break on the shores of Hali. The house was very silent now and not a sound from the misty streets broke the silence. Tessie lay among the cushions, her face a gray blot in the gloom, but her hands were clasped in mine and I knew that she knew and read my thoughts as I read hers, for we had understood the mystery of the Hyades and the Phantom of Truth was laid. Then as we answered each other, swiftly, silently, thought on thought, the shadows stirred in the gloom about us, and far in the distant streets we heard a sound. Nearer and nearer it came, the dull crunching of wheels, nearer and yet nearer, and now, outside before the door it ceased, and I dragged myself to the window and saw a black-plumed hearse. The gate below opened and shut, and I crept shaking to my door and bolted it, but I knew no bolts, no locks, could keep that creature out who was coming for the Yellow Sign. And now I heard him moving very softly along the hall. Now he was at the door, and the bolts rotted at his touch. Now he had entered. With eyes starting from my head I peered into the darkness, but when he came into the room I did not see him. It was only when I felt him envelop me in his cold soft grasp that I cried out and struggled with deadly fury, but my hands were useless and he tore the onyx clasp from my coat and struck me full in the face. Then, as I fell, I heard Tessie��s soft cry and her spirit fled to God, and even while falling I longed to follow her, for I knew that the King in Yellow had opened his tattered mantle and there was only Christ to cry to now. I could tell more, but I cannot see what help it will be to the world. As for me I am past human help or hope. As I lie here, writing, careless even whether or not I die before I finish, I can see the doctor gathering up his powders and phials with a vague gesture to the good priest beside me, which I understand. They will be very curious to know the tragedy �� they of the outside world who write books and print millions of newspapers, but I shall write no more, and the father confessor will seal my last words with the seal of sanctity when his holy office is done. They of the outside world may send their creatures into wrecked homes and death-smitten firesides, and their newspapers will batten on blood and tears, but with me their spies must halt before the confessional. They know that Tessie is dead and that I am dying. They know how the people in the house, aroused by an infernal scream, rushed into my room and found one living and two dead, but they do not know what I shall tell them now; they do not know that the doctor said as he pointed to a horrible decomposed heap on the floor �� the livid corpse of the watchman from the church:

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��I have no theory, no explanation. That man must have been dead for months!��
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Along the shore the cloud waves break. The twin suns sink behind the lake. The shadows lengthen In Carcosa. Strange is the night where black stars rise. And strange moons circle through the skies. But stranger still is Lost Carcosa. Songs that the Hyades shall sing. Where flap the tatters of the King. Must die unheard in Dim Carcosa. Song of my soul, my voice is dead. Die thou, unsung, as tears unshed Shall dry and die in Lost Carcosa. Cassilda��s Song in The King in Yellow. Act 1. Scene 2. Being the Contents of an Unsigned Letter Sent to the Author There are so many things which are impossible to explain! Why should certain chords in music make me think of the brown and golden tints of autumn foliage? Why should the Mass of Sainte C��cile send my thoughts wandering among caverns whose walls blaze with ragged masses of virgin silver? What was it in the roar and turmoil of Broadway at six o��clock that flashed before my eyes the picture of a still Breton forest where sunlight filtered through spring foliage and Silvia bent, half curiously, half tenderly, over a small green lizard, murmuring: ��To think that this also is a little ward of God!�� When I first saw the watchman his back was toward me. I looked at him indifferently until he went into the church. I paid no more attention to him than I had to any other man who lounged through Washington Square that morning, and when I shut my window and turned back into my studio I had forgotten him. Late in the afternoon, the day being warm, I raised the window again and leaned out to get a sniff of air. A man was standing in the courtyard of the church, and I noticed him again with as little interest as I had that morning. I looked across the square to where the fountain was playing and then, with

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my mind filled with vague impressions of trees, asphalt drives, and the moving groups of nursemaids and holidaymakers, I started to walk back to my easel. As I turned, my listless glance included the man below in the churchyard. His face was toward me now, and with a perfectly involuntary movement I bent to see it. At the same moment he raised his head and looked at me. Instantly I thought of a coffin-worm. Whatever it was about the man that repelled me I did not know, but the impression of a plump white grave-worm was so intense and nauseating that I must have shown it in my expression, for he turned his puffy face away with a movement which made me think of a disturbed grub in a chestnut. I went back to my easel and motioned the model to resume her pose. After working awhile I was satisfied that I was spoiling what I had done as rapidly as possible, and I took up a palette knife and scraped the color out again. The flesh tones were sallow and unhealthy, and I did not understand how I could have painted such sickly color into a study which before that had glowed with healthy tones. I looked at Tessie. She had not changed, and the clear flush of health dyed her neck and cheeks as I frowned. ��Is it something I��ve done?�� she said. ��No �� I��ve made a mess of this arm, and for the life of me I can��t see how I came to paint such mud as that into the canvas,�� I replied. ��Don��t I pose well?�� she insisted. ��Of course, perfectly.�� ��Then it��s not my fault?�� ��No. It��s my own.�� ��I��m very sorry,�� she said. I told her she could rest while I applied rag and turpentine to the plague spot on my canvas, and she went off to smoke a cigarette and look over the illustrations in the Courier Fran?ais. I did not know whether it was something in the turpentine or a defect in the canvas, but the more I scrubbed the more that gangrene seemed to spread. I worked like a beaver to get it out, and yet the disease appeared to creep from limb to limb of the study before me. Alarmed I strove to arrest it, but now the color on the breast changed and the whole figure seemed to absorb the infection as a sponge soaks up water. Vigorously I plied palette knife, turpentine, and scraper, thinking all the time what a s��ance I should hold with Duval who had sold me the canvas; but soon I noticed that it was not the canvas which was defective nor yet the colors of Edward. ��It must be the turpentine,�� I thought angrily, ��or else my eyes have become so blurred and confused by the afternoon light that I can��t see straight.�� I called Tessie, the model. She came and leaned over my chair blowing rings of smoke into the air. ��What have you been doing to it?�� she exclaimed. ��Nothing,�� I growled, ��it must be this turpentine!�� ��What a horrible color it is now,�� she continued. ��Do you think my flesh resembles green cheese?�� ��No, I don��t,�� I said angrily, ��did you ever know me to paint like that before?�� ��No, indeed!�� ��Well, then!�� ��It must be the turpentine, or something,�� she admitted. She slipped on a Japanese robe and walked to the window. I scraped and rubbed until I was tired and finally picked up my brushes and hurled them through the canvas with a forcible expression, the tone alone of which reached Tessie��s ears. Nevertheless she promptly began: ��That��s it! Swear and act silly and ruin your brushes! You have been three weeks on that study, and now look! What��s the good of ripping the canvas? What creatures artists are!�� I felt about as much ashamed as I usually did after such an outbreak, and I turned the ruined canvas to the wall. Tessie helped me clean my brushes, and then danced away to dress. From the screen she regaled me with bits of advice concerning whole or partial loss of temper, until, thinking, perhaps, I had been tormented sufficiently, she came out to implore me to button her waist where she could not reach it on the shoulder. ��Everything went wrong from the time you came back from the window and talked about that horrid-looking man you saw in the churchyard,�� she announced. ��Yes, he probably bewitched the picture,�� I said, yawning. I looked at my watch. ��It��s after six, I know,�� said Tessie, adjusting her hat before the mirror. ��Yes,�� I replied, ��I didn��t mean to keep you so long.�� I leaned out of the window but recoiled with disgust, for the young man with the pasty face stood below in the churchyard. Tessie saw my gesture of disapproval and leaned from the window. ��Is that the man you don��t like?�� she whispered. I nodded. ��I can��t see his face, but

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he does look fat and soft. Someway or other,�� she continued, turning to look at me, ��he reminds me of a dream �� an awful dream I once had. Or,�� she mused, looking down at her shapely shoes, ��was it a dream after all?�� ��How should I know?�� I smiled. Tessie smiled in reply. ��You were in it,�� she said, ��so perhaps you might know something about it.�� ��Tessie! Tessie!�� I protested, ��don��t you dare flatter by saying you dream about me!�� ��But I did,�� she insisted; ��shall I tell you about it?�� ��Go ahead,�� I replied, lighting a cigarette. Tessie leaned back on the open window-sill and began very seriously. ��One night last winter I was lying in bed thinking about nothing at all in particular. I had been posing for you and I was tired out, yet it seemed impossible for me to sleep. I heard the bells in the city ring ten, eleven, and midnight. I must have fallen asleep about midnight because I don��t remember hearing the bells after that. It seemed to me that I had scarcely closed my eyes when I dreamed that something impelled me to go to the window. I rose, and raising the sash, leaned out. Twenty-fifth Street was deserted as far as I could see. I began to be afraid; everything outside seemed so �� so black and uncomfortable. Then the sound of wheels in the distance came to my ears, and it seemed to me as though that was what I must wait for. Very slowly the wheels approached, and, finally, I could make out a vehicle moving along the street. It came nearer and nearer, and when it passed beneath my window I saw it was a hearse. Then, as I trembled with fear, the driver turned and looked straight at me. When I awoke I was standing by the open window shivering with cold, but the black-plumed hearse and the driver were gone. I dreamed this dream again in March last, and again awoke beside the open window. Last night the dream came again. You remember how it was raining; when I awoke, standing at the open window, my nightdress was soaked.�� ��But where did I come into the dream?�� I asked. ��You �� you were in the coffin; but you were not dead.�� ��In the coffin?�� ��Yes.�� ��How did you know? Could you see me?�� ��No; I only knew you were there.�� ��Had you been eating Welsh rarebits, or lobster salad?�� I began laughing, but the girl interrupted me with a frightened cry. ��Hello! What��s up?�� I said, as she shrank into the embrasure by the window. ��The �� the man below in the churchyard; �� he drove the hearse.�� ��Nonsense,�� I said, but Tessie��s eyes were wide with terror. I went to the window and looked out. The man was gone. ��Come, Tessie,�� I urged, ��don��t be foolish. You have posed too long; you are nervous.�� ��Do you think I could forget that face?�� she murmured. ��Three times I saw the hearse pass below my window, and every time the driver turned and looked up at me. Oh, his face was so white and �� and soft? It looked dead �� it looked as if it had been dead a long time.�� I induced the girl to sit down and swallow a glass of Marsala. Then I sat down beside her, and tried to give her some advice. ��Look here, Tessie,�� I said, ��you go to the country for a week or two, and you��ll have no more dreams about hearses. You pose all day, and when night comes your nerves are upset. You can��t keep this up. Then again, instead of going to

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bed when your day��s work is done, you run off to picnics at Sulzer��s Park, or go to the Eldorado or Coney Island, and when you come down here next morning you are fagged out. There was no real hearse. That was a soft-shell-crab dream.�� She smiled faintly. ��What about the man in the churchyard?�� ��Oh, he��s only an ordinary unhealthy, everyday creature.�� ��As true as my name is Tessie Reardon, I swear to you, Mr. Scott, that the face of the man below in the churchyard is the face of the man who drove the hearse!�� ��What of it?�� I said. ��It��s an honest trade.�� ��Then you think I did see the hearse?�� ��Oh,�� I said, diplomatically, ��if you really did, it might not be unlikely that the man below drove it. There is nothing in that.�� Tessie rose, unrolled her scented handkerchief, and taking a bit of gum from a knot in the hem, placed it in her mouth. Then drawing on her gloves she offered me her hand, with a frank, ��Good-night, Mr. Scott,�� and walked out. II The next morning, Thomas, the bellboy, brought me the Herald and a bit of news. The church next door had been sold. I thanked Heaven for it, not that being a Catholic I had any repugnance for the congregation next door, but because my nerves were shattered by a blatant exhorter, whose every word echoed through the aisle of the church as if it had been my own rooms, and who insisted on his r��s with a nasal persistence which revolted my every instinct. Then, too, there was a fiend in human shape, an organist, who reeled off some of the grand old hymns with an interpretation of his own, and I longed for the blood of a creature who could play the doxology with an amendment of minor chords which one hears only in a quartet of very young undergraduates. I believe the minister was a good man, but when he bellowed: ��And the Lorrrrd said unto Moses, the Lorrrd is a man of war; the Lorrrd is his name. My wrath shall wax hot and I will kill you with the sworrrd!�� I wondered how many centuries of purgatory it would take to atone for such a sin. ��Who bought the property?�� I asked Thomas. ��Nobody that I knows, sir. They do say the gent wot owns this ��ere ��Amilton flats was lookin�� at it. ��E might be a bildin�� more studios.�� I walked to the window. The young man with the unhealthy face stood by the churchyard gate, and at the mere sight of him the same overwhelming repugnance took possession of me. ��By the way, Thomas,�� I said, ��who is that fellow down there?�� Thomas sniffed. ��That there worm, sir? ��E��s night-watchman of the church, sir. ��E maikes me tired a-sittin�� out all night on them steps and lookin�� at you insultin�� like. I��d a punched ��is ��ed, sir �� beg pardon, sir ���� ��Go on, Thomas.�� ��One night a comin�� ��ome with ��Arry, the other English boy, I sees ��im a sittin�� there on them steps. We ��ad Molly and Jen with us, sir, the two girls on the tray service, an�� ��e looks so insultin�� at us that I up and sez: ��Wat you looking hat, you fat slug?���� beg pardon, sir, but that��s ��ow I sez, sir. Then ��e don��t say nothin�� and I sez; ��Come out and I��ll punch that puddin�� ��ed.�� Then I hopens the gate an�� goes in, but ��e don��t say nothin��, only looks insultin�� like. Then I ��its ��im one, but, ugh! ��is ��ed was that cold and mushy it ud sicken you to touch ��im.�� ��What did he do then?�� I asked, curiously. ����Im? Nawthin��.�� ��And you, Thomas?�� The young fellow flushed with embarrassment and smiled uneasily. ��Mr. Scott, sir, I ain��t no coward an�� I can��t make it out at all why I run. I was in the 5th Lawncers, sir, bugler at Tel-el-Kebir, an�� was shot by the wells.�� ��You don��t mean to say you ran away?�� ��Yes, sir; I run.�� ��Why?�� ��That��s just what I want to know, sir. I grabbed Molly an�� run, an�� the rest was as frightened as I.�� ��But what were they frightened at?�� Thomas refused to answer for a while, but now my curiosity was aroused about the repulsive young man below and I pressed him. Three years�� sojourn in America had not only modified Thomas�� cockney dialect but had given him the American��s fear of ridicule. ��You won��t believe me, Mr. Scott, sir?�� ��Yes, I will.�� ��You will lawf at me, sir?�� ��Nonsense!�� He hesitated. ��Well, sir, it��s God��s truth that when I ��it ��im ��e grabbed me wrists, sir, and when I twisted ��is soft, mushy fist one of ��is fingers come off in me ��and.�� The utter loathing and horror of Thomas�� face must have been reflected in my own for he added: ��It��s orful, an�� now when I see ��im I just go away. ��E maikes me hill.�� When Thomas had gone I went to the window. The man stood beside the church-railing with both hands on the gate, but I hastily retreated to my easel again, sickened and horrified, for I saw that the middle finger of his right hand was missing. At nine o��clock Tessie appeared and vanished behind the screen with a merry ��Good-morning, Mr. Scott.�� While she had reappeared and taken her pose upon the model-stand I started a new canvas much to her delight. She remained silent as long as I was on the drawing, but as soon as the scrape of the charcoal ceased and I took up my fixative she began to chatter. ��Oh, I had such a lovely time last night. We went to Tony Pastor��s.�� ��Who are ��we��?�� I demanded. ��Oh, Maggie, you know, Mr. Whyte��s model, and Pinkie McCormick �� we call her Pinkie because she��s got that beautiful red hair you artists like so much �� and Lizzie Burke.�� I sent a shower of spray from the fixative over the canvas and said: ��Well, go on.�� ��We saw Kelly and Baby Barnes the skirt-dancer and �� and all the rest. I made a mash.�� ��Then you have gone back on me, Tessie?�� She laughed and shook her head. ��He��s Lizzie Burke��s brother, Ed. He��s a perfect gen��l��man.�� I felt constrained to give

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her some parental advice concerning mashing, which she took with a bright smile. ��Oh, I can take care of a strange mash,�� she said, examining her chewing gum, ��but Ed is different. Lizzie is my best friend.�� Then she related how Ed had come back from the stocking mill in Lowell, Massachusetts, to find her and Lizzie grown up, and what an accomplished young man he was, and how he thought nothing of squandering half a dollar for ice-cream and oysters to celebrate his entry as clerk into the woolen department of Macy��s. Before she finished I began to paint, and she resumed the pose, smiling and chattering like a sparrow. By noon I had the study fairly well rubbed in and Tessie came to look at it. ��That��s better,�� she said. I thought so too, and ate my lunch with a satisfied feeling that all was going well. Tessie spread her lunch on a drawing table opposite me and we drank our claret from the same bottle and lighted our cigarettes from the same match. I was very much attached to Tessie. I had watched her shoot up into a slender but exquisitely formed woman from a frail, awkward child. She had posed for me during the last three years, and among all my models she was my favorite. It would have troubled me very much indeed had she become ��tough�� or ��fly,�� as the phrase goes, but I never noticed any deterioration of her manner, and felt at heart that she was all right. She and I never discussed morals at all, and I had no intention of doing so, partly because I had none myself, and partly because I knew she would do what she liked in spite of me. Still I did hope she would steer clear of complications, because I wished her well, and then also I had a selfish desire to retain the best model I had. I knew that mashing, as she termed it, had no significance with girls like Tessie, and that such things in America did not resemble in the least the same things in Paris. Yet, having lived with my eyes open, I also knew that somebody would take Tessie away some day, in one manner or another, and though I professed to myself that marriage was nonsense, I sincerely hoped that, in this case, there would be a priest at the end of the vista. I am a Catholic. When I listen to high mass, when I sign myself, I feel that everything, including myself, is more cheerful, and when I confess, it does me good. A man who lives as much alone as I do, must confess to somebody. Then, again, Sylvia was Catholic, and it was reason enough for me. But I was speaking of Tessie, which is very different. Tessie also was Catholic and much more devout than I, so, taking it all in all, I had little fear for my pretty model until she should fall in love. But then I knew that fate alone would decide her future for her, and I prayed inwardly that fate would keep her away from men like me and throw into her path nothing but Ed Burkes and Jimmy McCormicks, bless her sweet face! Tessie sat blowing rings of smoke up to the ceiling and tinkling the ice in her tumbler. ��Do you know, Kid, that I also had a dream last night?�� I observed. I sometimes called her ��the Kid.�� ��Not about that man,�� she laughed. ��Exactly. A dream similar to yours, only much worse.�� It was foolish and thoughtless of me to say this, but you know how little tact the average painter has. ��I must have fallen asleep about 10 o��clock,�� I continued, ��and after awhile I dreamt that I awoke. So plainly did I hear the midnight bells, the wind in the tree-branches, and the whistle of steamers from the bay, that even now I can scarcely believe I was not awake. I seemed to be lying in a box which had a glass cover. Dimly I saw the street lamps as I passed, for I must tell you, Tessie, the box in which I reclined appeared to lie in a cushioned wagon which jolted me over a stony pavement. After a while I became impatient and tried to move but the box was too narrow. My hands were crossed on my breast so I could not raise them to help myself. I listened and then tried to call. My voice was gone. I could hear the trample of the horses attached to the wagon and even the breathing of the driver. Then another sound broke upon my ears like the raising of a window sash. I managed to turn my head a little, and found I could look, not only through the glass cover of my box, but also through the glass panes in

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the side of the covered vehicle. I saw houses, empty and silent, with neither light nor life about any of them excepting one. In that house a window was open on the first floor and a figure all in white stood looking down into the street. It was you.�� Tessie had turned her face away from me and leaned on the table with her elbow. ��I could see your face,�� I resumed, ��and it seemed to me to be very sorrowful. Then we passed on and turned into a narrow black lane. Presently the horses stopped. I waited and waited, closing my eyes with fear and impatience, but all was silent as the grave. After what seemed to me hours, I began to feel uncomfortable. A sense that somebody was close to me made me unclose my eyes. Then I saw the white face of the hearse-driver looking at me through the coffin-lid ���� A sob from Tessie interrupted me. She was trembling like a leaf. I saw I had made an ass of myself and attempted to repair the damage. ��Why, Tess,�� I said, ��I only told you this to show you what influence your story might have on another person��s dreams. You don��t suppose I really lay in a coffin, do you? What are you trembling for? Don��t you see that your dream and my unreasonable dislike for that inoffensive watchman of the church simply set my brain working as soon as I fell asleep?�� She laid her head between her arms and sobbed as if her heart would break. What a precious triple donkey I had made of myself! But I was about to break my record. I went over and put my arm about her. ��Tessie dear, forgive me,�� I said; ��I had no business to frighten you with such nonsense. You are too sensible a girl, too good a Catholic to believe in dreams.�� Her hand tightened on mine and her head fell back upon my shoulder, but she still trembled and I petted her and comforted her. ��Come, Tess, open your eyes and smile.�� Her eyes opened with a slow languid movement and met mine, but their expression was so queer that I hastened to reassure her again. ��It��s all humbug, Tessie, you surely are not afraid that any harm will come to you because of that.�� ��No,�� she said, but her scarlet lips quivered. ��Then what��s the matter? Are you afraid?�� ��Yes. Not for myself.�� ��For me, then?�� I demanded gayly. ��For you,�� she murmured in a voice almost inaudible, ��I�� I care �� for you.�� At first I started to laugh, but when I understood her, a shock passed through me and I sat like one turned to stone. This was the crowning bit of idiocy I had committed. During the moment which elapsed between her reply and my answer I thought of a thousand responses to that innocent confession. I could pass it by with a laugh, I could misunderstand her and reassure her as to my health, I could simply point out that it was impossible she could love me. But my reply was quicker than my thoughts, and I might think and think now when it was too late, for I had kissed her on the mouth. That evening I took my usual walk in Washington Park, pondering over the occurrences of the day. I was thoroughly committed. There was no backing out now, and I stared the future straight in the face. I was not good, not even scrupulous, but I had no idea of deceiving either myself or Tessie. The one passion of my life lay buried in the sunlit forests of Brittany. Was it buried forever? Hope cried ��No!�� For three years I had been listening to the voice of Hope, and for three years I had waited for a footstep on my threshold. Had Sylvia forgotten? ��No!�� cried Hope. I said that I was not good. That is true, but still I was not exactly a comic opera villain. I had led an easy-going reckless life, taking what invited me of pleasure, deploring and sometimes bitterly regretting consequences. In one thing alone, except my painting, was I serious, and that was something which lay hidden if not lost in the Breton forests. It was too late now for me to regret what had occurred during the day. Whatever it had been, pity, a sudden tenderness for sorrow, or the more brutal instinct of gratified vanity, it was all the same now, and unless I wished to bruise an innocent heart my path lay marked before me. The fire and strength, the depth of passion of a love which I had never even suspected, with all my imagined experience in the world, left me no alternative but to respond or send her away. Whether because I am so cowardly about giving pain to others, or whether it was that I have little of

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the gloomy Puritan in me, I do not know, but I shrank from disclaiming responsibility for that thoughtless kiss, and in fact had no time to do so before the gates of her heart opened and the flood poured forth. Others who habitually do their duty and find a sullen satisfaction in making themselves and everybody else unhappy, might have withstood it. I did not. I dared not. After the storm had abated I did tell her that she might better have loved Ed Burke and worn a plain gold ring, but she would not hear of it, and I thought perhaps that as long as she had decided to love somebody she could not marry, it had better be me. I, at least, could treat her with an intelligent affection, and whenever she became tired of her infatuation she could go none the worse for it. For I was decided on that point although I knew how hard it would be. I remembered the usual termination of Platonic liaisons and thought how disgusted I had been whenever I heard of one. I knew I was undertaking a great deal for so unscrupulous a man as I was, and I dreaded the future, but never for one moment did I doubt that she was safe with me. Had it been anybody but Tessie I should not have bothered my head about scruples. For it did not occur to me to sacrifice Tessie as I would have sacrificed a woman of the world. I looked the future squarely in the face and saw the several probable endings to the affair. She would either tire of the whole thing, or become so unhappy that I should have either to marry her or go away. If I married her we would be unhappy. I with a wife unsuited to me, and she with a husband unsuitable for any woman. For my past life could scarcely entitle me to marry. If I went away she might either fall ill, recover, and marry some Eddie Burke, or she might recklessly or deliberately go and do something foolish. On the other hand if she tired of me, then her whole life would be before her with beautiful vistas of Eddie Burkes and marriage rings and twins and Harlem flats and Heaven knows what. As I strolled along through the trees by the Washington Arch, I decided that she should find a substantial friend in me anyway and the future could take care of itself. Then I went into the house and put on my evening dress for the little faintly perfumed note on my dresser said, ��Have a cab at the stage door at eleven,�� and the note was signed ��Edith Carmichael, Metropolitan Theater, June 19th, 189 ��.�� I took supper that night, or rather we took supper, Miss Carmichel and I, at Solari��s and the dawn was just beginning to gild the cross on the Memorial Church as I entered Washington Square after leaving Edith at the Brunswick. There was not a soul in the park as I passed among the trees and took the walk which leads from the Garibaldi statue to the Hamilton Apartment House, but as I passed the churchyard I saw a figure sitting on the stone steps. In spite of myself a chill crept over me at the sight of the white puffy face, and I hastened to pass. Then he said something which might have been addressed to me or might merely have been a mutter to himself, but a sudden furious anger flamed up within me that such a creature should address me. For an instant I felt like wheeling about and smashing my stick over his head, but I walked on, and entering the Hamilton went to my apartment. For some time I tossed about the bed trying to get the sound of his voice out of my ears, but could not. It filled my head, that muttering sound, like thick oily smoke from a fat-rendering vat or an odor of noisome decay. And as I lay and tossed about, the voice in my ears seemed more distinct, and I began to understand the words he had muttered. They came to me slowly as if I had forgotten them, and at last I could make some sense out of the sounds. It was this: ��Have you found the Yellow Sign?�� ��Have you found the Yellow Sign?�� ��Have you found the Yellow Sign?�� I was furious. What did he mean by that? Then with a curse upon him and his I rolled over and went to sleep, but when I awoke later I looked pale and haggard, for I had dreamed the dream of the night before and it troubled me more than I cared to think. I dressed and went down into my studio. Tessie sat by the window, but as I came

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in she rose and put both arms around my neck for an innocent kiss. She looked so sweet and dainty that I kissed her again and then sat down before the easel. ��Hello! Where��s the study I began yesterday?�� I asked. Tessie looked conscious, but did not answer. I began to hunt among the piles of canvases, saying, ��Hurry up, Tess, and get ready; we must take advantage of the morning light.�� When at last I gave up the search among the other canvases and turned to look around the room for the missing study I noticed Tessie standing by the screen with her clothes still on. ��What��s the matter,�� I asked, ��don��t you feel well?�� ��Yes.�� ��Then hurry.�� ��Do you want me to pose as �� as I have always posed?�� Then I understood. Here was a new complication. I had lost, of course, the best nude model I had ever seen. I looked at Tessie. Her face was scarlet. Alas! Alas! We had eaten of the tree of knowledge, and Eden and native innocence were dreams of the past �� I mean �� for her. I suppose she noticed the disappointment on my face, for she said: ��I will pose if you wish. The study is behind the screen here where I put it.�� ��No,�� I said, ��we will begin something new;�� and I went into my wardrobe and picked out a Moorish costume which fairly blazed with tinsel. It was a genuine costume, and Tessie retired to the screen with it enchanted. When she came forth again I was astonished. Her long black hair was bound above her forehead with a circlet of turquoises, and the ends curled about her glittering girdle. Her feet were encased in the embroidered pointed slippers and the skirt of her costume, curiously wrought with arabesques in silver, fell to her ankles. The deep metallic blue vest embroidered with silver and the short Mauresque jacket spangled and sewn with turquoises became her wonderfully. She came up to me and held up her face smiling. I slipped my hand into my pocket and drawing out a gold chain with a cross attached, dropped it over her head. ��It��s yours, Tessie.�� ��Mine?�� she faltered. ��Yours. Now go and pose.�� Then with a radiant smile she ran behind the screen and presently reappeared with a little box on which was written my name. ��I had intended to give it to you when I went home tonight,�� she said, ��but I can��t wait now.�� I opened the box. On the pink cotton inside lay a clasp of black onyx, on which was inlaid a curious symbol or letter in gold. It was neither Arabic nor Chinese, nor as I found afterwards did it belong to any human script. ��It��s all I had to give you for a keepsake,�� she said, timidly. I was annoyed, but I told her how much I should prize it, and promised to wear it always. She fastened it on my coat beneath the lapel. ��How foolish, Tess, to go and buy me such a beautiful thing as this,�� I said. ��I did not buy it,�� she laughed. ��Where did you get it?�� Then she told me how she had found it one day while coming from the Aquarium in the Battery, how she had advertised it and watched the papers, but at last gave up all hopes of finding the owner. ��That was last winter,�� she said, ��the very day I had the first horrid dream about the hearse.�� I remembered my dream of the previous night but said nothing, and presently my charcoal was flying over a new canvas, and Tessie stood motionless on the model-stand. III The day following was a disastrous one for me. While moving a framed canvas from one easel to another my foot slipped on the polished floor and I fell heavily on both wrists. They were so badly sprained that it was useless to attempt to hold a brush, and I was obliged to wander about the studio, glaring at unfinished drawings and sketches until despair seized me and I sat down to smoke and twiddle my thumbs with rage. The rain blew against the windows and rattled on the roof of the church, driving me into a nervous fit with its interminable patter. Tessie sat sewing by the window, and every now and then raised her head and looked at me with such innocent compassion that I began to feel ashamed of my irritation and looked about for something to occupy me. I had read all the papers and all the books in the library, but for the sake of something to do I went to the bookcases and shoved them open with my elbow. I knew every volume by its color and examined them all, passing slowly around the library and whistling to keep up my spirits. I was turning to go into the dining-room when my eye fell upon a book bound in

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yellow, standing in a corner of the top shelf of the last bookcase. I did not remember it and from the floor could not decipher the pale lettering on the back, so I went to the smoking-room and called Tessie. She came in from the studio and climbed up to reach the book. ��What is it?�� I asked. ��The King in Yellow.�� I was dumbfounded. Who had placed it there? How came it in my rooms? I had long ago decided that I should never open that book, and nothing on earth could have persuaded me to buy it. Fearful lest curiosity might tempt me to open it, I had never even looked at it in book-stores. If I ever had had any curiosity to read it, the awful tragedy of young Castaigne, whom I knew, prevented me from exploring its wicked pages. I had always refused to listen to any description of it, and indeed, nobody ever ventured to discuss the second part aloud, so I had absolutely no knowledge of what those leaves might reveal. I stared at the poisonous yellow binding as I would at a snake. ��Don��t touch it, Tessie,�� I said, ��come down.�� Of course my admonition was enough to arouse her curiosity, and before I could prevent it she took the book and, laughing, danced away into the studio with it. I called to her but she slipped away with a tormenting smile at my helpless hands, and I followed her with some impatience. ��Tessie!�� I cried, entering the library, ��listen, I am serious. Put that book away. I do not wish you to open it!�� The library was empty. I went into both drawing-rooms, then into the bedrooms, laundry, kitchen, and finally returned to the library and began a systematic search. She had hidden herself so well that it was half an hour later when I discovered her crouching white and silent by the latticed window in the store-room above. At the first glance I saw she had been punished for her foolishness. The King in Yellow lay at her feet, but the book was open at the second part. I looked at Tessie and saw it was too late. She had opened The King in Yellow. Then I took her by the hand and led her into the studio. She seemed dazed, and when I told her to lie down on the sofa she obeyed me without a word. After a while she closed her eyes and her breathing became regular and deep, but I could not determine whether or not she slept. For a long while I sat silently beside her, but she neither stirred nor spoke, and at last I rose and entering the unused store-room took the yellow book in my least injured hand. It seemed heavy as lead, but I carried it into the studio again, and sitting down on the rug beside the sofa, opened it and read it through from beginning to end. When, faint with the excess of my emotions, I dropped the volume and leaned wearily back against the sofa, Tessie opened her eyes and looked at me. We had been speaking for some time in a dull monotonous strain before I realized that we were discussing The King in Yellow. Oh the sin of writing such words �� words which are clear as crystal, limpid and musical as bubbling springs, words which sparkle and glow like the poisoned diamonds of the Medicis! Oh the wickedness, the hopeless damnation of a soul who could fascinate and paralyze human creatures with such words �� words understood by the ignorant and wise alike, words which are more precious than jewels, more soothing than Heavenly music, more awful than death itself. We talked on, unmindful of the gathering shadows, and she was begging me to throw away the clasp of black onyx quaintly inlaid with what we now knew to be the Yellow Sign. I never shall know why I refused, though even at this hour, here in my bedroom as I write this confession, I should be glad to know what it was that prevented me from tearing the Yellow Sign from my breast and casting it into the fire. I am sure I wished to do so, but Tessie pleaded with me in vain. Night fell and the hours dragged on, but still we murmured to each other of the King and the Pallid Mask, and midnight sounded from the misty spires in the fog-wrapped city. We spoke of Hastur and of Cassilda, while outside the fog rolled against the blank window-panes as the cloud waves roll and break on the shores of Hali. The house was very silent now and not a sound from the misty streets broke the silence. Tessie lay among the cushions, her face a gray blot in the gloom, but her hands were clasped in mine and I knew

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that she knew and read my thoughts as I read hers, for we had understood the mystery of the Hyades and the Phantom of Truth was laid. Then as we answered each other, swiftly, silently, thought on thought, the shadows stirred in the gloom about us, and far in the distant streets we heard a sound. Nearer and nearer it came, the dull crunching of wheels, nearer and yet nearer, and now, outside before the door it ceased, and I dragged myself to the window and saw a black-plumed hearse. The gate below opened and shut, and I crept shaking to my door and bolted it, but I knew no bolts, no locks, could keep that creature out who was coming for the Yellow Sign. And now I heard him moving very softly along the hall. Now he was at the door, and the bolts rotted at his touch. Now he had entered. With eyes starting from my head I peered into the darkness, but when he came into the room I did not see him. It was only when I felt him envelop me in his cold soft grasp that I cried out and struggled with deadly fury, but my hands were useless and he tore the onyx clasp from my coat and struck me full in the face. Then, as I fell, I heard Tessie��s soft cry and her spirit fled to God, and even while falling I longed to follow her, for I knew that the King in Yellow had opened his tattered mantle and there was only Christ to cry to now. I could tell more, but I cannot see what help it will be to the world. As for me I am past human help or hope. As I lie here, writing, careless even whether or not I die before I finish, I can see the doctor gathering up his powders and phials with a vague gesture to the good priest beside me, which I understand. They will be very curious to know the tragedy �� they of the outside world who write books and print millions of newspapers, but I shall write no more, and the father confessor will seal my last words with the seal of sanctity when his holy office is done. They of the outside world may send their creatures into wrecked homes and death-smitten firesides, and their newspapers will batten on blood and tears, but with me their spies must halt before the confessional. They know that Tessie is dead and that I am dying. They know how the people in the house, aroused by an infernal scream, rushed into my room and found one living and two dead, but they do not know what I shall tell them now; they do not know that the doctor said as he pointed to a horrible decomposed heap on the floor �� the livid corpse of the watchman from the church: ��I have no theory, no explanation. That man must have been dead for months!��
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Along the shore the cloud waves break. The twin suns sink behind the lake. The shadows lengthen In Carcosa. Strange is the night where black stars rise. And strange moons circle through the skies. But stranger still is Lost Carcosa. Songs that the Hyades shall sing. Where flap the tatters of the King. Must die unheard in Dim Carcosa. Song of my soul, my voice is dead. Die thou, unsung, as tears unshed Shall dry and die in Lost Carcosa. Cassilda��s Song in The King in Yellow. Act 1. Scene 2. Being the Contents of an Unsigned Letter Sent to the Author There are so many things which are impossible to explain! Why should certain chords in music make me think of the brown and golden tints of autumn foliage? Why should the Mass of Sainte C��cile send my thoughts wandering among caverns whose walls blaze with ragged masses of virgin silver? What was it in the roar and turmoil of Broadway at six o��clock that flashed before my eyes the picture of a still Breton forest where sunlight filtered through spring foliage and Silvia bent, half curiously, half tenderly, over a small green lizard, murmuring: ��To think that this also is a little ward of God!�� When I first saw the watchman his back was toward me. I looked at him indifferently until he went into the church. I paid no more attention to him than I had to any other man who lounged through Washington Square that morning, and when I shut my window and turned back into my studio I had forgotten him. Late in the afternoon, the day being warm, I raised the window again and leaned out to get a sniff of air. A man was standing in the courtyard of the church, and I noticed him again with as little interest as I had that morning. I looked across the square to where the fountain was playing and then, with my mind filled with vague impressions of trees, asphalt drives, and the moving groups of nursemaids and holidaymakers, I started to walk back to my easel. As I turned, my listless glance included the man below in the churchyard. His face was toward me now, and with a perfectly involuntary movement I bent to see it. At the same moment he raised his head and looked at me. Instantly I thought of a coffin-worm. Whatever it was about the man that repelled me I did not know, but the impression of a plump white grave-worm was so intense and nauseating that I must have shown it in my expression, for he turned his puffy face away with a movement which made me think of a disturbed grub in a chestnut. I went back to my easel and motioned the model to resume her pose. After working awhile I was satisfied that I was spoiling what I had done as rapidly as possible, and I took up a palette knife and scraped the color out again. The flesh tones were sallow and unhealthy, and I did not understand how I could have painted such sickly color into a study which before that had glowed with healthy tones. I looked at Tessie. She had not changed, and the clear flush of health dyed her neck and cheeks as I frowned. ��Is it something I��ve done?�� she said. ��No �� I��ve made a mess of this arm, and for the life of me I can��t see how I came to paint such mud as that into the canvas,�� I replied. ��Don��t I pose well?�� she insisted. ��Of course, perfectly.�� ��Then it��s not my fault?�� ��No. It��s my own.�� ��I��m very sorry,�� she said. I told her she could rest while I applied rag and turpentine to the plague spot on my canvas, and she went off to smoke a cigarette and look over the

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illustrations in the Courier Fran?ais. I did not know whether it was something in the turpentine or a defect in the canvas, but the more I scrubbed the more that gangrene seemed to spread. I worked like a beaver to get it out, and yet the disease appeared to creep from limb to limb of the study before me. Alarmed I strove to arrest it, but now the color on the breast changed and the whole figure seemed to absorb the infection as a sponge soaks up water. Vigorously I plied palette knife, turpentine, and scraper, thinking all the time what a s��ance I should hold with Duval who had sold me the canvas; but soon I noticed that it was not the canvas which was defective nor yet the colors of Edward. ��It must be the turpentine,�� I thought angrily, ��or else my eyes have become so blurred and confused by the afternoon light that I can��t see straight.�� I called Tessie, the model. She came and leaned over my chair blowing rings of smoke into the air. ��What have you been doing to it?�� she exclaimed. ��Nothing,�� I growled, ��it must be this turpentine!�� ��What a horrible color it is now,�� she continued. ��Do you think my flesh resembles green cheese?�� ��No, I don��t,�� I said angrily, ��did you ever know me to paint like that before?�� ��No, indeed!�� ��Well, then!�� ��It must be the turpentine, or something,�� she admitted. She slipped on a Japanese robe and walked to the window. I scraped and rubbed until I was tired and finally picked up my brushes and hurled them through the canvas with a forcible expression, the tone alone of which reached Tessie��s ears. Nevertheless she promptly began: ��That��s it! Swear and act silly and ruin your brushes! You have been three weeks on that study, and now look! What��s the good of ripping the canvas? What creatures artists are!�� I felt about as much ashamed as I usually did after such an outbreak, and I turned the ruined canvas to the wall. Tessie helped me clean my brushes, and then danced away to dress. From the screen she regaled me with bits of advice concerning whole or partial loss of temper, until, thinking, perhaps, I had been tormented sufficiently, she came out to implore me to button her waist where she could not reach it on the shoulder. ��Everything went wrong from the time you came back from the window and talked about that horrid-looking man you saw in the churchyard,�� she announced. ��Yes, he probably bewitched the picture,�� I said, yawning. I looked at my watch. ��It��s after six, I know,�� said Tessie, adjusting her hat before the mirror. ��Yes,�� I replied, ��I didn��t mean to keep you so long.�� I leaned out of the window but recoiled with disgust, for the young man with the pasty face stood below in the churchyard. Tessie saw my gesture of disapproval and leaned from the window. ��Is that the man you don��t like?�� she whispered. I nodded. ��I can��t see his face, but he does look fat and soft. Someway or other,�� she continued, turning to look at me, ��he reminds me of a dream �� an awful dream I once had. Or,�� she mused, looking down at her shapely shoes, ��was it a dream after all?�� ��How should I know?�� I smiled. Tessie smiled in reply. ��You were in it,�� she said, ��so perhaps you might know something about it.�� ��Tessie! Tessie!�� I protested, ��don��t you dare flatter by saying you dream about me!�� ��But I did,�� she insisted; ��shall I tell you about it?�� ��Go ahead,�� I replied, lighting a cigarette. Tessie leaned back on the open window-sill and began very seriously. ��One night last winter I was lying in bed thinking about nothing at all in particular. I had been posing for you and I was tired out, yet it seemed impossible for me to sleep. I heard the bells in the city ring ten, eleven, and midnight. I must have fallen asleep about midnight because I don��t remember hearing the bells after that. It seemed to me that I had scarcely closed my eyes

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when I dreamed that something impelled me to go to the window. I rose, and raising the sash, leaned out. Twenty-fifth Street was deserted as far as I could see. I began to be afraid; everything outside seemed so �� so black and uncomfortable. Then the sound of wheels in the distance came to my ears, and it seemed to me as though that was what I must wait for. Very slowly the wheels approached, and, finally, I could make out a vehicle moving along the street. It came nearer and nearer, and when it passed beneath my window I saw it was a hearse. Then, as I trembled with fear, the driver turned and looked straight at me. When I awoke I was standing by the open window shivering with cold, but the black-plumed hearse and the driver were gone. I dreamed this dream again in March last, and again awoke beside the open window. Last night the dream came again. You remember how it was raining; when I awoke, standing at the open window, my nightdress was soaked.�� ��But where did I come into the dream?�� I asked. ��You �� you were in the coffin; but you were not dead.�� ��In the coffin?�� ��Yes.�� ��How did you know? Could you see me?�� ��No; I only knew you were there.�� ��Had you been eating Welsh rarebits, or lobster salad?�� I began laughing, but the girl interrupted me with a frightened cry. ��Hello! What��s up?�� I said, as she shrank into the embrasure by the window. ��The �� the man below in the churchyard; �� he drove the hearse.�� ��Nonsense,�� I said, but Tessie��s eyes were wide with terror. I went to the window and looked out. The man was gone. ��Come, Tessie,�� I urged, ��don��t be foolish. You have posed too long; you are nervous.�� ��Do you think I could forget that face?�� she murmured. ��Three times I saw the hearse pass below my window, and every time the driver turned and looked up at me. Oh, his face was so white and �� and soft? It looked dead �� it looked as if it had been dead a long time.�� I induced the girl to sit down and swallow a glass of Marsala. Then I sat down beside her, and tried to give her some advice. ��Look here, Tessie,�� I said, ��you go to the country for a week or two, and you��ll have no more dreams about hearses. You pose all day, and when night comes your nerves are upset. You can��t keep this up. Then again, instead of going to bed when your day��s work is done, you run off to picnics at Sulzer��s Park, or go to the Eldorado or Coney Island, and when you come down here next morning you are fagged out. There was no real hearse. That was a soft-shell-crab dream.�� She smiled faintly. ��What about the man in the churchyard?�� ��Oh, he��s only an ordinary unhealthy, everyday creature.�� ��As true as my name is Tessie Reardon, I swear to you, Mr. Scott, that the face of the man below in the churchyard is the face of the man who drove the hearse!�� ��What of it?�� I said. ��It��s an honest trade.�� ��Then you think I did see the hearse?�� ��Oh,�� I said, diplomatically, ��if you really did, it might not be unlikely that the man below drove it. There is nothing in that.�� Tessie rose, unrolled her scented handkerchief, and taking a bit of gum from a knot in the hem, placed it in her mouth. Then drawing on her gloves she offered me her hand, with a frank, ��Good-night, Mr. Scott,�� and walked out. II The next morning, Thomas, the bellboy, brought me the Herald and a bit of news. The church next door had been sold. I thanked Heaven for it, not that being a Catholic I had any repugnance for the congregation next door, but because my nerves were shattered by a blatant exhorter, whose every word echoed through the aisle of the church as if it had been my own rooms, and who insisted on his r��s with a nasal persistence which revolted my every instinct. Then, too, there was a fiend in human shape, an organist, who reeled off some of the grand old hymns with an interpretation of his own, and I longed for the blood of a creature who could play the doxology with an amendment of minor chords which one hears only in a quartet of very young undergraduates. I believe the minister was a good man, but when he bellowed: ��And the Lorrrrd said unto Moses, the Lorrrd is a man of war; the Lorrrd is his name. My wrath shall wax hot and I will kill you with the sworrrd!�� I wondered how many centuries of purgatory it would take to atone for such a sin. ��Who bought the property?�� I asked Thomas. ��Nobody that I knows, sir. They do say the gent wot owns this ��ere ��Amilton flats was lookin�� at it. ��E might be a bildin�� more studios.�� I walked to the window. The young man with the unhealthy face stood by the churchyard gate, and at the mere sight of him the same overwhelming repugnance took possession of me. ��By the way, Thomas,�� I said, ��who is that fellow down there?�� Thomas sniffed. ��That there worm, sir? ��E��s night-watchman of the church, sir. ��E maikes me tired a-sittin�� out all night on them steps and lookin�� at you insultin�� like. I��d a punched ��is ��ed, sir �� beg pardon, sir ���� ��Go on, Thomas.�� ��One night a comin�� ��ome with ��Arry, the other English boy, I sees ��im a sittin�� there on them steps. We ��ad Molly and Jen with us, sir, the two girls on the tray service, an�� ��e looks so insultin�� at us that I up and sez: ��Wat you looking hat, you fat slug?���� beg pardon, sir, but that��s ��ow I sez, sir. Then ��e don��t say nothin�� and I sez; ��Come out and I��ll punch that puddin�� ��ed.�� Then I hopens the gate an�� goes in, but ��e don��t say nothin��, only looks insultin�� like. Then I ��its ��im one, but, ugh! ��is ��ed was that cold and mushy it ud sicken you to touch ��im.�� ��What did he do then?�� I asked, curiously. ����Im? Nawthin��.�� ��And you, Thomas?�� The young fellow flushed with embarrassment and smiled uneasily. ��Mr. Scott, sir, I ain��t no coward an�� I can��t make it out at all why I run. I was in the 5th Lawncers, sir, bugler at Tel-el-Kebir, an�� was shot by the wells.�� ��You don��t mean to say you ran away?�� ��Yes, sir; I run.�� ��Why?�� ��That��s just what I want to know, sir. I grabbed Molly an�� run, an�� the rest was as frightened as I.�� ��But what were they frightened at?�� Thomas refused to answer for a while, but now my curiosity was aroused about the repulsive young man below and I pressed him. Three years�� sojourn in America had not only modified Thomas�� cockney dialect but had given him the American��s fear

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of ridicule. ��You won��t believe me, Mr. Scott, sir?�� ��Yes, I will.�� ��You will lawf at me, sir?�� ��Nonsense!�� He hesitated. ��Well, sir, it��s God��s truth that when I ��it ��im ��e grabbed me wrists, sir, and when I twisted ��is soft, mushy fist one of ��is fingers come off in me ��and.�� The utter loathing and horror of Thomas�� face must have been reflected in my own for he added: ��It��s orful, an�� now when I see ��im I just go away. ��E maikes me hill.�� When Thomas had gone I went to the window. The man stood beside the church-railing with both hands on the gate, but I hastily retreated to my easel again, sickened and horrified, for I saw that the middle finger of his right hand was missing. At nine o��clock Tessie appeared and vanished behind the screen with a merry ��Good-morning, Mr. Scott.�� While she had reappeared and taken her pose upon the model-stand I started a new canvas much to her delight. She remained silent as long as I was on the drawing, but as soon as the scrape of the charcoal ceased and I took up my fixative she began to chatter. ��Oh, I had such a lovely time last night. We went to Tony Pastor��s.�� ��Who are ��we��?�� I demanded. ��Oh, Maggie, you know, Mr. Whyte��s model, and Pinkie McCormick �� we call her Pinkie because she��s got that beautiful red hair you artists like so much �� and Lizzie Burke.�� I sent a shower of spray from the fixative over the canvas and said: ��Well, go on.�� ��We saw Kelly and Baby Barnes the skirt-dancer and �� and all the rest. I made a mash.�� ��Then you have gone back on me, Tessie?�� She laughed and shook her head. ��He��s Lizzie Burke��s brother, Ed. He��s a perfect gen��l��man.�� I felt constrained to give her some parental advice concerning mashing, which she took with a bright smile. ��Oh, I can take care of a strange mash,�� she said, examining her chewing gum, ��but Ed is different. Lizzie is my best friend.�� Then she related how Ed had come back from the stocking mill in Lowell, Massachusetts, to find her and Lizzie grown up, and what an accomplished young man he was, and how he thought nothing of squandering half a dollar for ice-cream and oysters to celebrate his entry as clerk into the woolen department of Macy��s. Before she finished I began to paint, and she resumed the pose, smiling and chattering like a sparrow. By noon I had the study fairly well rubbed in and Tessie came to look at it. ��That��s better,�� she said. I thought so too, and ate my lunch with a satisfied feeling that all was going well. Tessie spread her lunch on a drawing table opposite me and we drank our claret from the same bottle and lighted our cigarettes from the same match. I was very much attached to Tessie. I had watched her shoot up into a slender but exquisitely formed woman from a frail, awkward child. She had posed for me during the last three years, and among all my models she was my favorite. It would have troubled me very much indeed had she become ��tough�� or ��fly,�� as the phrase goes, but I never noticed any deterioration of her manner, and felt at heart that she was all right. She and I never discussed morals at all, and I had no intention of doing so, partly because I had none myself, and partly because I knew she would do what she liked in spite of me. Still I did hope she would steer clear of complications, because I wished her well, and then also I had a selfish desire to retain the best model I had. I knew that mashing, as she termed it, had no significance with girls like Tessie, and that such things in America did not resemble in the least the same things in Paris. Yet, having lived with my eyes open, I also knew that somebody would take Tessie away some day, in one manner or another, and though I professed to myself that marriage was nonsense, I sincerely hoped that, in this case, there would be a priest at the end of the vista. I am a Catholic. When I listen to high mass, when I sign myself, I feel that everything, including myself, is more cheerful, and when I confess, it does me good. A man who lives as much alone as I do, must confess to somebody. Then, again, Sylvia was Catholic, and it was reason enough for me. But I was speaking of Tessie, which is very different. Tessie also was Catholic and much more devout than I, so, taking it all in all, I had little fear for my pretty model until she should fall in love. But then I knew that fate alone would decide her future for her, and I prayed inwardly that fate would keep her away from men like me and throw into her path nothing but Ed Burkes and Jimmy McCormicks, bless her sweet face! Tessie sat blowing rings of smoke up to the ceiling and tinkling the ice in her tumbler. ��Do you know, Kid, that I also had a dream last night?�� I observed. I sometimes called her ��the Kid.�� ��Not about that man,�� she laughed. ��Exactly. A dream similar to yours, only much worse.�� It was foolish and thoughtless of me to say this, but you know how little tact the average painter has. ��I must have fallen asleep about 10 o��clock,�� I

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continued, ��and after awhile I dreamt that I awoke. So plainly did I hear the midnight bells, the wind in the tree-branches, and the whistle of steamers from the bay, that even now I can scarcely believe I was not awake. I seemed to be lying in a box which had a glass cover. Dimly I saw the street lamps as I passed, for I must tell you, Tessie, the box in which I reclined appeared to lie in a cushioned wagon which jolted me over a stony pavement. After a while I became impatient and tried to move but the box was too narrow. My hands were crossed on my breast so I could not raise them to help myself. I listened and then tried to call. My voice was gone. I could hear the trample of the horses attached to the wagon and even the breathing of the driver. Then another sound broke upon my ears like the raising of a window sash. I managed to turn my head a little, and found I could look, not only through the glass cover of my box, but also through the glass panes in the side of the covered vehicle. I saw houses, empty and silent, with neither light nor life about any of them excepting one. In that house a window was open on the first floor and a figure all in white stood looking down into the street. It was you.�� Tessie had turned her face away from me and leaned on the table with her elbow. ��I could see your face,�� I resumed, ��and it seemed to me to be very sorrowful. Then we passed on and turned into a narrow black lane. Presently the horses stopped. I waited and waited, closing my eyes with fear and impatience, but all was silent as the grave. After what seemed to me hours, I began to feel uncomfortable. A sense that somebody was close to me made me unclose my eyes. Then I saw the white face of the hearse-driver looking at me through the coffin-lid ���� A sob from Tessie interrupted me. She was trembling like a leaf. I saw I had made an ass of myself and attempted to repair the damage. ��Why, Tess,�� I said, ��I only told you this to show you what influence your story might have on another person��s dreams. You don��t suppose I really lay in a coffin, do you? What are you trembling for? Don��t you see that your dream and my unreasonable dislike for that inoffensive watchman of the church simply set my brain working as soon as I fell asleep?�� She laid her head between her arms and sobbed as if her heart would break. What a precious triple donkey I had made of myself! But I was about to break my record. I went over and put my arm about her. ��Tessie dear, forgive me,�� I said; ��I had no business to frighten you with such nonsense. You are too sensible a girl, too good a Catholic to believe in dreams.�� Her hand tightened on mine and her head fell back upon my shoulder, but she still trembled and I petted her and comforted her. ��Come, Tess, open your eyes and smile.�� Her eyes opened with a slow languid movement and met mine, but their expression was so queer that I hastened to reassure her again. ��It��s all humbug, Tessie, you surely are not afraid that any harm will come to you because of that.�� ��No,�� she said, but her scarlet lips quivered. ��Then what��s the matter? Are you afraid?�� ��Yes. Not for myself.�� ��For me, then?�� I demanded gayly. ��For you,�� she murmured in a voice almost inaudible, ��I�� I care �� for you.�� At first I started to laugh, but when I understood her, a shock passed through me and I sat like one turned to stone. This was the crowning bit of idiocy I had committed. During the moment which elapsed between her reply and my answer I thought of a thousand responses to that innocent confession. I could pass it by with a laugh, I could misunderstand her and reassure her as to my health, I could simply point out that it was impossible she could love me. But my reply was quicker than my thoughts, and I might think and think now when it was too late, for I had kissed her on the mouth. That evening I took my usual walk in Washington Park, pondering over the occurrences of the day. I was thoroughly committed. There was no backing out now, and I stared the future straight in the face. I was not good, not even scrupulous, but I had no idea of deceiving either myself or Tessie. The one passion of my life lay buried in the sunlit forests of Brittany. Was it buried forever? Hope cried ��No!�� For three years I had been listening to the voice of Hope, and for three years I had waited for a footstep on my threshold. Had Sylvia forgotten? ��No!�� cried Hope. I said that I was not good. That is true, but still I was not exactly a comic opera villain. I had led an easy-going reckless life, taking what invited me of pleasure, deploring and sometimes bitterly regretting consequences. In one thing alone, except my painting, was I serious, and that was something which lay hidden if not lost in the Breton forests. It was too late now for me to regret what had occurred during the day. Whatever

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it had been, pity, a sudden tenderness for sorrow, or the more brutal instinct of gratified vanity, it was all the same now, and unless I wished to bruise an innocent heart my path lay marked before me. The fire and strength, the depth of passion of a love which I had never even suspected, with all my imagined experience in the world, left me no alternative but to respond or send her away. Whether because I am so cowardly about giving pain to others, or whether it was that I have little of the gloomy Puritan in me, I do not know, but I shrank from disclaiming responsibility for that thoughtless kiss, and in fact had no time to do so before the gates of her heart opened and the flood poured forth. Others who habitually do their duty and find a sullen satisfaction in making themselves and everybody else unhappy, might have withstood it. I did not. I dared not. After the storm had abated I did tell her that she might better have loved Ed Burke and worn a plain gold ring, but she would not hear of it, and I thought perhaps that as long as she had decided to love somebody she could not marry, it had better be me. I, at least, could treat her with an intelligent affection, and whenever she became tired of her infatuation she could go none the worse for it. For I was decided on that point although I knew how hard it would be. I remembered the usual termination of Platonic liaisons and thought how disgusted I had been whenever I heard of one. I knew I was undertaking a great deal for so unscrupulous a man as I was, and I dreaded the future, but never for one moment did I doubt that she was safe with me. Had it been anybody but Tessie I should not have bothered my head about scruples. For it did not occur to me to sacrifice Tessie as I would have sacrificed a woman of the world. I looked the future squarely in the face and saw the several probable endings to the affair. She would either tire of the whole thing, or become so unhappy that I should have either to marry her or go away. If I married her we would be unhappy. I with a wife unsuited to me, and she with a husband unsuitable for any woman. For my past life could scarcely entitle me to marry. If I went away she might either fall ill, recover, and marry some Eddie Burke, or she might recklessly or deliberately go and do something foolish. On the other hand if she tired of me, then her whole life would be before her with beautiful vistas of Eddie Burkes and marriage rings and twins and Harlem flats and Heaven knows what. As I strolled along through the trees by the Washington Arch, I decided that she should find a substantial friend in me anyway and the future could take care of itself. Then I went into the house and put on my evening dress for the little faintly perfumed note on my dresser said, ��Have a cab at the stage door at eleven,�� and the note was signed ��Edith Carmichael, Metropolitan Theater, June 19th, 189 ��.�� I took supper that night, or rather we took supper, Miss Carmichel and I, at Solari��s and the dawn was just beginning to gild the cross on the Memorial Church as I entered Washington Square after leaving Edith at the Brunswick. There was not a soul in the park as I passed among the trees and took the walk which leads from the Garibaldi statue to the Hamilton Apartment House, but as I passed the churchyard I saw a figure sitting on the stone steps. In spite of myself a chill crept over me at the sight of the white puffy face, and I hastened to pass. Then he said something which might have been addressed to me or might merely have been a mutter to himself, but a sudden furious anger flamed up within me that such a creature should address me. For an instant I felt like wheeling about and smashing my stick over his head, but I walked on, and entering the Hamilton went to my apartment. For some time I tossed about the bed trying to get the sound of his voice out of my ears, but could not. It filled my head, that muttering sound, like thick oily smoke from a fat-rendering vat or an odor of noisome decay. And as I lay and tossed about, the voice in my ears seemed more distinct, and I began to understand the words he had muttered. They came to me slowly as if I had forgotten them, and at last I could make some sense out of the sounds. It was this: ��Have you found the Yellow Sign?�� ��Have you found the Yellow Sign?�� ��Have you found the Yellow Sign?�� I was furious. What did he mean by that? Then with a curse upon him and his I rolled over and went to sleep, but when I awoke later I looked pale and haggard, for I had dreamed the dream of the night before and it troubled me more than I cared to think. I dressed and went down into my studio. Tessie sat by the window, but as I came in she rose and put both arms around

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my neck for an innocent kiss. She looked so sweet and dainty that I kissed her again and then sat down before the easel. ��Hello! Where��s the study I began yesterday?�� I asked. Tessie looked conscious, but did not answer. I began to hunt among the piles of canvases, saying, ��Hurry up, Tess, and get ready; we must take advantage of the morning light.�� When at last I gave up the search among the other canvases and turned to look around the room for the missing study I noticed Tessie standing by the screen with her clothes still on. ��What��s the matter,�� I asked, ��don��t you feel well?�� ��Yes.�� ��Then hurry.�� ��Do you want me to pose as �� as I have always posed?�� Then I understood. Here was a new complication. I had lost, of course, the best nude model I had ever seen. I looked at Tessie. Her face was scarlet. Alas! Alas! We had eaten of the tree of knowledge, and Eden and native innocence were dreams of the past �� I mean �� for her. I suppose she noticed the disappointment on my face, for she said: ��I will pose if you wish. The study is behind the screen here where I put it.�� ��No,�� I said, ��we will begin something new;�� and I went into my wardrobe and picked out a Moorish costume which fairly blazed with tinsel. It was a genuine costume, and Tessie retired to the screen with it enchanted. When she came forth again I was astonished. Her long black hair was bound above her forehead with a circlet of turquoises, and the ends curled about her glittering girdle. Her feet were encased in the embroidered pointed slippers and the skirt of her costume, curiously wrought with arabesques in silver, fell to her ankles. The deep metallic blue vest embroidered with silver and the short Mauresque jacket spangled and sewn with turquoises became her wonderfully. She came up to me and held up her face smiling. I slipped my hand into my pocket and drawing out a gold chain with a cross attached, dropped it over her head. ��It��s yours, Tessie.�� ��Mine?�� she faltered. ��Yours. Now go and pose.�� Then with a radiant smile she ran behind the screen and presently reappeared with a little box on which was written my name. ��I had intended to give it to you when I went home tonight,�� she said, ��but I can��t wait now.�� I opened the box. On the pink cotton inside lay a clasp of black onyx, on which was inlaid a curious symbol or letter in gold. It was neither Arabic nor Chinese, nor as I found afterwards did it belong to any human script. ��It��s all I had to give you for a keepsake,�� she said, timidly. I was annoyed, but I told her how much I should prize it, and promised to wear it always. She fastened it on my coat beneath the lapel. ��How foolish, Tess, to go and buy me such a beautiful thing as this,�� I said. ��I did not buy it,�� she laughed. ��Where did you get it?�� Then she told me how she had found it one day while coming from the Aquarium in the Battery, how she had advertised it and watched the papers, but at last gave up all hopes of finding the owner. ��That was last winter,�� she said, ��the very day I had the first horrid dream about the hearse.�� I remembered my dream of the previous night but said nothing, and presently my charcoal was flying over a new canvas, and Tessie stood motionless on the model-stand. III The day following was a disastrous one for me. While moving a framed canvas from one easel to another my foot slipped on the polished floor and I fell heavily on both wrists. They were so badly sprained that it was useless to attempt to hold a brush, and I was obliged to wander about the studio, glaring at unfinished drawings and sketches until despair seized me and I sat down to smoke and twiddle my thumbs with rage. The rain blew against the windows and rattled on the roof of the church, driving me into a nervous fit with its interminable patter. Tessie sat sewing by the window, and every now and then raised her head and looked at me with such innocent compassion that I began to feel ashamed of my irritation and looked about for something to occupy me. I had read all the papers and all the books in the library, but for the sake of something to do I went to the bookcases and shoved them open with my elbow. I knew every volume by its color and examined them all, passing slowly around the library and whistling to keep up my spirits. I was turning to go into the dining-room when my eye fell upon a book bound in yellow, standing in a corner of the top shelf of the last bookcase. I did not remember it and from the floor could not decipher the pale lettering on the back, so I went to the smoking-room and called Tessie. She came in from the studio and climbed up to reach the book. ��What is it?�� I asked. ��The King in Yellow.�� I was dumbfounded. Who had placed it there? How came it in my rooms? I had long ago decided that I should never open that book, and nothing on earth could have persuaded me to buy it. Fearful lest curiosity might tempt me to open it, I had never even

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looked at it in book-stores. If I ever had had any curiosity to read it, the awful tragedy of young Castaigne, whom I knew, prevented me from exploring its wicked pages. I had always refused to listen to any description of it, and indeed, nobody ever ventured to discuss the second part aloud, so I had absolutely no knowledge of what those leaves might reveal. I stared at the poisonous yellow binding as I would at a snake. ��Don��t touch it, Tessie,�� I said, ��come down.�� Of course my admonition was enough to arouse her curiosity, and before I could prevent it she took the book and, laughing, danced away into the studio with it. I called to her but she slipped away with a tormenting smile at my helpless hands, and I followed her with some impatience. ��Tessie!�� I cried, entering the library, ��listen, I am serious. Put that book away. I do not wish you to open it!�� The library was empty. I went into both drawing-rooms, then into the bedrooms, laundry, kitchen, and finally returned to the library and began a systematic search. She had hidden herself so well that it was half an hour later when I discovered her crouching white and silent by the latticed window in the store-room above. At the first glance I saw she had been punished for her foolishness. The King in Yellow lay at her feet, but the book was open at the second part. I looked at Tessie and saw it was too late. She had opened The King in Yellow. Then I took her by the hand and led her into the studio. She seemed dazed, and when I told her to lie down on the sofa she obeyed me without a word. After a while she closed her eyes and her breathing became regular and deep, but I could not determine whether or not she slept. For a long while I sat silently beside her, but she neither stirred nor spoke, and at last I rose and entering the unused store-room took the yellow book in my least injured hand. It seemed heavy as lead, but I carried it into the studio again, and sitting down on the rug beside the sofa, opened it and read it through from beginning to end. When, faint with the excess of my emotions, I dropped the volume and leaned wearily back against the sofa, Tessie opened her eyes and looked at me. We had been speaking for some time in a dull monotonous strain before I realized that we were discussing The King in Yellow. Oh the sin of writing such words �� words which are clear as crystal, limpid and musical as bubbling springs, words which sparkle and glow like the poisoned diamonds of the Medicis! Oh the wickedness, the hopeless damnation of a soul who could fascinate and paralyze human creatures with such words �� words understood by the ignorant and wise alike, words which are more precious than jewels, more soothing than Heavenly music, more awful than death itself. We talked on, unmindful of the gathering shadows, and she was begging me to throw away the clasp of black onyx quaintly inlaid with what we now knew to be the Yellow Sign. I never shall know why I refused, though even at this hour, here in my bedroom as I write this confession, I should be glad to know what it was that prevented me from tearing the Yellow Sign from my breast and casting it into the fire. I am sure I wished to do so, but Tessie pleaded with me in vain. Night fell and the hours dragged on, but still we murmured to each other of the King and the Pallid Mask, and midnight sounded from the misty spires in the fog-wrapped city. We spoke of Hastur and of Cassilda, while outside the fog rolled against the blank window-panes as the cloud waves roll and break on the shores of Hali. The house was very silent now and not a sound from the misty streets broke the silence. Tessie lay among the cushions, her face a gray blot in the gloom, but her hands were clasped in mine and I knew that she knew and read my thoughts as I read hers, for we had understood the mystery of the Hyades and the Phantom of Truth was laid. Then as we answered each other, swiftly, silently, thought on thought, the shadows stirred in the gloom about us, and far in the distant streets we heard a sound. Nearer and nearer it came, the dull crunching of wheels, nearer and yet nearer, and now, outside before the door it ceased, and I dragged myself to the window and saw a black-plumed hearse. The gate below opened and shut, and I crept shaking to my door and bolted it, but I knew no bolts, no locks, could keep that creature out who was coming for the Yellow Sign. And now I heard him moving very softly along the hall. Now he was at the door, and the bolts rotted at his touch. Now he had entered. With eyes starting from my head I peered into the darkness, but when he came into the room I did not see him. It was only when I felt him envelop me in his cold soft grasp that I cried out and struggled with deadly fury, but my hands were useless and he tore the onyx clasp

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from my coat and struck me full in the face. Then, as I fell, I heard Tessie��s soft cry and her spirit fled to God, and even while falling I longed to follow her, for I knew that the King in Yellow had opened his tattered mantle and there was only Christ to cry to now. I could tell more, but I cannot see what help it will be to the world. As for me I am past human help or hope. As I lie here, writing, careless even whether or not I die before I finish, I can see the doctor gathering up his powders and phials with a vague gesture to the good priest beside me, which I understand. They will be very curious to know the tragedy �� they of the outside world who write books and print millions of newspapers, but I shall write no more, and the father confessor will seal my last words with the seal of sanctity when his holy office is done. They of the outside world may send their creatures into wrecked homes and death-smitten firesides, and their newspapers will batten on blood and tears, but with me their spies must halt before the confessional. They know that Tessie is dead and that I am dying. They know how the people in the house, aroused by an infernal scream, rushed into my room and found one living and two dead, but they do not know what I shall tell them now; they do not know that the doctor said as he pointed to a horrible decomposed heap on the floor �� the livid corpse of the watchman from the church: ��I have no theory, no explanation. That man must have been dead for months!��
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Without bank accounts or access to formal credit, they lead, they turn money lenders for loans at exorbitant interest rates and are vulnerable to exploitation by middlemen. Unlikely to reach a $ 5-a-day standard of living, they still strive to improve their lives. they need employment and inexpensive items for day-to-day living. The lower 1000000000 lack basic needs: .. adequate food, clean water, adequate housing and war, civil war and natural disasters have displaced many from their homes to be forced into some transactions that are irregular even by the standards of the informal markets. live in exchange economies, others are forced laborers, women often have long stretches along unsafe routes to fetch water Poor health, lack of nutrition, financial vulnerability, poor education and a lack of marketable skills they close from the organized economy go ... the uncertainty of their daily existence includes participation in the market as consumers or producers. the lucky ones get help from non-profit and international organizations or government assistance programs. The Army Base Camp Integration Laboratory, or BCIL hosted its second annual "Base Camp resource and energy efficiency-day." Located on 10 acres at Fort Devens, the laboratory has two "force provider" 150-person base camp. One contains standard technologies, the other offers a glimpse into the army of the energy future. Katherine Hammack, Secretary of the Army for installations, energy and environment, and Lt. Gen. Raymond V. Mason, Army deputy chief of staff, logistics, were among the participants of the event. They became refuges, power management, energy information storage, disposal and waste-to-energy systems, alternative energy, micro-grids, energy efficient structures, rigid wall stock and fired kitchens. It's just great, the progress we make, the systems that we test, "Hammack said." The team here does a fantastic job of looking for new technologies, test them, always made ??modifications, and the determination of the elasticity of the systems before deploying them. Having our soldiers Mason said all the work to resources and fuel efficiency has been done to help soldiers focus on their missions. He used the hypothetical example of a forward base in Afghanistan, the draw with 20 tankers has up to his gate. To protect soldiers in danger that put convoy, "said Mason." Then got this 20 tankers have gotten through your front door. Each of these trucks be a potential bomb. Then got all have to save that fuel somewhere on your forward base, which means you have to build a larger [FOB] and that the fuel is a big goal for the either indirect or direct fire. Our goal is to perform this risk by reducing the amount of and reduce down fuel that is needed combat operations. " And so through better energy management, flexible energy sources, energy lightening the burden on our soldiers - all combined - we are able to redirect our staff and equipment assets back to the mission, "Hammack said," and that increases our agility and increased our overall efficiency. More than 12,000 service members training at Fort Devens rotate annually by the BCIL, an invaluable user input on systems that developed here, with the aim of trimming fuel and water consumption at the base camp by 50 percent. Such innovations such as micro-grids, solar shades, protective liners and shower water reuse systems have already brought this goal closer to reality. If the cuts to date, will look like in a few years, it's remarkable, "said Kevin Fahey, program executive officer with, Combat Support & Combat Service Support." And I think a lot of it is our ability to test things and users on it and get feedback quickly and [be] who can prove that this is what we want to put in the soldiers' and Marines hands on the field. " If we do not spend adequately in science and technology, research and development, we will focus on the battlefield, in a situation where our enemies to find a comparative advantage over us than the other way contrary to, "Mason said," and our soldiers are at risk in the future more. One minute before he died, Herv¨¦ le Gallou stood at the edge of a cliff at Obiou, in the French Alps, with acres of air before him the view in the morning 23 June, 2012 was breathtaking. Moonscape rock walls pocked with snow, in this way gave plateaus of the pale grass and ashen rock, then bottle-green pine forests in the valley and the mountains in the background

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Le Gallou wearing a wingsuit, a webbed all-in-one, the base jumping has transformed - the sport where you jump from a fixed object such as a bridge or a cliff - by too long "pilot" glissando flights in Create speeds of 100 mph or more before pulling their parachutes. Le Gallou once told me that he began Base jumping in an attempt to create a recurring childhood dream again, the "flying with my arms." Wingsuits, he said, brought him "very close" to this fantasy. Whenever he was at a starting point, the place from which you jump, was his overriding feeling is not terrorism, but a supernatural vigilance. It was the feeling of a fighter pilot instead of a human cannonball. I know exactly what I'm doing, "he said." I just go for fun. There are still some stress, some fear, because there is some risk. But I know exactly what I can do. Do I know where is my limit. " At 51, Le Gallou was jumping a veteran of thousands of base. But he had never flown from the exit point at Obiou. To perform its intended flight, he had to lead from the cliff, and then sharply to the right over a ledge. for an experienced pilot, this maneuver was relatively easy. the next period of the flight was difficult. Le Gallou would glide over a long, moderately sloping plateau. To do this, it was imperative that he pay attention to what French wingsuit pilots call la finesse: the ratio of forward to backward motion. If it slide in this part of the flight not to keep a reasonable, he had an escape. He could his parachute and land on the plateau pull this plan, as long as he would the decision to work early enough, but if he saved. too late, he would crash before his chute could fill with air, at best, would be the easiest., with "une bonne Finesse", continue to fly over the sloping plateau and the pines and finally pull his parachute above the valley floor. On the morning of 23 June, the chances for a long, bird-like flight in perfect condition seemed good. Nevertheless, dark thoughts Le Gallou may have attacked. He was tired, unhappy briefly on the practice and with his equipment. The day before, he also received the news that his mother was involved in a car accident in Paris, the last in a series of misfortunes that had plagued his family in recent months. Dave McDonnell, an English friend of Le Gallou, said that before he finished base jumping, he used three different inner voices at the exit point that he "heard Fear" as "Yes" and "No!" If you all tuned in, there is 'Yes', "he said." On mediocre days, there are two more votes. One 'fear. "Your body screams at you," Do not do that, ".. because it is dangerous, unnatural, you are here to overcome your fear But there is another voice that hangs around every now and then, and this is called something is not right you can never point the finger at them 'No' -.. could it be something in the backpack job, or the weather or the people you are jumping with, or mind-set it's just go, "away, do not jump today. "the difficulty is trying to decide between" "to recognize and" Fear No "because they both tell you the same thing." No "is your sixth sense, trying to save your life is. " Le

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Gallou was an unremarkable-looking man of medium height, with a slim build, short brown hair and big eyes I met him only once. In January 2009, in a restaurant in Paris A friend had told me about an amazing coup. found months previously in Dubai, Le Gallou and McDonnell went to the Burj Khalifa skyscraper, which was still under construction when engineers will be evaded security, climbed 155 floors on foot and then pounced covered from top at dusk -. becoming the first people from the tallest building in the world rely jump. I wanted to tell to me about the adventures of Le Gallou. . He was a wonderful storyteller At dinner with entertainment, he recalls how he creates a fake ID, the lackluster security of the tower deceive Read It: "Herv¨¦ Le Gallou: Technician de Base - Sp¨¦cialiste of Ascenseurs de Descente Rapide". ("Basic Technician - Trade Fast elevators moved down"). Apparently no one asked him about his unusual job title or why his identification was written in French. He also described a lively scene at the top of the Burj. Explains Le Gallou that when he was in his late 40s, he began to suffer from night blindness. Thus he drew it wait until dawn to buildings he infiltrated into the dark jump. at the exit point, he and McDonnell watched the desert turn to pink from blue as the day broke over Dubai. at this moment Le Gallou later recalled: "They believe that everything belongs to you." We also talked about his other notable coups. In 2000, he and a friend, Benoit Paquet, scaled the exterior of the 88-story Jin Mao Tower in Shanghai in the middle of the night, and jumped at dawn. By 2009 Le Gallou had from the Eiffel Tower 40 times he had jumped, he said, become the de facto "official leader" of the Paris landmark for beginners Jumper -. the one who knew how to get around the cameras and guards. These stories granted Le Gallou almost mythical status among European base jumpers (to Dubai, his friends jokingly nicknamed l'Aigle d'Arabie:. The Eagle of Arabia). For McDonnell, were Le Gallou urban adventures "the next thing you could get to a master criminal without getting into too much trouble." When you were not involved in base-jumping, but it is very unlikely that you will ever have heard of Le Gallou. In recent years, several base jumpers have won a high public profile. Jeb Corliss men like Felix Baumgartner and - the daredevils who plunged from the edge of space-sky - .. YouTube have stars, from brands such as Red Bull but Le Gallou are not backed for glory He maintained a website, but it was rudimentary, he preferred to share stories, face to face. The sport he loved began in the late 1970s when a group of American paratroopers led by Carl Boenish began jumping El Capitan, above Yosemite Valley, with regular Sky diving equipment it had been like before jumps -. For movie stunts and one-kicking - but it was Boenish and his gang to use the term BASE (for building, antenna, span, earth, four kinds of objects, from which it is possible to jump) invented. It was not until the 1980s and early 1990s that BASE began to merge into a sport. Base specialists originated in Europe and the United States share know-how when they met. Today, despite a growing interest in base jumping, there are still only a few hundred lines of

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bridges in Europe and the U.S. When Le Gallou knew his first jump in 1994, only a few dozen people in France, which was base jumping. He was already an experienced diver sky. After buying a basic rig and learned from a video grab, he traveled to the Fades viaduct near Clermont-Ferrand in the south of France, braced himself and jumped alone. The experience was a revelation. When you see the ground come very quickly -. "He told me:" It's more like a suicide as a sport almost certain that I would die I was, you know, because it was so frightening And if I jumped?. I pulled. And then you have to wait for the opening of the hood. And if you wait, the feeling is ... I do not know in English, the word. impuissant? " Powerless. Gallou Le spent the rest of his life trying to take control of this stunning milliseconds. To an intermittently illegal sport in which an error can be fatal to survive, a jumper warning to countless dangers to be. For starters, you only handle a parachute, but is used as the two in the traditional parachuting. must be accurately packed properly not only your slide, it must also be taken at the right time, with enough distance between you, the object and the ground. even if the screen properly released, expect a menu of possible problems. If, for example, open "off-course", or just less than, you will find yourself speeding back towards the cliff or a building, from which you just jumped. This result is known, in the macabre argot of the sport, as an "object strike." For these reasons the sport has traditionally been seen as much control to freaks, adrenaline junkies to Many European base jumpers from Le Gallou generation are middle-aged men and women (but mostly men) appealed with solid professions. Dentistry, engineering, IT and so on. few seem to perform particularly risky life. You see the sport as a private obsession, and public relations, especially for those in high-profile jobs, should be avoided. One of the oldest Le Gallou jumping friends, Joel Gerardin, said that for Le Gallou, the thrill of the infiltration of a building, jump escape and without notice He added, "indescribable.": "I actually do not know any others in Europe, which won such an experience in the city jumps, "illegal", without sponsorship, all over the world. Not for the image of himself, only for themselves. " . On this June morning, there were four other bridges with Le Gallou at Obiou Two were Americans who moved to France, wingsuits fly partially more time in the Alps: Ellen Brennan, a 25-year-old nurse, and her partner, Laurent Frat, a 35 - year-old news producer. The others were Raoul, a 38-year-old engineer and a friend of Le Gallou (the only his nickname declined to be named, because it is not publicly known that he base jumps). and Ludovic Woerth, a 32-year-old professional wingsuit pilots and a former employee at adrenaline base, a French-based outfitter Le Gallou wearing a wingsuit by adrenaline and base are made ??by a Croatian company, Phoenix-Fly. Raoul jumped first, and then Woerth. After completing their flights in the valley for the others waited. Le Gallou jumped third. His flight began well, according to Brennan and Frat. He banked high on the ledge and then fell out of sight. the two Americans jumped four and five. as they landed in the valley, for flights of more than a

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minute, about Le Gallou they asked. Neither Raoul still Woerth had seen him. Four fellow jumper Le Gallou hoped her friend had safely over the plateau pulled his parachute. The entire trajectory is not visible from either the valley or the exit point and it was possible, they believed that he landed unseen. After walking for a while to get better phone reception, they tried to call Le Gallou. Nothing. Brennan remembers the opening beers group to celebrate their successful jumps, while they waited for news. Right after like the first sip of beer maybe, we heard a helicopter comes over, "recalled Brennan." And the helicopters never fly there, unless they make a rescue or something .... The worst sound I've ever heard in my life the sound of that helicopter was coming. " A passing hiker saw the fallen Le Gallou and called the mountain rescue. Gallou had made the Le Plateau and died on impact, stretched out his sky behind him. In the following three jumper published accounts based web sites, detailing days, what they thought went wrong with the last flight Le Gallou is. Frat wrote that "for reasons we can only speculate, unable to plateau Outfly he was." For Joumana Seif, Le Gallou former girlfriend, but the accident not be so easily dismissed. Seif, an elegant, 36-year-old orthodontist from French and Lebanese descent, lives in Geneva. She met Le Gallou by base jumping, and beginning in 2001, she had what she describes as "intense" relationship. they split up in 2005, but remained close friends. died as Le Gallou, organized several events Seif in his memory, including a cremation in Grenoble, a Catholic Mass in Paris and a base-jumping monument to his favorite place in the Cirque d'Archiane, in the Alps. I spent two days with Seif in Paris last fall, as we talked about Le Gallou -. Seif often break when she was crying - .. She told me that two things bothered them centered on the first question of the character of Le Gallou about the accident, she said, was a conservative base-jumper. (This can be a contradiction appear in itself, but as confirmed by many of his friends recently pressed Le Gallou rarely beyond its borders. Mavericks do not survive 18 years in a sport like basis.) It seemed implausible Seif that Le Gallou would be a risky have tried to line his escape from Obiou. If he had lost good finesse, she thinks, he would have learned and lived on the plateau to jump another day. for them there was only one cause of the accident. Equipment trouble the fact that his parachute was used when he crashed indicated some sort of delay in finding the handle for his pilot chute, the little hood that the larger parachute (if found handle of the slide is known as precedes. No Pull a search.) Once Le Gallou he recognized was in trouble, he believes Seif precious fractions of seconds trying to deploy his pilot chute lost. until he did, it was too late. My second concern was Le Gallou helmet camera. It was his habit to record jumps. On the day he died, he was wearing a ContourHD camera on a rugby helmet mounted. Grief and the search for answers, Seif hunted feverishly for the device. But after the accident, the Contour camera was not found. It was not collected under the personal belongings of the police. Seif says it investigated the crash site six times with a

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metal detector, but found nothing. None of the colleagues jumper Le Gallou had an explanation for what happened to the device. Seif recalled that when she asked for the camera a few days after the crash of a jumper told her it was useless to look for it. "" Maybe it's in a million pieces, "he said." Maybe it has a log '. " A few weeks after the accident, but the camera was 40 meters uphill discovered by the police from the crash site, had left near some flowers Seif. It seemed clear to her that if she can not prove that the camera had later moved or replaced. the police, the Le Gallou death ruled an accident, finally found the HD card, but said it was unreadable. Seif remained dogged in their pursuit of what happened, she says that she found a memory card recently, at the point that she believes Le Gallou is that you tried, the pictures of her it makes it "Omerta" to a Get gearbox problem .. this may have led to Le Gallou accident. When I asked her why she thinks so, a folder with the documents they have collected about the case. she also spoke of her "intuition." Le Gallou life was consumed by the escape, in both senses of the word. In the 19th arrondissement of Paris grew up, he was the youngest of three boys. He was close to his mother, but he told friends his relationship with his father, a nuclear scientist was more tense.Ein heller, aber rebellischen Teenager, Le Gallou nicht Universit?t zu besuchen."Anstatt nach seinem Vater begann er, das Gegenteil zu immer tun", erkl?rte Seif."Ich wei? nicht, warum." Nach seinem Wehrdienst arbeitete Le Gallou als Wachmann und dann als Manager eines Supermarktes. 1993 Lokf¨¹hrer auf der M¨¦tro wurde er. Der Job kam mit flexiblen Arbeitszeiten und erlaubte ihm, in seinem au?erschulischen verw?hnen . Interessen sobald er konnte, Le Gallou ¨¹bertragen Line 6, einem luftigen Route, die durch das Herz der Stadt schneidet, und dass ihm erlaubt, den Eiffelturm zu sehen - seine Lieblings Basis-Springen Objekt -. mehrmals t?glich Basejumping , sagte McDonnell, Le Gallou aktiviert sein Potenzial zu erf¨¹llen. Der eine gro?e Sache, die mir auffiel, war: Wow, was f¨¹r ein Geist, er hat "McDonnell fortgesetzt." Es war nur undurchdringlichen Es war eine Konstante, flache Linie - ruhig, betrachtet, berechnet ... auf jeden springen Sie hatte gerade ..! dieses Gef¨¹hl, wenn Sie mit ihm waren, alles lief alles in Ordnung zu sein. nicht jeder hat, dass. ich in der Armee war. Sie k?nnen Menschen zu lehren, zu schreien und zu heulen und sei ein F¨¹hrer, aber Sie k?nnen nicht lehren, "es "- das X-Faktor, dass Magie Gen Du bist nur mit ihm geboren hatte er es" ... Diese Eigenschaften wurden in letzten Jahr Le Gallou getestet. Im Jahr 2011 starb ein Bruder verschlechterte sich die Gesundheit seiner alten Vaters und Le Gallou wurde zunehmend von einem Fu? brach er vor Jahren gest?rt. Er verbrachte einen Gro?teil seiner Freizeit im Jahr 2011 die Unterst¨¹tzung seiner Mutter und sprang weniger oft. Viele von Le Gallou Freunde beachten Sie, dass er auf "simplicit¨¦" in seinem Leben haben wollte. Er war auch sehr privat. Gallou Le Paquet und waren enge Freunde, aber als ich fragte, wo Le Paquet Gallou aufgewachsen, hat er nicht. Er wei?, sagte: "Es ist seltsam f¨¹r mich jetzt, weil ich merke, wir sprachen nie ¨¹ber seine Kindheit." John Halford, ein englischer Basis-Springen Freund, erinnerte, dass "obwohl ich wusste, dass er

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so gut wie ich eine der Basejumper wusste, ich didn 't wissen viel ¨¹ber seinen Hintergrund. Es war ein bisschen eine dunkle Seite zu ihm. " In seiner Mitte der 40er Jahre, ¨¹berrascht Le Gallou viele, die ihn durch die Ausbildung wusste, um Friseur zu werden. Mehrere seiner weiblichen Kollegen aus der M¨¦tro sagen, er war ein wunderbarer coiffeur, der noch nie f¨¹r seine Dienste in Rechnung gestellt. Tats?chlich sagte Seif er hoffte, zu beenden die Z¨¹ge schlie?lich und ?ffnen seinen eigenen Salon. sie erkl?rte auch, dass, obwohl er immer erfolgreich mit dem anderen Geschlecht, gl¨¹cklicher zu tun mit dem, was sie opak bezeichnet war er "Frau Dinge." Sie schloss mit den Worten, dass Lou Reeds "Walk on the wild Side "wurde in seinem Gedenkgottesdienste in Grenoble und Paris gespielt. Als er an der Austrittsstelle am Obiou stand, kann man Sorge Le Gallou genervt haben vor allen anderen:. Seine "Venom" Wingsuit In den letzten Jahren hat sich die Fl¨¹gelfl?che von Anz¨¹gen hat stark zugenommen, um den Wunsch nach einer Flugzeit gen¨¹gen ein Minute oder mehr. das Venom ist eine der gr??ten Klagen, dass Phoenix-Fly Angebote und Le Gallou k?mpfte mit ihm von Anfang an. Er begann zun?chst mit einem Venom Ende 2011. Eine Auswahl von E-Mails zwischen ihm und seinen Freunden, von Seif vorgesehen ist, best?tigt, dass er Schwierigkeiten haben, den Griff an der Hilfsschirm hatte. In einer E-Mail-Austausch zwischen Le Gallou und Raoulfrom December 2011, Le Gallou said he wished to sell his Venom, as he had problems with the ¡°handle on the bottom of the bag¡± containing the chute. Raoul replied, saying he had tested the Venom and had a similar issue with the handlefor the pilot chute. (Phoenix-Fly does not make the pilot chute or the container, worn on the back, in which it's enclosed; these are made by several manufacturers and are sold separately. A larger wingsuit can, however, create problems forpilots. For instance, there is a greater area of turbulence ¡ª or ¡°burble¡± ¡ª behind the flier, which can make it more difficult to deploy the parachute.) In March 2012, Le Gallou e-mailed another friend to say that he wasinterested in buying an X-Bird ¡ª a wingsuit by the rival American company, TonySuit. If Le Gallou was not happy with his equipment, he nonetheless persisted with it. Seif said that he flew two Venom suits. One was blue, and another, which he was wearing when he died, was red, black and white. Robert Pecnik, who owns Phoenix-Fly, said that Le Gallou tried out a Venom from Adrenalin Base, liked it and ¡ª on April 14, 2012 ¡ª bought his own version. With the new suit, Pecnik said, Le Gallou wore the pilot-chute container higher on his back. The adjustment did not go smoothly. Later that month, Le Gallou wrote to another friend to say that he had tested his new gear with three jumps from a plane over Dieppe. But, he complained, ¡°the problem remains the same!¡± I find the handle,¡± he wrote, ¡°but I still have the impression of having to twist like an earthworm to find it.¡± Pecnik was adamant that the Venom was not at fault for the accident. It was, he said, too simplistic to blame a No Pull Find for the crash, as by the time Le Gallou tried to pull, he seemed to be in trouble. There were always a series of problems that occurred when an experienced jumper died. Pilots who chose large wingsuits, Pecnik said, ¡°accepted the risk.¡± A year

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after Le Gallou¡¯s death, one thing seems certain: He was practicing a sport that was leaving him behind. By 2012, largely because of wingsuits, base jumping had become increasingly visible and accessible. Where once, novice jumpers went to extreme lengths to find mentors ¡ª or, like Le Gallou, made their first jumps alone and terrified ¡ª base schools now offered classes at popular jumping spots in Europe and America. The sport had also become professionalized. Last year, Red Bull sponsored the first-ever ¡°World Wingsuit League¡± in China, in which pilots raced one another for speed between two fixed points. Woerth was a contestant. This entrepreneurial spirit has come at a cost. According to a crowd-sourced database maintained by jumpers, of some 200 people who have died base jumping since 1981, nearly half have died in the last five years, after wingsuits became popular. Since Le Gallou¡¯s death last summer, 22 other base jumpers have died; 18 were wearing wingsuits. Le Gallou did not resist the changes in base jumping. Although he was not an expert pilot, the wingsuit revolution thrilled him. Yet the values he embodied ¡ª modesty, caution, patience ¡ª were being eroded by this new generation of wingsuit pilots, stimulated by speed and YouTube hits. For some experienced jumpers, the sport has become too dangerous. In December, Gerardin wrote to me, saying: ¡°It looks like this year, many old-timers retired. They gave me different reasons, but the point is that they all told me Herv¨¦¡¯s death was the bell ringing the end of the game.¡±
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1ゴアテックスジャケット女性パープルノースフェイス2

1ゴアテックスジャケット女性パープルノースフェイス2

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¥23,460.00



1ゴアテックスジャケット女性レッドでノースフェイス2

1ゴアテックスジャケット女性レッドでノースフェイス2

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2012年ノースフェイスジャケット女性01

2012年ノースフェイスジャケット女性01

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2012年ノースフェイスジャケット女性02

2012年ノースフェイスジャケット女性02

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¥20,298.00



2012年ノースフェイスジャケット女性03

2012年ノースフェイスジャケット女性03

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¥20,298.00



2012年ノースフェイスジャケット女性04

2012年ノースフェイスジャケット女性04

ノースフェイスジャケット女性又はノースフェイスジャケット...

¥20,298.00




2012年ノースフェイスジャケット女性05

2012年ノースフェイスジャケット女性05

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¥20,298.00



2012年ノースフェイスジャケット女性06

2012年ノースフェイスジャケット女性06

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2012年ノースフェイスジャケット女性07

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2012年ノースフェイスジャケット女性08

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¥20,298.00



2012年ノースフェイスジャケット女性09

2012年ノースフェイスジャケット女性09

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¥20,298.00



2012年ノースフェイスジャケット女性10

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2012年ノースフェイスジャケット女性13

2012年ノースフェイスジャケット女性13

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¥20,298.00




2012年ノースフェイスジャケット女性13

2012年ノースフェイスジャケット女性13

ノースフェイスジャケット女性又はノースフェイスジャケット...

¥20,298.00



2012年ノースフェイスジャケット女性14

2012年ノースフェイスジャケット女性14

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¥20,298.00



2012年ノースフェイスジャケット女性15

2012年ノースフェイスジャケット女性15

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¥20,298.00




2012年ノースフェイスジャケット女性16

2012年ノースフェイスジャケット女性16

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2012年ノースフェイスジャケット女性17

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¥20,298.00



2012年ノースフェイスジャケット女性18

2012年ノースフェイスジャケット女性18

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¥20,298.00




2012年ノースフェイスジャケット女性19

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¥20,298.00



2012年ノースフェイスジャケット女性20

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¥20,298.00



2012年ノースフェイスジャケット女性21

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¥20,298.00





ノースフェイスのジャケット
ノースフェイスのジャケット
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ノースフェイスメンズ



ダウンジャケットメンズアペックスの昇格

ダウンジャケットメンズアペックスの昇格

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¥42,534.00  ¥19,584.00
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ダウンジャケットメンズアペックスの昇格

ダウンジャケットメンズアペックスの昇格

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¥42,534.00  ¥19,584.00
割引: 54%OFF




ダウンジャケットメンズアペックスの昇格

ダウンジャケットメンズアペックスの昇格

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¥42,534.00  ¥19,584.00
割引: 54%OFF





ダウンジャケットメンズアペックスの昇格

ダウンジャケットメンズアペックスの昇格

hatefully寒い日は、斜面を打つからあなたを維持させてはいけな...

¥42,534.00  ¥19,584.00
割引: 54%OFF




ダウンジャケット男性ライト

ダウンジャケット男性ライト

ジャケットは、雪線の上を圧迫しないことを収納可能なデザイ...

¥27,438.00  ¥14,484.00
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ダウンジャケット男性ライト

ダウンジャケット男性ライト

ジャケットは、雪線の上を圧迫しないことを収納可能なデザイ...

¥27,438.00  ¥14,484.00
割引: 47%OFF





ダウンジャケット男性ライト

ダウンジャケット男性ライト

ジャケットは、雪線の上を圧迫しないことを収納可能なデザイ...

¥27,438.00  ¥14,484.00
割引: 47%OFF




ダウンジャケット男性ライト

ダウンジャケット男性ライト

ジャケットは、雪線の上を圧迫しないことを収納可能なデザイ...

¥27,438.00  ¥14,484.00
割引: 47%OFF




ダウンジャケット男性ライト

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ジャケットは、雪線の上を圧迫しないことを収納可能なデザイ...

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ダウンジャケット男性ライト

ダウンジャケット男性ライト

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割引: 47%OFF




ダウンジャケット男性ライト

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¥27,438.00  ¥14,484.00
割引: 47%OFF




ダウンジャケット男性ライト

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ジャケットは、雪線の上を圧迫しないことを収納可能なデザイ...

¥27,438.00  ¥14,484.00
割引: 47%OFF





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ダウンジャケット男性絶対零度を

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¥48,858.00  ¥21,216.00
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ダウンジャケット男性絶対零度を

ダウンジャケット男性絶対零度を

hatefully寒い日は、斜面を打つからあなたを維持させてはいけな...

¥48,858.00  ¥21,216.00
割引: 57%OFF




ダウンベスト男性Thermoball

ダウンベスト男性Thermoball

太陽の尾根下ディップとあなたが先に寒い夜のために準備する...

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ダウンベスト男性Thermoball

ダウンベスト男性Thermoball

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太陽の尾根下ディップとあなたが先に寒い夜のために準備する...

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ダウンベスト男性Thermoball

ダウンベスト男性Thermoball

太陽の尾根下ディップとあなたが先に寒い夜のために準備する...

¥30,498.00  ¥15,096.00
割引: 51%OFF




ブレーカージャケット胸元男性

ブレーカージャケット胸元男性

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ブレーカージャケット胸元男性

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ブレーカージャケット胸元男性

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割引: 55%OFF




ブレーカージャケット胸元男性

ブレーカージャケット胸元男性

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割引: 55%OFF





ブレーカージャケット胸元男性

ブレーカージャケット胸元男性

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男子アルペンプロジェクトソフトシェル

男子アルペンプロジェクトソフトシェル

メンズソフトシェルジャケットブロックはあなたのハードシェ...

¥35,496.00  ¥17,034.00
割引: 52%OFF






10月の新着商品 - ノースフェイスメンズ

男性バワリージャケット

男性バワリージャケット
¥35,088.00  ¥17,544.00
割引: 50%OFF
男性バワリージャケット

男性バワリージャケット
¥35,088.00  ¥17,544.00
割引: 50%OFF
男性ロングスリーブスポーツスーツ

男性ロングスリーブスポーツスーツ
¥19,278.00  ¥10,098.00
割引: 48%OFF

男性バワリージャケット

男性バワリージャケット
¥35,088.00  ¥17,544.00
割引: 50%OFF
男性ロングスリーブスポーツスーツ

男性ロングスリーブスポーツスーツ
¥19,278.00  ¥10,098.00
割引: 48%OFF
男性ロングスリーブスポーツスーツ

男性ロングスリーブスポーツスーツ
¥19,278.00  ¥10,098.00
割引: 48%OFF

10月の特価品

ダウンジャケット男性ライト

ダウンジャケット男性ライト
¥27,438.00  ¥14,484.00
割引: 47%OFF
ダウンジャケット男性ライト

ダウンジャケット男性ライト
¥27,438.00  ¥14,484.00
割引: 47%OFF
ダウンジャケット男性ライト

ダウンジャケット男性ライト
¥27,438.00  ¥14,484.00
割引: 47%OFF

男性ヌプチェハイツ絶縁ベスト

男性ヌプチェハイツ絶縁ベスト
¥20,196.00  ¥11,118.00
割引: 45%OFF
ダウンジャケット男性ライト

ダウンジャケット男性ライト
¥27,438.00  ¥14,484.00
割引: 47%OFF
男性はシンチラジャケット殻

男性はシンチラジャケット殻
¥38,658.00  ¥17,748.00
割引: 54%OFF

ダウンベスト男性Thermoball

ダウンベスト男性Thermoball
¥30,498.00  ¥15,096.00
割引: 51%OFF
ダウンジャケット男性ライト

ダウンジャケット男性ライト
¥27,438.00  ¥14,484.00
割引: 47%OFF
男性はシンチラジャケット殻

男性はシンチラジャケット殻
¥38,658.00  ¥17,748.00
割引: 54%OFF

男性はシンチラジャケット殻

男性はシンチラジャケット殻
¥38,658.00  ¥17,748.00
割引: 54%OFF
男性はシンチラジャケット殻

男性はシンチラジャケット殻
¥38,658.00  ¥17,748.00
割引: 54%OFF
ダウンジャケット男性ライト

ダウンジャケット男性ライト
¥27,438.00  ¥14,484.00
割引: 47%OFF

ノースフェイスのジャケット
ノースフェイスのジャケット
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