I climbed the three worn-out flights of stairs I had climbed so many times before and knocked on the little door at the end of the corridor.
Mr. Wilde opened it, and I stepped inside.
He locked the door twice, then shoved a heavy chest against it. After that, he came over and sat beside me, studying my face with his small, pale eyes.
His face was covered with half a dozen fresh scratches, and the silver wires holding his artificial ears had slipped out of place.
I had never seen him look so strangely fascinating.
Mr. Wilde had no ears. The artificial ones stuck out awkwardly from their thin wires. They were made of wax and painted a delicate shell-pink, while the rest of his face was yellow.
It was strange that he bothered with artificial ears when he had no fingers on his left hand. Yet the missing fingers seemed to trouble him very little. He was perfectly satisfied with his wax ears.
He was a tiny man, barely taller than a ten-year-old child, but his arms were enormously strong, and his thighs were as thick as an athlete’s.
Still, the strangest thing about him was his head.
A man with his extraordinary intelligence and knowledge should not have had such a head. It was flat and pointed, much like the heads of people whom society locked away in asylums for the mentally weak.
Many people called him insane.
I knew better.
He was no more insane than I was.
I will admit that he was eccentric.
For example, he had an obsession with his cat. He kept the vicious creature in his room and deliberately teased her until she attacked him like a demon.
I had never understood why he kept her or what pleasure he found in provoking such a savage animal.
I still remembered one evening when I had been studying a manuscript by the light of several tallow candles.
I looked up and saw Mr. Wilde sitting perfectly still on his high chair.
His eyes were burning with excitement.
The cat had risen from her place beside the stove and was slowly creeping toward him.
Before I could do anything, she flattened herself against the floor.
She crouched.
She trembled.
Then she sprang straight at his face.
They rolled across the floor together, howling, scratching, and clawing.
The cat finally screamed and escaped beneath the cabinet.
Mr. Wilde rolled onto his back, his arms and legs twisting and curling like the legs of a dying spider.
Yes.
He was certainly eccentric.
Now he climbed back into his high chair.
After studying my face for a moment, he picked up an old ledger with worn, dog-eared pages and opened it.
“Henry B. Matthews,” he read. “Bookkeeper at Whysot Whysot and Company, dealers in church ornaments. Called April third. Reputation damaged on the race track. Known as a welcher. Reputation to be repaired by August first. Retainer: five dollars.”
He turned the page and ran his fingerless knuckles down the closely written columns.
“P. Greene Dusenberry. Minister of the Gospel, Fairbeach, New Jersey. Reputation damaged in the Bowery. To be repaired as soon as possible. Retainer: one hundred dollars.”
He coughed.
“Called April sixth.”
“Then you are not exactly short of money, Mr. Wilde,” I said.
“Listen.”
He coughed again.
“Mrs. C. Hamilton Chester of Chester Park, New York City. Called April seventh. Reputation damaged at Dieppe, France. To be repaired by October first. Retainer: five hundred dollars.”
He paused.
“Note: C. Hamilton Chester, Captain, U.S.S. Avalanche, ordered home from the South Sea Squadron October first.”
“Well,” I said, “the profession of repairing reputations seems to be quite profitable.”
His pale eyes fixed themselves on mine.
“I only wanted to prove that I was right.”
“You said it was impossible to make a living repairing reputations.”
“You said that even if I succeeded in some cases, the cost of repairing them would be greater than the money I received.”
He leaned back in his chair.
“Today I have five hundred men working for me.”
“They are badly paid, but they work with remarkable enthusiasm.”
“Perhaps that enthusiasm comes from fear.”
He smiled.
“These men move through every level of society. Some are pillars of the most exclusive social circles. Others are among the most powerful men in finance. Still others control the world of racing, gambling, and sport.”
“I choose them whenever they answer my advertisements.”
“It is very easy.”
“They are all cowards.”
“I could triple their number within twenty days if I wanted to.”
He tapped the ledger.
“So you see, everyone who has the reputation of another man in his hands is, in one way or another, working for me.”
“They may turn against you,” I said.
He rubbed his thumb over the places where his ears had been cut away and adjusted the wax replacements.
“I don’t think so.”
“You rarely have to use the whip.”
“And when I do, I only need to use it once.”
“Besides, they like their wages.”
“How do you use the whip?” I asked.
For a moment, his face became horrible.
His eyes narrowed until they looked like two tiny green sparks.
“I invite them to come and have a little talk with me.”
A knock at the door interrupted him.
His pleasant expression returned instantly.
“Who is it?” he asked.
“Mr. Steylette.”
“Come tomorrow,” Mr. Wilde replied.
“Impossible—”
A sharp bark from Mr. Wilde cut him off.
“Come tomorrow.”
We heard the man step away from the door and disappear around the stairway.
“Who was that?” I asked.
“Arnold Steylette.”
“The owner and editor-in-chief of the great New York daily.”
Mr. Wilde tapped the ledger with his fingerless hand.
“I pay him very badly.”
“But he considers it an excellent bargain.”
“Arnold Steylette?” I repeated in disbelief.
“Yes.”
Mr. Wilde gave a satisfied little cough.
The cat entered the room.
She stopped when she saw him.
She looked up.
Then she snarled.
Mr. Wilde climbed down from his chair and crouched on the floor. He picked her up and held her against his chest.
He stroked her gently.
The cat stopped snarling.
A moment later she began to purr, louder and louder as he continued to pet her.
“Where are the notes?” I asked.
He pointed toward the table.
For perhaps the hundredth time, I picked up the bundle of manuscripts bearing the title:
THE IMPERIAL DYNASTY OF AMERICA
I read through the worn pages one by one.
They had become worn only because of my own hands.
I knew every word by heart, from the opening—
“When from Carcosa, the Hyades, Hastur, and Aldebaran—”
—to the final entry:
“Castaigne, Louis de Calvados, born December 19th, 1877.”
Yet I read the pages with complete attention.
I lingered over the passage concerning Hildred de Calvados, the only son of Hildred Castaigne and Edythe Landes Castaigne, first in succession.
When I finished, Mr. Wilde nodded and coughed.
“Speaking of your perfectly legitimate ambition,” he said, “how are Constance and Louis getting along?”
“She loves him.”
The cat suddenly twisted around and struck at Mr. Wilde’s eyes.
He threw her away and climbed back onto the chair opposite me.
“And Dr. Archer?”
He paused.
“But that is something you can deal with whenever you like.”
“Yes.”
“Dr. Archer can wait.”
“But it is time I saw my cousin Louis.”
“It is time.”
He picked up another ledger and rapidly turned through the pages.
“We are now in communication with ten thousand men.”
He looked down at the names.
“We can reach one hundred thousand within the first twenty-eight hours.”
“And within forty-eight hours, the entire state will rise.”
“The rest of the country will follow.”
He looked up.
“The only parts that will refuse are California and the Northwest.”
“Those regions would be better off never having been inhabited.”
“I shall not send them the Yellow Sign.”
The blood rushed to my head.
I forced myself to remain calm.
“A new broom sweeps clean,” I said.
Mr. Wilde’s expression became solemn.
“The ambition of Caesar and Napoleon is nothing compared with an ambition that refuses to rest until it has seized the minds of men and even controlled the thoughts of those who have not yet been born.”
“You are speaking of the King in Yellow,” I whispered with a shudder.
“He is a king whom emperors have served.”
“I am content to serve him.”
Mr. Wilde rubbed his ears with his crippled hand.
“Perhaps Constance does not love him,” he said.
I began to answer.
But a sudden burst of military music from the street below drowned out my voice.
The Twentieth Dragoon Regiment was returning from its maneuvers in Westchester County.
They had formerly been stationed at Mount St. Vincent, but were now returning to their new barracks on East Washington Square.
It was my cousin’s regiment.
They were an impressive group of men.
Their pale-blue jackets fit tightly against their bodies. Their jaunty busbies sat proudly on their heads, and their white riding breeches were marked with double yellow stripes.
Every other squadron carried lances.
Yellow and white pennants fluttered from the metal tips.
The regimental band passed first.
Then came the colonel and his staff, surrounded by horses whose hooves struck the street in a steady rhythm.
The riders moved almost as one.
Their pennants fluttered in the wind.
Their English-style riding posture was beautiful.
After their campaign among the farms of Westchester, the troopers were brown from the sun.
The clatter of their sabres against their stirrups, the jingling of their spurs, and the rattle of their carbines sounded wonderful to me.
Then I saw Louis.
He was riding with his squadron.
He was one of the handsomest officers I had ever seen.
Mr. Wilde had climbed onto a chair beside the window.
He saw Louis too.
But he said nothing.
Louis turned his head and looked directly toward Hawberk’s shop as he passed.
I could see the color rise in his brown cheeks.
I thought Constance must have been standing at the window.
When the last troopers had disappeared down South Fifth Avenue, Mr. Wilde climbed down from his chair and pulled the chest away from the door.
“Yes,” he said.
“It is time for you to see your cousin Louis.”
He unlocked the door.
I picked up my hat and walking stick and stepped into the corridor.
The stairs were dark.
I felt my way down.
Then my foot landed on something soft.
It snarled and spat.
I swung my cane at it.
I meant to kill the creature.
But the cane struck the railing and shattered.
The cat raced back into Mr. Wilde’s room.
I passed Hawberk’s door again.
He was still working on the armor.
This time I did not stop.
I stepped onto Bleecker Street, followed it to Wooster Street, went around the grounds of the Lethal Chamber, crossed Washington Park, and returned to my rooms at the Benedick.
I had a comfortable lunch.
Then I read the Herald and the Meteor.
Finally, I went to the steel safe in my bedroom and set the time combination.
The three and three-quarter minutes required for the time lock to open were precious to me.
From the moment I turned the combination until I could grasp the handles and swing open those massive steel doors, I lived in a state of pure anticipation.
Those moments must be what paradise feels like.
I already knew what waited inside.
I knew what the enormous safe protected.
It belonged to me.
To me alone.
And the pleasure of waiting was almost greater than the moment when the safe finally opened.
Inside, resting on its velvet cushion, was a crown of pure gold covered in diamonds.
I did this every day.
Yet every day, the excitement grew.
It was a crown fit for a king among kings.
An emperor among emperors.
Perhaps the King in Yellow himself would consider it worthless.
But it would be worn by his royal servant.
I held it in my arms until the alarm inside the safe rang sharply.
Then I carefully returned the crown to its place and closed the steel doors.
I walked slowly into my study.
The windows faced Washington Square.
I leaned against the sill.
The afternoon sun poured through the windows.
A soft breeze moved through the branches of the elms and maples, which were beginning to fill with young leaves.
A flock of pigeons circled the tower of the Memorial Church.
Sometimes they landed on its purple-tiled roof.
Sometimes they flew down toward the lotus fountain beneath the marble arch.
Gardeners worked among the flower beds.
The smell of freshly turned earth drifted through the air, sweet and spicy.
A lawn mower pulled by a fat white horse moved across the grass, its machinery making a steady metallic sound.
Watering carts sprayed the asphalt drives.
Children played around the statue of Peter Stuyvesant.
Nursemaids pushed elaborate baby carriages without much concern for the pale-faced children inside them.
That carelessness was probably encouraged by the half-dozen smartly dressed dragoon officers lounging on nearby benches.
Through the trees, the Washington Memorial Arch shone like silver in the sunlight.
Beyond it stood the gray stone barracks of the dragoons and the white granite artillery stables.
They were alive with movement and color.
I looked across the square at the Lethal Chamber.
A few curious visitors still stood near the gilded iron railing.
Inside the grounds, however, the paths were empty.
The fountains sparkled.
Sparrows had already discovered the new bathing place, and dozens of them covered the basins with their dusty feathers.
Two or three white peacocks wandered across the lawns.
A dull-colored pigeon sat perfectly still on the arm of one of the three figures known as the Fates.
It looked almost like part of the sculpture.
I was about to turn away when a small commotion among the people near the gate caught my attention.
A young man had entered the grounds.
He walked nervously toward the bronze doors of the Lethal Chamber.
Before reaching them, he stopped in front of the Fates.
He looked up at their three mysterious faces.
The pigeon suddenly flew from the stone arm.
It circled once and then headed east.
The young man pressed a hand against his face.
Then, with a strange and desperate gesture, he rushed up the marble steps.
The bronze doors closed behind him.
Half an hour later, the curious onlookers slowly wandered away.
The frightened pigeon returned to its place on the arm of Fate.
I put on my hat and went outside for a short walk before dinner.
As I crossed the central driveway, a group of officers passed.
One of them called out to me.
“Hello, Hildred!”
He came back and shook my hand.
It was my cousin Louis.
He was smiling and tapping his spurred heels with his riding crop.
“Just got back from Westchester,” he said.
“We’ve been playing at country life.”
“Milk and curds, dairymaids in sunbonnets, the whole thing.”
He laughed.
“You know the sort. Tell them they’re pretty and they answer, ‘Haeow,’ or ‘I don’t think.’”
“I am nearly dead from hunger.”
“I need a proper meal at Delmonico’s.”
“What is the news?”
“There is none,” I said pleasantly.
“I saw your regiment coming in this morning.”
“You did?”
“I didn’t see you. Where were you?”
“In Mr. Wilde’s window.”
“Oh, hell!”
His face hardened.
“That man is completely mad. I can’t understand why you—”
He noticed my expression and immediately stopped.
“Sorry, old chap.”
“I didn’t mean to insult a man you like.”
“But honestly, I can’t understand what you and Mr. Wilde could possibly have in common.”
“He isn’t well bred, to put it kindly.”
“He is horribly deformed.”
“His head looks like the head of someone who belongs in an asylum.”
“You know yourself that he has been in one.”
“So have I,” I said calmly.
Louis looked shocked and embarrassed.
For a moment he didn’t know what to say.
Then he recovered and slapped me warmly on the shoulder.
“But you were completely cured.”
“I suppose you mean that I was eventually declared never to have been insane.”
“Of course.”
“That is what I meant.”
He gave a nervous laugh.
I disliked that laugh.
I knew it was forced.
Still, I smiled and asked where he was going.
Louis looked toward the officers who were now almost at Broadway.
“We were going to have a Brunswick cocktail.”
“But to tell you the truth, I was looking for an excuse to visit Hawberk.”
He grinned.
“Come with me.”
“I’ll use you as my excuse.”
We found old Hawberk standing outside his shop.
He was dressed neatly in a fresh spring suit and was enjoying the air.
“I had just decided to take Constance for a walk before dinner,” he said in answer to Louis’s rapid questions.
“We thought we’d walk along the park terrace beside the North River.”
At that moment, Constance appeared.
As Louis took her small gloved hand, she became pale and then flushed with color.
I tried to excuse myself.
“I have an engagement uptown.”
But Louis and Constance refused to let me go.
I realized that I was expected to stay and keep old Hawberk company.
Perhaps that was just as well.
I wanted to keep an eye on Louis.
When they hailed a Spring Street horsecar, I climbed aboard after them and sat beside the old armor maker.
The beautiful parks and granite terraces overlooking the wharves along the North River had become one of the city’s favorite places to walk.
They stretched from the Battery all the way to 190th Street.
From there, people could look across the great river toward the Jersey shore and the Highlands.
Cafés and restaurants stood among the trees.
Twice a week, military bands from the garrison played in the kiosks along the parapets.
We sat in the sunlight on a bench beneath the equestrian statue of General Sheridan.
Constance tilted her parasol to shade her eyes.
She and Louis began talking quietly.
I could not hear what they were saying.
Hawberk leaned on his ivory-handled cane, lit an excellent cigar, and offered another to me.
I politely refused.
He smiled at nothing in particular.
The sun was low over the woods of Staten Island.
The bay had turned gold.
The warm light reflected from the sails of the ships in the harbor.
Brigs.
Schooners.
Yachts.
Crowded ferryboats.
Railroad transports carrying rows of brown, blue, and white freight cars.
Large steamers.
Old tramp steamers.
Coastal vessels.
Dredgers.
Scows.
And everywhere, little tugboats puffed and whistled as though they owned the harbor.
All of them churned through the bright water.
Farther out, in complete contrast to the busy traffic, a silent fleet of white warships lay motionless in the middle of the river.
Constance’s laughter pulled me out of my thoughts.
“What are you staring at?” she asked.
“Nothing.”
I smiled.
“The fleet.”
Louis began identifying the ships for us.
He pointed toward each one, explaining its position in relation to the old Red Fort on Governor’s Island.
“That little cigar-shaped boat is a torpedo boat.”
“There are four more together.”
“The Tarpon, Falcon, Sea Fox, and Octopus.”
“The gunboats above them are the Princeton, Champlain, Still Water, and Erie.”
“Then come the cruisers Farragut and Los Angeles.”
“And above them are the battleships California, Dakota, and Washington.”
“The Washington is the flagship.”
He pointed farther away.
“Those two squat pieces of metal near Castle William are the double-turreted monitors Terrible and Magnificent.”
“And behind them is the ram Osceola.”
Constance looked at him with obvious admiration.
“What a lot you know for a soldier.”
We all laughed.
After a while, Louis stood.
He offered his arm to Constance.
Then the two of them walked away along the river wall.
Hawberk watched them for a moment.
Then he turned toward me.
“Mr. Wilde was right,” he said.
“I found the missing tassets and the left cuissard of the Prince’s Emblazoned.”
“Where?”
“In a filthy old junk shop on Pell Street.”
“Number 998?” I asked with a smile.
“Yes.”
“Mr. Wilde is a very intelligent man.”
“I want him to receive the credit for this discovery.”
“I intend to make sure everyone knows he deserves the fame.”
“He won’t thank you for that.”
I spoke sharply.
“Please don’t say anything about it.”
“Do you know what the armor is worth?”
“No.”
“Fifty dollars, perhaps.”
“It has been valued at five hundred.”
“And the owner of the Prince’s Emblazoned will pay two thousand dollars to whoever completes the suit.”
“That reward belongs to Mr. Wilde too.”
“He doesn’t want it.”
“He refuses it.”
I was angry now.
“What do you know about Mr. Wilde?”
“He doesn’t need the money.”
“He is rich.”
“Or he soon will be.”
“Richer than any living man except me.”
“What will we care about money then?”
“What will he and I care about money when—”
“When what?” Hawberk asked, staring at me.
“You will see.”
I caught myself and became cautious again.
Hawberk studied my face.
His expression reminded me of Dr. Archer.
I knew what he was thinking.
He thought I was mentally unstable.
Perhaps it was fortunate that he did not actually call me a lunatic.
“No,” I said, answering the thought he had not spoken.
“I am not mentally weak.”
“My mind is as healthy as Mr. Wilde’s.”
“I don’t intend to explain everything yet.”
“But I have something underway.”
“It is an investment that will bring me more than gold, silver, or precious stones.”
“It will secure the happiness and prosperity of an entire continent.”
I paused.
“Yes.”
“A hemisphere.”
“Oh,” Hawberk said.
“And eventually,” I continued more quietly, “it will secure the happiness of the whole world.”
“And your own happiness and prosperity?”
“And Mr. Wilde’s too?”
“Exactly.”
I smiled.
But inside, I wanted to strangle him for the way he had said it.
Hawberk was silent for a moment.
Then he spoke gently.
“Why don’t you give up all these books and studies, Mr. Castaigne?”
“Go somewhere into the mountains.”
“You used to love fishing.”
“Go up to the Rangelys and catch a few trout.”
“I don’t care about fishing anymore,” I said without irritation.
“You used to enjoy everything.”
“Athletics.”
“Yachting.”
“Shooting.”
“Riding.”
“I haven’t cared about riding since my fall.”
“Ah.”
He looked away.
“Your fall.”
I thought this had gone far enough.
I brought the conversation back to Mr. Wilde.
But Hawberk was still studying my face.
“Mr. Wilde,” he said.
“Do you know what he did this afternoon?”
“He came downstairs.”
“He nailed a sign over the hallway door beside mine.”
“It said:
‘MR. WILDE
REPAIRER OF REPUTATIONS
THIRD BELL.’”
“Do you know what a Repairer of Reputations is?”
“I do,” I said, forcing down my anger.
“Oh,” he replied.
Louis and Constance came back toward us.
They stopped and asked whether we would join them.
Hawberk glanced at his watch.
At that exact moment, a cloud of smoke burst from the casemates of Castle William.
The sunset gun thundered across the water.
Its boom rolled toward the Highlands and echoed back.
The flag came down from the flagpole.
Bugles sounded aboard the white warships.
The first electric lights appeared along the Jersey shore.
As I returned toward the city with Hawberk, I heard Constance quietly say something to Louis.
I could not make out the words.
But Louis whispered his answer.
“My darling.”
Later, as Hawberk and I walked ahead through the square, I heard him whisper again.
“Sweetheart.”
Then:
“My own Constance.”
I knew then that the moment was almost here.
Soon I would have to speak to my cousin Louis about matters of far greater importance.