Moon-madness, and other fantasies

“He was young, and he was clever, and he was handsome,” said the proprietor, “men admired him, and women loved him. The lady who posed for this portrait was one of those who loved him. She had loved other men. She had loved an Italian prince. But he died. She had loved an English lord. But he died, also. And then--she loved Paul Gaspard.”

“And then he too died!” said the man.

“Yes--and he too died!” said the proprietor.

“How did he die?” said the man.

“Nobody knows how--or why,” said the proprietor. “He was found dead in his bed one morning. That was all. There was some sort of a wound, or a scar, on his breast, over his heart. For a time the coroner was puzzled. At first there was some thought of suicide--or even of murder. But, in the end, the authorities decided that Paul Gaspard had died from natural causes, and there the matter ended.”

“And the picture,” said the man.

“The picture had just been finished on the very day he died,” said the proprietor, “by a strange coincidence.”

“Very strange indeed!” said the man.

“Paul Gaspard had from time to time borrowed sums of money from me, until he owed me in all some fifteen hundred francs,” said the proprietor, “so when he died, and left no money, I claimed the picture--and I got it.”

“And the lady who posed for it?” said the man.

“She left Paris as soon as Paul Gaspard was in his grave,” said the proprietor.

“Where did she go?” said the man.

“To St. Petersburg--with a Russian duke,” said the proprietor.

“Is she there now?” said the man.

“No, she is at Monte Carlo,” said the proprietor.

“With the Russian duke?” said the man.

“No, she is there alone,” said the proprietor.

“Where is the Russian duke?” said the man.

“He is dead,” said the proprietor.

“Dead?” said the man.

“Yes, dead,” said the proprietor, “as dead as all the rest of her lovers!”

“The devil!” said the man.

“Quite so!” said the proprietor.

“And the name of this woman,” said the man, “what is it?”

“She calls herself Elise Du Barry,” said the proprietor, “but other people call her something else.”

“What do they call her?” said the man.

“‘Our Lady of Red Lips’!” said the proprietor.

The man thanked the proprietor, and left the shop.

In the street he stopped before the window once more, and stood and stared at the picture.

“‘Our Lady of Red Lips’,” muttered the man.

And, as he left the window, and walked away, he murmured, “Monte Carlo!”

That night the man dreamed a strange and startling dream.

First he dreamed of black hair.

Hair as black as night.

It covered the heavens and the earth. There was nothing else in the world but black hair.

Then he dreamed of white skin.

Skin as white as snow.

It covered the heavens and the earth.

There was nothing else in the world but white skin.

Then he dreamed of green eyes.

Eyes as green as the sea.

They covered the heavens and the earth.

There was nothing else in the world but green eyes.

Then he dreamed of red lips.

Lips as red as blood.

They covered the heavens and the earth.

There was nothing else in the world but red lips.

The lips kissed him on the brow.

He felt as though he were swooning.

The lips kissed him on the mouth.

He felt as though he were dying.

The lips kissed him on the heart.

He felt as though the world were coming to an end.

His soul was full of terror.

He uttered a shriek.

And then--he awoke.

The next day the man left Paris.