He took up his residence again in the yellow house with the mysterious golden girl. Never have I seen a woman who could even approach her in attraction. She drew me to her against my will, yet never did she seem even cognizant of my presence. If I had been the dust beneath her feet she could not have been more disdainful of me. In looks, she was a thing glorious to behold, tall and slim and molded like a Grecian goddess. Her almond-shaped eyes seemed to glow with the fires of golden passion; her lips were like splashes of blood on her yellow-olive skin. Her jet-black hair glistened like polished ebony. It seemed to reflect the golden glory of her face. When in her presence, it was as though one were enveloped in a golden-yellow cloud. Even after dusk, she seemed to cast off a radiance as though the sun were still shining on her.
And now I became conscious of another change in Paul Benoit. He had turned pagan. He worshiped that golden girl. He used to make her stand nude in the dazzling sunlight, by the yellow pool, her gorgeous golden body gleaming in the haze like the bronze body of a Hellenic statue. Golden girl, golden sun, golden pool—a symphony in yellow magic. Her body gleamed like burnished gold. She stood poised on the very brink of the vapid pool, not moving, as still as death. It was a sight more wonderful than Saadi, the poet, ever dreamed of. It was magnificent, but it was mad. Materialists are wrong when they say there is no meaning in color. There is witchery, an allure as seductive as hashish.
I don't know when it was that we began to realize that the golden girl was enameling her face in an effort to make it white and was putting just a touch of carmine in the center of her cheeks. It was that touch of red that shattered the harmony of Paul Benoit's life. No more terrible clash with his beautiful yellow could be conceived. The incongruity of it was very impressive. She who was yellow wanted to be white, and he who was white worshiped yellow.
One day out by the pool, he seized her roughly by the wrist.
"Why are you trying to change your color?" he cried.
"Because I hate it," she said tensely. "To me there is nothing so vile as yellow. It is the color of putrid swamps, of disease, of unhealthy things."
"You lie," he snarled. "It is the color of the sun. Yellow dawn, yellow butterflies, yellow flowers, yellow gold. No other tone is so submerged in wreath."
She laughed mockingly at the intensity of his passion. As she did so, the golden thread of reason snapped within him. He seized her by the throat and held her over the yellow pool. His long bony fingers closed about her neck like steel talons. Without a murmur, she went limp in his arms. Her face began to turn blue. Oh, the horror of it! His golden girl was turning blue when he desired more than anything else for her to remain that wondrous yellow tint. His feelings revolted. Spasmodically he released his hold on her throat. As he did so there was a purling splash as the body of the golden girl disappeared forever in the yawning yellow pool.
Now many years have passed but
Paul Benoit still lives in the yellow
house by the yellow pool. He is
old and poor. All his friends have
fallen away from him. He is neglected,
forgotten; but he does not
care, for every night, at eventide, he
goes to the yellow pool and sits for
hours crooning wild, weird love songs
to the golden girl whom he imagines
he still sees poised nude on the brink
of the water like a figure of burnished
bronze.
