“Here is the very bienséance of vanity,” he said—“the archetype of society. Withered, denuded, worm-eaten to a shell, it yet decks its cap with a plume of green, wraps its palsy in a cloak of stars, and stands aloof like something desirable but not to be attained.”
“A shell, you say? It looks solid as marble.”
“It is a king, monsieur, without a heart. Some day when the storm rises it shall fall in upon itself. I know its hollowness from a boy. I have climbed fifty times this drooping bough here—which you may do now, if you will. Up there, where the branches strike from the main stem, one may look down into a deep well of decay.”
He caught his hand away with a repelling exclamation.
“Bah! it sprouts fungus at less than a man’s height; it is rotting to the roots. It shall take but a little heave of the tempest’s shoulder to send it sprawling.”
Ned humoured the allegory with some contempt.
“Thrones do not crash down so easily,” said he. “Their roots extend over the continents.”
St Denys came from the tree, slid his arm under his guest’s, and drew his gentleman down an obscure track that ran into the thicket.
“So you love kings?” said he.
“I neither love nor decry them. I wish to walk independent, like a visitor from another star, availing myself of every opportunity of observation. I shall not swerve from my convictions when they are formed.”