He pushed back from the table. The attendants scrambled after his example. The head butler turned Dolores’ chair. She found herself sweeping past the demon parasites, then past His Majesty, standing with head bent and hand on heart, a derisive smile upon his face. A page, at a gesture of the King, gathered up the phosphorescent billows of her mantle.
She fell into the accent of certain strains of music which were playing a dim, yet definite march of the dead. No ocean ever sobbed more sympathetic plaint. No snarl of fife or beat of drum ever timed sterner step. The music between two spheres—had Handel heard it in his dream of Saul?
The Royal Entertainer was placed in the strongest light at a faro table which centered a room black-hung and artistically dimmed for the occasion. Satan sat opposite as a mere auditor, his eyes glowing like lit lamps from the shadow.
“A hint or two or three before you begin,” said he. “Remember that the story’s the thing. If it doesn’t grip, aside from the fact that you are telling it, you’ll have failed in your art. You’ve read some of the old-fashioned French novels, I hope?”
“Oh, yes, Sire, and in the original. My father was a translator and taught me to read in several languages, French, Russian, Spanish——”
“Doesn’t all that come in the story? Don’t insult our intelligence with repetitions. Try to emulate the speed of modern fictionists, with the—shall we say the slow-mindedness of the old? And leave out the asterisks. We who have crossed into Mystery Land have every right to know what’s behind the stars.”
“You mean——” she faltered.
“In brief, this: give us a tale with style, but all passages that should be expurgated left in.”
Dolores, confused rather than enlightened by these specifications, essayed her earth-life story with what sprightliness she might.