“The two last are very good,” said he who had put the question. “The poet-laureate is undoubtedly a gentleman.”
I think in the midst of this random and unceasing talking I must have fallen asleep, for when I again became conscious of the things around me I was lying on my bed amid the silence of night. I was experiencing that misty, unreal sensation which, when accompanied by dejection and depression, is so terrible to bear.
At times I felt it must simply be a phase, a part of the working of my own inner spirit, but again I realised that the force acting on me was external, and that this unreality was simply a more horrible form of what was real. I lay awake for a long time wrapped in thought, and when that light born out of darkness which they call “Day” had risen I rose too and prepared to descend to the lower hall.
CHAPTER III
To have felt anything of the brightness of early morning here was quite out of the question. The same feeling of utter loneliness and depression that accompanied me when I fell asleep was with me when I rose. As I passed down the staircase the sight of those wretched, wizened dwarfs filled me with more gloomy thought than I had even entertained the night before.
When I reached the bottom step I saw sitting there that figure of which Plucritus had spoken laughingly as some great queen of the past. She got up as I stood there, and came and fawned upon me, rubbing against me like some pet animal.
At the first touch my immediate instinct was to recoil, for never until near contact could one fully recognise the utter degradation of such a creature. But along with this feeling came another in consideration of her past majesty and her lost humanity, and I stood still and received the caress pretty much as a sentinel on duty would have done. To those who might have a turn that way there was something distinctly humorous in this, and so evidently someone thought, for at this instant I heard a laugh, very clear and mirthful, come from down the hall I had entered. It was Vestné, coming towards us, her hands clasped behind her, and in that simplest robe which spirits wear. She was evidently not oppressed with any of the heaviness which hung round me: she looked more light and brilliant than the night before. Her head was thrown back a little to one side.
“If you knew how comical you looked,” she said, with very little malice but much amusement, “you would really try to appear more at home. This creature is perfectly harmless—as harmless as she is ugly—that’s saying a great deal. But you drew up as frigidly as if she’d been a snake, and then seemed to have the wish to unbend but not the power. Now, if you don’t like their caresses, and I can sympathise with you, as I cannot myself tolerate one of them, just kick them off. For my own part I would not have one of them about the place, but it is a whim of Plucritus. He likes to see them now and then when he comes home, so they are less confined here than at most of the places round.”
“Where are they usually kept then?” I inquired.
“Oh, they live in the back wings of the palace,” she answered. “Some of them are very happy there, and have quite nice little homes. At least, so Plucritus says, but I never trouble to go, it doesn’t interest me.”