“What’s come to you, Master? Where’s the story?”
“Never mind her,” I whispered to him. “You want the fresh air. Send for the gardener. Let us take a drive in your pony-chaise.”
It was useless. Ariel would be noticed. The mournful cry came once more—
“Where’s the story? where’s the story?”
The sinking spirit leaped up in Dexter again.
“You wretch! you fiend!” he cried, whirling his chair around, and facing her. “The story is coming. I can tell it! I will tell it! Wine! You whimpering idiot, get me the wine. Why didn’t I think of it before? The kingly Burgundy! that’s what I want, Valeria, to set my invention alight and flaming in my head. Glasses for everybody! Honor to the King of the Vintages—the Royal Clos Vougeot!”
Ariel opened the cupboard in the alcove, and produced the wine and the high Venetian glasses. Dexter drained his gobletful of Burgundy at a draught; he forced us to drink (or at least to pretend to drink) with him. Even Ariel had her share this time, and emptied her glass in rivalry with her master. The powerful wine mounted almost instantly to her weak head. She began to sing hoarsely a song of her own devising, in imitation of Dexter. It was nothing but the repetition, the endless mechanical repetition, of her demand for the story—“Tell us the story. Master! master! tell us the story!” Absorbed over his wine, the Master silently filled his goblet for the second time. Benjamin whispered to me while his eye was off us, “Take my advice, Valeria, for once; let us go.”
“One last effort,” I whispered back. “Only one!”
Ariel went drowsily on with her song—
“Tell us the story. Master! master! tell us the story.”