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We did not see the room: and yet I have no doubt there is such an one; and ever after, when I have thought of the splendid castle towering in the midst of shady trees, under which the dappled deer are browsing; of the terraces gleaming with statues, and bright with a hundred thousand flowers; of the bridges and shining fountains and rivers wherein the castle windows reflect their festive gleams, when the halls are filled with happy feasters, and over the darkling woods comes the sound of music; always, I say, when I think of Castle Bluebeard: it is to think of that dark little closet, which I know is there, and which the lordly owner opens shuddering after midnight when he is sleepless and must go unlock it, when the palace is hushed, when beauties are sleeping around him unconscious, and revellers are at rest.
The next morning Bluebeard was so bad that I returned home with him slung in a litter between two men. Poor fellow! he never lived to reach his comfortable kennel, but died in the litter within a mile of home. I had him buried by the side of old Smut, and there are no truer dogs on the earth than the two that there lie together.
She threw herself on the floor at his feet and begged for mercy. "There is no use in your pleading," said Bluebeard; "you must certainly die." Then, seizing her by the hair with his left hand, he raised his scimitar, preparing to strike off her head. The poor woman turned her eyes upon him and begged for a single moment to collect her thoughts. "No," he said; "not a moment more.
He only says 'want. 'Want Europe, if he's Napoleon; 'want wives, if he's Bluebeard; 'want Botticelli, if he's Pierpont Morgan. Never the 'I'; and if you could pierce through him, you'd find panic and emptiness in the middle." Leonard was silent for a moment. Then he said: "May I take it, Miss Schlegel, that you and I are both the sort that say 'I'?" "Of course." "And your sister too?"
That was how the gold was brought up too in the bucket. Well, about seven o'clock in the evening my master was standing at the top of the mine, hauling up Bluebeard Bill who was in the bucket. Just as he had got Bill halfway up I saw Mendoza come out of the hut where we all lived. Mendoza thought that Bill was away buying groceries. But he wasn't: he was in the bucket.
"Do you think I see nothing 'but the sun which makes a dust and the grass which looks green? I believe you like Bluebeard, too." That was a great joke, at which we both laughed. When I saw Desmond again, he was surrounded by men, the French Count among them, drinking champagne. He held a bottle, and was talking fast. The others were laughing.
George said grimly. "I dare say Mrs. Bluebeard thought it was her duty to look through the keyhole." "I never did look through the keyhole, George. It's a shame you should say so! I, who have watched, and tended, and nursed you, like a mother; who have sate up whole weeks with you in fevers, and carried you from your bed to the sofa in these arms. There, sir, I don't want you there now.
"It is all very well; but I should have preferred Bluebeard." And now Pen, to divert the conversation from a theme which was growing painful to some parties present, bethought him of his interview with Huxter in the morning, and of Fanny Bolton's affairs, which he had forgotten under the immediate pressure and excitement of his own.
The process was childishly simple: they pitched on some beautiful legend or fairy-story, and turned it upside down. Thus, Bluebeard was beaten by his wives, or Polyphemus was kind enough to pluck out his eye by way of sacrificing himself to the happiness of Acis and Galatea. And they thought of nothing but form. They played at being artists. They played at being poets.
Fatima never coveted admission to the dreadful chamber of Bluebeard as I did to ascertain the secrets of this hidden receptacle. One night Fleming had quitted the barge, and I ascended from my dormitory. Marables was on deck, sitting upon the water-cask, with his elbow resting on the gunwale, his hand supporting his head, as if in deep thought.
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