Ivanhoe, who
was asked as a matter of ceremony, and forced to attend these
entertainments, not caring about the blandishments of any of the ladies
present, looked on at their ogling and dancing with a countenance as
glum as an undertaker's, and was a perfect wet-blanket in the midst
of the festivities. His favorite resort and conversation were with a
remarkably austere hermit, who lived in the neighborhood of Chalus, and
with whom Ivanhoe loved to talk about Palestine, and the Jews, and other
grave matters of import, better than to mingle in the gayest amusements
of the court of King Richard. Many a night, when the Queen and the
ladies were dancing quadrilles and polkas (in which his Majesty, who was
enormously stout as well as tall, insisted upon figuring, and in which
he was about as graceful as an elephant dancing a hornpipe), Ivanhoe
would steal away from the ball, and come and have a night's chat under
the moon with his reverend friend. It pained him to see a man of the
King's age and size dancing about with the young folks. They laughed
at his Majesty whilst they flattered him: the pages and maids of honor
mimicked the royal mountebank almost to his face; and, if Ivanhoe ever
could have laughed, he certainly would one night when the King, in
light-blue satin inexpressibles, with his hair in powder, chose to dance
the minuet de la cour with the little Queen Berangeria.
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