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were alone he made such brief, absentminded replies that
his companion soon wearied of him and left him to himself.
Ulrik Frederik turned homeward to his own apartments,
which this time were at Rosenborg. His valet being out,
there was no light in the large parlor, and he sat alone there
in the dark till almost midnight.
He was in a strange mood, divided between regret and
foreboding. It was one of those moods when the soul seems
to drift as in a light sleep, without will or purpose, on a
slowly gliding stream, while mist-like pictures pass on the
background of dark trees, and half-formed thoughts rise
from the sombre stream like great dimly-lit bubbles that
glide—glide onward and burst. Bits of the conversation
that afternoon,the motley crowds in the churchyard, Marie
Grubbe’s smile, Mistress Rigitze, the Queen, the King’s
favor, the King’s anger that other time,—the way Marie
moved her hands, Sofie Urne, pale and far away,—yet
paler and yet farther away,—the rose at the head of the
bed and Marie Grubbe’s voice, the cadence of some word,
— he sat listening and heard it again and again winging
through the silence.
He rose and went to the window, opened it, and leaned
his elbows on the wide casement. How fresh it all was—so
cool and quiet! The bittersweet smell of roses cooled with
dew, the fresh, pungent scent of new-mown hay, and the
spicy fragrance of the flowering maple were wafted in. A
mist-like rain spread a blue,tremulous dusk over the garden.
The black boughs of the larch, the drooping leafy veil of
the birch, and the rounded crowns of the beech stood like
shadows breathed on a background of gliding mist, while
the clipped yew-trees shot upward like the black columns
of a roofless temple.
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