The journey to Paris was enlivened by many similar
discussions, Minks dividing his attentions between his master, his
volume of philosophy, and the needs of various old ladies, to whom
such men attach themselves as by a kind of generous, manly instinct.
Minks was always popular and inoffensive. He had such tact.
'Ah! and that reminds me, Minks,' said Rogers, as they paced the banks
of the Seine that evening, looking at the starry sky over Paris. 'What
do you know about the Pleiades? Anything--eh?'
Minks drew with pride upon his classical reading.
'The seven daughters of Atlas, Mr. Rogers, if I remember correctly,
called therefore the Atlantides. They were the virgin companions of
Artemis. Orion, the great hunter, pursued them in Boeotia, and they
called upon the gods for help.'
'And the gods turned 'em into stars, wasn't it?'
'First into doves, sir--Peleiades means doves--and then set them among
the Constellations, where big Orion still pursues, yet never overtakes
them.'
'Beautiful, isn't it? What a memory you've got, Minks. And isn't one
of 'em lost or something?'
'Merope, yes,' the delighted Minks went on. He knew it because he had
looked it up recently for his lyric about 'the Doves of Thought.' 'She
married a mortal, Sisyphus, the son of Aeolus, and so shines more
dimly than the rest.
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